‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope of learning more.
‘As well as providing us with information about Portugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is amiss anyway?’
‘He did not say — he just ordered me to look into the matter.’
Brome regarded him unhappily. ‘That will almost certainly prove to be dangerous. Newburne was an unsavoury man who knew a good many unsavoury people. Hectors, no less.’
‘The Smithfield gang?’
‘The very same. I am not exaggerating: you would be ill-advised to delve into Newburne’s affairs. However, if you are under orders from the Lord Chancellor, I suspect you have no choice. So, if you promise to say nothing about our unlawful use of Pepys’s name to procure those newsletters, I will tell you what I know of Newburne. Do I have your word, as a gentleman?’
‘You do.’
Chaloner was astonished when Brome took a deep breath and began to speak — the man was naively trusting of someone he had only just met. ‘Newburne took bribes from some of the booksellers he caught breaking the law. He told them a gift to him would work out cheaper than a fine from L’Estrange.’
‘How do you know?’ Chaloner was disappointed: he already knew this.
‘Because I overheard their discussions, and I witnessed several payments made. I pretended not to notice, because I did not want to end up crushed between him and L’Estrange. He was an associate of Ellis Crisp, you see.’
‘Who is Ellis Crisp?’
Brome regarded him incredulously. ‘Are you jesting? You must have heard of Ellis Crisp.’
‘I am only recently returned from Portugal.’
‘Perhaps you are, but even so …’ Good manners helped Brome overcome his disbelief at what he clearly regarded as rank ignorance. ‘Crisp is the butcher who controls Smithfield — not the legitimate business of selling meat and livestock, but the underworld that thrives in the area. He owns the Hectors, and it is his bidding they do. He is the most dangerous man in London. So now do you see why I urge you to caution as regards Newburne?’
Chaloner nodded, although he had never heard of Crisp, and doubted the man would prove too daunting an opponent. He was grateful for the warning, though. He wondered if the Earl knew a powerful felon might be involved in Newburne’s death, which led him yet again to question his master’s reasons for ordering the investigation.
‘Do you think Crisp killed Newburne, then?’
Brome was startled. ‘No, I think Newburne died from eating cucumbers, although I suppose he might have been forced to consume them against his will. I doubt it was by Crisp, though, because Newburne was said to be one of his most valued employees. On the other hand, Crisp is the kind of man to kill a wayward minion. There are many tales about the untamed violence of the man they call the Butcher of Smithfield.’
‘The Butcher of Smithfield?’ echoed Chaloner incredulously. He was tempted to smile, but he did not want to offend someone who was trying to be helpful. He struggled to keep his expression blank. ‘Does this title refer to his profession or his penchant for “untamed violence”?’
‘Both, I imagine, although I do not think he has much to do with the meat trade any more. However, I have been told that his pastries offer a convenient repository for his victims’ bodies.’
This time Chaloner did not attempt to control his amusement, and laughed openly. ‘Then I doubt it is a very lucrative business. There cannot be many cannibals in London, and no one else will be inclined to dine on pies that own that sort of reputation.’
Brome shrugged and looked away, and Chaloner saw the bookseller thought there might well be truth in the rumours. Not wanting to argue, he changed the subject.
‘Can I see L’Estrange today, or should I come back later?’
Brome forced a smile. ‘I will ask for an interview now. If you are from the Earl of Clarendon, he will probably want to meet you. But be warned — he was not in a friendly frame of mind earlier, so you may have to … to speak with caution, so as not to ignite his fragile temper.’
‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off his messengers.’
Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys — which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’
Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself, most of them virulent attacks on Catholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.
Suddenly, there was an explosive yell from the chamber above. Someone was being dressed down. Chaloner moved towards the stairs, better to hear what was being said.
‘One advertisement?’ Chaloner recognised L’Estrange’s voice from the incident outside the Rainbow Coffee House. ‘Is that all? It is a Monday, and clients should be flooding through the door.’
‘It is early yet,’ stammered Brome. ‘And I thought you might like to see the first-’
‘Do not think,’ snapped L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘Leave that to me.’
Chaloner heard footsteps coming from a corridor that led to the back of the house and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, moved quickly to stand by a pile of tomes about navigation and ocean mapping. He snatched up the top one, and was reading it when a woman entered the room. She closed the door at the base of the stairs, muffling the bad-tempered tirade that thundered from above.
‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ she asked politely. ‘If so, then may I direct you to a specific book? Or have you found what you are looking for?’
Chaloner glanced up from his ‘reading’ to see a slender, doe-eyed lady, who was pretty in a timid, frightened sort of way. She was tall for a woman — almost as tall as him — although her clothes were sadly unfashionable, and overemphasised her willowy figure. When she smiled, she revealed teeth that were rather long, which, when combined with the eyes, put Chaloner in mind of a startled rabbit. The comparison might not have sprung quite so readily to mind had her hair not been gathered in two brown bunches at the side of her head, and allowed to hang down like floppy ears.
‘A sailor?’ he asked blankly.
She nodded to the book he was holding. ‘Only mathematicians or nautical men are interested in Robert Moray’s Experiment of the Instrument for Sounding Depths. You do not look eccentric enough to be a man of science, so I conclude you must be a naval gentleman.’
‘I developed an interest in soundings on a recent sea voyage,’ lied Chaloner. ‘But I am just passing the time until I can see L’Estrange.’
She looked alarmed. ‘I hope there is no trouble?’ Realising it was an odd question to ask, she attempted to smooth it over, digging herself a deeper hole with every word she gabbled. ‘That is not to say we are expecting trouble, of course. The newsbook offices are very peaceful most of the time. Very peaceful. We never have trouble. Well, not usually. What I mean is-’