‘Do you think she really does own a house near Uxbridge?’ asked Leybourn. ‘If so, and it is proven to be mine, I shall give it to you.’
‘I do not want it,’ said Chaloner in distaste. ‘Besides, I suspect Kirby might have something to say about that. He is her real husband.’
‘He is dead. I hit him on the head with a pan.’
‘Unfortunately, he recovered and is now at large. The only way we shall catch him is by going after the Butcher. Of course, we have no idea who the Butcher is, or where to find him, but find him I must. He killed Newburne. Mary told me.’
‘I will help,’ offered Leybourn. ‘And when we locate him, I shall put a ball in his black heart.’
‘Crisp did not order Mary to prey on you,’ warned Chaloner, knowing exactly why the surveyor wanted to meet the Butcher of Smithfield. He smiled when the sergeant handed him his cat; it did not seem any the worse for its experiences. ‘That was her own idea — her way of earning a living.’
‘No, they were in it together,’ said Leybourn bitterly. ‘Ireton, Kirby and Treen were always visiting, and I believed her when she said they were her cousins.’
‘Did you?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how he could have been so gullible. ‘How did they explain bringing my cat to your house?’
‘I did not know you had a cat,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘You are far too secretive to reveal such a personal detail, remember? And I am going with you when you challenge the Butcher, no matter what you say. I am sure it was he who put her up to hurting me.’
‘You cannot come if you intend to murder him,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘That would not be helpful. And such recklessness is likely to see us both killed, anyway. If you will not go to stay with your brother tonight, then I will take you to Lincoln’s Inn.’
Leybourn glared at him. ‘Thurloe will help me bring down the Butcher’s evil empire. You can go to the Devil!’
He stamped to the far side of the room, and Chaloner put his head in his hands in despair when the sergeant sat at the kitchen table and took a pen in one of his heavy hands. He was going to write a statement, and judging from the way his tongue poked out when he concentrated, it was going to take a very long time. Casually, the spy walked to the hearth, and removed from his pocket the bottle of oil Hickes had given him. Surreptitiously, he dropped it into the still-glowing embers of the fire.
It was not a huge blast, although it would certainly have maimed anyone using it in a lamp, but it had the desired effect. Yelling that there were probably more explosions in the offing, to cause enough panic to cover his escape, Chaloner grabbed his cat and ran. He reached the end of Monkwell Street and headed south. He was not pleased when he glanced behind him and saw Leybourn hard on his heels. He did not have time for him — not until the Butcher was eliminated.
Trusting Thurloe to ply the surveyor with enough wine to render him insensible for the night — the ex-Spymaster would not want him racing around London like an avenging angel, either — Chaloner hired a carriage to take them to Chancery Lane. They did not get far. The back wheels caught in a rut, and then the whole thing became bogged down in mud. They walked to the Holborn Bridge, which groaned and shuddered as the Fleet River roared underneath it. Warily, they started to cross, but a large tree was being borne downstream, and it crashed into the structure before they were halfway over. Part of the balustrade was carried away, so Chaloner grabbed Leybourn’s arm and hauled him back the way they had come. The guard promptly declared it closed until the flood had abated.
‘We shall have to use the Ludgate bridge,’ said Chaloner, determined to see Leybourn in Thurloe’s care that night.
‘Closed since dusk,’ said the guard. ‘And the one at Bridewell is washed away altogether.’
‘What about the two upstream?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Leybourn brighten.
‘I saw both float past in pieces about an hour ago. You will have to stay in the city for the night, although it will not be easy. Every inn is full, because lots of people are stranded.’
‘You have no choice now, Tom,’ said Leybourn grimly. ‘You cannot foist me on Thurloe. You cannot even deposit me in Temperance’s brothel, because the Fleet stands between us. And I am sure you do not want me wandering Smithfield alone. You have no alternative but to let me help you. So, what shall we do first?’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, standing calf-deep in floodwater with a cat in his arms and a friend determined to avenge himself on the man he needed to question. ‘This is turning into a difficult night.’
Leybourn drew his sword. It stuck halfway out, and the extra tug he needed to free it from its scabbard forced Chaloner to jump back. ‘The Butcher will be sorry he ever meddled with me.’
‘He may not be alone,’ said Chaloner unhappily.
* * *
Because Leybourn had a waterproof coat, Chaloner persuaded him to carry the cat, on the grounds that it would keep the animal dry. It did not occur to the surveyor that an armful of moggy would also slow him down and prevent him from racing into a situation that might see him killed. Before that, Chaloner had seriously considered hitting him on the head and leaving him in an alley, but water was gushing everywhere, and he was afraid he might drown. Reluctantly, he conceded the surveyor was right: there was no choice but to accept his ‘help’ and hope for the best. While they walked, he told him all he had learned about the murders.
‘So,’ said Leybourn when he had finished. There was a cold, flat light in his eyes that said he was going to be dangerous company. ‘Where first? How will we unmask this evil Butcher — a man who has been so careful to keep his face concealed that no one knows what he looks like?’
‘He is someone fit and agile — someone who moves with feline stealth.’
‘L’Estrange? He moves with feline stealth, especially when he is in pursuit of a woman. You should have seen him stalk Mary earlier …’ He trailed off.
‘I am sorry Will,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I know she was dear to you.’
‘She could not cook, though. My ideal woman must be able to cook.’ Leybourn took a deep breath and changed the subject. ‘You must have other theories about the Butcher’s identity. A stealthy tread is not much on which to accuse L’Estrange.’
‘What about Hodgkinson as the culprit? Both Hickes and Thurloe say he is dangerous — that his pleasant façade is a ruse.’
‘Well, there you are, then. Hodgkinson. He works for L’Estrange and Muddiman, so he obviously has no conscience. And now he is missing. Perhaps the reason he is ‘missing’ is because he knows his predecessor is due to die in an accident, and he needs to be ready to take his throne.’
It was good logic, especially in light of what Nott had told Chaloner earlier. ‘You may be right, Will. I learned this evening that he bought the book on cucumbers I saw in Wenum’s room. He is definitely involved in something sinister.’ He broke into a trot, heading for the Thames Street print-house.
Leybourn tried to stop him. ‘He will not be there. He will be at his Smithfield shop, which lies at the heart of the domain over which he is about to assume control.’
‘I am sure of it — especially as the Thames is on the verge of flooding again, and only a fool will want to be near the river when that happens.’
‘Then why are you going the wrong way?’
‘We need solid evidence to convict him, but all we have is supposition and theory. It is a good time to search his main lair. So I will look, while you keep watch and make sure he does not catch us.’
‘All right,’ agreed Leybourn, albeit sulkily. ‘But if he appears, I will fight him.’
Thames Street was now more the domain of its namesake than of the land, and Chaloner and Leybourn ploughed through water that was well past their knees. A candlelit boat rocked its way up the black waters in the opposite direction, and Chaloner did not like the way familiar sights were being turned on their heads by the deluge.