The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory Page A

“Arise, Tom Newburne”?’
    ‘Is that what it means? My Earl said it was an obscenity.’
    Leybourn laughed. ‘He really is a prim old fool! Did he tell you that Muddiman bought cucumbers from Covent Garden the day
     before Newburne died? And here you must bear in mind that Newburne worked for L’Estrange – the man to whom Spymaster Williamson
     gave Muddiman’s job as newsbook editor. Do not tell
me
that is not significant!’
    Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘If Muddiman did kill Newburne, then he was careless to let himself be seen buying the murder weapon.
     Of course, that assumes it was cucumbers that killed Newburne. I know traditional medicine says they can be harmful, but they
     are not usually considered deadly.’
    ‘Newburne died at the Smithfield Market, while watching the dancing monkeys. Lord! I wish your Earl had given you something
     else to do. Newburne was loathsome, and only had one friend, as far as I know – a fellow called Heneage Finch. You can ask
     him what he thinks happened to Newburne. He lives on Ave Maria Lane, by St Paul’s.’
    Chaloner watched him eat the knot biscuits. ‘You are getting fat.’
    Leybourn almost choked. ‘And you are thin – sallow, even. Did they not feed you in France?’
    Chaloner smiled at the transparent attempt to discover where he had been. ‘Not very well.’
    ‘Mary prepares a wonderful caudle of wine, eggs, barley and spices. Unfortunately, that is all she can make, so we are obliged
     to send to the cook-shop most days, and she does not like housework, either. But we are very happy together, despite her …
     domestic shortcomings.’
    She sounded singular, and Chaloner’s interest was piqued again. ‘When were you wed?’
    ‘We are not
wed
, exactly.’ Leybourn sounded defensive. ‘But we live as man and wife, because when you are in love, you do not need the Church
     to sanction your devotion. You did not marry Metje, although she inhabited your bed most nights.’
    ‘I did not say—’
    ‘And I wager you availed yourselves of plenty of pretty … Danish ladies when you were abroad, too,’ Leybourn went on relentlessly.
     ‘Hoards of them, and not one escorted to the altar.’
    Chaloner was taken aback by what amounted to an unprovoked attack. ‘Steady, Will,’ he said, ignoring the surveyor’s second
     attempt to find out where he had been. ‘I am not condemning you.’
    ‘Everyone else is, though,’ said Leybourn sulkily. ‘Well? Tell me about your latest love. I know you have one. I can tell.’
    Chaloner’s brief but passionate attachment to the lovely Isabella – a Spaniard working for the Portuguese – had been blissful,
     but his false identity had been exposed when he had trapped the duplicitous duke, and he doubted he would ever see her again.
     It was a pity, and he raised his hand to touch the hat she had given him, with its cunning bowl of steel.
    ‘Who disapproves of your arrangement?’ he asked, declining to talk about her.
    Leybourn sniffed. ‘Thurloe, my brother and his wife, most of my customers. But I do not care. Mary may not be as pretty as
     your Metje, but she is mine and she loves me dearly. You never have trouble securing yourself ladies, but it is different
     for me, and I intend to keep this one.’
    ‘Then I wish you success of it,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He watched Leybourn fling away the last of the biscuits, which
     were immediately snapped up by stray dogs. ‘And now I should pay my respects to Maylord before more of the day is lost.’
    It began to rain as Chaloner and Leybourn walked from Westminster Stairs to St Margaret’s Church, a heavy, drenching downpour
     that thundered across the cobblestones and gushed from overflowing gutters and pipes. It enlarged the puddles that already
     spanned the streets, and Leybourn stepped in one that was knee-deep. Chaloner grabbed his arm to stop him from taking a tumble,
     although the near-accident did nothing to make the surveyor falter in his