The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

where he could sit with his back to the wall. He ordered buttered ale – warm beer mixed with melted butter and
     spices – and paid for it with a token he had found in his pocket. A chronic shortage of small change had led many taverners
     to produce their own: they comprised discs of metal or leather that were widely accepted in lieu of real money. Although not
     strictly legal tender, most Londoners usually had several in their purses at any given time, and most respectable establishments
     accepted them.
    Landlord Genew was a thin, unhealthy man in a clean white apron. It was said that he tasted every cask of wine that was broached,
     to ensure his customers were never served with wares that were anything less than the best. Chaloner did not think his devotion
     to quality was doinghim much good, because his skin had a yellowish sheen and his eyes were bloodshot. Genew shook his grizzled head sadly when
     he learned what Chaloner had come to do.
    ‘Poor Maylord. He owned a house in Thames Street, but moved here two weeks ago.’
    ‘Did he say why?’
    ‘He told his friends that he wanted to be near his work at White Hall, but he confided the truth to me. It was to avoid a
     cousin who visited him at inappropriate hours. He said she wanted to seduce him.’
    Chaloner knew Maylord had no family, and wondered why the musician had felt the need to lie. ‘Has she been to pay her respects
     to his body?’
    ‘He lies in St Margaret’s Church – my patrons do not like the notion of a corpse rotting above their heads as they drink,
     so he could not stay here – but the vergers say no kin have been, male or female. Many friends have, though. The vergers have
     been all but overwhelmed.’
    ‘He was a popular man,’ said Chaloner, assailed by another wave of sadness.
    ‘Even that horrible Spymaster Williamson and his creature Hickes visited, although they were under a moral obligation to put
     in an appearance, because Maylord was a Court employee.’
    ‘Do you still have his belongings?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was something among Maylord’s possessions that
     might give some clue as to what had upset him before he had died. Although the notion of pawing through them was distasteful,
     he thought Maylord would not have minded, under the circumstances. ‘Or have you already let his room?’
    Genew was offended. ‘Of course not! That wouldbe deemed as acting with indecent haste. They will remain
in situ
until his funeral next Saturday. It is only one of the attics on the top floor anyway, and the rent is insignificant.’
    ‘Do you know if he was ever visited by a solicitor called Newburne?’ asked Chaloner, keen to ascertain whether there was a
     connection between the two men, other than cucumbers.
    ‘If he had, I would not have let him in,’ declared Genew. ‘Newburne had fingers in far too many rancid pies, and Maylord would
     never have endured an acquaintance with a fellow like
him
, anyway.’
    ‘Newburne was involved in illegal activities?’
    Genew became uneasy. ‘Perhaps they were not illegal as such, but they were unpopular. He used to spy on me – to make sure
     I only provide
official
newsbooks for my customers to read. Had I bought others, he would have reported me to L’Estrange, and I would have been fined.’
    When Genew had gone, Chaloner drank the buttered ale and read
The Newes
. Its front page was dominated by a harangue from the editor about a conspiracy of phanatiques in the north:
Well, gentlemen, after all this Noyse and Bustle, was there really a plot or no, do ye think? That’s the plot now, my masters,
     to persuade the people that there was no Plot at all, and that all this Hurly-burly and alarme was nothing in the whole world
     but a Trick of State.
Chaloner grimaced. The country was still reeling from two decades of war and regime change, so the last thing it needed was
     someone in authority braying about conspiracy and rebellion.
    Next came a detailed