The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online Page A

report about a ‘sad bay mare with a long tail (if not cut off)’ that had been stolen from Mr Sherard
     Lorinston, grocer of Smithfield. Anyone coming forward with information was promised to be‘well satisfied for his pains’. It was tedious stuff, and Chaloner soon lost interest.
    The Rhenish Wine House also subscribed to a news
letter
service – the handwritten epistles that were not subject to the same censorship laws as printed newsbooks, so could contain
     all manner of items barred from the printing presses. The one that had been left on Chaloner’s table was dog-eared and well
     fingered, indicating it had been read a lot. He saw from the date that it and
The Newes
had been produced the same day, but L’Estrange’s official offering had clearly been received with considerably less enthusiasm
     than the handwritten one. He turned to the back page, and saw it came from the office of Henry Muddiman. The obvious preference
     for Muddiman’s work to L’Estrange’s productions indicated that the ousted editor represented a serious challenge to his successor.
    ‘Do not believe everything you read in those things,’ whispered a soft voice close behind him.
    Chaloner pretended to be surprised, but the truth was that he had noticed someone attempting to creep up on him several minutes
     before. He also knew, from the clumsy way the man moved, that it was William Leybourn, mathematician, surveyor and bookseller
     of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. Leybourn was Chaloner’s closest friend in London, a tall, stoop-shouldered man with long
     straight hair and a hooked nose. He had gained weight since Chaloner had last seen him; his cheeks were rounder, and there
     was a distinct paunch above the belt that held up his fashionable silken breeches.
    ‘How did you know I was here?’ Chaloner asked, returning the surveyor’s grin of greeting with genuine pleasure.
    ‘We clever spies know how to find a man newly returned to the city,’ said Leybourn smugly.
    Chaloner ignored the fact that Leybourn was not really a spy – he only dabbled in espionage to help their mutual friend, John
     Thurloe – and began to assess how he might have been tracked down. ‘You are wearing unusually fine clothes, so I surmise you
     were one of the party of mathematicians who met the King today. Greeting was playing there, and he told you we had met. He
     mentioned we had discussed Maylord’s death, and you made the logical assumption that I would visit his home.’
    Leybourn grimaced. ‘You make it sound obvious, but it was actually an ingenious piece of deduction. I came as soon as I could
     politely escape from the King.’
    ‘Why? What is the urgency?’
    ‘You disappear for months, without a word of farewell, and you want to know why friends are eager to see you? Thurloe said
     you were gone overseas, but refused to say where, and I have been worried. Many countries boil with war and tension, and I
     doubt whatever you were doing was safe.’
    ‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully. ‘It was not safe.’
    Leybourn clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, I am pleased to see you home, and I have a lot to tell you. What do you think
     of the newsbooks, by the way? Or do you prefer the newsletters?’
    ‘Do
you
read the newsbooks?’
    Leybourn shot him an arch glance. ‘Why would
I
read anything penned by L’Estrange? All he does is rant about matters he does not understand, hoping to earn Williamson’s
     approval and be promoted to some other post beyond his meagre abilities. However, his newsbooks
do
contain notices about stolen horses, which is something in their favour.’
    ‘You mean the advertisements?’ asked Chaloner, startled. In Portugal, such snippets were printed at the end of the publications,
     in smaller type, but in L’Estrange’s journals, they were prominently placed between items of news, which lent them an importance
     they should not have had.
    ‘Most people ignore L’Estrange’s pitiful excuse for editorials