The Butcher of Smithfield Read Online Free PDF Page A

moment, then spoke softly. ‘He recently left his Thames Street cottage and took rooms at the Rhenish
     Wine House in Westminster. He said his move was a secret, and his closest friend – who you will recall is old Smegergill the
     virginals player – said he would not even tell
him
where he had gone.’
    ‘Yet he told you?’ asked Chaloner, rather sceptically. He still found it hard to believe that Maylord would have chosen Greeting
     as a confidant.
    Greeting was offended. ‘Maylord liked me. When I asked him why he had left Thames Street, he told me he wanted to be nearer
     White Hall, but I am sure he was not telling the truth. I suspect it was all connected to whatever was bothering him.’
    Chaloner regarded him unhappily. Maylord had loved his house, and would not have left it without good cause. The spy was deeply
     sorry that his friend had spent his last few days in a state of such agitation.
    ‘I had better go,’ said Greeting, when Chaloner didnot speak. ‘The King has invited a party of mathematicians to meet him, and my consort – the little group of musicians under
     my direction – has been hired to play for the occasion. There is a fear that these worthy scientists may become tongue-tied
     with awe in His Majesty’s presence, and we are commissioned to fill any awkward silences with timely noise.’
    Chaloner watched him go, feeling grief settle in the pit of his stomach. He felt something else, too – resentment that circumstances
     had prevented him from being there for Maylord, and guilt that he had let down a friend. He took a deep breath and forced
     his thoughts back to his White Hall duties, and the Earl.
    He left the palace, and headed for The Strand, where the south side of the road was lined with handsome mansions, and the
     north side was faced with shops and mean dwellings of the kind that were owned by the poorer kind of tradesmen. Worcester
     House was not the finest home in the area, but it was smart enough to provide an imposing residence for a lord chancellor.
     It was mostly Tudor, boasting a forest of twisted, ornamental chimney-pots, stone mullions that were stained black with age,
     and a massive iron-studded gate.
    Chaloner walked up the path, which was bordered by viciously trimmed little hedges, and knocked on the door. He was shown
     into a pleasant, lavender-scented chamber overlooking the gardens and asked to wait. He expected the Earl to finish what he
     was doing before deigning to meet a mere retainer, and was surprised when the great man bustled in just a few moments later.
    England’s Lord Chancellor was a fussy, pedantic man, whose prim morals did not make him popular with thedissipated Court; the younger nobles mocked his prudery, and he had earned himself a reputation for being a killjoy. His appearance
     did not help, either: he was short, fat and wore overly ornate clothes that did not suit his stout frame. He had grown bigger
     since Chaloner had left for Lisbon, a result of a sedentary lifestyle and the Court’s rich food. That morning, he wore a massive
     blond periwig, with a dark red coat and matching satin breeches. Lace foamed at his neck, partly concealing his array of chins.
    ‘Heyden!’ he cried, touching the spy’s shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. Yet as soon as it was made, he seemed to regret
     it, because he became businesslike and aloof. ‘When did you return?’
    ‘Last night, sir, but too late to visit you. You would have been in bed.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ replied Clarendon, indicating his spy was to sit next to him on the window-seat. ‘I am up all hours with affairs
     of state. Do you recall that feud I was having with the Earl of Bristol? Well, after you had gone, he tried to impeach me
in Parliament
! He accused me of all manner of false crimes, but the House of Lords saw through his lies, and he is now banished to France.’
    Chaloner nodded. He had heard the stories on his way home, and had been pleased: the flight of