The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory

they are in direct competition with the
     official government newsbooks.’
    Casually, Chaloner leaned forward and tweaked a sheet of paper from under the ledger, stepping away smartly when Brome tried
     to snatch it back. Like all newsletters, it was addressed to a specific recipient – something a scribe could do, but that
     was impractical for a printing press – and the author’s name and address were carried banner-like across the top of the first
     page. In this case, the writer was Henry Muddiman, and his correspondent was Samuel Pepys.
    Brome’s face was scarlet with mortification. ‘That is … that is not mine.’
    ‘Pepys is a clerk at the navy office,’ said Chaloner, watching him intently. ‘I met him once.’
    Brome was appalled. ‘You know Pepys? Lord!’
    Chaloner was amused when he guessed the reason for Brome’s agitation. ‘Pepys does not subscribe to Muddiman’s newsletter,
     does he? You just borrowed his name, because he is respectable but relatively insignificant, and no one at Muddiman’s office
     would question his desire to purchase such a thing. Meanwhile, Muddiman thinks his missives are being read by a navy clerk,
     blissfully unaware that it actually goes straight into the hands of his greatest rival.’
    Brome coloured even further. ‘It sounds sordid when you put it like that. Muddiman sends out a hundred and fifty newsletters
     each week, so what difference can one more make? Besides, how else are we to monitor the competition?’
    Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. ‘This was not your idea, was it? And nor did you elect to pick on Pepys. Whose was it?
     L’Estrange’s?’
    Brome put his hands over his face and scrubbed his flushed cheeks. ‘He will skin me alive if he finds out I was careless enough
     to leave that lying around for the Lord Chancellor’s man to see. I told him it was stupid to use Pepys, but he would not listen.
     What if Muddiman meets Pepys, and asks how he likes the newsletters? It was only ever a matter of time before we were found
     out.’
    ‘So why take the risk?’
    ‘Because we need to know what is in them. Muddiman’s sources are invariably better than ours.’
    Chaloner was bemused. ‘How so? The newsbooks’ source of information is the government – and the government knows everything,
     because it receives a constant stream of information from its spies.’ He knew this for a fact, because he was one of those
     conduits.
    Brome swallowed. ‘I am afraid you have walked into a war here, Heyden. A news war. You are right: we should have the stories
     first, but the reality is quite different. Muddiman has contacts and methods – God alone knows who and what they are – which
     mean he nearly always pre-empts us.’
    Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘He was the newsbook editor himself until a few weeks ago. That means he knows the government clerks
     who provide this information. Perhaps he bribes them to speak to him first. It would be a risky thing to do on the clerks’
     part, because if Spymaster Williamson finds out I doubt he will be very forgiving. But it is not impossible.’
    ‘No,’ acknowledged Brome. ‘It is not impossible. However, Williamson’s spies maintain the clerks are innocent. They watch
     them all the time, and have observed nothing untoward. So, we do not know how Muddiman always manages to get the news first.’
    ‘What was Newburne’s role in all this?’
    Brome was startled by the question. ‘I suppose you heard Smith consoling me about his death, did you? Poor Newburne! His remit
     was to spy on the booksellers and keep an eye on Muddiman’s dealings. Why do you ask about him particularly?’
    ‘The Lord Chancellor asked me to confirm that his death was a natural one,’ said Chaloner, deciding to be honest in the hope
     of learning more.
    ‘As well as providing us with information aboutPortugal?’ asked Brome doubtfully. ‘You own a strange combination of talents. And why does the Earl think something is