The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory Page B

fragile temper.’
    ‘He will not risk annoying the Earl by slicing the ears off
his
messengers.’
    Brome regarded him as though he was mad. ‘He does not care who he annoys – which makes for a good editor, I suppose. If you
     give me a moment, I will present him with Mr Smith’s advertisement first. It will put him in a better mood, because it means
     five shillings in the newsbooks’ coffers.’
    Bookshops were always pleasant places in which to while away time, and Chaloner was perfectly content to browse in Brome’s
     while he waited to be summoned to L’Estrange’s office. He noticed some of the texts had been penned by L’Estrange himself,
     most of them virulent attacks onCatholics, Puritans, science, Dutchmen, Quakers and, of course, phanatiques. Then he saw one that contained speeches made
     by some of the regicides before their executions. He took it down, and was startled to find a monologue by his uncle, who
     had neither been executed nor delivered a homily about what he had done. He read it in distaste, supposing L’Estrange had
     made it up. His uncle had been no saint, but he would never have uttered the viciously sectarian sentiments recorded in the
     poisonous little pamphlet, either. He replaced it on the shelf, feeling rather soiled for having touched it.
    Suddenly, there was an explosive yell from the chamber above. Someone was being dressed down. Chaloner moved towards the stairs,
     better to hear what was being said.
    ‘
One
advertisement?’ Chaloner recognised L’Estrange’s voice from the incident outside the Rainbow Coffee House. ‘Is that all?
     It is a Monday, and clients should be flooding through the door.’
    ‘It is early yet,’ stammered Brome. ‘And I thought you might like to see the first—’
    ‘Do not
think
,’ snapped L’Estrange unpleasantly. ‘Leave that to me.’
    Chaloner heard footsteps coming from a corridor that led to the back of the house and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping,
     moved quickly to stand by a pile of tomes about navigation and ocean mapping. He snatched up the top one, and was reading
     it when a woman entered the room. She closed the door at the base of the stairs, muffling the bad-tempered tirade that thundered
     from above.
    ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ she asked politely. ‘If so, then may I direct you to a specific book? Or have you found what you
     are looking for?’
    Chaloner glanced up from his ‘reading’ to see a slender, doe-eyed lady, who was pretty in a timid, frightened sort of way.
     She was tall for a woman – almost as tall as him – although her clothes were sadly unfashionable, and overemphasised her willowy
     figure. When she smiled, she revealed teeth that were rather long, which, when combined with the eyes, put Chaloner in mind
     of a startled rabbit. The comparison might not have sprung quite so readily to mind had her hair not been gathered in two
     brown bunches at the side of her head, and allowed to hang down like floppy ears.
    ‘A sailor?’ he asked blankly.
    She nodded to the book he was holding. ‘Only mathematicians or nautical men are interested in Robert Moray’s
Experiment of the Instrument for Sounding Depths
. You do not look eccentric enough to be a man of science, so I conclude you must be a naval gentleman.’
    ‘I developed an interest in soundings on a recent sea voyage,’ lied Chaloner. ‘But I am just passing the time until I can
     see L’Estrange.’
    She looked alarmed. ‘I hope there is no trouble?’ Realising it was an odd question to ask, she attempted to smooth it over,
     digging herself a deeper hole with every word she gabbled. ‘That is not to say we are expecting trouble, of course. The newsbook
     offices are very peaceful most of the time.
Very
peaceful. We never have trouble. Well, not usually. What I mean is—’
    It seemed cruel to let her go on, so Chaloner interrupted. ‘No trouble, just government business.’
    ‘Thank God!’ she breathed. Then she shot