‘Yes,’ agreed Joanna. ‘I have been told several times that our most important function is to facilitate honesty in the horse trade. Of course, we have other functions, as well, and we-’
‘It is important,’ insisted Bradnox. ‘Far more valuable than that rubbish about phanatiques. Who cares about them? Yet we all care about horses.’
‘The newsbooks were founded to keep the people informed of current events,’ said Chaloner when Bradnox had gone. ‘Yet they are loaded with notices about missing livestock. It seems they-’
‘I know,’ cried Joanna, wringing her hands unhappily. ‘Mr L’Estrange does not mind, because they cost five shillings each and they take up space. I know it is wrong, and that people would rather have real news, but what can we do? If we did not sell advertisements, we would be limited to whatever he wants to write about phanatiques. And the occasional piece about Spanish pirates.’
‘It is just as well I am going out,’ said Brome, as he returned wearing a coat that was buttoned to his chin, as if he thought he might catch cold otherwise. ‘Mrs Chiffinch’s carriage has just pulled up outside. She looks upset, and I imagine her husband has been unfaithful again. She will not appreciate me being here, when all she wants is another woman’s ear.’
L’Estrange had also seen the coach, and was thundering down the stairs from his office, eyes and earrings gleaming. Chaloner supposed the feckless Chiffinch was about to learn that wives could be unfaithful as well as husbands — or that the Army of Angels was about to receive another recruit. He, Brome and Hodgkinson left the editor fawning over the new arrival, while Joanna hovered uncertainly in the background. Before he closed the door behind him, Chaloner saw Mrs Chiffinch looking rather pleased with the editor’s attentions, and wondered yet again what women saw in the fellow.
‘L’Estrange has a fiery temper,’ he said, as the three of them walked along Ivy Lane.
Brome nodded. ‘His sword is in and out of its scabbard like nobody’s business these days. The death of Newburne has unnerved him more than he likes to admit.’
‘And yet he does not want it investigated?’ said Chaloner.
‘Some stones are better left unturned, and Newburne really did emerge from under a particularly slimy one. I would not want the responsibility of determining what happened to him — assuming anything untoward did, of course.’
‘That surgeon’s report relieved me of the responsibility of probing further, thank God,’ said Hodgkinson fervently. ‘I wish to know no more about the affair, and neither does L’Estrange.’
‘Muddiman’s newsletters make for interesting reading,’ said Brome, off on a tangent. ‘They contain so much domestic information. I do not wish to be rude, Heyden, because I am sure Alicante is a fascinating place, but I would much rather read about events in London.’
‘Ask Williamson for some, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is Spymaster General, so should be awash with intelligence, not to mention political reports. If anyone can supply you with home news, it is he.’
‘And there lies the problem,’ said Brome glumly. ‘He does not like to part with it. He thinks telling the public too much about what the government does will encourage them to disagree with it.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘He is almost certainly right.’
A beggar was singing a ballad in a pitiful, wavering voice, and Brome stopped to give him a penny. It took a long time for him to unbutton his coat, locate his purse and refasten the garment again. Chaloner might have been moved to pity, too, had he not seen the fellow in the window of a nearby cook-shop earlier, enjoying a sumptuous meal. The man was a trickster, who preyed on the kind-hearted. They were about to move on when Brome happened to glance back up the road.
‘Oh, no!’ he breathed in horror.
‘Butcher Crisp!’ exclaimed Hodgkinson, equally alarmed. Chaloner saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a long cloak striding purposefully along the street. ‘Is he going inside your shop?’
‘Joanna!’ gasped Brome in a strangled voice. He ran a few steps, then stopped in relief. ‘No, he is passing by. Lord save us! I thought for a moment that he might have come to register a complaint about L’Estrange’s rant on criminals last week. Felons can be sensitive, and Crisp might think some of the comments were directed against him personally.’
‘They were,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘L’Estrange all but said his empire should be crushed.’
‘You should have seen the article before I edited it,’ said Brome. ‘It was full of names and unfounded accusations. I deleted them, because there is no point in asking for trouble. And thank God I did! I do not like the notion of Crisp invading our shop and venting his spleen on my Joanna.’
Nor did Chaloner. A willingness to oppose L’Estrange occasionally did not equate with being able to cope with the notorious Butcher of Smithfield. Joanna would have been out of her league.
‘Crisp often uses Ivy Lane when he travels between Smithfield and St Paul’s,’ said Hodgkinson. ‘The Hectors run a lottery in the cathedral, you see, and he likes to keep an eye on it. He is turning the corner now, Brome. You need not race home to protect your wife.’
Brome shot the printer a rueful smile. ‘Good! I am not built for dealing with rough men. Even Joanna is better at it than me. She has great courage. Not every woman could work in the same building as L’Estrange and have the strength and ingenuity to dodge his advances. I am not sure if our business would have succeeded, if it were not for her. But I do hate that man.’
‘L’Estrange?’ asked Chaloner.
Brome grimaced. ‘Actually, I admire L’Estrange, because he follows his conscience. His morality does not always coincide with my own principles, but he has the courage to do what he thinks is right, no matter what the consequences.’
‘So do fanatics,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘That is what they are: people who think they know better than anyone else.’
Brome declined to argue. ‘When I said I hated that man, I was referring to Crisp. I am not ashamed to admit that he terrifies me.’
‘There are his Hectors,’ said Hodgkinson, pointing to several unsavoury-looking characters. ‘I did not think they would be far away. He seldom leaves his domain without them these days, although they keep their distance, to maintain the illusion that he is a normal citizen.’
‘He is not normal,’ said Brome with a shudder.
Haye’s Coffee House was another smoky, busy place, located in an alley so narrow that carts could not access it. It meant pedestrians could, though, and were not obliged to be constantly on the look-out for wheeled vehicles that did not care what they hit. A large dog sat outside, chewing what appeared to be a wad of tobacco. Inside, the owner Robert Haye had let his beans roast too long, and the air was thick with the reek of burning. The mishap did not stop him from grinding them up and seething them in boiling water, though, and the resulting beverage was far from pleasant. There were complaints galore, but Haye pointed out that coffee tasted nasty even when prepared properly, and if his patrons wanted the benefits of the aromatic herb, they should drink what they were given. Chaloner was astonished when everyone did, thinking that customers in Portugal would not have been so meekly compliant.
‘What news?’ called Brome to the throng, as he, Hodgkinson and Chaloner squeezed on to a bench where there was not really enough room for them.
‘You are the newsmonger, so you tell us,’ quipped Nott, the Lord Chancellor’s bun-haired bookseller. His companions laughed.
‘And if you have none, Nott will tell you about the vicar of Wollaston,’ said a fat man in an apothecary’s hat.
Brome exchanged an uneasy glance with Hodgkinson. ‘We are carrying that story in tomorrow’s Newes, so how do you know it already?’
Nott held up a handwritten newsletter. ‘The vicar’s Book of Common Prayer was so besmeared with tar and grease that he was obliged to use another one to conduct the divine service. I warrant L’Estrange will blame phanatiques.’