The Butcher of Smithfield by Susanna Gregory Page B

secretive, but it is a difficult habit
     to break.’
    ‘I understand,’ said Leybourn, turning him around and beginning to walk towards his home. ‘I should not have tried to pry,
     although I
am
a scholar, and curiosity comes naturally to me. Did you meet any mathematicians in Portugal? They are famous for their theories
     pertaining to navigation.’
    Chaloner heard the bleakness in his own voice as he spoke. ‘No, it was dreadful, Will – one of the worst assignments I have
     ever been given.’ Leybourn looked sympathetic, so he added, ‘With the possible exception of a woman called Isabella.’
    Leybourn gave him a manly nudge and grinned. ‘I knew it! I always envied your luck with ladies. But I have Mary now, and such
     concerns are a thing of the past. I have told her a lot about you, and she will be delighted to make your acquaintance at
     last.’
    Chaloner held back. ‘It is late, and she may be busy.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Leybourn. ‘At least come and share a cup of metheglin with us. Have you ever tried metheglin? It is spiced,
     fermented honey, and Mary knows where to buy it at its best.’ He flung open his door before Chaloner could decline. ‘Mary!
     I am home, and Tom is with me.’
    He strode along the corridor, heading for the kitchen. Chaloner heard chair legs rasp on flagstones as someone stood quickly,
     and then there was a metallic click as thelatch on the back door was raised. Leybourn stumbled over a stool that had been left in the unlit hall, long legs becoming
     hopelessly entangled as he struggled to extricate himself. Chaloner saw it had been placed there deliberately, to give the
     occupants of the kitchen time to finish whatever it was they were doing before the surveyor walked in on them. Leybourn freed
     himself eventually, and pushed open the door.
    Mary hurled herself forward and clutched his head to her neck, giving him the kind of welcome that he might have expected
     had he been away months, rather than hours. Wryly, Chaloner noticed that the hug also served to blind him, so he did not spot
     the door to the garden closing surreptitiously. He wondered why Mary’s companions – at least two of them, as there were three
     empty goblets in the hearth – should be so eager to escape without being seen. When she released Leybourne, leaving him somewhat
     breathless, the surveyor turned to Chaloner.
    ‘This is Mary,’ he said, pride and adoration in every word.
    ‘
Mrs
Leybourn,’ said Chaloner, with a bow.
    She regarded him coolly, then sat in the surveyor’s favourite chair. ‘I have been working hard today, and I am exhausted.
     Fetch me a drink, dear William. Metheglin will do nicely.’
    ‘What happened to the vicar?’ asked Chaloner caustically. ‘Is he in the garden, exploring its contents with a view to claiming
     his Christmas decorations early?’
    Leybourn gazed at him in confusion. ‘Mary has been alone all day, sewing me new shirts. And why would the vicar be in the
     garden? It is dark.’
    Chaloner could see no evidence that shirts or anythingelse were being sewn, but Mary had risen, and had gone to drape herself around her man. Leybourn smiled fondly as she told
     him how lonely she had been, with no one for company, and Chaloner saw Thurloe was right: Leybourn was so besotted, he would
     believe the moon was blue if Mary told him so.
    ‘I will hire you a female companion,’ offered Leybourn, going to the hearth and ladling something into three wooden cups.
     Chaloner recoiled from the strength of the brew, and knew it would make him drunk if he downed it on an empty stomach. ‘A
     maid would be useful, now two of us live here.’
    Chaloner agreed, because Leybourn’s usually pleasant kitchen was sordid. Unwashed pots were piled on every surface, a bucket
     of slops had been sitting so long that there was mould growing in the scum across the top, and the floor was sticky, making
     him feel like wiping his feet on the way out. He was not the most