The Cheapside Corpse (12 page)

‘Business.’ Taylor smiled rather predatorily as he set the box back on the table. ‘Have you come to beg a loan or to repay a debt? You will forgive me for not knowing, but I have acquired a
lot
of new clients recently – some bought from my fellow bankers, others who came with Joan.’

‘My wife borrowed from Backwell,’ explained Chaloner, supposing it was time to attend his own affairs. ‘A debt you then bought. I came to see how the matter might best be managed.’

Evan went to a pile of ledgers, where it took but a moment to locate Hannah’s case. She had borrowed three thousand pounds at five per cent per annum. The White Hall clerks had removed twelve pounds and six shillings from her salary each month, which had then been taken directly to Backwell. She was to pay interest only for twenty years, after which the original sum would be due in full – she would raise it either from her savings or by selling the post to someone else. Chaloner stared at the figures, and calculated that by the end of two decades, Backwell would have earned enough interest to double his original investment.

Evan explained how things were now different. ‘We charge
fifteen
per cent. If you do not like it, you must repay the original three thousand, plus the two months’ interest that is currently outstanding, plus our severance fee, which is another five hundred. That makes three thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds.’

No wonder so many people were in trouble, thought Chaloner, if that was the way Taylor’s Bank conducted its business.

‘It is perfectly legal,’ said Taylor smugly. ‘Ask the Lord Chancellor.’

‘Perhaps so, but it is unethical.’ Chaloner knew others would have said the same, and he was almost certainly wasting his breath, but he could not help himself. ‘You will ruin your clients, and they will pay nothing at all if they are destitute.’

‘Then we shall seize their assets,’ said Evan smoothly. ‘Such as your wife’s post at Court, her clothes, jewels and any other possessions she might have. It sounds harsh, but it is the way such matters work. She should not have taken a loan if she could not repay it.’

‘Oh, oh, oh!’ cried Taylor, so loudly that Chaloner and Evan leapt in alarm. The banker shot to his feet, and pointed out of the window. ‘Look! A cloud shaped like a
snake
!’

‘So there is, Father,’ said Evan, although Chaloner could not see one. ‘But—’

The door flew open and Misick scurried in, long wig flying behind him. He glanced around quickly, then looked sheepish. ‘Forgive me. I thought someone was calling for help.’

‘There!’ yelled Taylor excitedly. ‘A serpent with three heads! It is a financial omen, and means the country will be crippled by three calamities: war, plague and the Colburn Crisis.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ said Misick soothingly, while Chaloner tried in vain to see what Taylor claimed to have spotted. ‘I imagine all London will be talking about it tomorrow. But sit down now, and I shall mix you a soothing tonic.’

Evan had summoned henchmen while Misick had been talking, and Chaloner found himself bundled out of the office by three burly men. He could have fought free, but there was no point – the Taylors were not going to change the terms they had decided upon, and he had no choice but to pay what they demanded. It was a fortune, and he was not sure how it could be done – unless Hannah was willing to sell her Court post, of course, but he doubted that was an option.

Out on the stairs, Evan grabbed his wrist to speak in a low, menacing hiss. ‘My father
did
see a three-headed snake, and if you claim otherwise, or even hint that he is losing his wits, the interest on your loan will rise to fifty per cent. Do I make myself clear?’

Chaloner wrenched away with more vigour than was necessary, and then it was Evan’s arm held in a painful pinch. ‘You do. But while we are exchanging pleasantries, let me say something to you. You will not send your louts to terrorise my wife again. If you have any questions, you will address them to me. Is
that
clear?’

Wincing, Evan nodded, so Chaloner released him and stalked out.

Chaloner had learned little to further his enquiries into the deaths of Wheler and Coo, he had failed to learn where Randal was hiding, and his final words to Evan were more likely to exacerbate his financial difficulties than ease them. He had, however, spoken to Misick about Coo, and had questioned Taylor and Evan about Wheler’s murder – although the discussion had failed to tell him whether they could be eliminated or bumped to the top of his list of suspects.

He pondered Taylor as he went.
Was
there something wrong with the banker’s wits? Misick obviously thought so, because he had had a pre-prepared tonic to hand, while the rants about the box and the cloud were peculiar, to say the least. On the other hand, Taylor had been perfectly lucid when deliberating Hannah’s debt, and had readily grasped the complex figures involved. Chaloner was still mulling the matter over when he heard his name called.

He was surprised by the depth of pleasure he experienced when he turned to see Richard Wiseman. Their friendship had developed slowly, because although Wiseman had quickly decided that Chaloner was worthy of
his
approbation, Chaloner had not liked the surgeon’s arrogance, hauteur and condescension. Wiseman had persisted, though, and Chaloner had gradually come to appreciate the virtues beneath the irritating exterior: courage, an unwavering loyalty to those few he considered to be friends, and an integrity that was rare among courtiers.

Wiseman was an imposing figure in his trademark red. He never wore any other colour, and even his hair was auburn. He claimed it was to be instantly recognisable to the sick, but his detractors – and there were plenty of them – said it was to hide the blood he spilled in botched operations. Personally, Chaloner thought that Wiseman just liked to be noticed.

‘Temperance told me you were home,’ the surgeon said, pounding him rather vigorously on the back. He was a powerful man, and his comradely blows were enough to make Chaloner stagger. ‘Although it does not seem to have taken you long to embroil yourself in trouble.’

‘Which particular trouble is that?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Being in a carriage that was attacked in Cheapside,’ replied Wiseman. ‘Temperance told me how you saved her from an angry mob. She told me about Coo as well. It is not easy to remain compassionate when you see so much suffering, and
medici
become jaded with time. But Coo never did. He was the best of all of us.’

As he usually had scant time for his colleagues, this was praise indeed. It, more than anything else he had heard, told Chaloner that Coo must indeed have been an exceptional man.

‘He was,’ came a voice from behind them, and both turned to see Misick, his enormous wig undulating in the breeze. ‘I shall miss him terribly.’

‘I thought you would be with Taylor,’ said Chaloner. ‘Trying to restore his reason.’

‘I was ordered out when I failed to agree that his three-headed snake was pink,’ explained Misick. ‘I have just suggested that Evan makes him lie down. The poor man works too hard, and it is lack of sleep that causes these odd delusions.’

‘I know how he feels,’ sighed Wiseman. ‘I have scant time for rest myself these days. Not only do I have an ever-expanding practice, but I am working on a cure for the plague
and
I am Master of the Company of Barber–Surgeons.’

Chaloner knew this last fact as Wiseman mentioned it almost every time they met. He had been elected not because he was popular or the best man for the job, but because he was the only senior member who had not had a crack at the post, and his repeated rejection by his esteemed colleagues had become embarrassing.

‘I do not suppose you know anything about a Frenchman named Georges DuPont, do you?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. Misick had not, but perhaps Coo had discussed the case with Wiseman. ‘Coo diagnosed him with the plague in Long Acre, but he managed to rise from his sickbed and walk to Bearbinder Lane, where he died.’

‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ replied Wiseman. ‘Coo told me that he manifested symptoms that included griping in the guts, faltering speech, frenzy and blains rising all over the body. Plague tokens, in other words – swellings in the groin and armpits that turn black and pestilential with—’

‘Actually, I meant something other than his symptoms,’ interrupted Chaloner, loath to be reminded of what the sickness could do. ‘Such as why he traipsed halfway across the city.’

‘It was a question I put to Coo,’ said Wiseman bleakly. ‘But he had no answer. All I can tell you is that DuPont was selfish to have made such a journey. Most folk believe the disease is spread by a miasma, but it is actually caused by worms so tiny that they are carried in the breath and clothes of an infected person – which is why those exposed to it
must
stay in their houses.’

‘Or they will pass it to healthy folk without realising what they are doing,’ elaborated Misick, as if he imagined that Chaloner might not understand the implications. ‘Yet there is no indication that DuPont shed these worms over anyone, Wiseman. The only cases – other than him – are confined to the St Giles rookery.’

Rookeries were slums, where the poor were packed into teetering tenements, sometimes twenty or thirty people to a room, and where disease was rife anyway.

‘So far,’ said Wiseman grimly. ‘But I fear he will set the trend for others. I was told last night that most victims’ families object to being shut up for forty days, and several have threatened to leave and go about their business.’

‘They have,’ sighed Misick, shaking his head in mystification at such foolery. ‘So an hour ago, the government passed emergency measures to stop them – measures that will be enforced by Spymaster Williamson, who is the only one with troops at his fingertips since the army disbanded. I feel sorry for him. He has his hands full with the Dutch war, and it is unfair to ask him fight the spread of invisible worms as well.’

‘Well, I hope he makes it a priority,’ said Wiseman soberly. ‘Or it will not matter if the Dutch win or lose, because we shall all be dead.’

According to Misick, the best place to catch Baron was the tavern named the Feathers, which was located on a dirty, insalubrious lane behind St Mary Woolchurch.

‘Not that I have ever been, of course,’ he said. ‘I do not mingle with felons.’

‘You mingle with Taylor,’ said Wiseman drily. ‘And he is the greatest rogue in the city.’

Misick raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I owe Joan money, and she offered to write off the debt in exchange for my medical services. Refusal was not really an option.’

Chaloner left them debating the ethics of such an arrangement, and followed their directions to the Feathers, a building identifiable by the sign above its door depicting a woman wearing nothing but a strategically placed plume. Two thickset men stood guard outside, and he was obliged to pay an entry fee before he was allowed in.

Inside, the Feathers was dim. All the window shutters were closed, and its few lamps had been draped with red gauze for atmosphere. It reeked of cheap tobacco, and a trio of musicians played an unimaginatively improvised medley of popular songs. They were loud, which made talking difficult, but Chaloner doubted the clientele were there for conversation anyway – there was a dais at the front, on which scantily clad women cavorted; ogling men slipped coins into what remained of their clothing in the hope of persuading them to remove more.

Chaloner found a table and ordered wine from a lady who wore nothing but an apron. It was early for strong drink, but his throat was still raw, and he thought a sip of claret might do it good.

There was no sign of Baron, although Shaw’s pugnacious neighbour was there with a group of rowdy men. Oxley called something lewd to one dancer, but fell silent when another woman – a busty person with the jaded look of someone who lived hand to mouth – came to hover menacingly at his shoulder, after which there were a lot of jokes about the folly of whoring in front of one’s wife. Eventually, she came to ask if Chaloner wanted some game pie.

‘No, thank you,’ replied Chaloner, knowing that ‘game’ in such establishments might mean virtually anything. ‘But I would like to speak to Mr Baron.’

‘I shall see if he is available,’ she replied haughtily. ‘But only if you take the pie. I made it myself, see, and everyone says that Emma Oxley’s pies are the best on Cheapside.’

Chaloner nodded acceptance of the terms and she marched away. He hoped Baron would not be too long, because the music was giving him a headache. The food arrived, and he was obliged to eat it because Emma loomed over him, and made it clear that she was going nowhere until she had been complimented. It was much as he had feared – tough meat of indeterminate origin mixed with peas and onions in a glutinous sauce that appeared black in the murky light.

When it and Emma were gone, Chaloner sensed someone behind him, and glanced around to see the King of Cheapside flanked by his ‘captains’ – the big-nosed Doe and Poachin with his mane of swept-back hair. None looked friendly, and when Poachin and Doe perched on either side of him, they sat too close, aiming to intimidate.

‘You wanted to talk to me,’ said Baron, sitting opposite. ‘Who are you?’

Chaloner introduced himself as an agent for the Earl, and Baron’s manner immediately changed. He grinned engagingly, and Chaloner understood why Temperance had found him charming – Baron possessed a magnetism that was far more attractive than Taylor’s raw power.

‘Why did you not say?’ He clicked his fingers, and although the snap was inaudible above the music, Emma immediately appeared with better wine and clean goblets. ‘Clarendon is my most valued client, God bless him. I am honoured to entertain any member of his household.’

Chaloner’s heart sank. Baron was clearly delighted by the kudos accruing from having a member of the government among his customers, and was unlikely to appreciate being told not only that the association was at an end, but that he was no longer allowed to mention it. Chaloner forced a smile, and hoped he would at least manage to resolve one of his employer’s concerns.