The Cheapside Corpse (26 page)

‘You need an early night,’ declared Wiseman. ‘So you had better stay here. You can have the laboratory. It is the room furthest away from my bedchamber, and I do not want you keeping me awake with your snoring.’

‘I do not snore,’ objected Chaloner indignantly. ‘And that laboratory reeks.’

Not to mention the horrors that sat on the shelves, he thought, which were hardly conducive to restful repose.

‘Everyone snores with a cold. And you cannot breathe through your nose anyway, so reeks are immaterial.’ Then Wiseman brightened. ‘I have devised a certain mixture that I believe will alleviate the symptoms you are suffering, although I have not tested it on anyone yet. I do not suppose you…’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.

It was still dark outside when Chaloner was woken the next day by Wiseman moving about in the next room. He was tempted to go back to sleep, but the surgeon was making a peculiar scratching sound, which was annoying enough to keep him awake.

He rose and dressed in silence so as not to alarm the servants standing guard in the hall downstairs. He opened the laboratory door, but immediately heard the soft rasp of Wiseman’s breathing from the bedchamber opposite. Thus it was not the surgeon rustling about in the parlour. Curious, Chaloner crept towards the sound. The room was in darkness, but Chyrurgeons’ Hall kept plenty of lamps burning in its grounds, so some light drifted in from outside.

Someone was standing outside the window, but as the Master’s quarters were on the top floor, no one should have been there, especially at such an hour. Chaloner edged closer to see that a pane of glass had been removed, and a long stick with a hook on the end was thrust through the resulting hole. The implement inched across the table to snag a silver goblet, which was then deftly manoeuvred towards the window.

So here was a curber in action, thought Chaloner with interest, watching the cup disappear through the gap. Doubtless the pane would be replaced when the thief had finished, leaving nothing to show how the crime had been committed – both Wiseman’s groom and Temperance had commented on burglaries carried out with no sign of forced entry.

Within moments, the hook reappeared to snag one of Wiseman’s curtains. The material was pulled carefully through the hole, after which a few sharp tugs were enough to dislodge it from the fastenings that held it up. Chaloner was tempted to yank it back again, knowing what a fright it would give the culprit, but decided it would be better to catch the fellow instead. He ran lightly down the stairs to alert the servants, but they were fast asleep on the floor, and an empty wine jug suggested they would not be easy to rouse. He did not waste time trying.

He opened the door, and peered out to see that the thief had brought an accomplice – a second man stood beneath the window to catch what was pilfered and put it in a sack. The curber himself clung precariously to the ivy that grew up the wall. Chaloner tiptoed forward, but his nose began to tickle and he knew he was going to sneeze. He held his breath and clamped both hands over his face, but to no avail. It was a stifled sound, but the two men heard it anyway.

The accomplice fled. Chaloner tore after him, and brought him down with a flying tackle. When the fellow drew a knife, Chaloner stunned him with a punch. Then he leapt up to confront the curber, who had already scrambled down the ivy and was coming towards him. The fellow held a pair of handguns – almost certainly stolen, as such items were far too expensive to be bought legally by common criminals.

Chaloner dived behind a tree, and saw the flash of the weapon igniting in the darkness, followed a split second later by the cracking report. He heard running footsteps, and peered around the trunk to see both felons aiming for the gate. The curber whipped around to fire his second dag at Chaloner. He missed again, but not by much.

As the pistols were now harmless until they could be reloaded, Chaloner raced forward, but the Chyrurgeons’ Hall porter, appalled by the sound of gunfire in his domain, hurtled out of his lodge and lunged at him with such vigour that both went tumbling into the vegetable plots. By the time the misunderstanding had been corrected, the real culprits had escaped and lamps were bobbing all over the precinct as residents came to see what was going on. Wiseman was among them, clad rather bizarrely in a long red mantua with a matching nightcap.

‘What are you doing, Chaloner?’ he asked suspiciously, his robe billowing around him so that the spy was put in mind of an angry Old Testament prophet.

‘Saving your curtains.’ Chaloner pointed to where the sack had been abandoned, and briefly explained what had happened.

‘The scoundrels!’ cried a surgeon named Knight. ‘How dare they invade our home!’

‘They will not do it again,’ vowed Wiseman. ‘Our students will patrol it from now on.’ He glared at the porter. ‘And our guards will be more vigilant.’

He stalked back to his quarters, pausing only to grab the sack. When he reached his parlour, he upended it to discover that it held not only one of his curtains and the goblet, but a bag containing medicine, a valuable vase and a selection of clothing.

‘And this is what Fatherton did?’ he asked. ‘You said last night that he was a curber. Or rather, that he directed crews of curbers and nips, telling them where to go and when.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘But we cannot blame him for raiding you. He is dead.’

‘Yes, but Baron is not. It did not take
him
long to recruit a replacement, did it! Yet it is a pity you rescued this curtain, because now I shall have to put it back up, and I have never liked green – it reminds me of bile. The ones Temperance bought for the club were much nicer. Red with a hint of gold. Very smart.’

‘Red and gold?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘How many did she have?’

‘Well, the club has seven windows along the front, so she had seven pairs. Why?’

‘Because the Earl’s Great Parlour has nine windows that are roughly the same size, and his curtains – two pairs short – were delivered after hers went missing. He bought them from Baron.’

Wiseman gazed at him. ‘So did she. Do you think they were the same ones?’

‘It would explain why Baron declines to deliver the last part of the order – it does not exist.’

‘The Earl will not be pleased when you tell him that he has been decorating Clarendon House with stolen property,’ predicted Wiseman. ‘Rather you than me.’

It was still dark, but neither Chaloner nor Wiseman felt like going back to sleep, so the surgeon roused his servants and told them to make his breakfast. The groom and footman had dozed right through the rumpus, even the gunshots. Thus they were sheepish as they took his order – boiled eggs, smoked pork, toasted bread, eel pie, leftover liver pudding and an apple.

‘They were very quiet,’ said the footman resentfully, balancing precariously on one leg, because he had forgotten where he had left his crutches. ‘We never heard a thing.’

‘Like mice,’ added the groom, producing an apple from about his grimy person and handing it to his master with an ingratiating smile. ‘Very
silent
mice.’

‘Rogues!’ spat Wiseman when they had gone. ‘They were drunk on my wine, and
that
is why they heard nothing.’ He turned his attention to the apple. ‘These are good for you. I eat one every day, and it keeps me in excellent health. I should hate to be in a position where I am obliged to call a surgeon. I would not let one of those near me with a feather, let alone a sharp implement.’

He continued to denigrate his colleagues while he performed the peculiar ritual of stone-lifting that he undertook each morning. His muscles bulged under his mantua, and Chaloner pitied his patients. They would be powerless to resist once he had decided upon a course of treatment, and he was not a gentle man.

When the rest of the meal arrived, Wiseman set to with heartening enthusiasm. Chaloner might have been eating paper for all he could taste through his cold, but he took everything Wiseman passed him on the grounds that it would save him buying something later with his dwindling funds. Then there was a knock on the door and the footman hopped back in.

‘Mr Taylor of Goldsmiths’ Row dropped a box on his toe last night,’ he reported. ‘And now he is in great pain. Dr Misick asks if you will go at once, because surgery is needed.’

‘Very well,’ said Wiseman. ‘Bring me my clothes. The red ones.’

As all his clothes were red, Chaloner expected the footman to query the order, but the fellow left obediently, apparently knowing exactly what was required.

‘I love being Surgeon to the Person and Master of the Company of Barber–Surgeons,’ grinned Wiseman. ‘It means I am summoned by all manner of wealthy and influential people –Taylor is one of the richest men in London, although I cannot say I like him.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘When you are there, assess whether he is losing his reason.’

‘Oh, I am fairly sure he is. But come with me. You will see him when he is vulnerable, and even the biggest tyrants turn coward in the presence of their
medicus
.’

‘It is a tempting offer, but I owe him money.’ Chaloner told him about Hannah’s loan.

‘He will not demand anything if you are with me. Indeed, he may even agree to renegotiate the debt – I am rather good at getting people to do what I want just before painful procedures.’

‘Is that ethical?’

‘As ethical as Taylor abusing his clients,’ Wiseman shot back.

Chaloner had a lot to do that day: take Temperance to Clarendon House to look at the Earl’s curtains; make more enquiries along Cheapside about the deaths of DuPont, Coo, Fatherton and Wheler; learn who had tried to burn him alive; and find Randal. But Hannah’s predicament weighed heavily on his mind and it would be a relief to have the interest reduced to a more reasonable level. When the surgeon had dressed in scarlet long-coat with matching breeches, crimson hat and black boots with red heels, Chaloner followed him down the stairs and out through the gate, feeling the plan was worth a try.

Dawn was breaking, and carts were rumbling in from the surrounding countryside, bringing produce for London’s ever-hungry stomach – onions, cheese, butter, eggs, beer and milk. Street vendors were also arriving, slouching towards their patches with trays of cakes, pies, flowers, vegetables and herbs. A clean breeze had been blowing from the west, carrying the scent of blossom, but it was quickly masked by soot as thousands of sea-coal fires were lit across the city.

When they reached Cheapside, two more houses had red crosses on the doors, each with an uneasy watcher stationed outside. The affected buildings were the poorer kind of tenement, and there was a good deal of resentment from passers-by, who claimed the inmates were suffering from quinsy, not the plague. One or two apprentices even fingered daggers, as if considering an attack to free those imprisoned within. Tension was thick in the air, especially when a bell began to toll to announce that someone had died.

‘I know forty days is a long time to be incarcerated,’ murmured Wiseman, watching a crowd begin to gather outside one house to yell abuse at the hapless guard, ‘but how else will we stop the disease? People are not taking the threat as seriously as they should.’

‘Can you blame them, when the rich are allowed to buy different verdicts?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And if you do not believe me, look over there.’

A crude message had been daubed on the door of one mansion, claiming that plague was within, but a few pieces of silver could turn it into spotted fever.

‘These double standards will have the city in uproar,’ sighed Wiseman. ‘Although that will not matter if the plague comes. Nothing will.’

At Goldsmiths’ Row, a maid was waiting to escort Wiseman to Taylor’s bedside, and made no demur when the surgeon informed him that Chaloner was there to assist. They followed her up the stairs to the top floor, where Chaloner stopped in astonishment: the hall outside Taylor’s chamber thronged with hushed-voiced well-wishers. They included not only members of the Goldsmiths’ Company, but wealthy merchants, clerics and even one or two courtiers. Oxley was there, too, standing out like a sore thumb in his rough clothes. Chaloner could only suppose he had been charged to represent the King of Cheapside.

‘I thought Taylor had hurt his toe,’ Chaloner whispered. ‘But he must be on his deathbed.’

The surgeon, inured to such scenes, was more interested in his surroundings. The floor was covered in silk rugs, and the ceiling had bosses picked out with gold leaf. The walls were panelled in ebony, although they were mostly invisible beneath the many paintings that hung there.

‘Look at them,’ he breathed. ‘Portraits by Samuel Cooper and Lely, and of such subjects – Lady Castlemaine, Lord Rochester, George Carteret, Prince Rupert, Will Chiffinch, Bab May…’

‘All people who owe him money,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Taylor must have taken them in lieu of payment, along with their hatpins and jewelled buttons.’

He turned as Evan approached, pale and rumpled, as though he had spent a difficult night. Even so, avarice gleamed in his eyes.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have come to pay us our thirty shillings.’

‘Twenty,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘Ten from yesterday and ten for today.’

‘
Twenty
from yesterday: there is a penalty for being late. Well? Where is it?’

Chaloner sneezed, and was gratified when Evan backed away.

‘You shall have your money, Evan,’ said Wiseman, ‘the moment you have paid
us
for our visit here today. However, quality costs – I am the King’s personal surgeon, and my services do not come cheap. Neither do Chaloner’s, and he has graciously agreed to be my assistant this morning. I hope you have plenty of cash to hand.’

‘We are a bank,’ retorted Evan. ‘Of course we have cash. However, we will not be overcharged by a jumped-up—’

‘I never overcharge,’ asserted Wiseman icily. ‘I merely set a fee that is commensurate with my abilities. Come, Chaloner. Let us see what we can do for our patient. It is unethical to chatter out here while he is desperate for the relief that only we can provide.’