The Cheapside Corpse (29 page)

Two of the Earl’s most bitter enemies, Bab May and Will Chiffinch, were standing near the wine bemoaning their debts. As far as they were concerned, the tailors, vintners, grocers and others who provided them with goods had no right to demand what they were owed. They were also vexed with the bankers for insisting that some of the massive sums they had borrowed be repaid – if not in cash, then in kind.

‘Taylor took my ship-shaped hatpin when I could not produce a hundred pounds,’ May grumbled. ‘The one made of pearl with gold mast and rigging. I love it dearly, but I doubt I shall ever be able to redeem it.’

‘Well, Taylor told
me
that I owe more than the rest of Court put together,’ said Chiffinch. ‘I had to appease him with that jewelled scent bottle the French ambassador gave me. But of course I have debts! Keeping the King supplied with whores does not come cheap.’

‘Taylor is not himself these days,’ whispered May. ‘In fact, I think he is mad.’

‘When I went to pay him yesterday, he told me that he keeps the plague in a box on his desk.’ Chiffinch shuddered. ‘It was nonsense, yet it frightened the life out of me.’

They wandered away, and Chaloner was just aiming for Lord Shaftesbury’s Chief Usher, a silly, pompous man who was easy to manipulate, when he was intercepted by Philip Starkey.

‘Should you be here?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was wise to be seen conversing with Cromwell’s old cook in the centre of Royalist power.

‘I have been commissioned to oversee the King’s banquet tonight,’ replied Starkey. ‘You seem startled. Do you not believe me capable?’

‘I thought you were a Parliamentarian.’

‘I was,’ replied Starkey. ‘But now I am a Cavalier. What has Thurloe done about Randal Taylor? I notice that his vile pamphlet is still being sold by the dozen.’

‘We are working on it,’ said Chaloner, loath to admit that his efforts to reason with the author had been cut short. ‘And Randal will have to find another publisher for his sequel – Milbourn is probably dead, incinerated when his workshop burned down.’

‘What a shame,’ said Starkey, so smugly that Chaloner found himself wondering whether the cook knew more about the matter than was innocent. ‘But perhaps his fate will warn other printers to be a little more discerning about what they produce.’

He had strutted away before Chaloner could question him about the fire, although it was perhaps just as well – the Spares Gallery was not the place for such an interview.

Chaloner composed his features into a scowl, and slouched towards the wine. He poured himself a generous goblet, and leaned against the wall, knowing his uncharacteristic display of bad temper would attract attention. It did, and Shaftesbury’s man, a fellow named Innes, came to make a sneering remark.

‘What is the matter, Chaloner? Has your Earl threatened to dismiss you again?’

‘So what if he has?’ growled Chaloner.

Innes grinned. ‘What did you do this time? Track mud on his new carpets? Refer to his mansion as Dunkirk House? Or, God forbid, swear in his lofty presence?’

‘I found a linen-draper who offers the best prices in London,’ replied Chaloner, affecting indignation. ‘But just because Baron turned a blind eye to me making a small profit…’

‘You mean you charged a commission?’ asked Innes, intrigued.

‘A very modest one.’ Chaloner was aware that Lord Arlington’s secretary and Rochester’s clerk were listening. ‘But the Earl thinks that constitutes theft, and refuses to have anything to do with the arrangements I made.’

‘And you need the money, of course,’ said Innes tauntingly. ‘To pay off your debts. It must be a blow to work for a man with such foolish principles.’

He strode away, and was promptly intercepted by Arlington and Rochester’s retainers. Chaloner left the Spares Gallery pleased with himself: all three were notoriously corrupt, and would leap at the chance to earn a backhander by dealing with Baron. Moreover, Chaloner had just made the public statement that his Earl would never buy anything from dubious sources, thus forestalling any accusations that might come later. He had killed two birds with one stone.

He spent the rest of what felt like a very long day asking questions along Cheapside, but learned little of use. He did discover the name of Baron’s linen-draper brother-in-law, and visited the shop to see if any red and gold curtains were being made. Unfortunately, the man refused to talk to him, and there were too many apprentices around to make burglary a practical option.

He saw the King of Cheapside shortly afterwards, riding proudly through his domain on Caesar, his captains trotting at his heels. Baron rode with all the elegance of a ploughboy, while Doe and Poachin looked foolish as they hurried along in his wake. Poachin made light of the spectacle he was making, but Doe scowled, clearly judging it an affront to his dignity.

‘Baron had better enjoy it while he can,’ Chaloner heard a butcher tell a crony. ‘Because that horse belongs to Wheler’s widow, and she wants it back. She hired lawyers to draw up official documents, and she plans to reclaim the beast tomorrow.’

‘It is an act of spite on her part,’ remarked the friend. ‘Because Baron took so much of her inheritance before she protected it by marrying a Taylor. She aims to wound.’

Chaloner gave up on his enquiries as evening approached, and trudged home to change for Silas’s party. As he was tired and out of sorts, he stopped for a dish of Farr’s powerful coffee en route, in the hope that it would restore his vitality. He entered the Rainbow’s fuggy warmth to find a very different scene from the one he was used to. It was virtually empty, and with his customers gone, Farr was reduced to reading a newsbook. Chaloner soon understood what was amiss: Williamson was there.

Chaloner started to back out, but the Spymaster had glanced up when the door was opened, and had seen him.

‘Chaloner! There you are. Come and join me, if you please. We have much to discuss.’

Farr’s eyes were wide with astonishment that one of his customers should be known to such a man, and Chaloner wondered if he would now have to find another coffee house: the other patrons might shun him if they thought he hobnobbed with spymasters. Reluctantly, he went to sit at Williamson’s table, afraid that if he declined, the Spymaster might bray something else that would damage his reputation. He sneezed several times as he did so.

‘A cold,’ he explained, seeing Williamson’s immediate alarm. ‘Probably.’

Williamson placed a handkerchief over his nose. ‘Then do not give it to me. I cannot afford to be laid low when I am so busy. What have you learned about DuPont? I expected to hear from you before now – spying is a serious business, you know.’

Chaloner supposed he had been remiss not to keep Williamson informed. ‘I did not want to waste your time,’ he hedged. ‘All I have discovered is that DuPont was a professional thief who planned to curb documents from Dutch intelligencers in London.’

‘Which intelligencers?’ demanded Williamson. ‘I want their names.’

‘I do not have them yet. Nor do I know why he went from Long Acre to Bearbinder Lane, although he had a masked and hissing visitor shortly before he left, who gave him money. Does “Onions at the Well” mean anything to you? Perhaps in connection to St Giles?’

Williamson shook his head, and Chaloner was about to add more when he became aware of a shadow easing towards them. The knife in his sleeve dropped neatly into the palm of his hand, and he clutched it even harder when he recognised John Swaddell, whom Williamson referred to as his clerk, but who everyone knew was really an assassin.

Swaddell was dressed in his trademark black, the only exception being a white falling band – the square of linen fastened around his neck like a bib. Chaloner wore one, too, but his had lace as a sop to fashion. Swaddell’s had none, which gave him the look of a Puritan, although he was not a religious man. He had restless dark eyes, lank black hair, and was one of the most dangerous men in London. He came to perch on Chaloner’s other side.

‘It is good of you to investigate DuPont,’ he said, thus proving that he had been eavesdropping. ‘However, we have another small problem that you can help us resolve.’

Chaloner imagined they had rather more than one, given Williamson’s burgeoning responsibilities.

‘You have probably heard about the murder of Dick Wheler,’ said Williamson. He grimaced. ‘And that I failed to identify the killer. However, that is not strictly true. I
did
find the culprit – I am certain it was Baron. Unfortunately, proving it was another matter.’

‘Baron benefited hugely from Wheler’s death,’ elaborated Swaddell. ‘He assumed control of Wheler’s burglars, gambling dens, the Protection Tax … He probably killed Coo, too.’

‘Then arrest him,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘We did,’ said Williamson sourly. ‘But without evidence, I was forced to let him go.’

Chaloner stirred the thick, gritty sludge that Farr claimed was coffee. ‘Why would Baron kill Coo? The man physicked members of his trainband. And his family.’

‘Which is what he wants everyone to think,’ said Williamson. ‘Yet something odd is unfolding on Cheapside. Wheler, DuPont, Coo, Fatherton – all dead in peculiar circumstances.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But these matters are trivial compared to the other challenges that face you, and I cannot imagine why you are wasting your time with them.’

‘They are not trivial,’ snapped Williamson. He winced – his voice had been loud, and Farr had looked up from his reading. He lowered it to a confidential whisper. ‘They are not trivial, because I fear they will result in another run on the banks – a major one this time.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘
What?
How can the—’

‘Cheapside,’ interrupted Williamson harshly. ‘It is all happening in and around
Cheapside
, which is where the goldsmiths live. The worst thing that could happen now is a second run, and we are a hairsbreadth away from it.’

‘Worse than the plague or war?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Of course! We cannot fight either without money. But so much is going wrong. First, there was Colburn, who did irreparable damage with his reckless gambling. Then there was Wheler’s murder, which had all manner of repercussions – not least that a felon now runs Cheapside…’

‘Wheler would have died anyway,’ said Chaloner. ‘He had lung-rot.’

‘We know,’ said Swaddell sourly. ‘We aimed to destroy his illegal empire the moment he breathed his last – he was too powerful to tackle when he was alive – but his murder deprived us of the chance. And now it is Baron who is too powerful to depose.’

‘And to top it all, Cheapside’s residents are being difficult over the plague measures,’ finished Williamson. ‘Which is beyond belief, when it is them we are trying to protect.’

‘They are being difficult about Randal Taylor’s pamphlet, too,’ Swaddell reminded him. ‘There was a near-riot over it last night. Then there are these rumours about Tuesday…’

‘What rumours?’ asked Chaloner.

‘That something terrible will happen,’ explained Swaddell. ‘But no one seems to know what, which makes it rather tough to prevent. So we are here to make you an offer. One you will like.’

‘We know about your financial difficulties,’ said Williamson, oily again. ‘We also know that you will never repay Taylor with what you earn from the Earl. So, I have a proposition: help us for a few days, and I shall ensure that your debt is discharged.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. ‘I owe three thousand, seven hundred and forty-eight pounds. Or I did – Taylor’s interest rates are so outrageous that it may have doubled by now. Do you have that sort of money to spare?’

‘No, but there are other ways of doing business,’ replied Williamson. ‘You do not need to know details. Suffice to say that your slate will be wiped clean.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, suspecting nothing of the kind would happen. Yet could he afford to ignore the chance that it might? ‘And what must I do in return?’

‘Two things. First, find out what is going on in Cheapside, and if there is some dire event planned for Tuesday, help us stop it. And second, gather evidence that will allow us to charge Baron with Wheler’s murder.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You must have spies who can do it.’

‘Actually, we do not. They are all busy with the war, and the government keeps cutting my budget, so I am not in a position to hire more. But you and I have combined forces in the past to good effect, so why not collaborate again?’

‘We can do something else for you as well,’ added Swaddell, when Chaloner continued to hesitate. ‘I was in the Spares Gallery when you spun that yarn about Baron. You want them to do business with him, so they will not be in a position to condemn your Earl for doing likewise.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped no one else had seen through his ploy, or he might have done his employer a serious disservice. He also disliked the fact that he had been monitored without his knowledge. Was he losing his edge – that tasks like chasing curtains were blunting the skills he had so painstakingly acquired during a decade of real espionage?

‘Work with us, and I shall spread the word further still,’ Swaddell went on. ‘To lords Seymour or Southampton, for example. Well? What do you say? Will you accept our offer?’

Chaloner stood. ‘I will think about it.’

‘Fine,’ said Williamson, although irritation flashed in his eyes. ‘But do not wait too long. I have a bad feeling about Cheapside, and unless we act soon, it might be too late – for all of us.’

‘I do not like Cheapside,’ said Hannah, looking around in distaste as she and Chaloner walked to the rooms that Silas had hired for his party – a pleasant tavern near the Standard. ‘Jacob and Gram grew up here, and they have told me some dreadful stories about it.’

‘What stories?’ asked Chaloner. He had forgotten the servants’ association with the place.

‘Murder, theft, extortion. And that is just the felons – you should hear what the bankers do.’

Chaloner laughed, then saw that she was in earnest. ‘Why? What do they do?’

‘The same, only on a larger scale. And
that
place is sinister,’ she said, pointing to where the Standard loomed out of the darkness. ‘Do you see that balcony at the top? Well, Puritan fanatics used to climb up there, and howl to everyone that Cromwell was a saint.’