The Cheapside Corpse (30 page)

‘He was, compared to bankers,’ murmured Chaloner, although he did not need Hannah to remind him of the zealous speech-makers who had haunted London during the Protectorate.

The tavern had been sumptuously decorated for the occasion, and there was plenty of food and drink. The guests were an eclectic mix of courtiers, financiers, musicians and local worthies. Baron was evidently included in the latter category, because he stood by the fireplace with his wife and his captains. His party was clearly thrilled to be part of the glittering company, although they valiantly strove to conceal it.

Another guest was Alan Brodrick, the Earl of Clarendon’s cousin. He was a notorious debauchee, although his prim kinsman steadfastly refused to believe anything bad about him. However, he was also a connoisseur of good music, which meant that Chaloner was able to overlook his many faults and talk to him.

‘Baron owns this tavern,’ whispered Brodrick. ‘So I imagine Silas got a discount by inviting him to join us tonight. Go and talk to him – he is very amusing for a commoner, although I cannot say I like his henchmen. The one with the peculiar hairstyle just told me that he uses alum to keep his mop in place, as if he imagines I might like to emulate it!’

‘Will there be music tonight?’ asked Chaloner, cutting to the chase.

‘There had better be, or I am leaving. I have more pleasant things to do than demean myself in company with bankers. Especially
that
one.’

Brodrick nodded to the other side of the room, where Chaloner saw that Taylor had declined the opportunity for an early night and was glad-handing his son’s guests. He carried his box under his arm, which he kept patting fondly. Joan and Evan were at his heels, and they exchanged nervous glances whenever he opened his mouth, while Misick lurked nearby with a bag that was no doubt full of soothing tonics lest Taylor suffered another of his turns.

‘Why especially him?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because he is not a gentleman,’ replied Brodrick stiffly. ‘I did not mind doing business with Backwell, who is a decent soul, but Taylor is a brute.’

Chaloner agreed, and if the music proved to be lacking, he would make an excuse to slip away early, too. Hannah would not mind – Taylor had homed in on her, baring his teeth in a grin that was probably meant to be paternal, but instead was unpleasantly insincere and vaguely menacing.

He retreated to the shadows and watched the other guests interact. The different factions had little in common, and miscommunications were rife, especially when Baron and his coterie were involved. Chaloner struggled not to laugh when a maid offered Doe a delicacy from the tray she carried – he thanked her politely and took the whole platter. It was silver, so when all the food had been eaten, he wiped it on a tablecloth and slipped it down the back of his breeches.

‘You want your portrait done by a lily?’ Frances was asking the portly Vyner. She had overdressed for the occasion, and looked like a courtesan. ‘My husband knows an artist, and I am sure he can get you a very good price. He will set you by whatever flower you choose.’

‘By
Lely
,’ corrected Vyner. ‘The King’s Principal Painter in Ordinary.’

‘Our man is not ordinary,’ averred Frances with a bright smile. ‘He is very good. In fact, he did me next to Caesar.’

‘Julius or Augustus?’ asked Vyner drolly, although classical witticisms were lost on Frances, whose only response was to flutter her eyelashes in a desperate attempt to distract him from noticing that she had no clue what he was talking about.

Suddenly, the hair rose on the back of Chaloner’s neck, as it often did when he was in danger. He tensed, and saw with alarm that Baron was looking directly at him. He was disconcerted, as he prided himself on being invisible at such occasions. Unwilling to be accused of spying, he went to exchange pleasantries.

‘The Earl of Shaftesbury bought a carpet from us today,’ said Poachin. His peculiar hair had set as hard as iron, and Chaloner wondered how much alum had been used. ‘And he says he will have some table-linen, too. Another two customers, and your Earl will win his curtains.’

‘But pestering my brother-in-law will not expedite matters,’ said Baron. His voice was soft, but held unmistakeable irritation. ‘In fact, it shows a disturbing lack of trust.’

‘Very disturbing,’ agreed Doe, but he had been at the wine and was in an ebullient mood, so his menacing scowl dissolved quickly into a proud grin. ‘What do you think of my clothes?’

He had contrived to dress in an outfit that was identical to Baron’s, even down to the ill-fitting wig. Baron patted his shoulder, flattered, although Chaloner would have been mortified.

‘I heard today that something terrible will happen on Cheapside next Tuesday,’ Chaloner said, aiming to see what they knew about the rumour. ‘It is true?’

‘Who knows what the future holds?’ replied Baron with a shrug. ‘It is all in the hands of God, so we must put our trust in Him to keep us safe.’

A quartet began to play at that point, so he hurried over to Frances and led her in a jig around the room, while Poachin and Doe clapped in time to the music. It was not a dancing or clapping sort of occasion, and the other guests gawped at their gaucheness. Chaloner could not bear to watch, so went to stand near where Taylor was holding court in the next chamber.

The banker had acquired a sycophantic audience, and was giving his opinion about liquidity ratios, asset turnovers and net profit. He sounded as sane as any other man of commerce, and the only hint of oddness was the box under his arm. Joan added observations that had the other financiers in the throng murmuring appreciatively. Misick came to talk to Chaloner.

‘He is not well enough to be out really,’ he whispered, absently picking a lock of wig out of the syllabub he was eating and sucking it clean. ‘I wish he had agreed to stay home and rest.’

‘He seems all right to me,’ said Chaloner. ‘Less lunatic than usual.’

Misick frowned. ‘He is not a lunatic, he is afflicted with the eccentricity of genius. And I was actually thinking about his poor toe, which remains sore after Wiseman’s ministrations. Still, I have dosed him with my Plague Elixir, so—’

‘Chaloner,’ interrupted Evan, his loud voice making both men turn. ‘The pearls your wife is wearing – my father wants them.’

‘I am sure he does,’ said Chaloner icily, ‘but you agreed to demand no more money until Monday.’

‘They will serve to help pay off the
capital
, not the interest,’ said Evan. ‘Those are two separate and distinct issues. And besides, debtors do not dictate terms to my father. He—’

Chaloner took a step towards him. He could be intimidating when he was angry, and he was angry now – not just that Evan should try to take the only keepsake Hannah had from her mother, but that he was graceless enough to do it at a social function. Evan blanched and scurried away.

‘I really dislike him,’ confided Misick. ‘He has none of his father’s charm, but all his greed. And speaking of greed, here comes another banker – Backwell.’

‘I have been counting money all day,’ announced Backwell with a contented sigh. ‘So many lovely,
lovely
coins…’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to such a bizarre declaration. ‘Did Silas assist you? You seem to spend a lot of time with him these days.’

‘We discuss the war,’ said Backwell airily. ‘We are both afraid of the spiralling costs. The King should have restrained himself, because the conflict will beggar us all. Hah! There is Hinton. You must excuse me while I go to commiserate with him. He declared himself bankrupt today.’

He bowed and hurried away. Chaloner watched him go, wondering what it was about conversations between Silas and Backwell that always set alarm bells ringing in his mind. There was no reason why the pair should not discuss the war, yet he was certain that Backwell had just lied to him. He started to follow, aiming to have the truth, but bumped into Shaw and Lettice, who had been given the task of handing out sheets of music. A quick glance at the notes, and all else flew from Chaloner’s mind. It was a motet in ten parts, with some very intriguing harmonies.

‘Silas wrote it,’ said Lettice with a giggle. ‘We cannot wait to hear it performed.’

Silas had been talking in a low voice to Poachin, but he abandoned the discussion when he heard his name and came to join them.

‘Baron is a fine bass by all accounts,’ he murmured, ‘but he cannot read music, so I have enlisted Poachin’s help in persuading him against volunteering for a solo.’

Chaloner frowned: it had not looked like that sort of conversation to him. But Lettice was addressing him, so he was forced to give his attention to her.

‘Thank you for ridding us of Slasher,’ she said. ‘The butcher was incandescent with rage, and Mr Oxley must pay him compensation. The dog has now been sold.’

‘You can pay us the forty pounds next year if you like,’ said Shaw generously. ‘It may help you, as Silas tells us that you are heavily in debt to his father. We know what it is like to be broken financially, and would not inflict it on anyone. Imagine how we would feel if you chose the same path as poor Colburn – suicide.’

‘
Poor
Colburn?’ asked Silas archly. ‘He was a rogue, who knowingly destroyed others just so he could enjoy himself at the card tables. Do not waste your sympathy on him.’

‘He was a friend,’ said Shaw sharply. ‘One of few who stood by me after the Tulip Bubble.’

‘This is gloomy talk,’ said Lettice. She smiled at Chaloner. ‘Hannah was just telling us about your alum mines again. They sound very interesting, and I should love to visit them, but I doubt I shall ever make such a journey. The north is a wild and dangerous place, by all accounts, and I am not as young as I was…’

Chaloner wished he had reminded Hannah to put the record straight with them that evening, and started to explain the position again, but an impatient gesture from Silas sent them scurrying away to distribute more music.

‘Meer and his wife are safely away,’ said Silas in a low voice. ‘I saw them off myself. They should reach France by the morning, and I gave them money to travel by coach the rest of the way. Or rather Evan did. I raided his funds when he was not looking.’

‘I knew I should not have come tonight,’ declared Brodrick furiously, storming up before Chaloner could respond. ‘Your wretched brother has just deprived me of my Genovese watch.’

Silas raised his eyebrows. ‘How crass. Shall I ask for it back?’

‘No,’ said Brodrick sullenly. ‘He will only take it away again tomorrow, at which point he might demand something else, too, as interest. Damn him for an ungentlemanly villain!’

‘Well, let us soothe our ragged tempers with music,’ said Silas. ‘Chaloner, will you take a viol?’

Chaloner would always take a viol, so the rest of the evening passed very pleasantly indeed.

The next day, Saturday, dawned clear and bright, but Chaloner was unimpressed to find that his cold was still with him. Would the thing never go? He had enjoyed the music the previous night, but felt he would have performed better had his ears not been plugged, his nose blocked and his throat sore, while sneezing and coughing had been a nuisance, particularly during one adagio. Worse, he had not been able to sing, which meant that Silas had been one part short for his motet so it had not been performed.

He dressed and went to the kitchen, where he found Gram hacking at a grey, rubbery slab with a knife. It was week-old oatmeal, but Chaloner ate the slice he was offered anyway.

‘I understand you were born and bred on Cheapside,’ he said. ‘Did you know Dick Wheler?’

‘Of course not! I do not demean myself by consorting with bankers. And he was a nasty piece, anyway – not a man I would want as a friend. He was stabbed, you know.’

Chaloner did. ‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have done it?’

‘Plenty. But the one I favour is that the culprit was a customer who objected to his rough tactics – Wheler bullied dozens of folk every day. And now the Taylor clan is following in his footsteps. Personally, I think too much money sends men insane, so perhaps it is just as well that you are destitute, sir. You would not want to be like them.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, although he thought there was probably a happy medium on the scale between obscene wealth and looming debt. ‘So you do not believe that Baron killed Wheler?’

‘He might have done, I suppose. But so might Taylor, who also gained from Wheler’s death. Or Joan. In fact, there are lots of people who wanted him dead, so I hope you do not intend to solve the case. You will not succeed, and you will make dangerous enemies in the process.’

That was an occupational hazard in Chaloner’s line of work, and he had learned not to worry about it. ‘What do you think of Baron?’ he asked.

Gram pondered the question. ‘A curious man. He is charming, kind to his family and loves animals – horses in particular. But woe betide anyone who crosses him. Then he is a monster.’

‘What else?’

‘He is ambitious and greedy, and even has his tentacles in White Hall. I escorted the mistress there yesterday and heard people talking: Buckingham, Shaftesbury, Rochester
and
Arlington have either bought stuff from him already, or have arranged to put in an order today.’

Good, thought Chaloner. That made five new customers with Lady Castlemaine, and if Swaddell did what he promised, there might be even more. Baron would have to fulfil his end of the bargain now. He nodded his thanks to Gram for the ‘breakfast’ and left.

He reviewed his investigations as he walked. The negatives were that he had failed to convince Randal not to publish a second book; he still did not know who had murdered Wheler, Coo and Fatherton; and he had no idea what dire event was planned for Tuesday. On the positive side, the last two pairs of curtains should be delivered soon; he had taken steps to distance his Earl from Baron; and he had worked out how DuPont had aimed to gather intelligence.

He reached Cheapside just as the tenor bell of St Michael’s Church began a dreary toll to mark the death of a man in his forties. Two more houses had been shut up, but the watchers were no longer lone men toting swords and cudgels – they were squads of grizzled veterans armed with muskets. Small gaggles of people clustered around each, howling abuse.