The Cheapside Corpse (5 page)

‘The Spymaster General investigated Wheler’s killing, but failed to catch the culprit.’

He referred to Joseph Williamson, who had the unenviable task of running the country’s intelligence network – unenviable, because not only did Williamson now have a war to concern him but also because the monarchy was still weak and half the country would rather have a republic. Plots were rife, as Chaloner’s recent foray to Hull attested.

‘Did he have any particular suspects?’ asked Chaloner, seeing from his employer’s growing enthusiasm for the plan that he was not going to be dissuaded. There was no choice but to do as he was instructed – and hope the affair did not end in disaster.

‘Oh, yes, dozens! That was the problem. Wheler was hated by his clients for his rapacity, and by his fellow bankers because he was richer than them. And Baron benefited greatly from his death, so he was on the list as well.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner. He recalled what Kipps had said: that Wheler had been killed two months ago. How was he supposed to catch the culprit after so much time had passed, especially given that the crime had already been explored by the authorities?

‘And there is one last thing,’ said the Earl. ‘On Friday, three days ago now, a Frenchman named Georges DuPont became ill in a house at the junction of Drury Lane and Long Acre.’

Chaloner knew the building, because he rented rooms on Long Acre – a safe place to hide was useful in his line of work. It was also somewhere he could play his bass viol, or viola da gamba, as Hannah did not like him doing it at home.

‘Despite his sickness,’ the Earl went on, ‘DuPont was able to stagger to a tenement in Bearbinder Lane, which is an alley off Cheapside. He died there a few hours later.’

‘Died of what, sir?’

‘That is what I want to know, and it is important, because he was a spy. He was introduced to me by a mutual acquaintance – a person who then reported DuPont’s suspicious demise.’

‘What mutual acquaintance?’ asked Chaloner warily. His employer rarely dabbled in espionage, but when he did, naivety and ineptitude invariably led to trouble. It was possible that DuPont’s death was the Earl’s fault, simply by virtue of his inexperience in such matters.

‘I cannot tell you,’ replied the Earl haughtily.

Chaloner suppressed a sigh: looking into the matter was going to be a challenging business if he was unable to question key witnesses. ‘What kind of spy was DuPont?’

The Earl frowned. ‘There are different types?’

‘I mean was he one of ours? Or was he an enemy agent, working for the French?’

‘He was French, as I said, but he was going to supply intelligence for us. On the Dutch.’

‘You mean he was one of Spymaster Williamson’s people?’

‘He was mine,’ replied the Earl loftily, then grimaced. ‘Or he would have been, had he lived. That is why I want you to find out what happened to him. His death is a serious blow, as we are in desperate need of the kind of information that he offered to provide.’

‘Quite,’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Which is why it is imperative that I speak to the person who brought him to you.’

‘Impossible! I promised him anonymity. Have you heard about poor George Morley, by the way? The Bishop of Winchester? He is one of my closest friends, as you know.’

‘He is not dead?’ asked Chaloner, alarm overriding the irritation he felt for the abrupt change of subject. He liked the gentle-spoken churchman, and he did not take to many of the Earl’s cronies, as they were all much of an ilk – pompous, dull and censorious.

‘Worse – he is in debt. Yet he is in august company. The Lord Mayor is also in trouble, and so is Prince Rupert. Apparently, their bankers have recalled monies that are owed.’

‘Recalled them?’ queried Chaloner, thinking of Hannah’s plight. ‘Or sold them to other financiers, so that the loans can be renegotiated at disadvantageous rates to the borrower?’

‘I see you are familiar with the tactics of these leeches. They should be ashamed of themselves. Damned vultures!’

‘Do you know anything about a vulture named Rich Taylor?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he might as well learn as much as he could about the man who now owned Hannah’s debt.

‘He is current Master of the Company of Goldsmiths, and a widower with three grown sons named Evan, Randal and Silas. He was great friends with Wheler – the man whose murder I want you to explore – and he has copied Wheler’s more unscrupulous but successful methods. However, I hope you do not learn that
he
is the killer, because he will not like it.’

‘Few murderers do.’

‘Well, Taylor will be angrier than most, because he has so much to lose. He married his son Randal to Wheler’s widow, and has thus united the two houses in a vast financial empire. Raw power is why he can do what he likes with his clients, and no one dares stop him. If you have to question Taylor about Wheler, I recommend you tread with care.’

Chaloner invariably felt low after interviews with his employer, and that day was no different. Why did the Earl refuse to reveal who had put him in contact with DuPont? Moreover, he was not looking forward to tackling Baron, suspecting the man would object to being ordered to provide two more pairs of curtains and then dissociate himself from his prestigious customer. And how was he to solve a two-month-old murder that the Spymaster General, with all his myriad resources, had been unable to crack?

But it was a pretty afternoon, with soft white clouds dotting a bright blue sky, and the sun was shining. It was good to be home, and he felt his spirits lift as he savoured the familiar sounds of the city – iron-shod wheels and hoofs on cobbles, the cries of street vendors, the clang of church bells. He slowed to a saunter, enjoying the hectic bustle after the damp stillness of the country, and stopped to buy a venison pastry from a pie-seller. It was surprisingly good, and a definite improvement on army rations in Yorkshire.

He went to Long Acre first, feeling that exploring the death of a spy was the most urgent of the tasks he had been set. The street had once been fashionable, but had grown seedy since the Restoration, its houses redolent of better times. Many were architectural gems, but their timbers were rotting, their shutters needed paint and their roofs leaked. The whole area smelled of bad drains, fried onions and manure.

Chaloner’s garret was in the middle of the row, but there was no reason to visit it that day, so he continued on to the building where DuPont had been taken ill. He knocked on the door, but an elderly man from the alehouse next door informed him that everyone had gone cockfighting. Chaloner wrinkled his nose in distaste. He liked birds, and considered that particular ‘sport’ an affront to decency.

‘Did you know a resident here named Georges DuPont?’ he asked.

‘Not really. You know he died recently? Dr Coo came to tend him when he was ill. That man is a saint. Have you met him? He lives at the Sign of the Bull on Cheapside, near the Standard. He might be able to answer your questions.’

It was a fair walk, but Chaloner did not mind reacquainting himself with the city. As he went, he overheard snatches of conversation from passers-by. There was a lot of silly talk about the Dutch, the kind of nonsense that always circulated during a war – the enemy roasted babies on spits, slit the noses of children and assaulted pregnant women. Then there were tales about the King’s debauches and the fecklessness of his courtiers. Chaloner rolled his eyes. Nothing had changed since he had been away.

When he arrived at Cheapside he stopped for a moment to survey it. It had the Royal Exchange and the market known as the Poultry at one end, while the great gothic mass of nearby St Paul’s Cathedral presided over the other. It was wide, spacious and full of the smells of the trades that were practised in the adjacent lanes – the bakers in Bread Street, the dairymen in Milk Street, and the darker, ranker stench of hot metal from Ironmongers’ Lane.

The Standard, a tall structure containing a cistern, stood in the middle of the road, about halfway down. A spiral staircase led to the balustrade on its roof, and there was a fountain at street level – an uninspiring series of spouts that emptied into troughs to provide water for locals. Cheapside was punctuated by churches – mighty St Michael le Querne, followed by St Peter Westcheap with its lofty steeple, stocky All Hallows, St Mary le Bow and its noisy bells, pretty St Mary Colechurch and at the far end, bustling St Mildred Poultry and St Mary Woolchurch.

Chaloner began to look for the Sign of the Bull, but had not gone far before he became aware of a rumpus. The south side of Cheapside, particularly west of the Standard, was the domain of the goldsmith–bankers, and fine carriages with matching horses were not an unusual sight. One had pulled up outside the White Goat Inn, where it promptly attracted unwanted attention – stones were lobbed by apprentices, and its driver was struggling to keep the animals from bolting.

‘Serves them right,’ muttered a butcher to a companion as he watched. ‘I hate bankers.’

‘So do I,’ agreed the friend. ‘They have far too much money, which is an affront to the poor; and they lend it out at shamefully high rates of interest, which is an affront to us. They—’

He stopped speaking when the carriage door was flung open and a man climbed out to stand glowering with his hands on his hips. He was fashionably dressed with deep-set, dark eyes in a haughtily handsome face, and although he was not very large, there was something about him that commanded attention. The apprentices promptly dropped their stones and slunk away, while the two butchers, evidently afraid that he might have heard their remarks, were not long in following. Chaloner marvelled that a simple scowl should have such a dramatic effect.

As the man was a banker, a trade he was going to have to investigate if he was to learn what happened to Wheler, Chaloner ducked into a doorway to observe unseen. He watched the fellow turn to help a woman alight from the coach. She was considerably younger, and jewels glittered in her hair, and on her earlobes, neck, fingers and wrists. Her skirts were so richly embroidered that he suspected they cost more than he earned in a year, and her shoes were tiny and ridiculously impractical. Yet not even all her finery could make her pretty, and her small, sharp-eyed face immediately put him in mind of a ferret. Moreover, there was an arrogance in her demeanour that was distinctly unattractive.

Once she was out, the third and final occupant of the coach clambered down: a man remarkable only in that he wore no wig – his long yellow hair, which was as fine as a baby’s, lay greasily across the top of his head. He was portly, and like virtually everyone else in the city, he had a narrow moustache of the kind currently in vogue at Court.

Unfortunately, Chaloner was not the only one who aimed to stay out of sight, and he started in surprise when a man and a woman joined him in his hiding place. The man had one of the surliest faces Chaloner had ever seen, while the woman was giggling like a schoolgirl, even though she and her companion were in their fifties.

‘Forgive us,’ she chortled, while Chaloner struggled to extricate his foot from under the man’s boot. ‘We do not want to be spotted by Mr Backwell either.’

‘Backwell?’ queried Chaloner, thinking to have stern words with the financier who had sold Hannah’s debt and put her in such an uncomfortable position. ‘Which one is he?’

‘You do not know?’ asked the man. ‘Then you must be the only fellow in London who does not recognise one of the richest people in the city! He is the one who stepped out last.’

‘He is organising an outing for tomorrow evening,’ confided the woman. ‘He will want us to join him, but we would rather stay at home. We have music planned, you see.’

‘Music,’ sighed Chaloner wistfully, questions temporarily forgotten. It was his greatest love, his refuge when he was confused or unhappy, and little gave him more pleasure than playing his viol. There had been scant opportunity for such pastimes in Hull, and he had missed them badly.

‘We aim to sing airs by Dowland and Jenkins,’ she elaborated. ‘As long as Mr Backwell does not spot us, of course, in which case we shall be obliged to stand around and make awkward conversation with others who wish they were somewhere else. He feels sorry for us, unfortunately, and thinks he is being kind by including us in his invitations.’

‘But we wish he would leave us alone,’ said the man sourly. ‘Taylor does not bother with us any more, so why must Backwell persist?’

‘Do you mean Rich Taylor?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘The Master of the Goldsmiths?’

The man pointed at the handsome, charismatic fellow who had driven off the apprentices with a glare. ‘There he is – a man whose name suits his status, as he is indeed
Rich
Taylor, and has grown even more so since February.’

‘Because of the lady with him,’ explained the woman. ‘His daughter-in-law Joan, whose first husband was stabbed. She inherited a vast fortune, and formed an alliance with Mr Taylor by marrying his son. Their pooled resources created the biggest bank in London.’

‘Then her first husband must have been Dick Wheler,’ surmised Chaloner.

The woman nodded to the lane that ran along the side of the tavern. ‘He was killed over there, walking down White Goat Wynd. He was alone, as he assumed that no one would dare raise a hand against him, so he never bothered with guards.’

‘It is a lesson the other bankers have taken to heart,’ said the man with a smirk. ‘None take that sort of chance now. And they are wise to protect themselves, as there is no more hated profession than banking these days.’

Chaloner stared at the alley. It linked Cheapside with Goldsmiths’ Row, and there was nothing to distinguish it from any other passageway in the area. It was too narrow for anything bigger than a handcart, and comprised walls with a few well-secured gates. It would be very dark at night, so was the perfect place for an ambush.

‘We should introduce ourselves,’ said the woman. ‘I am Lettice Shaw, and this is my husband Robin. He was a goldsmith once, too.’

‘Thank God we are out of
that
dirty business,’ said Shaw, casting a disapproving eye at the elegantly clad group on the other side of the road.