The Cheapside Corpse (8 page)

Chaloner walked in, appreciating its cosy warmth after the chill of a spring evening, and saw he was in luck: Joseph Williamson, Under Secretary of State and the current Spymaster General, was lounging by the fire. Williamson was a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding to dabble in politics. He was smooth, ruthless and devious, and while he and Chaloner had been forced to work together in the past, it was an uneasy alliance, and neither trusted the other.

Williamson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when Chaloner sat next to him. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were chasing insurgents in Hull. Or, if Buckingham is to be believed, fomenting rebellion with your kin in Guisborough.’

‘Then Buckingham is mistaken. My family are peaceful folk.’

‘Perhaps so, but they are bitter over losing their alum mines, according to the Duke,’ Williamson went on. ‘Especially now that it is in such great demand for plague remedies. But do not worry about him – he needs to travel north himself soon, to pay off his debts by selling some land, and will soon forget that he is irked with you.’

Chaloner regarded him sombrely. ‘Do
you
think the plague will come?’

Williamson grimaced. ‘It is already here – a dozen cases in St Giles. Unfortunately, there have been rumours about an outbreak for so long now that the terror has worn off, and the foolish think we have escaped. But I sense it is just biding its time.’

Chaloner shuddered and changed the direction of the discussion. ‘What do you know about Georges DuPont, the French spy who was diagnosed with the disease in Long Acre, but who went to die in Bearbinder Lane?’

Williamson regarded him in alarm. ‘What French spy?’

‘He offered to supply intelligence on the Dutch, apparently.’ Chaloner was careful to conceal the Earl’s involvement – Williamson would not appreciate meddling in his domain.

‘Well, he was not one of mine, although all manner of worms are emerging from the woodwork these days, hoping to earn a quick profit by selling information. Few know much of value. However, I am rather more concerned about people wandering around with the plague. Did the fellow set out to spread the contagion deliberately?’

‘I do not know, although a physician named Coo assured me that no new cases have arisen from the episode. Or he
was
assuring me, before he was shot and killed.’

Williamson eyed him balefully. ‘You do lead an exciting life, Chaloner. You cannot have been home many days, yet you are already embroiled with spies, plague and murder.’

‘Hours, not days,’ said Chaloner ruefully.

‘Coo was a popular man on Cheapside, and people will want vengeance. May I assume that you plan to look into his death, given that he seems to be connected to your DuPont?’

‘I suppose so.’ Chaloner half wished he was back under a hedge in Yorkshire. It had been uncomfortable, but at least his mission had been straightforward.

‘Good. The Dutch war has left me very short of operatives, and I do not have a man to spare. Find out who killed Coo and what this DuPont was doing, then report to me.’

‘My Earl will not—’

‘Your Earl will be delighted with an opportunity to serve his country, and will not demur when I inform him that you are working in both our interests.’

Chaloner stood to leave. The visit had been a waste of time: DuPont was not known to Williamson, and he had learned nothing to further his enquiries. Worse, he now had the Spymaster expecting answers from him. He sincerely hoped the Earl would not object to Williamson being briefed, too, as he had no desire to be caught in the middle of two such powerful men.

It was late by the time Chaloner left the coffee house, and although he knew he should tackle Baron, it had been a long day and he was not in the mood. He started to walk home, but then thought of something he would far rather do – visit John Thurloe in Lincoln’s Inn. Feeling his flagging spirits revive at the prospect of seeing an old friend, he set off at a jaunty clip, and was just passing the Poultry Market when a coach drew up beside him.

It was the aspiration of every ambitious Londoner to own a private carriage – an expensive commodity that required not only purchasing the vehicle itself, but also horses, stabling and staff to care for them. This one was new and shiny, and its horses had been chosen for their matching colours. There was a coat of arms on its side, but not one Chaloner recognised, although he was relieved to note that it did not belong to Buckingham. He peered at it in the light from a nearby tavern, then recoiled in astonishment when he saw what the bear rampant was doing to the hart.

‘It is a joke, Tom,’ said Temperance North, pulling aside the carriage’s curtain to laugh at his shock. ‘Do you not think it amusing?’

Chaloner supposed it did have a certain style, although he suspected there would be some who would take offence at such ribaldry. Cromwell’s Puritans might no longer be in power, but that did not mean they had gone away.

He had met Temperance three years earlier, when she had been a shy teenager. Her parents had died not long after, and she had startled everyone by using her inheritance to establish an exclusive brothel – although she preferred the term gentlemen’s club – which had made her very wealthy. Dining on expensive delicacies with her patrons had taken its toll on her figure, and she was now a very large young woman, something her costly clothes failed to conceal. She was losing her teeth, too, presumably from all the sweetmeats that were readily available.

‘Do you like my coach?’ she asked, waving a plump hand at it with undisguised pride.

‘Very nice,’ replied Chaloner, dutifully admiring the smart black paint with the gold trim. The driver wore a scarlet uniform, as did the footmen who stood on the back. One jumped off to open the door, revealing one of the most luxuriously appointed interiors Chaloner had ever seen, all plush satin and lacy curtains. Its opulence told him that the club was continuing to make Temperance richer and richer.

‘Now that you are home, I need you to talk to Richard,’ she said as he climbed in, referring to Richard Wiseman, her lover, who held the post of Surgeon to the King.

‘Yes?’ he asked coolly, hurt that she had only waylaid him to beg a favour.

‘You must talk to him about the plague.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I am sure he knows a lot more about it than I do.’

She glared at him. ‘I do not want you to teach him about it. I want you to convince him not to risk himself by entering infected houses should it come. And you must also make him promise not to invent a cure.’

‘I suspect that might be beyond even his lofty abilities,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘There is no cure for the plague.’

Temperance’s expression was wry. ‘But there is money to be made in selling palliatives. However, as a man of integrity, Richard will want his to be effective, and I am afraid he will take it to a victim to see whether it works.’

‘I should hope so! How else will he know if it is worth the money?’

‘That is not the point, Thomas,’ said Temperance irritably. ‘I do not want him to die.’

She pulled out her pipe and began to puff furiously, filling the coach with fumes. They were still stationary, and with no breeze to dissipate the fug, the air soon turned poisonous. Chaloner started to open a window, but she stopped him.

‘Tobacco is the best way to prevent infection. In fact, it is the only way to stay healthy.’

‘Did Wiseman tell you that?’

‘No, it is common knowledge. Richard has some lunatic notion that the plague is caused by worms, creatures so small that they cannot be seen by the naked eye.’

‘I was just speaking to a physician who thought the same. Abner Coo.’

‘Yes – he, Richard and a colleague called Dr Misick have devised this wild theory between them, although every other sensible person knows that a miasma is to blame.’

‘Did you ever meet Coo?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Several times. A nicer man is difficult to imagine.’

‘So everyone says, but he has just been shot.’

Temperance listened in horror as Chaloner recounted what had happened. ‘Richard will be upset when he hears. He likes Coo. I must send him a message at once.’

She snapped her fingers, and one of the footmen instantly appeared to do her bidding. She gave him a brief report, then dispatched him to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, after which she felt the dent in Chaloner’s hat. ‘And it was definitely Coo who was the target? Not you?’

Chaloner regarded her balefully, wishing she held him in higher regard. ‘I have not been home long enough to warrant those sorts of attentions. It was certainly him they meant to kill.’

‘Ask Richard or Dr Misick about him. They knew him better than I. Especially Misick. He is physician to the bankers, and can usually be found in and around Goldsmiths’ Row. Where are you going, by the way? Now I have my own coach, I can take you there.’

‘Chancery Lane,’ replied Chaloner. ‘To see John Thurloe.’

As it transpired, Chaloner would have made better time on foot, because London was in the grip of one of its ‘stops’ – traffic was often heavy on Cheapside, even late into the evening. A vehicle had broken a wheel by the Little Conduit, and coaches, hackney carriages and wagons were jammed nose to tail, none going anywhere until it was removed.

Chaloner begrudged the wasted time, although Temperance was content to lounge in smoky luxury, chatting about the club. Her patrons gossiped, especially when they were in their cups, and as some were members of government, the Church, various national committees and the Privy Council, they were party to a good deal of sensitive information. Thus Chaloner learned that the war was predicted to cost a good deal more than the two million pounds that had originally been anticipated, and that this, along with the reckless excesses of Colburn the gambler, had put the city’s bankers in a tight spot.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Robin Shaw mentioned it earlier.’

‘The man who sells music to the Court? He is a morose fellow, and I cannot imagine how Lettice puts up with him. However, they did teach me how to play “Green Sleeves” on the flageolet that I bought from them. I shall entertain you with it the next time you visit.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, sincerely hoping she would forget.

‘There is his shop.’ Temperance pointed out of the window, reminding him that they had only travelled half the length of Cheapside since he had embarked. ‘And the scruffy place next door is the home of that revolting Oxley family. Did Shaw tell you about their sewage?’

‘Lettice mentioned an overflow from her neighbours’ cesspit.’ The conversation had taken a distinct nosedive, and he searched for a way to bring it back to his investigations.

‘It caused a terrible mess,’ Temperance went on before he could think of one. ‘Oxley is in Baron’s trainband, which he thinks gives him the right to do whatever he likes. However, his wife is a whore, while his children should have been strangled at birth.’

‘You do not like them, then.’

‘No, I do not,’ spat Temperance, then became aware that he was laughing at her. She scowled at him and fell into a sulk, although not for long. The sight of a carriage that was even more sumptuously appointed than her own prompted another bout of gossip.

‘That is Backwell’s coach. He is impossibly wealthy, but even
he
cannot give the King everything he wants for the war, so he has been obliged to sell his clients’ debts to Taylor.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘Hannah’s was one of them.’

‘Then I pity her. Taylor is a beast, and so are the men he hires to do his bidding.’

‘The bankers should tell the King that they cannot meet his demands. It is unreasonable to expect them to pull money from thin air.’

Temperance smirked. ‘They are afraid that if they do not give him what he wants, he will follow his father’s example and help himself.’

‘Impossible! A monarch seizing his subjects’ assets would start another civil war.’

‘On the contrary, everyone hates the goldsmiths and would love to see them broken. Indeed, it would make His Majesty the most popular man in the country. After all, would
you
give your life to defend the riches of wealthy financiers?’

Chaloner would not, especially after their dealings with Hannah. ‘James Baron,’ he said, turning to another matter. ‘Have you ever met him?’

‘Several times.’ Temperance smiled. ‘I know he is a lout, but I like him very much, and he has been nothing but charming to me. He visits the club on occasion, and although some of my patrons were wary at first, he soon won them around.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘At the far end of Cheapside, near St Mary Woolchurch. He has a very nice house, more like the home of a respectable merchant than a felon. He has a beautiful but stupid wife named Frances, and two well-behaved children who are a world apart from the Oxley brats.’

She began to list the crimes that Baron was alleged to have committed – theft, extortion, fraud, burglary, robbery. As they were still on Cheapside, she was even able to point out some of his operatives: the crook-backed man was a counterfeiter, the fair-haired boy was a pickpocket, while the pair in the grubby brown coats – whom Chaloner recognised as Gabb and Knowles –collected the Protection Tax.

‘I would invite you to see
my
new curtains,’ she said, after Chaloner had given her a brief account of the Earl’s problem, ‘but someone stole them last week. I have no idea how, because every door and window was locked. It was almost as if they disappeared into thin air.’

‘My wife – my first wife, that is – put curtains in our house in Amsterdam,’ recalled Chaloner, surprising himself with the confidence. He rarely spoke about Aletta. ‘They were always full of soot and were a nuisance to wash. I do not think the fashion will last.’

‘Perhaps, but they do look pretty. All the best houses have them, and to be without is considered passé, although I do not think I shall replace the ones at the club. They are a fire hazard when you have patrons who are careless with their pipes. I am surprised that Hannah has not invested in some, though. She is a lady of fashion and taste.’