The Cheapside Corpse (11 page)

‘Well, then,’ drawled Thurloe. ‘We had better see what we can do.’

As Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn, he began planning his day. His most pressing task was to visit Taylor, where he had three things to do: discuss Hannah’s debt; find out what Taylor knew about Wheler’s murder; and ask where Randal was hiding. Randal would probably refuse to keep his sequel to himself, so some form of coercion would have to be devised. Perhaps it could revolve around his recently acquired wife, who was another suspect in Wheler’s death.

Once Chaloner had finished with the Taylors, he would have to tackle Baron, to secure the last two pairs of curtains and sever relations between him and Clarendon House. While he was there, he would question yet another suspect for Wheler’s stabbing – Baron had moved suspiciously fast to seize the criminal side of Wheler’s operation. Next on the list was DuPont: Long Acre had yielded nothing useful, so Chaloner would have to visit Bearbinder Lane, where the French spy had died. And finally, he had to find Coo’s killers.

He crossed the bridge over the slimy streak of the Fleet River, then climbed Ludgate Hill towards the shabby splendour of St Paul’s. The cathedral close was busy, business brisk in the stalls that huddled against its massive buttresses. He was assailed by a range of smells as he passed – incense, back in fashion after the Puritan ban; cakes from a tray balanced on a vendor’s head; sewage spilling from a blocked drain; and a sweeter waft from the new grass growing over the graves in the churchyard.

He soon reached Goldsmiths’ Row, a short but glorious jewel of a lane that ran between Bread and Friday Streets, parallel to and south of Cheapside. When he was a boy, his mother had taught him a rhyme about the beauty of this particular road, and as he walked along it, he understood why poets had been moved to wax lyrical. It was not quite as glittering as it had been in its Elizabethan heyday, but was still impressive – a line of extravagant houses, most plastered with gilt, interspersed with shops that sold some of the most expensive jewellery in the country.

Taylor’s Bank was the largest and grandest of all, and bespoke old money and good taste. It comprised a large sales area at street level, leading to workshops and a sturdy vault below ground. The shop was opulent, with glass cases holding display after display of sparkling bijouterie – bracelets, necklaces, tiaras, chains of office. Many were works of art that would have taken months to create, and a glance into the workshop revealed artisans and their apprentices bent over benches, their faces taut with concentration.

Chaloner stated his purpose to a servant, and was conducted to the next floor, which had several offices for clerks and a large chamber for Taylor himself. This was sumptuously appointed, and silver-rimmed mirrors filled it with reflected light. The banker sat behind an ornately carved desk, while two men hovered behind him. One was a younger version of himself; the other was a black-garbed physician with the biggest wig Chaloner had ever seen – the extravagant curls not only fell well past its wearer’s waist, but billowed out at the sides, so it appeared as though he was wearing a large sheep.

‘Thank you, Misick,’ Taylor was saying, as the medic proffered a beaker containing medicine. ‘I cannot afford to catch the pestilence when business is at such a critical juncture.’

Misick, thought Chaloner. Coo’s colleague and
medicus
to the bankers, whom Temperance had recommended as a source of information on the murdered physician.

‘One can never be too careful, Father,’ said the younger man. His hair was brown where Taylor’s was grey, and he looked strong and fit, yet he lacked his sire’s charisma and his expression was obsequious. ‘Those who do not take preventatives will certainly die.’

‘It will not touch us,’ Misick predicted confidently. ‘How could it, when we all take a daily dose of my Plague Elixir – a potion that the Royal College of Physicians itself has endorsed?’

Taylor glanced up and seemed to notice Chaloner for the first time. ‘Step away,’ he ordered imperiously. ‘I want a
private
word with my son Evan. Go on. You, too, Misick.
Back
, I say!’

It was hardly polite, and Chaloner was tempted to say so, but Misick grabbed his arm and drew him to the far side of the room, obviously unwilling to incur the great man’s wrath. Chaloner tugged free, resenting the liberty, a movement that caused him to brush against the wig, which released a thick billow of white powder.

‘It is a remedy against fleas,’ Misick explained, while Chaloner coughed. ‘Wigs are splendid inventions, and I would not be without mine for the world, but they do attract hordes of unwelcome visitors. Do you wear one? If so, I shall send you a packet. You will never have a problem with fleas, lice, ticks or nits ever again.’

Manfully, Chaloner resisted the urge to scratch, and instead took the opportunity to further one of his enquiries. ‘I am told you are friends with Abner Coo and Richard Wiseman.’

The physician’s face clouded. ‘I
was
friends with Coo, but the poor man was shot yesterday. And Surgeon Wiseman does not have friends, so perhaps “colleague” might be a better description of my relationship with him. Why? Do you know them, too?’

‘I was with Coo when he was killed,’ explained Chaloner, deciding not to mention the fact that Wiseman was
his
friend, and he considered him a good one. ‘And I should like to see the culprits brought to justice.’

‘Good!’ declared Misick passionately. ‘Coo was a fine man, and did not deserve to be gunned down in so terrible a manner.’

‘Do you know who might have done it?’

‘If I did, I would go after the villains myself. But unfortunately, Coo was willing to tend anyone in need, which meant he mingled with some very undesirable characters. He lived and worked on Cheapside, which is in the domain of a powerful criminal called Baron.’

‘Could Baron have ordered the execution?’

Misick pondered. ‘Probably not, because Coo physicked his trainband. However, I shall keep my ears open for gossip. What is your name, and where can you be reached?’

Chaloner told him, and as Taylor and his son were still deep in conversation, he turned to another matter. ‘Did you know Dick Wheler?’

‘Of course. Between you and me, he was not a very nice man. He paid Baron to collect unpaid debts, and was not fussy about how it was done.’

‘So who might have killed
him
?’

‘Where to start? His colleagues hated his haughty arrogance towards them—’

‘Including Taylor?’ interrupted Chaloner softly.

‘Yes, along with Backwell, Vyner, Angier, Hinton and every other banker in the city. Then there were the clients he abused – a list that will run to several pages, and will include members of Court and the government as well as tradesmen, clerks and paupers. I applaud the sense of justice that drives you to hunt killers, Chaloner, but concentrate on Coo. He
deserves
it.’

‘And Wheler does not?’

Misick sighed. ‘I suppose even the wicked have a right to justice. But why wait until now to explore the matter? He died weeks ago.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner heavily, heartily wishing his Earl would not burden him with such impractical assignments.

It was some time before the Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company deigned to ask Chaloner his business, although the spy did not mind, because Misick kept him entertained with gossip while they waited. The physician was able to tell him nothing more to help with Coo, and he had never heard of DuPont, but he provided a detailed account of what had happened immediately after Wheler’s murder – namely that Baron had moved within hours to seize the gambling dens and brothels, and that Joan had visited Taylor the very next day to discuss an alliance between their houses.

‘It was a clever move on her part,’ Misick said admiringly. ‘Wheler left her very rich, but on her own, she lacked teeth. The alliance with Taylor’s Bank has made her part of the most powerful financial body in the city.’

Chaloner recalled the hard-faced woman he had seen the previous afternoon, and thought she probably had enough ‘teeth’ for all the goldsmiths combined. ‘So she and Taylor run it together?’

Misick’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not yet, as Taylor is unused to sharing. But she is working quietly and diligently to take her rightful place. She is already indispensable – he rarely attends meetings without her at his side these days. She will succeed, of that I have no doubt.’

Eventually, Taylor beckoned Chaloner forward, and the spy again sensed that he was in the presence of a very powerful man. By contrast, Evan was a nonentity, and compensated for his lack of personality with an attitude of sullen aggression, which sat poorly with his boyish looks and made him seem like a petulant child, although he must have been well past forty.

‘We have met before,’ said Taylor, fixing Chaloner with bright brown eyes. ‘Yesterday, on Cheapside. You were with Coo when he was shot, and almost shared his fate.’

‘Villains!’ muttered Evan, while Chaloner was surprised that Taylor should remember him when he had barely glanced in his direction. It warned him not to underestimate the man.

‘Coo was a fine physician,’ said Taylor soberly. ‘He will be missed.’

‘Who do you think did it?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Baron, probably,’ replied Evan. ‘He is the one with killers in his employ – I assume you are familiar with the criminal gang he calls his trainband? But he should watch himself, because one of those vile rogues might turn on
him
.’

‘One might,’ agreed Taylor. ‘Just as one turned on poor Wheler.’

‘So you think Wheler was killed by Baron or someone from his retinue?’ probed Chaloner.

‘It was not Baron’s retinue at the time,’ Taylor reminded him. ‘It was Wheler’s. However, I cannot begin to guess which of those villains summoned up the courage to dispatch him, so if you want to know, you will have to ask them yourself. However, if you discover that they are innocent, then some client he annoyed will be the culprit.’

‘They are
our
clients now,’ put in Evan. ‘Joan brought them to us when she married Randal. However, I have not met any who look like assassins, Father.’

‘You think you could tell, do you?’ asked Taylor with a sneer that made his son bristle, although only behind his back. He turned back to Chaloner. ‘And, of course, Wheler was also disliked by his fellow financiers.’

‘Including you?’ Chaloner tried not to flinch when Taylor’s eyes bored into his own.

‘No, I liked him,’ the banker replied. ‘He was not some chattering monkey, like Backwell, Vyner, Glosson and the others, but a man of steel. I admired his strength.’

When he turned to the papers on his desk, Chaloner began to gabble in the hope of keeping the discussion going. ‘I am a friend of your son Silas. He and I served together in the New Model Army.’

‘We do not mention my brother’s politics,’ said Evan curtly. ‘We Taylors were Royalists in the wars and Royalists in the Commonwealth. Silas was an aberration.’

But Chaloner knew otherwise. Silas liked to drink, and had confided a number of family secrets when in his cups. One was that he was the Taylors’ ‘insurance’, so they could claim to be supporters of Parliament should the need arise. The ploy had worked: Silas’s courage during the conflict meant that Cromwell had given the family the benefit of the doubt when he was in power, while they had reaped great rewards from the King at the Restoration.

‘Silas was always the bravest of my three sons,’ declared Taylor. ‘So he was the perfect choice to enrol in an army – although only when it became clear which side was going to win, of course.’

It was a curious thing to admit, and Chaloner regarded him sharply. There was a thin film of sweat on Taylor’s face, and was that a hint of wildness in the piercing brown eyes?

‘We have always been Cavaliers, Father,’ averred Evan firmly. ‘We never—’

‘Silas is Keeper of Stores at the Harwich shipyard now,’ Taylor interrupted. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, but there was something in his slightly manic expression that made Chaloner wonder if he was in complete control of his wits. ‘Evan bought the post for him, on the grounds that there will be plenty of scope for taking bribes.’

‘Not so,’ countered Evan, although with a sickly smile that did much to suggest that Taylor was telling the truth. ‘Silas is an honest man, like us. After all, no banker or public official can operate efficiently if he has a reputation for being corrupt.’

The last words were spoken pointedly, which caused Taylor to whip around and glare at him. ‘Who are you calling corrupt?’ he demanded.

‘Not you,’ gulped Evan. ‘I—’

‘Good.’ Taylor turned to Chaloner again. ‘Now, why did
you
come here today?’

‘I know Randal, too,’ lied Chaloner, sensing the interview would not last long once Taylor discovered that he was just another debtor, so aiming to learn as much as he could before he was ousted. ‘I should like to see him again, to talk over old times. Where does he live?’

‘We do not give out that sort of information,’ said Evan sharply.

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I should like to buy him a drink. Will you—’

‘He has gone into hiding, on account of some nonsense he wrote about Cromwell’s wife,’ interrupted Taylor. ‘There are people who would kill him for it, and while I have no great affection for the fool, I do not want him dead. But never mind him. Come and look at this.’

He indicated the chest that sat on his table. It was square, with sides about the length of his forearm, made of rosewood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He made no effort to open it, though, and only stroked it lovingly.

‘It contains power,’ he said with a peculiar leer, snatching it up suddenly and cradling it in his arms. ‘The power of life and death. Have you ever seen anything like it?’

‘Er … no,’ replied Chaloner, when he saw the banker expected an answer.

‘Plague,’ Taylor hissed, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘I shall release it in the city one day, but the sickness will not claim me. I am taking the best preventatives money can buy.’

‘Speaking of money, we should get down to business,’ said Evan loudly, while Chaloner regarded the older man askance. Taylor was likely to land himself in trouble if he went around claiming that he had the wherewithal to smite London with a deadly disease.