The Cheapside Corpse (25 page)

‘Your uncle always said that Taylor was unstable,’ murmured Backwell, speaking softly so Silas would not hear. ‘I never believed him, but now I see he was right. Taylor is unhinged.’

‘Then perhaps you should elect someone else as Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company. He is causing much bad feeling with his unscrupulous tactics – bad feeling that reflects poorly on the rest of you.’

Backwell sighed. ‘It is not that easy, and he is still the best fellow for the task, lunatic or not. These are uneasy times, Chaloner, and we need a strong leader. Even your uncle was in awe of Taylor, and he was a very difficult man to daunt.’

‘I am glad he is not alive to see what you did to my wife,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘Selling her debt to a man who sends louts to her house to threaten her.’

Backwell would not meet his eyes. ‘I did not realise the connection. She took that loan before she married you, so the name on my books was Hannah Cotton. I did ask Taylor to be gentle with my old customers, but he said they are no longer my concern.’

‘You are a man of principle,’ said Chaloner, although he had no idea whether it was true. ‘You must be appalled by what Taylor is doing. If you were Master, you could put an end to it, and restore your Company’s good name.’

Backwell smiled. ‘It is good of you to say so, but I cannot stand for election, even if my colleagues did agree to oust the current incumbent. I am too busy with the war.’

When Backwell had gone, Chaloner took the opportunity to ask Silas what he and the banker had been discussing with such seriousness in the middle window not long before.

‘The war,’ replied Silas shortly. ‘I imagine you do the same with your friends. As Keeper of Stores for a shipyard, you will appreciate that it is a matter I view with some concern.’

‘Backwell is your friend? I thought you said he was dull, and that being seen in his company would adversely affect your fun-loving reputation.’

‘Oh, it would,’ grinned Silas. ‘Which is why I usually meet him in shadowy places. But I have some news for you about Everard – DuPont’s crony. I have found him.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.

Silas flung an arm around his shoulders. ‘Do not look so wary! Backwell happened to mention him in a conversation – Everard is one of the little bankers destroyed by the Colburn Crisis, and he has recently taken lodgings on Cheapside. Shall we visit him together? Now?’

Alarm bells were ringing in Chaloner’s head, but he was shaken, bruised and far from well, so he ignored them. Indeed, he even began to relax in his old friend’s company, feeling he was probably a good deal safer with Silas than on his own, while instinct told him that he would be wasting his time by lingering longer at the scene of the fire anyway. They left Angier’s house and began to walk west, eventually reaching a small, tatty cottage near the Standard.

‘Everard was forced to move here when his bank failed,’ said Silas, regarding it in distaste. ‘Quite a downward slide from Goldsmiths’ Row.’

The ruined financier was a sad, wan man who did indeed have a purple nose. He gestured that Chaloner and Silas were to enter his home, then conducted them to a room that contained nothing except a chair.

‘Even this meagre dwelling will be sold next week,’ he said, slumping down on it. ‘And I shall go to live in the country with my mother. I shall not be sorry. These last few weeks have been a dreadful ordeal, and if your father had not bought most of my clients, Silas, I would be rotting in debtors’ gaol.’

‘We understand you knew a man named DuPont,’ began Chaloner quickly, loath to dwell on what happened to those who could not pay what they owed.

‘Yes – we met in the Feathers,’ replied Everard. ‘An insalubrious place, I know, but I happen to like dancing girls. The Feathers’ lasses loved DuPont, and whenever I sat with him, they paid me much attention, too. Naturally, I went out of my way to encourage him to my side.’

‘Yet the tavern’s staff claim not to know you,’ remarked Chaloner.

‘I used a false name to stop my mother from finding out,’ explained Everard with the ghost of a smile. ‘She does not approve of that sort of place.’

‘DuPont was a spy. Did he discuss that work with you?’

‘A little. He told me that he planned to acquire certain documents from Dutch merchants who live in the city, although he never explained how.’

‘By sticking a hook through their windows and fishing them out,’ supplied Chaloner.

Everard blinked his surprise. ‘Really? Lord! The talents of some people! Anyway, once he had them, he was going to sell them to the government. He knew one of the Lord Chancellor’s retainers, and arrangements had been made.’

‘Does the term Onions at the Well mean anything to you?’

Everard shrugged. ‘I heard him say it a couple of times, but I have no idea what it meant. However, it may have had something to do with the St Giles rookery – we were walking past it once, and he talked about onions and wells before disappearing into it.’

‘There, Tom,’ said Silas in satisfaction, once they were out on Cheapside again. ‘All you have to do is visit this rookery, and you will have all the answers you need.’

Unfortunately, Everard’s testimony was not as useful as Silas believed, as the area was vast and Chaloner doubted he could just stroll in and find what he was looking for. Moreover, most cases of plague were there, so it was a risky place to be. He supposed Silas had forgotten the outbreak, because he was sure his friend would not have recommended that he go there otherwise.

As it was on his way home, Chaloner decided to deal with Oxley’s dog, so walked to the lane that ran along the back of the henchman’s house. He soon understood why Shaw and Lettice did not want it in their garden. It was a squat, bull-chested bitch of an unusual silvery grey, which set up a furious barking when he scrambled up the wall to look. No one came to investigate, so he supposed the Oxleys were still watching the fire. The beast wore a collar with her name painted in large white letters, and he was not surprised to learn that she went by the appellation of Slasher.

He looked down at her while he considered his options. He could easily lob a knife and be rid of the problem permanently, but he suspected that Oxley would just buy another. Moreover, as Lettice had said, the situation was hardly Slasher’s fault. Then he happened to glance across the lane. The house opposite belonged to a butcher, whose distinctive cart was parked in the yard. Chaloner smiled as a solution began to form in his mind.

It was not easy to lasso Slasher with his belt, especially when she was so determined to bite him, but he managed eventually. He hauled her up, and wrapped his coat around her head before she could do him any damage. Plunging her world into darkness served to quieten her somewhat, which allowed him to climb the butcher’s wall with her slung over his shoulder.

The cart was packed with goods ready for delivery the following morning. Chaloner gently placed Slasher inside it and removed his coat and belt. She shook herself furiously and released an angry snarl, but then her brain registered the delicious aroma of raw meat. Her eyes lit up, and she gave an excited yip before pitching in to the delights around her.

A light went on in the butcher’s bedroom, and Chaloner had only just scrambled back over the wall before the door to the yard was flung open and the man appeared with a cleaver. Slasher broke off from her repast just long enough to chase him back inside, then returned to her meal. It was clear that she was going to enjoy a very pleasant interlude until Oxley came to reclaim her.

Chaloner grinned as he walked away, brushing dog hairs from his coat. Devouring the contents of a butcher’s cart was rather more serious than preventing neighbours from using their latrine, and Oxley would be liable for costs. He doubted Slasher would be in residence on Cheapside much longer, but fierce dogs had their price, so Oxley would sell her. She would live to see another day, the butcher would be reimbursed, and the Shaws would have safe access to their garden. In fact, everyone would benefit except Oxley, which was exactly how it should be.

He emerged on Cheapside, but had not gone far before a carriage drew up beside him. It bore the arms of the Company of Barber–Surgeons, and Wiseman was inside. Chaloner knew Misick was with him, because part of the physician’s massive wig was poking through the window – either that, or Wiseman was transporting a sheep.

‘You have the Cheapside cold,’ noted Wiseman when he heard Chaloner’s gravelly voice. ‘Several of my patients have come down with it, and two have been shut up in their houses because the damn-fool searchers cannot distinguish between common ailments and the plague. Unless the victim happens to be wealthy, of course, in which case they are open to suggestion.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ sighed Misick. ‘How is your remedy coming along, Wiseman? My Plague Elixir is selling so fast that I can barely keep up with the demand for it.’

Wiseman shot him a resentful glance, indicating that his own efforts in that area were less than satisfactory, for which Chaloner was grateful – he had not forgotten that Temperance had charged him to prevent the surgeon from testing it on a victim.

‘Speaking of the plague,’ he said to Misick, ‘did you mention your worm theory to Taylor? There must be some reason why he seems to think that he has some in his box.’

‘I thought it might serve to make him reflect on the frailty of life and render him a little kinder,’ replied Misick defensively. ‘I did not anticipate that he would harbour notions of collecting them up with a view to annihilating London.’

‘The man should be in Bedlam,’ declared Wiseman, who knew all about that place, as he had installed his wife there. ‘But I am in the mood for company. Come to Chyrurgeons’ Hall for dinner, both of you. My cook is making liver pudding.’

It occurred to Chaloner that it was rash to eat liver with Wiseman when there were pickled human ones in the jars in his laboratory, but he had eaten nothing since breakfast and was hungry. He climbed into the carriage, and began to cough when Misick lit a pipe.

‘Plague worms hate smoke,’ the physician informed him, waving a hand in an effort to see his companions through the fug. ‘And so do the ones that cause colds, so inhale as deeply as you can. Tobacco is an excellent tonic for congested lungs.’

‘Colds are not caused by worms,’ stated Wiseman dogmatically. ‘They come from changes in the weather. Chaloner caught one because it is cooler here than in Hull.’

Chaloner did not have the energy for the argument that would ensue if he informed them that London was milder than Yorkshire had been, so he held his tongue. Wiseman continued to pontificate until they arrived at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, a large precinct near the London Wall dominated by its curiously shaped Anatomy Theatre. The Master’s quarters were above the dining hall, and comprised a suite of beautiful rooms that afforded fine views of the surrounding rooftops.

Chaloner had always found it unsettling that Wiseman’s servants were missing various body parts. The cook had one arm, the groom had lost an eye, and the footman was missing a leg. He had never liked to ask whether they had been relieved of them by the surgeon, and he sincerely hoped the absent bits were not among the items displayed in the laboratory.

All three fussed around their employer and his guests, plying them with great slabs of liver pudding, while Wiseman gleefully listed all the ingredients that had gone into it – lungs, thymus, skin, ears, eyelids and liver. Chaloner was glad that his cold prevented him from having functional taste buds. Eventually, Misick left, saying he had patients to see.

‘We shall stand guard tonight, sir,’ said the footman, once he had seen the physician out. He was wearing the kind of armour that had been donned by the less well protected members of the Royalist army during the civil wars. The groom was similarly attired. ‘We shall sleep in the hall downstairs, and no one will enter without us seeing.’

‘Why?’ asked Wiseman, bemused. ‘And watch where you are waving that sword, man! It almost took my head off.’

‘Because of the thieves. A number of folk have been burgled around here of late, but no one knows how the villains do it, because all the victims’ doors and windows are locked. Yet a lot of stuff has gone missing.’

‘It has,’ agreed Wiseman. ‘Temperance lost some curtains a couple of weeks ago. I do not hold with them personally, but she insisted on buying me some.’

He gestured to his windows, where fine lengths of green material hung. They clashed with the scarlet decor in the rest of the room, so it was no surprise that he had not taken to them. When the servants had gone, he talked about the plague measures that Williamson was implementing. Chaloner began to drowse, lulled by the droning voice and the comforting crackle of the fire in the hearth. But he snapped into alertness when one sentence penetrated his consciousness.

‘What?’

‘I said the reason that I was on Cheapside this evening was because I had a patient who lived in the house that burned down – Fatherton, whom I inherited from Coo. He summoned me a couple of days ago, because he thought he might have the plague.’

‘And did he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, remembering the sneeze.

‘No, it was a heavy cold, but I thought I had better make sure, so I went to see him again this evening. When I arrived, the house was ablaze, and Misick, who had been listening to gossip among the spectators, says that Fatherton was inside.’

‘He was,’ said Chaloner, but did not elaborate.

The surgeon regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Did you catch your sickness from him? No, do not tell me. I prefer to remain in blissful ignorance where your antics are concerned. However, you should watch yourself if you intend to lurk around Bearbinder Lane. It lies in James Baron’s domain, and even I am wary of annoying
him
.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Because he is a cunning and dangerous criminal, who indulges in all manner of dishonest activities, although he has never been caught. His captains and trainband have sworn oaths of fealty, you see, and would rather die than betray him.’

Chaloner coughed and then sneezed.