The Cheapside Corpse (3 page)

Chaloner blinked. ‘You
bought
the post? I assumed you won it on merit.’

‘Oh, really, Thomas! That is not how things work at White Hall. You may have unique talents that earls clamour to purchase, but the rest of us are rather more ordinary.’

Chaloner almost laughed at the notion that noblemen were falling over themselves to hire his services. He had fought for Parliament during the civil wars, and had worked for Cromwell’s intelligence services thereafter. Employment was scarce for such men in Restoration England, and he was fortunate that the Earl had been willing to overlook his past loyalties and take him on.

‘I hardly think—’ he began.

‘Anyway, it cost three thousand pounds, which obviously I did not have, so I had to borrow from Edward Backwell. But the King asked the bankers to donate a million pounds for the Dutch war, and as they do not have such a huge sum to hand, they have to raise it by any means they can. Most do it by selling their debts – Backwell sold his to Rich Taylor.’

‘I have heard of Rich Taylor. He was one of few goldsmith–bankers who remained a Royalist during Commonwealth.’

Chaloner knew this because such loyalties had been deemed suspect when Parliament was in power, so Taylor was one of those whom John Thurloe – then Cromwell’s Spymaster General – had been obliged to monitor.

‘Well, he is a terrible rogue,’ said Hannah. ‘And I am now in debt to him.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You must have had this arrangement with Backwell when we married. You have been a lady-in-waiting for more than three years now but I have never heard of it before. Why not?’

‘Because the money was always taken directly from my salary, so I never had cause to think about it. Many courtiers are in the same position, and handling “standing orders” is a service that White Hall’s accompters offer. They gather all the payments together, and deliver them to our creditors on the first day of every month.’

‘So what has changed? Did the clerks forget?’

‘No – the problem came when Taylor revised the agreement I made with Backwell, which I only discovered when I received a letter informing me that I was in arrears. I went to the Solicitor General, expecting to be told that Taylor had acted illegally, but it seems he
was
within his rights to change the terms.’

‘How did he change them?’

‘Instead of the five per cent interest that Backwell charged, Taylor wants fifteen. I refused, of course, but all that means is that my debt has mounted, and I am now in rather a muddle.’

‘But that is extortion – usury. Which
is
illegal, no matter what the Solicitor General says.’

Hannah sighed. ‘Unfortunately, there is a clause in the contract that lets any new lender do as he pleases. I queried it when I signed with Backwell, but he told me not to worry, as he would never sell the arrangement.’

‘But he did sell it,’ said Chaloner heavily.

She nodded. ‘He apologised profusely, but I could see he was in a bind – he cannot refuse a “request” for funds from His Majesty. Unfortunately, Taylor has demanded so much that I have been unable to pay the butcher, the grocer, the baker, the milkman…’

‘So who sent those three louts? Taylor, or one of the others?’

‘Taylor. But all will be well now that you are home. You have not drawn your salary for two months, which might appease him for a while.’

From that remark, Chaloner surmised that his outstanding wages would not cover all that was needed. Unless Taylor could be persuaded to agree to more reasonable terms, of course, which he might, once informed that sending henchmen to the homes of ladies while their husbands were away was not the best way to enhance his reputation as an honourable man of business. Chaloner looked at the painting, and wondered if anyone would buy it.

‘No,’ said Hannah, reading his mind. ‘Prices for works of art are low at the moment, because of the war – no one wants to buy any, just in case the Dutch invade us and steal it all. We need to wait until the crisis is over. Besides, we shall never win recognition at Court unless we flaunt a little wealth. As I said, the Lely is an investment.’

‘It will be a redundant investment if we are arrested for debt,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I doubt the Queen will keep you if you are obliged to live in the Fleet Prison.’

‘She might, because I should be in very good company,’ Hannah flashed back. ‘Any number of courtiers are in the same position. But this is not my fault, Tom! How was I to know that Backwell would sell my debt to someone like Taylor? And there is Colburn, of course.’

Chaloner regarded her in alarm. ‘Who is Colburn? Another creditor?’

Hannah eyed him stonily. ‘He was a gambler, who took massive loans from virtually every banker in the city, which he cannot repay because he killed himself. A number of the smaller concerns are ruined – which has put even greater pressure on those who weathered Colburn’s sly dealings, as there are fewer of them to fund the war.’

‘So is that why Taylor is charging so much interest? To raise money for the King?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Hannah bitterly. ‘His Majesty has not demanded a contribution from
him
, because he remained loyal to the monarchy during the Commonwealth. His coffers are safe, unlike all the others, who declared for Parliament. But we will survive this nastiness, Tom. The housekeeper is going to stay with her mother in Shoreditch, which will be one fewer mouth to feed.’

Chaloner doubted the departure of one person was going to make much difference to their predicament. ‘I did not know that loans could be bought, sold and renegotiated.’

‘Nor did anyone else at Court, and Taylor’s antics are doing nothing to make bankers popular. But this is tedious talk for your homecoming! I am delighted to have you back, and to prove it, I shall bake you a cake.’

Chaloner’s heart sank. Hannah was the least talented cook he had ever encountered. A cake would mean a sticky mess for the staff to clean up afterwards, and some inedible offering that he would be obliged to praise.

‘I have a letter to deliver to the Earl,’ he said, standing quickly lest he was invited to watch her at work – invariably a fraught experience. ‘I should go to White Hall.’

‘He prefers to lurk in Dunkirk House these days, because everyone at the palace hates him so. You will have to go there if you want to see him.’

Chaloner left Tothill Street with a mind that teemed with worry. He was so preoccupied that he forgot to change his grimy clothes before visiting the man who lived in the newest and most extravagant stately home in the capital.

He walked to Clarendon House wondering what had possessed him to marry a woman with whom he had so little in common, and who was about to land him in debtors’ gaol into the bargain. And there was little that unsettled him more than the prospect of a spell behind bars – he had once been caught spying in France, and the following incarceration had been so harrowing that it still haunted his dreams. Even the thought of being in prison brought him out in a cold sweat, and he determined to visit Taylor as soon as possible, to see what could be done to avoid it.

He cut through St James’s Park, a pleasant expanse of formal garden and woodland, and emerged on the semi-rural lane called Piccadilly. Clarendon House had stood in glorious isolation when he had left London six weeks before, but now it seemed the Earl was to have neighbours. Two more mansions were rising out of the mud, although neither was as grand as Clarendon’s with its fluted columns, ornate balustrades and lofty windows. The Earl’s home screamed of wealth and privilege, and he was not surprised that Londoners resented it.

He was standing at the gate, regarding the place with dislike, when something slammed into the back of him, almost knocking him from his feet. He spun around to find himself staring down a roll of cloth. It was being toted by two men who grunted and sweated under its weight, and who did not seem to care that they posed a considerable menace to others. A quick glance down the lane told him that he was not the only one who had been butted – a number of people rubbed shoulders and heads.

‘You should have moved,’ said one of the men, unrepentant. ‘We called out to tell you to mind.’

Chaloner was sure they had not, but the load looked heavy, and he would not have wanted to lug it around on such a warm day, so he let the matter pass unremarked.

‘Curtains,’ explained the other, more contrite. ‘All the best houses have them.’

‘Do they?’ Glumly, Chaloner wondered how long it would be before Hannah wanted some.

‘There is much to commend them over shutters,’ added the first. ‘They exclude draughts, look pretty in a window, and do not need painting.’

‘Before the year is out, all fashionable houses will have them,’ predicted the second. ‘You mark my words.’

Chaloner began to walk up the gravelled drive, and they fell into step behind him, chatting as they went. They informed him that their names were Gabb and Knowles, and that they worked for a person named James Baron.

‘He buys and sells,’ elaborated Gabb with a meaningful wink. ‘And he is a powerful force along Cheapside. Ask for him if you need anything – anything at all – and he will get it for you.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the Earl, who prided himself on his morality, knew that his fashionable new drapery hailed from such a dubious-sounding source.

‘Here,’ said Gabb, shoving a card into Chaloner’s hand. It was an advertisement for the services Baron offered to potential clients. Such notices had been rare in Cromwell’s time, but there had been a proliferation of them since the Restoration, as every businessman hastened to legitimise himself with the printed word. This one read:

Jaymes Baron, purveyor of Fyne Cloffs and other Superiore Items to Howses of Qualitye and Fashon, including curtaynes, linin, goode furnichure, piktures, cloks and ornamentals.

Aske for Jas. Baron, at the Sign of the Feathers on Chepeside.

Anythinge bawt or solde. No Questyons Askd.

Printed by Thos Milbourn of St Martin le Grand

Personally, Chaloner thought that Thos Milbourn should have advised his customer to reword the last part, as it screamed of criminality. A little editing for spelling would not have gone amiss either. He started to hand it back, but Gabb indicated that he should keep it.

‘You might want something yourself one day,’ he said. ‘And if you do, tell Mr Baron that you was sent by Gabb and Knowles, because then you will get a better price, and we will get what is known as a
commission
.’

‘Of course, we are unimpressed that Mr Baron treats with Dunkirk House,’ said Knowles, nodding towards Clarendon’s stately pile with considerable disapproval. ‘Cromwell worked hard to get that port off the French, and Clarendon was wrong to sell it back to them.’

‘He let them bribe him,’ stated Gabb with such authority that anyone listening might have been forgiven for thinking that he had been there when it happened. ‘He sold it out of self-interest.’

‘Is that so,’ said Chaloner flatly, thinking they had no right to denigrate the Earl when they worked for a man who offered to buy and sell property of debatable provenance.

Gabb nodded. ‘Of course! How else could he afford this fine house? Or do you think he earned it all from being Lord Chancellor?’

Chaloner agreed that the Earl’s current post was unlikely to generate sufficient income to fund an expensive project like Clarendon House. However, his employer’s finances were not for discussion with delivery men, so he led them to the back of the building, where such goods were received.

Because the Earl wanted his new home to be at the forefront of fashion, he had hired a man to ensure that it never lagged behind. John Neve was a thin, harried perfectionist whose finicky attention to detail was likely to drive him to an early grave. He was an upholder, which meant he was not only qualified to fit furniture with material, but was also an expert in interior design. He was waiting at the door, and gave a relieved smile when he saw the curtains.

‘Good,’ he said, waving them inside. ‘That is the seventh pair. Two more to come.’

‘No, these are the last,’ said Gabb, dropping them on the floor and mopping his sweating face with a grimy sleeve.

‘Nonsense,’ said Neve impatiently. ‘There are nine windows in the Great Parlour, and I ordered a set of curtains for each. I am unlikely to have miscounted.’

Gabb shrugged. ‘Take it up with Mr Baron. Lord! It is hot for such labour. Would you happen to have a cup of cool ale for two tired and thirsty men?’

‘No, I would not!’ cried Neve indignantly. ‘And certainly not until you have brought everything that we paid for. Well? What are you waiting for?’

Chaloner was amazed by how much Clarendon House had changed since he had left. Then, it had been lavish, but now it was unashamedly ostentatious. Every wall was hung with priceless paintings, sculptures abounded, and ceilings and doors had been slathered in gilt. It was more opulent than White Hall by a considerable margin, and he wondered what the King thought about being upstaged by his Lord Chancellor. The two no longer enjoyed the easy relationship they had once shared, mostly because His Majesty disliked being treated like an errant schoolboy, and the Earl deplored the merry monarch’s licentious lifestyle. Moreover, the King did not have as much money as he thought he should, and Clarendon’s brazen affluence was bound to rankle.

‘I am glad to see you back, Chaloner,’ said Neve, once the curtains had been toted upstairs and he and Chaloner were watching them being unrolled ready for hanging. He looked tired and out of sorts. ‘You have been missed.’

‘I have?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘By whom?’

‘By the Earl. His suppliers have been causing problems, as you just saw, and he says almost every day that he wishes you were here to sort them out.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner despondently. He had been a very good intelligencer during the Commonwealth, and his analyses of enemy shipping and troop movements had earned him praise from princes and generals. But the Earl wanted him for handling awkward traders!

‘It is important,’ Neve assured him earnestly. ‘He will not be happy until his Great Parlour is perfect, and he will be furious when he learns he is still two pairs of curtains short.’