The Cheapside Corpse (33 page)

‘No!’ Chaloner did not want an assassin for a partner. ‘I always work alone.’

‘Not this time – there is too much at stake. That is the deal, Chaloner. Take it or leave it. However, it is in both our interests to cooperate, so I hope you will be amenable.’

Chaloner glanced at Swaddell’s bland face, but could not read whether the assassin objected as much as he did. He inclined his head, and the Spymaster smirked his triumph.

‘Good. I suggest you begin by visiting Baron. At once, if you would not mind.’

Williamson had the luxury of a private coach to take him back to his lair in the Palace of Westminster, but Chaloner and Swaddell were faced with a lengthy walk to Cheapside. Swaddell suggested a hackney carriage, but Chaloner demurred – he could not pay his share, and was loath to put himself in the assassin’s debt.

‘I know what you think of me,’ said Swaddell as they trudged along the Strand. Chaloner sincerely hoped not – they could hardly be expected to work together if he did. ‘And you are wrong.’

‘I am?’

‘I might have dispatched the odd worthless rogue in the past, but there were always good reasons – patriotic reasons. However, Baron and his rabble kill without compunction, and they murder good men as well as fellow criminals.’

‘What good men?’

‘Abner Coo.’ Swaddell looked away. ‘He helped me when I was attacked in the Fleet rookery last year. He took me in and repaired me, even though I was disguised in rags at the time, and as far as he was concerned, he would never be disbursed for his trouble. He was a fine person, and I liked him.’

‘So did I,’ admitted Chaloner.

‘So although I also prefer to work alone, you represent my best chance of making Baron pay for Coo’s murder. I am prepared to set my prejudices aside in the interests of justice, and I hope you will do the same.’

‘Do you have any actual evidence that Baron killed Coo?’

‘If we did, we would have arrested him already. But I feel his guilt in my very bones. You must know what I mean.’

Chaloner did, but in this case his hunch told him that Baron was innocent. ‘Then why not eliminate him? I am sure you have plenty of experience on that front.’

Swaddell shot him a doleful look. ‘Why do people have such a poor opinion of assassins? We do not dispatch just anyone, you know. We have rules and standards. And I would much rather see him convicted in a court of law.’

Chaloner was not sure what to make of that claim. ‘Do your bones tell you whether he has murdered anyone other than Coo?’

‘Well, Fatherton and DuPont were criminals who worked for him, while he would not be King of Cheapside if Wheler had not been stabbed.
Four
suspicious deaths, all within a few weeks of each other. It cannot be coincidence.’

‘Perhaps not, but there are plenty more suspects for Wheler’s demise – an angry client, Joan, the Taylor clan…’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Swaddell, ‘but Baron remains the most likely culprit, and I have learned not to overlook the obvious.’

He was silent for a while, then stepped suddenly into Maidenhead Alley, a dank ribbon of muck and weeds that was rarely used because it was a dead end. He beckoned Chaloner to follow. Common sense told Chaloner to stay on the Strand, but a ridiculous sense of bravado drove him into the lane’s shadowy depths – he hated the notion that Swaddell might think he was afraid. All his senses were on high alert, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Very slowly, Swaddell reached for the dagger he carried in his belt and touched the blade to the tip of his forefinger. A bead of blood appeared at once, testament to its sharpness. Then he handed it to Chaloner, handle first.

‘If our blood mingles, we will be bound by duty and honour. You will know that you can trust me, and I shall know that I can trust you.’

Chaloner regarded the small blob with rank suspicion. ‘We used to do this in the army, but with rather more conviction – proper cuts, not pinpricks.’

Swaddell shrugged. ‘Call me girlish if you will, but I have an aversion to hurting myself. Besides, the ritual does not call for great gouts of blood. A drop will suffice.’

‘Is this really necessary?’

Swaddell looked him straight in the eye and held his gaze, the first time he had ever done so. ‘Yes, for both our sakes. You will not betray an oath and neither will I.’

Chaloner had no idea whether that was true of Swaddell, but he would definitely not be able to trust the man if he refused, so he took the proffered knife and pricked his thumb. The moment it was done, the assassin grasped his hand and pushed both nicks together, holding them tight.

‘I swear, by all that is holy, that we are now brothers,’ he intoned. ‘I will protect you to the utmost of my ability, and I will never do you harm. Now you say it.’

Chaloner obliged, although he added the caveat ‘until the end of the investigation’, unwilling to be tied to a truce for longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘There,’ said Swaddell, sheathing the weapon with satisfaction. ‘It is done. Now neither of us needs fear a sly knife in the back.’

The very fact that he should have mentioned such a possibility made Chaloner wonder whether the oath was as sacred as Swaddell wanted him to believe.

Chaloner was not sure if it was an act, but Swaddell seemed more easy in his company once they emerged from the alley and resumed their walk to Cheapside. The assassin began to chatter in a way he had not done before, confiding that he had never married because he was afraid of what he might do if his wife proved unfaithful, and that he too had an uncle, evidently the black sheep of the family, who had fought for Parliament during the wars.

‘I am sorry about your financial difficulties,’ he said, eventually deciding he had talked enough about himself. ‘Well, it is fortunate for Williamson, as it gave him a lever to encourage you to help us, but no man should be in debt to another. It makes him vulnerable.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner drily.

‘Of course, you are not the only one. Half the Court owes money to the goldsmiths. Taylor is the least patient with defaulters – when payments are missed, he demands heirlooms instead.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, thinking about Hannah’s precious pearls.

‘He had a hatpin from May, a jewelled scent bottle from Chiffinch, a Genovese watch from Brodrick … the list is endless.’

‘I am surprised Williamson does not rein him in. Taylor’s claims on his clients’ debts might be legal, but his methods of collecting them are not.’

Swaddell gave a short bark of laughter. ‘We have tried, believe me. For example, when we heard how Carteret was robbed of his buttons we offered to prosecute the culprits, but he told us it had never happened – he did not have the courage to challenge Taylor. No one does.’

‘Because Taylor would avenge himself by raising the interest on their loans,’ explained Chaloner, aware that
he
would not trust the legal system to see justice done either.

‘Partly, but also because they cannot afford to be exposed as paupers. All courtiers rely on credit, and grocers, coal merchants, glovers, tailors, lacemakers and brewers would never deal with them again if they knew the real state of their finances. And that would do no one any good.’

Chaloner shook his head in disgust, and almost voiced what Thurloe would have said – that it would never have happened in Cromwell’s day. He stopped himself in time, suspecting that the assassin would not appreciate being regaled with Parliamentarian sentiments.

‘Have you learned any more about what might be planned for Tuesday?’ he asked. He saw Swaddell’s face immediately go blank, and sighed his irritation. Their so-called truce had not lasted long. ‘If we are to work together, then we need to share information. Otherwise, we might as well pursue our enquiries separately.’

Swaddell inclined his head. ‘Forgive me. Like you, I am unused to talking freely about my work. The rumour about Tuesday came to us via a Court milliner named Howard.’

‘He told Backwell, too,’ recalled Chaloner. ‘But he is a dead Court milliner now. He was among the first to be put into quarantine with the plague, and died with his entire household.’

‘Yes, which was unfortunate. You see, he was a gambler, and to offset his losses at the card tables, he did certain favours for Baron. When we found out, we offered him a choice: prison or passing us information. He chose the latter, and his death is a bitter blow.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘So he might not have died of the plague at all? He and his family might have been murdered to put an end to this arrangement?’

‘It is tempting to say yes, and have Baron charged with the deaths of seventeen people. But the truth is that their maid really did catch the disease, and she carried it into their house.’

‘What favours did Howard do for Baron?’ asked Chaloner, wondering what an impoverished milliner could provide that the felon would want. ‘Make him free hats?’

‘He was a forger of some renown, so he provided Baron with counterfeit documents – mostly bills of receipt, so that stolen goods could be passed off as legitimate.’

Like the ones the Earl had been given, thought Chaloner. ‘I do not suppose he replicated promissory notes, did he?’

‘He might have done,’ replied Swaddell warily. ‘Why?’

Chaloner pulled out the ones he had found in DuPont’s room. ‘Could these be his work?’

Swaddell stopped walking to study them. ‘Yes, I recognise the ink and the paper. Foolish man! He could never have cashed these – bankers remember who deposits large sums of money.’

‘He must have been desperate,’ said Chaloner, wondering how many others had been driven to frantic measures in an attempt to pay their debts.

Swaddell put the documents in his pocket. ‘I shall take these to Williamson, although he will ask how you came to have them.’

Chaloner saw no reason to lie. ‘I found them in DuPont’s lodgings in Bearbinder Lane. He must have stolen them from Howard’s house – which I know he raided, because I found a note from Fatherton, ordering him to do so.’

Swaddell nodded slowly. ‘Howard mentioned an attack by curbers, so you are probably right. However, none of this helps us understand what is planned for Tuesday.’

They walked in silence through the alleys that radiated out from St Paul’s, then entered the cathedral itself – the route they had taken meant it was quicker to cut through the building than fight past the busy stalls outside. It was hazy with the smoke of candles, which caught the sunlight that streamed through its windows. As always, Chaloner was struck by the contrast between the ethereal splendour of its soaring pillars and vaulted ceiling, and the tawdry booths that had been erected in its aisles.

It rang with sound, being a market as much as a place of devotion, and while the vendors were supposed to confine themselves to religious paraphernalia, sellers of secular books, purveyors of food and even basket-makers had set up shop. There were animals, too – cats in search of mice, dogs, a monkey and even a parrot, while sparrows and pigeons fluttered overhead.

‘That crack was not there when I was here last,’ remarked Chaloner, gazing upwards.

Swaddell tutted. ‘The place is falling about our ears, but London would not be London without it. I hope the King does not order it demolished, so that Christopher Wren can build something else in its place. I do not like the look of his designs.’

Nor did Chaloner, although he could not bring himself to say so – he did not want the assassin to think they had something in common. They exited the cathedral, and began to walk down an alley that would take them to Cheapside. It was deserted except for three men coming from the opposite direction. Chaloner glanced absently at them, then stopped dead in his tracks: they were the trio who had visited Tothill Street and intimidated Hannah; one still limped from being stabbed in the leg. He glanced behind him. Two more men blocked the only other way out.

‘You might want to leave,’ he told Swaddell. ‘I doubt this is going to be friendly.’

Swaddell shot him a hurt look. ‘I have just sworn an oath to protect you. However, we are in luck, because I happen to know the leader of this little rabble. His name is Joliffe, and our paths have crossed before. Leave him to me.’

‘Piss off, Swaddell,’ growled Joliffe as the assassin approached. ‘This does not concern you.’

‘I am afraid it does,’ replied Swaddell. ‘Chaloner is a colleague and I do not abandon those. You are the one who should disappear, as I doubt you want Williamson vexed with you.’

‘Williamson holds no sway here,’ said Joliffe contemptuously. He turned to Chaloner. ‘Mr Taylor wants more of the capital on your wife’s loan – what she gave him earlier is not enough. So either pay or we shall get it from her.’ He leered. ‘Perhaps we will get something else from her, too.’

There was a blur of movement as Swaddell hurtled forward, and two of the five reeled away with cries of agony before they could so much as think of reaching for a weapon. Joliffe’s reactions were quicker. He whipped out a cutlass and launched himself at the assassin, leaving his two remaining cronies to deal with Chaloner.

The ensuing skirmish was dirty and brutal, but did not last long. Nursing a slashed arm, Joliffe backed away, then fled. Two were able to follow, but the pair who had been injured in Swaddell’s initial attack could only lie on the ground, groaning.

‘No,’ snapped Chaloner, lunging forward to stop the assassin from cutting their throats. Swaddell punched away from him, and there was a flash of something dark and very unpleasant in his eyes, although it was quickly masked.

‘I swore an oath to protect you,’ he said tightly. ‘They insulted your wife. They should pay.’

‘Joliffe insulted her and he has gone. We cannot afford a war with Taylor – we do not want to add to our troubles by encouraging vengeful henchmen to slip knives in our ribs.’

Swaddell grinned rather diabolically. ‘No? I always find it adds a certain spice to life.’

The Feathers really was a seedy place, thought Chaloner, as he entered it with Swaddell at his side. The floor was sticky underfoot, and the whole place reeked of smoke, sweat, burned fat and spilled ale. The lamps were not quite dim enough to disguise the decrepitude of the furnishings or the shabbiness of the clientele. The half-naked women gyrating on the dais had a worn and weary look about them, and the band made noise rather than music.