The Cheapside Corpse (35 page)

‘You should go home,’ advised Lamb. ‘No good will come of excessive drinking. But I am glad we met as it happens, because I have something to tell you. You asked after DuPont when we last spoke. Well, I have since learned his real name. A chap from St Giles mentioned it in my coffee house yesterday. Georges DuPont was really George Bridge, and he hailed from Chelsey, not Paris.’

‘
Pont
does mean bridge in French,’ mused Chaloner, struggling to concentrate through his alcoholic fog. He remembered what the boy Noll had said in Bearbinder Lane: that DuPont’s accent tended to disappear when he was in his cups. ‘So he was an imposter?’

‘More liar than imposter, apparently – he did it to make himself seem more interesting. It worked, because women loved him, and fell at his feet by the cartload.’

‘Did he speak French?’ asked Chaloner.

Lamb nodded, then surprised Chaloner by switching to it himself. ‘Like a native, which is why he could carry off his deception with such aplomb.’

Chaloner reeled towards Tothill Street, trying to remember when he had last had so much to drink. He did not let himself become inebriated very often, as it left him vulnerable, and the sane part of his mind told him that it had been a stupid thing to do in the middle of an investigation, especially given Evan’s earlier threat. Fortunately, there were no sly attacks in the dark, and he reached home unmolested.

He stepped inside his house to find it devoid of furnishings – although the Lely still hung splendidly over the fireplace – and his footsteps echoed hollowly as he tottered along the hall to the kitchen. Hannah was there, sitting on the floor with a pile of papers. She leapt to her feet and rushed towards him, hugging him so fiercely that it almost sent both of them flying.

‘What is the matter?’ He was not usually greeted so effusively.

‘Evan,’ she sniffed. ‘He told our other creditors that we have no money, and they came here in a pack, all shouting and angry. Gram had gone to see Temperance, so I was alone. They forced their way inside and—’

‘Did they hurt you?’ asked Chaloner anxiously, supposing this was Evan’s ‘nasty surprise’.

‘No, but they frightened me half to death.’

Chaloner was tempted to storm to Goldsmiths’ Row and demand satisfaction with pistols at dawn, but Evan was unlikely to accept such a challenge, and all it would achieve was letting Evan know that his spiteful scheme had worked. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

‘What other creditors? I thought your only serious debt was to Taylor.’

Hannah looked away. ‘There are a few that I have not liked to mention … But I spoke to them before you came home from Hull, and they said they did not mind waiting. However, I suspect Evan invented some lie about us defaulting, so when I could not give them money when they demanded it today, they took what little furniture I had kept back, most of our clothes, the utensils from the kitchen…’

‘But not the Lely?’ Chaloner stared up at it. In the gloom, its subject looked deranged with her wild hair and oddly shining eyes. Perhaps they had considered it too frightening.

‘No one seems to want it, although I cannot imagine why. I am told it is a good likeness.’

‘They do not appreciate its quality,’ said Chaloner gallantly.

Hannah sniffed again. ‘Evan is a pig. He accosted Winfred Wells – the courtier who looks like a sheep – and effectively
stole
an onyx cameo of Queen Elizabeth. In broad daylight! And even the Duke has creditors hounding him. He said he has never known anything like it, and feels that the common people do not respect the aristocracy as they once did.’

‘Well, these hedonistic courtiers only have themselves to blame,’ said Chaloner, a Parliamentarian notion he would never have voiced had he been sober.

For once, Hannah did not argue, and he was suddenly gripped by the conviction that she had not yet told him the worst of it. He waited, and eventually she blurted, ‘They took your viols.’

He stared at her, while the cold hand of dread gripped his heart. ‘
What?
’

‘I think it was the lacemaker, but I cannot be certain.’ Hannah gestured to the papers on the floor. ‘Some of the mob left a note of what they took, but others just came to loot. And there is no receipt for the viols.’

Chaloner felt weak at the knees, and looked for a chair to sit on, but there was none.

Hannah put her arms around him. ‘We will get them back, Tom. And we move out of this house tomorrow. That will save a lot of money.’

Chaloner regarded her uneasily. ‘We are not going to live with the Duke, are we?’

Hannah’s smile was wan. ‘He offered, but his finances are not much better than ours. I plan to sleep in the Queen’s apartments until this business is over, but obviously you cannot join me there, so you are going to stay with our housekeeper in Shoreditch. It is all arranged.’

‘Crikey,’ breathed Chaloner.

‘It is kind of her, because she does not like you. But she says she will not see you homeless.’

Chaloner took a deep breath, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to smash something – it was perhaps fortunate that there was nothing to hand except the Lely, which was too high to reach. He would never forgive Evan for organising the invasion, but worse, he was not sure whether he would ever forgive Hannah. Then there was a knock on the door, and Gram walked in.

‘How was Hercules’ Pillars Alley?’ asked Hannah, clearly grateful for the interruption.

Gram was all offended indignation. ‘You probably do not know this, miss, but that particular building is a brothel.’ He lowered his voice to a shocked hiss. ‘A
bawdy house
!’

‘Temperance calls it a gentleman’s club,’ said Hannah.

‘She can call it what she likes,’ sniffed Gram primly, ‘but it is full of loose women and the kind of fellow who does not deserve to be called a gentleman. I would sooner starve than work in a place like that.’

‘Then you
will
starve,’ said Chaloner, irked by the ingratitude. It had not been easy to persuade Temperance to take him, and he felt the page had no right to be choosy.

‘Look on the bright side, Gram,’ said Hannah kindly. ‘She takes very good care of her staff.’

‘I shall never know,’ declared Gram haughtily. ‘Because I am
not
working there. My mother would turn in her grave.’

‘I shall ask whether the Duke has anything for you,’ said Hannah, not very hopefully.

‘Thank you.’ Gram softened as he looked at Chaloner. ‘I did something for you today, sir –I asked questions about the villains who stole your viols. They went to a shop on Foster Lane, where the things were exchanged for cash. You can go there and get them back.’

‘Not with a few shillings and some coffee-house tokens,’ said Chaloner bitterly.

Gram winked. ‘There are more ways of getting stuff than paying for it, and I have a lot of experience in such matters. You have been good to me, and I should like to return the favour.’

So Gram was a thief, thought Chaloner. Perhaps he had decided he was too old for climbing through windows and scrambling down chimneys, so had retired to a more respectable profession. It was a pity that life as a page had not worked out. However, while it was tempting to reclaim his viols by sly means, Chaloner was disinclined to add burglary to his list of things to do. Large musical instruments were not jewels or money, and it would not be easy to spirit them away without being seen. Moreover, if they were the only items missing, it would be obvious who had taken them.

‘We shall go tonight,’ determined Gram, ignoring Chaloner’s weary shake of the head. ‘We could be there and back again before you know it.’

‘Can you get my best blue dress at the same time?’ asked Hannah hopefully. ‘And perhaps the clock? And a chair or two would be nice.’

‘Of course,’ said Gram airily. ‘We can steal a cart to put it all in. I know where one is usually left, and the three of us could pull it easy.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, afraid they might actually do it. ‘We would end up in prison.’

‘So?’ countered Gram. ‘At least we would get fed.’

Chaloner was unwilling to stay in Tothill Street when there was nothing to eat, nowhere to sit, and no wood for a fire. He mumbled something about business for the Earl, and left Hannah and Gram making wild plans to redeem their losses by crime. Fortunately, neither was inclined to put their schemes into action that night, and he hoped the cold light of morning would remind them that she was unlikely to continue as lady-in-waiting to the Queen if she was caught stealing.

He wandered aimlessly, the loss of his instruments a dull ache in his heart. He found himself back on Cheapside, but had no desire to pursue his enquiries in the taverns and alehouses he passed. He met Silas near White Goat Wynd, and although he was not usually in the habit of unloading his problems on friends, he could not help himself. Silas listened gravely until the sad tale was told, then escorted him into the Bull’s Head near the Standard, where the landlord obligingly provided ale – Taylor apparently owned that tavern, too, because there was no question of Silas paying for it.

‘Do you want an accomplice when you raid the shop, Tom? Obviously, it would be better to buy the viols back legally, but as neither of us has any money … I feel responsible, given that it was my brother who precipitated all this nonsense.’

‘Your father,’ corrected Chaloner, knowing he should not have more to drink, but too depressed to be sensible. ‘Your
mad
father.’

‘He does seem out of sorts. I will try to reason with him again, although he was furious the last time I attempted it, and threatened to disinherit me – which would be irksome, given that I do not want to be Keeper of Stores for the rest of my life, and a legacy is the only way I shall escape.’

He changed the subject before Chaloner could ask what else he saw himself doing, and began to talk about his next soirée. Then they drank more ale, and Chaloner stared morosely out of the window at the Standard.

It was busy, because it was the end of the day, and tradesmen had gathered there to sell off their remaining wares. Fountains and wells were good places for such activities, as locals needed to collect water for washing and cooking, so there was always a ready supply of customers. Chaloner watched a farmer offload two plaits of onions to a pinch-faced housewife, and frowned as something began to scratch at the back of his mind. Then the answer came like a lightning bolt, and he slammed his hand on the table in understanding.

‘Onions at the Well! DuPont – George Bridge – told Neve that he had his information from Onions at the Well, and Everard thought it had something to do with St Giles. The answer is obvious now I think about it! DuPont met an onion-seller by a watering hole in that parish. How many wells are there in the area? Six? Eight?’

‘One.’ Silas shrugged at Chaloner’s startled expression. ‘It is a slum, Tom. No one cares about its residents’ health or comfort. Where are you going?’

‘St Giles,’ replied Chaloner, making for the door.

‘Are you sure you should? Rumour is that it is full of the plague.’

It was a risk, but following the lead allowed Chaloner to forget the heartache of losing his viols, and he was determined to see where it took him. However, he made no objection when Silas fell into step at his side, and they walked in silence through the darkening streets.

The St Giles rookery was a mass of filthy hovels and tenements near one of the finest churches in London, rebuilt forty years before by a wealthy noblewoman. There were more recent graves in its cemetery than there should have been, and Chaloner looked away when a sombre procession emerged and aimed for a newly dug hole.

‘Plague,’ whispered Silas. ‘God help us.’

Entering the rookery was not easy. Williamson’s soldiers had been charged to minimise comings and goings, and were taking their duties seriously. Chaloner and Silas were reduced to hiding in the back of a cart, but once they were inside, it did not take them long to locate the area’s one and only source of fresh water.

It was noisy, busy and smelly, with vendors desperate to sell the last of their wares before people went home. Some were so pushy that spats broke out, and the atmosphere was tense and unfriendly. A few discreet enquiries took them to the man they were looking for – a disreputable villain who was disliked for his violent temper and refusal to let other purveyors of vegetables hawk their goods on ‘his’ patch. He was known only as Onions, and fought furiously when Chaloner and Silas manhandled him down a lane so they could talk undisturbed.

‘I think you
will
chat to us,’ said Silas mildly, once Onions’ objections had petered into a furious silence. He took a knife from his belt and inspected its blade. ‘It would be rash to refuse.’

‘DuPont,’ began Chaloner. ‘Or should I say George Bridge? He was going to sell intelligence about the Dutch to my employer, the Earl of Clarendon.’

Relief suffused Onions’ face. ‘Is that why you are here? Thank God! I thought you were … never mind. If you are Clarendon’s men, you will have come for these. But they will cost you.’

He held out a sheaf of letters. They were in Dutch, and a quick glance through them told Chaloner that they were the missives written by Meer and his wife to their children.

‘Four shillings each.’ Onions glanced around uneasily. ‘But you cannot tell anyone you got them from me, or I am a dead man. They are reports on the Hollanders’ fleet.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner.

Onions tapped the side of his nose. ‘I learned Dutch when I was in the navy.’

‘Then you will understand that they are nothing of the kind,’ said Chaloner in that language. ‘Do you have any more “reports” or is this it?’

Onions’ blank look told him all he needed to know. He repeated the question in English.

‘I can get more,’ said Onions eagerly. ‘Like DuPont, I know where all the foreigners live. But you have to keep my name out of it.’

‘Who are you afraid of?’ asked Chaloner, watching the man glance around fearfully again.

‘No one,’ lied Onions. ‘Well? Do we have a deal? But do not try to cheat me, because DuPont was
my
man, and I know exactly what prices he agreed with Clarendon.’