The Cheapside Corpse (36 page)

‘How can you be sure which Dutchmen are spies?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘They might be innocent citizens trapped on the wrong side of the Channel.’

‘I just know,’ declared Onions. ‘And I can snag whatever is within easy reach of a window – I am every bit as good with a hook as DuPont was. You will not regret treating with me, I promise. However, there is one condition: you have to come here to collect these reports, because I am not going to the Feathers again.’

‘Why not?’ asked Silas. ‘It is a little shabby, I grant you, but—’

‘Because dangerous types haunt it,’ interrupted Onions. ‘I went there with the news that DuPont was sick. I thought Baron would be pleased that I was looking out for one of his curbers, but … well, suffice to say that I shall not be going
there
again.’

‘Is that why Coo visited DuPont in Long Acre?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because you told Baron, and he sent his tame physician on an errand of mercy?’

Onions nodded. ‘But DuPont should never have gone to Bearbinder Lane after the physician had left. He might have lived if he had stayed home to rest.’

‘He had the plague,’ said Silas. ‘So I doubt it.’

Onions’ eyes widened in alarm. ‘The plague? No! It was just a falling sickness. Of course, he did spend the previous night with the whores in the Crown tavern, and several of them are dead of the pestilence…’

He could be persuaded to say no more, and Chaloner took some satisfaction in informing him that his services would not be required for the war effort.

Chaloner felt cheated as he and Silas left the rookery, annoyed that he had expended so much time and energy tracking down what transpired to be nothing more than petty profiteers. He should have listened to Lamb and Grey: they had said that no one who frequented St Giles would have much of interest to report, and they had been right. Moreover, DuPont had virtually told Neve that the scheme was a fiddle, but the upholder had not understood the ‘nods and winks’ – he had only nodded and winked back. It was obvious why DuPont had approached Neve, of course: he knew the upholder to be corrupt for the simple reason that he had chosen to do business with Baron the felon.

Silas was also disgusted. ‘I thought I was doing something vital to our nation’s security, but it transpires to be a grubby little plot to swindle Clarendon. Do you do this kind of thing often, Tom? I cannot imagine your family are impressed.’

He made his excuses to part company shortly afterwards, still muttering his displeasure. Chaloner roamed restlessly, and when he reached Fleet Street, he saw a cart on which a hastily wrapped body had been loaded. He did not want to walk past it, so he ducked down Hercules’ Pillars Alley to visit the club. Preacher Hill started to refuse him entry, but stood aside with a gulp when he saw the dark expression on the spy’s face. The club was not as busy as usual, and Maude explained that there was a case of plague further down the lane, so regular patrons were afraid to come.

‘But I know the searcher,’ she went on. ‘She is a drunken sot, and it is not plague at all. Her incompetence has condemned a family to forty days of isolation – and us to losing customers. I shall have strong words to say when I next see her.’

‘Perhaps it should be physicians who decide,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Like Coo.’

‘Dr Coo,’ said Maude, with a sudden smile. ‘He treated my bunions, and was a lovely man. The villain who shot him deserves to hang. What kind of person pulls out a handgun and—’

‘The handgun!’ exclaimed Chaloner, jumping up so suddenly that claret spilled all down his coat and breeches.

Maude regarded him suspiciously. ‘What about it?’

‘I saw it quite clearly, and tracing it may lead me to Coo’s killer. I meant to ask the gunsmiths on St Martin’s Lane, but it slipped my mind – which was stupid, as it represents a good line of enquiry. I will do it first thing in the morning.’

‘It is Sunday tomorrow,’ Maude reminded him. ‘They will be closed.’

‘Not these gunsmiths.’

Maude regarded him soberly for a moment, then reached into her bodice and produced a polished stone on a chain – it was a cabochon, also known as a carbuncle, and was thought to have special powers. ‘This is an almandine garnet, and will not only keep you safe from plague, bad dreams and poison, but will also prevent melancholy. And you seem sad today.’

Chaloner was careless with jewellery and would almost certainly lose it. He had enough to worry about without risking the wrath of a formidable matriarch, so he refused it, but Maude was insistent.

‘Wear it around your neck, inside your shirt,’ she ordered. ‘You may return it when you have solved Dr Coo’s murder.’

Chaloner was too tired and drunk to do battle, and resignedly did as she ordered. When she left him to return to her duties, he wandered into the parlour and listened to the patrons grumbling about their bankers. They had also heard about a looming disaster for Tuesday, although no one seemed to know what form it might take.

When the subject turned to the King’s latest amour, he went to hear the musicians who were playing in the antechamber, which did nothing to improve his temper as it made him long for his own viols. He drank more wine, but it sat badly with the ale he had swallowed earlier, so he decided he had better leave before he made himself sick.

Outside, he aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, entering that great foundation through a little-used gate at the back, so as to avoid disturbing the night-porter. He lurched across Dial Court, and although he tried to tread softly as he climbed the stairs, Thurloe was waiting with a gun in his hand when he reached Chamber XIII.

‘I think you had better sit down,’ said the ex-Spymaster drily, when Chaloner tried to lean on the doorjamb and missed. ‘And tell me how I can help.’

‘I am past salvation this time,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘Williamson has blackmailed me into working for him with Swaddell as a partner; I am expected to live with our housekeeper in Shoreditch; and some of Hannah’s debts have been settled with my viols, although we still owe Taylor’s Bank a fortune.’

‘Your viols?’ asked Thurloe, immediately understanding the worst of it. ‘I am sure we can buy them back again. I have some money that—’

‘No,’ interrupted Chaloner shortly. ‘I am not borrowing anything else, especially from friends. Perhaps I should ask Baron for lessons in curbing, so I can learn how to steal.’

‘You do not need lessons. You were very good at it when you worked for me.’

‘Documents and letters. I never stole jewels or money. Or viols.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Thurloe. ‘It would have been most unethical. But I think you had better stay here tonight – you should not be roaming about the city in that state. I shall fetch you a blanket, and you can sleep by the fire. Enjoy it while you can, because this will be my last night in the city for a while – I leave at first light. Do you have anything to report before I go?’

‘I tried to talk to Randal, but he would not listen. I think he will publish his sequel, because he is delighted by the trouble the first one has caused. Its controversial nature means it has sold extremely well, and has probably earned him a fortune.’

‘Then you must stop him by fair means or foul,’ ordered Thurloe. ‘I will not see the widow of my poor old friend maligned a second time.’

When he awoke the next day, Chaloner was immediately aware of a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It took him a moment to recall why, but then everything came crashing back – his viols had gone. He tried to think about his investigations, but he was queasy from the amount he had drunk the previous night, and could not concentrate. He was, however, aware of a hard knot of resentment against Hannah, Taylor and Evan. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling persisted, so he was surly company when Thurloe emerged from his bedchamber looking fresh, neat and sprightly in his travelling clothes.

Thurloe rang a bell, and a servant brought his idea of a hearty breakfast – thin slivers of bread and meat, a boiled egg cut into sixths, and a dozen raisins. Yet even this was more than Chaloner felt like eating, and he only picked at the elegant morsels that were passed his way. While he did so, he told Thurloe all that he had learned since they had last met – his report the previous night had been too terse and disjointed to count as a proper briefing.

‘So,’ concluded Thurloe, ‘you still need to warn Randal against publishing his sequel; you have made no headway into the deaths of Wheler, Coo and Fatherton; you have determined that DuPont was no spy but you do not know why he staggered to Cheapside—’

‘He had a visitor shortly before he left Long Acre,’ put in Chaloner, a little defensively, ‘one who wore a plague mask, hissed and gave him money.’

‘—you have no idea who burned Fatherton’s house or Milbourn’s printworks; and your Earl is unlikely to have his remaining curtains.’

‘He does not want them now he knows the others were stolen from the club. But it all pales into insignificance when compared to what else is in the offing – war, plague, economic collapse and a disaster scheduled for two days hence.’

‘This poor city,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘Sometimes I wish I were Secretary of State again, because this would not have happened under Cromwell.’

‘And how would he have prevented an outbreak of plague?’ asked Chaloner acidly.

‘By deploying his army to implement the necessary precautions. That is the beauty of a military dictatorship, Thomas – the instant availability of armed enforcement. Williamson’s so-called troops are a pale imitation of the real thing. But time is passing, and I shall miss my coach if I dally much longer. You will not give up on speaking to Randal, will you?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Swaddell might help. He knows how to persuade people to his point of view.’

‘No,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘I do not want Randal killed, just stopped. Try going to your coffee house and cornering Fabian Stedman. He is a printer with Royalist leanings – perhaps he will know where Randal is hiding.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘And if that fails, I shall whisk Evan down a dark alley, put a knife to his throat and ask
him
for answers.’

‘Do not waste your time, Tom. He does not know. I spoke to him myself yesterday.’

‘Do you think he told you the truth?’

‘Yes – he is not clever enough to deceive me.’

Chaloner stood. ‘But first, I need to ask the Trulocke brothers about the gun that killed Coo.’

‘They are away until tomorrow,’ said Thurloe, ‘but there is much you can be doing in the interim. Speak to Stedman first, then go to Southwark.’

‘Why there?’

‘Because I have learned that one of Fatherton’s tenants in Bearbinder Lane was a pewterer named Kelke, who now resides with his fiancée. I do not have a precise location, but she lives near the Bear Garden. Perhaps he will know who killed his landlord.’

Thurloe’s coach left from Holborn, so Chaloner accompanied him there, and experienced a sharp pang of loss as the vehicle rattled away in the gathering light of the new day. The ex-Spymaster might be gone for weeks, and he would miss his calm friendship and practical advice.

When the carriage was out of sight, Chaloner went to nearby St Andrew’s Church, where worshippers were gathering for their Sunday devotions. He was not a particularly devout man, but records were kept of those who did not put in an appearance at the weekly services, and he had no desire to be branded a dissenter. He watched the verger write his name in the attendance book, then slipped out through the vestry when no one was looking.

He walked down Fetter Lane, noting that it had been washed during the night in the hope of thwarting the plague. Two of Williamson’s soldiers had been charged to supervise the operation, but they and the labourers were standing in a friendly cluster, smoking, so Chaloner wondered how well it had been done. By contrast, Fleet Street was too wide and busy to be scoured, so bonfires had been lit to fumigate it instead.

He entered the Rainbow coughing and sat at his usual table, but those already there immediately eased away from him.

‘Fire,’ he managed to croak. ‘Not the plague.’

‘It is not the hacking that bothers us,’ said Speed the bookseller, very coldly. ‘It is the fact that you are on intimate terms with Spymaster Williamson. Farr told us how he came in here and greeted you like an old friend.’

‘He is not a friend, believe me,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘He must be the most unpopular man in London,’ said Farr. ‘His plague measures are detested by rich and poor alike; he has failed to gather proper intelligence for the Dutch war; he never caught Wheler’s killer; and he lets bankers ride roughshod over everyone. Including members of Court and the government.’

Chaloner was tempted to say that it was hardly a spymaster’s job to contain financiers, and that while Williamson had been charged to implement the plague measures, he had not devised them himself. But he held his tongue, unwilling to defend ‘the most unpopular man in London’.

‘The situation with the goldsmiths
is
disgraceful,’ agreed Stedman. ‘The rogues will beggar us all if they have their way.’

Farr grinned maliciously. ‘I had my revenge on Williamson for foisting his oily presence on us on Friday. I served him lukewarm coffee and told him there was no sugar. But Chaloner did something even better.’

‘I did?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘You gave him a cold, and he is now confined to his bed. It serves him right! I lost a lot of business that day, and several of my regulars have declined to return lest he appears uninvited a second time. He has no business imposing himself on decent establishments.’

The conversation moved on to omens at that point, and Chaloner sipped his coffee. It was cold and tasted of soot. Was Farr trying to drive him away, too? As Stedman was looking bored with a subject that had been aired so many times before, Chaloner took the opportunity to question him.

‘Did you know Thomas Milbourn, the printer who published
The Court & Kitchin
and who was burned to death when his shop was set alight?’

‘Yes, but he is not dead.’ Stedman lowered his voice. ‘He is staying at the Green Dragon on Cheapside – incognito, lest there are Roundheads who want to finish the job. I saw him last night.’