The Cheapside Corpse (37 page)

Chaloner blinked, startled by the fact that Stedman should so casually provide information that he had been struggling to acquire for a week. But such was the life of an intelligencer.

Chaloner had agreed to meet Swaddell outside the Rainbow at ten o’clock, but that was a good two hours hence, so he determined to put the intervening time to good use by following up on what Stedman had told him. He walked towards the Green Dragon briskly, crossing the filthy Fleet River, which was even more noxious that day as there had been no serious rain for days and its fetid banks were exposed. Then he climbed Ludgate Hill to cut through St Paul’s.

The cathedral choir was singing an anthem by Palestrina, so he stopped to listen. He was not the only one – Misick, Shaw and Lettice were also standing in rapt appreciation, all three in their Sunday best. Misick’s wig had been brushed and powdered, so it was bushier than usual, and his white flea powder coated not only his clothes, but those of his companions.

‘Albertus Bryne will play the organ soon,’ Shaw told Chaloner, once the singing had finished. ‘He has velvet fingers, and his recitals are a delight.’

‘Join us,’ invited Lettice. ‘It is sure to be a treat, and you look as though you need some restorative music. You seem unwell.’

Chaloner could not bring himself to mention his viols, even though he was sure that the music-sellers were among the few who would understand.

‘He only has a cold,’ said Misick, in the callously unsympathetic manner adopted by many
medici
towards the sufferings of their patients. ‘Cheer up, Chaloner. It could be worse – at least you do not have the plague. Unlike the Oxley family.’

‘Emma became sick last night,’ elaborated Shaw, ‘and their house was shut up this morning.’

‘It is a terrible thing,’ said Lettice softly. ‘We took them food last night, and Mr Oxley had to take it by lowering a rope through an upstairs window.’

‘Is it really plague?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Not something else?’

‘It really is,’ said Misick soberly. ‘I examined Emma myself.’

‘Did you?’ Chaloner took a step away.

‘From a safe distance – it is irresponsible to invite trouble, even though my Plague Elixir will protect me. However, I saw the buboes quite clearly from the door.’

‘Oxley is terrified,’ said Shaw. He tried to keep the gloat from his voice, but did not quite succeed. ‘He wanted to abandon his family in order to save himself.’

‘He is not a very nice man,’ whispered Lettice. ‘His poor children…’

‘Bryne is starting,’ said Misick suddenly. ‘Hush! No talking now.’

They craned forward eagerly, leaving Chaloner wishing he could stay and listen with them, especially when the first strains of a particularly fine fantasia by Scheidemann began to echo through the nave. Reluctantly, he turned and headed for the exit, although the melody filled his mind long after he could no longer hear the organ.

Since Chaloner’s last visit to the Green Dragon, enormous braziers had been installed in every room, which produced great clouds of plague-repelling smoke. He had no idea what was being burned in them, but he was not the only one coughing, so he hoped they were doing some good. There were also sacks of medicinal herbs hanging from the rafters, which represented something of a hazard to customers, who were obliged to duck and weave their way through them.

Chaloner exchanged his coffee tokens for a jug of buttered ale, and engaged Landlord Hanson in conversation. Hanson was suspicious when Chaloner asked after Milbourn, but caved in almost eagerly when spun a yarn about the printer being owed five shillings.

‘He has not paid his rent yet,’ Hanson said to explain himself. ‘I took him in as a favour to Randal, whose father owns this tavern, but I did not agree to do it for nothing. He is over there.’

Milbourn was huddled so deeply into the shadows that he was virtually invisible. He was smoking a pipe, and Chaloner had an impression of heavy eyebrows and a weak chin.

‘Poor man,’ said Hanson. ‘He is not only hunted by Roundheads, but by the banks – he borrowed heavily to start his business, but now his workshop is destroyed, he cannot repay them.’

Chaloner might have felt more sympathy had Milbourn not printed a pamphlet that slandered a helpless old lady. He was about to go and question the man when a remark from Hanson snagged his attention.

‘What?’

‘I said Milbourn is not the only one who lost all in a fire. Old Fatherton has also not been seen since his tenement burned down, and although Baron’s trainband swear the house was empty, there are many who suspect he was inside.’

‘You knew Fatherton?’

‘He came here for a drink occasionally. I always noticed, because he was a thief, and I had to watch him lest he picked my regulars’ pockets. He came the day before the fire.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, with two other men, but they kept their hats on, so I never saw their faces, although I can tell you that one reeked of onions. He was nothing, though, and it was the third who was in charge. I could tell by the way the other two bowed and scraped to him. The three of them muttered and plotted all evening.’

‘How do you know they were plotting? Did you hear their discussion?’

‘I caught snippets of it when I went to collect the empties. They were vexed, because some ruse to cheat the Lord Chancellor had gone wrong, although I cannot imagine why they imagined such an eminent personage would deal with the likes of them.’

So the scheme had involved four players, thought Chaloner: DuPont, Fatherton, Onions and someone who sounded like their leader. He recalled Onions’ unease and his disinclination to return to Cheapside. Had he heard about Fatherton, and was afraid he would suffer a similar fate if he showed his face? So who was the leader? Baron? It would certainly explain why Onions was keen to keep a low profile.

‘You say you did not see the third man’s face, but did you notice anything else about him? His clothes? His size? Did he have an unusual gait?’

Hanson raised his hands helplessly. ‘He kept himself wrapped in his coat all night. People do these days, as they hope it will protect them against the plague. Yet there was one thing…’

‘Yes?’ asked Chaloner, when the taverner trailed off.

‘He hissed between his teeth once or twice. I think he was nervous. And who can blame him? I would not have been easy in company with such a pair either.’

‘Hissed?’ pressed Chaloner, recalling Landlord Grey’s testimony: that DuPont’s mysterious visitor had made a similar sound in Long Acre, shortly before the curber had made his final, fateful journey to Bearbinder Alley.

But Hanson could add no more, so Chaloner went to talk to Milbourn. The printer glanced up in alarm when the spy sat on the bench next to him.

‘Your neighbours think you are dead,’ said Chaloner, after he had assured the man that he meant him no harm. ‘Incinerated in the fire that destroyed your workshop.’

‘I wish I were,’ said Milbourn miserably. ‘It would be better for everyone, including poor Hanson, who will never be paid for keeping me here. Randal promised to settle the bill, but he prefers to spend his money on himself.’

‘Randal.’ Chaloner pounced on the opening. ‘I want a word with him.’

‘You and a hundred others. Half to kill him, the rest to shake his hand. Which are you?’

Chaloner thought it best not to say until he knew the printer’s views on the matter. ‘Why did you agree to publish such a contentious work? Surely you could see it would bring you trouble?’

‘Because Randal offered to eliminate half my debt to his father in return. But I should have refused, because how shall I pay the rest now that I have no printing presses? I cannot even sell the building, because it is a burned-out shell. I am ruined!’

‘You cannot find work elsewhere?’

‘Not as long as there are angry Roundheads itching to trounce me. I shall be trapped here for the rest of my life.’

Hanson would not be pleased to hear that, thought Chaloner. ‘I understand that you printed advertisements for Baron instead of paying the Protection Tax. But he did not protect you, so he must be liable for the damage. Have you asked him about it?’

‘Of course. Yet even though it was an obvious case of arson, he maintains that it was an Act of God, and he refuses to compensate me.’

‘If I were you, I would leave London. Go to another city, take a new name and start afresh. Taylor probably charged you too much interest on your debt anyway, so it would serve him right to lose the rest.’

Milbourn gave a sickly grin. ‘Perhaps I will. And perhaps I will come back in a year with a scurrilous pamphlet about Randal. I
hate
him for destroying my life.’

‘Do you know what possessed him to write such a poisonous tirade?’

‘I do.’ Milbourn’s expression turned spiteful. ‘He told me in confidence, but I do not see why I should keep his secrets now. His dearest ambition was to be a cook, much to the chagrin of his father, who thinks it a lowly profession compared to banking. It was Randal’s proudest day when he was hired as a patissier in White Hall.’

‘When was this?’ But Chaloner already knew the answer. ‘During the Commonwealth?’

Milbourn nodded. ‘He served under Philip Starkey, but he had no talent, so Starkey refused to let him loose on the desserts. And Mrs Cromwell took one bite of a cake he had made, and decreed that he should never be allowed near an oven again. The pamphlet was Randal’s revenge on them both.’

‘Starkey did not tell me that Randal worked under him,’ said Chaloner a little irritably.

‘Randal enrolled under a false name – John Smith. He could not use Taylor, as they were a Royalist family, and his application would have been rejected.’

‘So Starkey does not know that John Smith is really Randal Taylor?’

‘Not a clue, although I am surprised he has not guessed. “John Smith” was livid when he was relegated to peeling vegetables, and made all manner of threats.’

‘I really do need to talk to Randal,’ said Chaloner. ‘And while it will not help your troubles, I can promise to make our discussion very uncomfortable for him. It will be revenge of a sort.’

Milbourn brightened. ‘Very well. But only if you break his legs.’

‘Will you settle for me telling Spymaster Williamson where he is hiding instead?’

Milbourn considered, then nodded. ‘Although you will have to swear to keep my name out of the matter – with Randal
and
Williamson.’

‘You have my word.’

‘He has a mistress who lodges on Bread Street. He is staying with her.’

‘A mistress? He has only been married a few weeks.’

Milbourn smirked. ‘Yes, and Joan will be outraged when she finds out. Perhaps you could mention his infidelity to her – you refused to break his legs, but she will not.’

Chaloner passed Oxley’s house on his way to Bread Street, but the door and lower windows had been boarded up, and one of Williamson’s watchers and two trainband men were stationed outside. An upper window was open, and a rope dangled out, ready to be tied to the next basket of food, but there was no sign of the occupants.

‘All three have it now,’ said the watcher when Chaloner asked for a report.

‘Three?’ asked Chaloner. ‘There should be four.’

The watcher grimaced. ‘The girl escaped, and I hope to God she is not carrying the disease or all our efforts will have been for nothing. Oxley tried to tell us that his wife was just sick from too much ale, but it was a lie. Misick saw buboes when he opened the door.’

The bell began to toll at that moment, and he and Chaloner automatically began to count, to learn whether the victim was man, woman or child, but the ringer was only announcing the start of the next Sunday service.

It told Chaloner that it was later than he thought, so he postponed his interview with Randal, and hurried to Fleet Street, where he found Swaddell waiting. The assassin was in his usual black, his pristine falling band so bright that it almost hurt the eyes. Chaloner pulled him away from the Rainbow quickly, lest any of the regulars should happen to notice who he was meeting. Luckily, Farr rarely cleaned his windows, so they were coated in a greasy brown sheen that made it all but impossible to see through them from the inside.

‘I contacted some of my informants after we parted yesterday,’ said Swaddell, then added glumly, ‘But they told me nothing we do not know already.’

‘Mine did,’ said Chaloner, a little smugly. ‘We are going to visit Nicholas Kelke, who is staying with his fiancée near the Bear Garden, across the river in Southwark.’

‘Why?’

‘He was one of Fatherton’s tenants in Bearbinder Lane. Perhaps he will know who shot his landlord – and tried to have me incinerated. If he implicates Baron, Williamson may have enough evidence for an arrest.’

‘The problem with Fatherton is that we do not have a body to prove our case – the fire burned so hot that it was never found. We would sooner charge Baron with
Wheler’s
death.’

Chaloner was irked. ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’

Swaddell pondered the question, gazing absently to where three of Williamson’s men were struggling to light an enormous bonfire, but eventually he raised his hands in a shrug. ‘You are right – Kelke is worth a try. How is your cold? You still sound hoarse.’

‘It is all these damned conflagrations.’ Chaloner coughed as a waft of smoke swirled around them. ‘London’s air has always been foul, but your plague measures have made it worse.’

‘Not just ours. Many folk are starting to deploy their own, and some are positively toxic.’

He insisted on taking a hackney, because he did not want flying cinders to soil his clean falling band, and Chaloner agreed once he learned that Williamson would be footing the bill. While they clattered along, Swaddell talked amiably about his evening, which seemed to have revolved around sitting at home with his cat. It seemed altogether too innocent a pastime for an assassin, and Chaloner found himself wondering whether the animal had been encouraged to dispatch mice or birds for its owner’s entertainment.

The driver took them along Thames Street, which was busy with the usual market carts; trading was technically forbidden on the Sabbath, but it was a rule that many ignored, especially those with perishable goods to sell. The road ran parallel to the river, and reeked of it, a pungent stench of seaweed, sewage and salty mud. Gulls circled overhead, their raucous cries inaudible over the rattle of so many wheels on cobbles. Then they were jolting down Fish Hill towards the Bridge itself. As always, traffic slowed to a standstill as it funnelled through the narrow gateway.