The Cheapside Corpse (38 page)

The tide was at full ebb, water roaring deafeningly through the great arches below, and Chaloner fancied he could feel the entire structure vibrating, although he knew that was unlikely from inside a coach. They crossed the open section known as The Square, the buildings of which had been destroyed by fire thirty years ago and never replaced, then plunged into gloom when they reached the first of the houses and shops. These formed a thin tunnel, and towered overhead rather alarmingly, some to a height of five storeys. There was only just enough room for two vehicles to pass, and Chaloner winced when their driver edged left to avoid a wagon coming from the other direction, rasping his wheels along someone’s window sill. He could see the residents sitting within, but scrapes were so commonplace that none of them looked up.

Then they jolted off the Bridge and turned right, moving slowly along Bankside. Southwark was very different from the city across the river, and was characterised by scruffy houses, rough taverns, seedy brothels and streets that never saw a brush or a bucket of water. Reeking pails of night soil were hurled from windows on a daily basis, and if the stinking mess was not washed away by the rain, it stayed until it rotted.

Shops and stalls were doing a roaring trade, but although the doors of St Mary Overie were open to entice parishioners inside, few bothered. No clerk was on duty to record names, and it occurred to Chaloner that he should take lodgings in Southwark if he did not want his own religious activities – or lack of them – monitored. Street performers were out in force: jugglers, singers, dancers and fortune-tellers, all desperate to earn enough for a meal or a bed for the night. Ragged children formed menacing packs, darting close to snatch at clothes and pockets, or to lob mud and manure if their victims attempted to fend them off.

Chaloner and Swaddell alighted at the Bear Garden. This was a place where tired and shabby bruins were tethered to stakes while dogs were sent to attack them. Chaloner had approved of Cromwell’s edict forbidding such hideous pursuits, but the ban had been lifted at the Restoration. He was glad to note that the posts were free of tortured animals that day, although patches of fresh blood on the ground told him that there had been plenty of ‘sport’ the previous night.

‘Right,’ said Swaddell, glancing around in distaste. ‘Shall we start with that tavern over there? It looks like the kind of place that would appeal to the likes of Fatherton’s lodgers.’

His insistence that people should answer questions on Spymaster Williamson’s authority did not get them very far, so they were reduced to wrestling potential informants down alleys and putting knives to their throats. With Chaloner, the threat was hollow, as he rarely did more than prick, but Swaddell had to be restrained from doing serious harm. Chaloner hated working with such a violently unpredictable man, and it was a relief when they finally cornered someone who was able to tell them that Kelke’s fiancée lived in a tumbledown cottage overlooking the river.

Swaddell hammered on the front door, while Chaloner went to the back, where he easily intercepted Kelke, whose response to the knock was to crawl out through a window. He bundled the pewterer back inside, and opened the door for Swaddell.

The house was tiny, with a single room on the ground floor that served as parlour, kitchen and bedroom for the elderly woman who dozed by the fire, presumably Kelke’s future mother-in-law. The other residents slept in a loft reached by a ladder, although no one but Kelke was at home that day.

‘We have questions,’ said Swaddell in his silkiest voice, which made the pewterer – a puny, undersized man with bad teeth and two bandaged hands – quail in terror. ‘Answer, and we shall all be happy. Refuse, and I will kill the crone.’

Chaloner was shocked, sure Swaddell meant it. So was Kelke, because he began speaking so quickly that his words tumbled over themselves in their haste to be out.

‘Yes, I worked for Fatherton in Bearbinder Lane. I did curbing in my spare time, like all of us who roomed there. He told us where to go and when, but on orders from…’

‘From Baron?’ asked Swaddell, when he trailed off.

Kelke stared at him with frightened eyes. ‘Christ help me! You will see me dead.’

‘No one will know the information came from you,’ promised Chaloner, although if Kelke believed it, he was a fool. He and Swaddell might keep the secret, but they had not been subtle in determining Kelke’s hiding place, and word might well get back to the King of Cheapside.

‘Yes,’ whispered Kelke. Swaddell’s eyes gleamed in triumph.

‘What happened the day George Bridge died?’ asked Chaloner. Kelke looked blank. ‘Georges DuPont – George Bridge was his real name.’

‘Was it? I am not surprised – his nose was too small for him to have been a real Frenchman. And when he was drunk, he sounded just like you and me.’ He looked Chaloner and Swaddell up and down, then muttered, ‘Well, like me.’

‘So what happened that day?’

‘He arrived at Bearbinder Lane sweating and groaning. Fatherton sent for Dr Coo, who said he had visited DuPont earlier that day and that he had plague. Well, none of us stayed long after we heard that verdict, I can tell you! I came straight here and—’

‘Why did DuPont drag himself all the way from Long Acre?’

‘For a free cure. Baron buys medicine for anyone took sick on Cheapside, and plague remedies are expensive.’

Chaloner was not sure he believed it, but for the first time he saw light at the end of the tunnel, and solutions began to come together in his mind. He just needed a few more details …

‘Why did DuPont keep rooms in both places?’ He recalled how Doe had taunted him for not knowing the answer, which had told him it was significant.

Kelke looked as though he would refuse to answer, but Swaddell smiled at him. Kelke blanched at its reptilian nature and began to babble again.

‘Because he stole from over there, too. He had friends in St Giles, see, and they helped him. He was of the opinion that it is wise to have two separate bases of operation. I would do the same, but my pewtering keeps me busy during the day.’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then began the analysis that would tell him whether his tentative conclusions were right. ‘It was you who set the fire in Bearbinder Lane. Your hands are bandaged, and I wager anything you like that they are burned.’

Kelke affected insouciance, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘So what? There was no one in the building – except Fatherton, and he was already dead. Shot. I saw his body…’

‘It was not empty,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I was in it.’

Kelke gaped at him. ‘You cannot have been! It was checked first, and we were told that no one was left inside except Fatherton, who was well past caring.’

‘Told by whom?’ asked Chaloner.

Kelke shrugged. ‘The man in charge, but we all wore plague masks, so I never saw his face. And the masks muffled our speech, so I did not recognise his voice either, before you ask. We set our fires on each floor – I was in charge of the bottom one – and once they were going, we were ordered to make ourselves scarce. So we did.’

‘You might have set the entire city alight,’ said Swaddell accusingly.

‘Never,’ said Kelke with a flash of defiance. ‘We were very careful, and the trainband were on hand to contain it with buckets of water and fire-hooks.’

‘So who shot Fatherton?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Well, Baron, of course. Who else would leave a body in a house that was about to be burned down?’

‘But
why
was the house burned down?’ pressed Swaddell. ‘It might have been old, but it was still bringing in rent. And do not say it was to get rid of a corpse, as I am sure Baron knows far less costly ways of disposing of those.’

‘I think that was my fault,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged at Swaddell’s surprise. ‘I asked whether the house was safe after DuPont had died in it, especially if the plague really is carried by invisible worms. Obviously, Baron took our conversation to heart and decided to eliminate a possible source of contagion.’

Swaddell turned back to Kelke. ‘Who stabbed Wheler?’

‘Joan, probably,’ replied Kelke. ‘Because she is part of the most powerful bank in London now that he is dead. She would not have dirtied her own hands but she knew plenty of killers through the trainband – killers who were once her husband’s, but who are now Baron’s.’

‘But you do not know this for certain,’ said Swaddell, disappointed. ‘Then who killed Coo?’

‘Baron, I suppose, in revenge for letting DuPont bring the plague to his domain. But if you go after him, you should be careful. He is a very dangerous man.’

‘So am I,’ said Swaddell softly. ‘And Baron knows it. He will not harm us.’

Chaloner fully agreed with the first part, but was not at all sure about the last.

When they left Kelke, Swaddell wanted to go at once to report to Williamson, evidently of the opinion that they had just scored a major breakthrough. Chaloner did not think they had learned enough to warrant the journey, but accompanied the assassin anyway. Williamson was not at his Westminster lair on account of his cold, so they visited him at home. He lived in Hatton Garden, an exclusive area of handsome mansions that was removed from the stench and pollution of the city, yet still close enough to be convenient for business.

They were admitted by a servant, who led them to a sumptuously furnished bedchamber. The invalid lay in a vast four-poster bed wearing a frilled nightshirt and matching cap. He clutched a handkerchief to his nose, and the table next to him was full of patented medicines, all promising to relieve his symptoms. His wife, who had been reading aloud, seized the opportunity to slip away when they were ushered in, giving the impression that she was grateful to escape.

‘You made me ill, Chaloner,’ said the Spymaster accusingly, and sneezed.

‘Not me,’ replied Chaloner firmly. ‘I was never obliged to take to my bed, so you must have someone else’s sickness.’

It occurred to him that the Spymaster was simply less hardy, or perhaps more inclined to cosset himself, but wisely did not say so.

‘It is irresponsible,’ Williamson went on sullenly. ‘People with diseases should stay indoors, so they do not infect others. If I die from this, I shall haunt you.’

It was not an appealing prospect. ‘Summon Wiseman,’ suggested Chaloner, more from self-interest than compassion. ‘He will sort you out.’

Williamson shot him an unpleasant look, but it slowly turned to pleasure as Swaddell began to summarise what they had learned in Southwark.

‘Hah!’ he exclaimed. ‘We have Baron at last! Kelke will stand witness against him, and we shall be able to charge the King of Cheapside with murder and theft.’

‘Kelke will disappear and you will never find him again,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘And even if you do, he did not actually
see
Baron kill Coo or Fatherton – he only assumed it. However, we might have solid evidence when I visit the Trulocke brothers tomorrow. I saw the gun that killed Coo, and Fatherton was shot by one with a similar bore – likely the same weapon. I hope the Trulockes will be able to identify its owner.’

‘Why have you not mentioned this before?’ demanded Swaddell accusingly. ‘It is vital information. You should not have kept it to yourself.’

‘I am telling you now,’ said Chaloner coolly, suspecting that Swaddell and Williamson had a good deal that they were not sharing with him. ‘And—’

‘I will accompany you to St Martin’s Lane,’ said Swaddell, struggling to mask his irritation. He turned back to Williamson before Chaloner could object. ‘We shall have Baron for arson, too, although he may have done us a favour by burning those particular houses. Perhaps plague worms did lurk in them, but now they are purified.’

‘It was reckless,’ countered Williamson waspishly. He broke off for a bout of sneezing, and when he had finished, fixed Chaloner with reproachful and very watery eyes.

Swaddell had edged away from the bed to avoid being sprayed. ‘If Kelke does vanish, we can use Baron’s waning popularity to bring him down instead. People pay his Protection Tax to live in peace, but his domain seethes with unrest at the moment, particularly about the murder of Coo. If we put it about that Baron is the culprit…’

‘People will refuse to pay him,’ finished Williamson, nodding slowly. ‘And without money he will be King of Cheapside no more. Yes! That might work.’

‘We can use
The Court & Kitchin
as well,’ Swaddell continued. ‘Aggravate a few spats—’

‘No!’ hissed Williamson. ‘Quarrels over Coo are one thing, but disputes between Royalists and Parliamentarians must be avoided at all costs. I do not have the troops to crush a rebellion, and we all know how fast the flames of revolt can spread once they are ignited.’

‘Did you know that Randal has written a sequel?’ asked Chaloner.

Williamson regarded him in horror. ‘Christ God! You
must
stop him! So now you have three tasks, all urgent: stop Randal, depose Baron, and find out what is planned for Tuesday.’

These were tall orders, and Chaloner was not sure he and Swaddell could oblige. They took their leave, and he was relieved when Swaddell excused himself for a meeting with an informant, as it left him clear to pursue his own enquiries. However, it was difficult to buy information when he had no money, so he walked to Clarendon House to beg some from the Earl’s accompter.

‘Thank God you are here,’ cried Kipps, seeing Chaloner enter the gate. The Seal Bearer’s face was as white as snow. ‘Someone has just murdered Neve.’

There was pandemonium at Clarendon House. The servants were shocked and frightened, the Earl had locked himself in My Lord’s Lobby, and there was an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. The senior staff who should have taken control of the situation had retreated to the portico, where they formed a tight huddle. As he hurried past them to the hall, Chaloner wondered if they had chosen that spot so they could run to hide in the garden should more gunmen appear. Brodrick broke away from them to follow Kipps and Chaloner inside, where he immediately began to express his shocked indignation.