The Cheapside Corpse (40 page)

Cheapside was more uneasy than ever, with angry voices discussing Coo’s murder, the threatened invasion by the Dutch, the dishonesty of the bankers, and the rumour that old Parliamentarians were about to suffer heavier taxes. Backwell’s handsome coach and four hurtled past, travelling quickly in an attempt to avoid some of the mud and stones that were lobbed at it. The financier’s anxious face could be glimpsed within, and Chaloner thought him a fool for flaunting his wealth when it would have been safer to travel incognito in a hackney carriage.

‘I hate that man,’ Chaloner heard a grocer growl. ‘He is a leech, bloating himself with riches on the backs of the poor. He should never have sold my debt to Taylor.’

‘No,’ agreed a crony. ‘Last year, I deposited fifty guineas in his vault – it seemed safer than hiding them under my bed. Then I heard that all goldsmiths are thieves, so I went to get them back, but do you know what he told me? That I could not have them until next week at the earliest. He refused to give me
my
money!’

Further on, there were angry crowds outside Everard’s home, which was being closed up with the plague. However, Chaloner saw a distinctive purple nose poking from under one hat, and watched the ex-banker slink away with a bundle tossed over one shoulder, doubtless aiming for the refuge offered by his mother in the country. An elderly couple leaned cheerfully out of an upstairs window, calling out that they were ready for the parish provisions now; Chaloner could only surmise that Everard had bribed the searcher to give a verdict of plague in order to secure faithful old retainers forty days of free food. A few doors down, the same thing was happening to Widow Porteous, but she was far from pleased.

‘It is a sweating fever,’ she howled. Perspiration shone on her face. ‘
Not
the pestilence.’

‘You are being punished because of Wheler,’ shouted Brewer Farrow, who always seemed to be to hand whenever there was trouble. ‘Those greedy bankers think a debtor killed him, and this is their revenge. They aim to destroy us house by house.’

Chaloner continued to Bread Street, only to find it blocked by an enormous bonfire, which burned so wildly that the street had been closed in the interests of public safety. Reluctantly, he saw he would have to leave Randal until he could visit without fear of being incinerated.

The bell in St Mary le Bow began to toll as he returned to Cheapside, and a dreary procession made its way through the cemetery in the gathering gloom of dusk. The mourners wore scarves over their faces, and the coffin was interred with unseemly speed, the sexton shovelling soil into the hole long before the vicar had finished his prayers.

‘That was Banker Vyner’s gardener,’ whispered a tallow-maker. ‘But look at his house! Is he shut inside it, like the Oxleys? No! He is allowed a verdict of falling sickness, and goes about his business unfettered.’

Chaloner glanced across the road to the Oxley house, where the watcher was allowing Shaw to load food into a basket. No one was waiting at the window to haul it up though, and he wondered if everyone inside was already dead. Lettice was watching from the door of her shop.

‘Oxley keeps asking for ale,’ she remarked when Chaloner approached. ‘No matter how much we supply, he still wants more. He will ruin us before the forty days are over.’ She giggled, but it was a nervous sound, devoid of amusement.

‘Perhaps fever gives him a thirst,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘Perhaps, but they are robust folk, and if any family can survive, it is them. We have sent up some of Dr Misick’s Plague Elixir, which is excellent stuff and will soon put them right.’

Eventually, Chaloner turned for home. The last snippet of conversation he heard before he left Cheapside was between two beggars huddled in the porch of St Michael’s Church.

‘…will be settled on Tuesday,’ one was saying with savage delight. ‘Because blood will flow more thickly than in all the wars put together, and London will never be the same again.’

Chaloner arrived at Tothill Street to find his house completely empty, ready for the new tenants. Gram was in the kitchen, looking disconsolate, although he brightened when Chaloner walked in. They shared an apple and a salted herring, which was all that was left in the pantry.

‘If you could learn who killed Wheler and Coo, Cheapside would be an easier place,’ Gram declared, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, although Chaloner was still hungry. ‘It is suspicion and rumour that are causing all the trouble. Have you tried asking Joan whether she stabbed her first husband? She is certainly a woman to kill, and Wheler was no great shakes as a lover.’

‘How do you know?’

Gram made a dismissive sound. ‘Everyone knows – it is common knowledge. Still, I am told she was fond of him, so perhaps you should leave her be.’

‘What else have you been told?’ Chaloner was desperate enough for answers that he was willing to listen to any old rubbish.

Gram shrugged. ‘Nothing you will not have already heard – the bankers could be ousted from Goldsmiths’ Row on Tuesday, because the poor do not like them. Which will please Baron, of course, as it will make him more powerful – word is that his authority is slipping, so he will want to regain it any way he can.’

‘How will they be ousted?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Exactly?’

‘No one knows, but everyone is looking forward to it, so I imagine it will be spectacular. Of course, there are those who think it is
Baron
who will suffer on Tuesday, leaving the bankers stronger and richer. Or perhaps it has nothing to do with any of them, and we shall see King Jesus installed in White Hall instead. It is high time He came to finish what He started.’

Chaloner slept rolled in his coat that night, with a boot for a pillow, just as he had when he had been on campaign with the New Model Army. He dozed off immediately, and when he woke the following morning, he felt better rested and fitter than he had done in days. He was still hoarse, and there was the occasional cough and sneeze, but his head was clear and he could breathe. The cold was on its way out at last.

He had arranged to meet Swaddell at the Turk’s Head Coffee House on Chancery Lane at eight o’clock, so he walked there briskly. The streets had been washed again, and smelled of damp earth and diluted manure, with the occasional sweeter waft of spring blossom from the open countryside to the west.

He reached the Turk’s Head, paid for a brew with his last token, and sat alone at a table, earning disapproving glances from the other patrons who had hoped a stranger would provide them with new and interesting gossip. He ignored them, and studied his surroundings covertly, wondering what could be learned about Swaddell from the place, given that the assassin claimed it as his regular haunt.

It was much like any other such establishment – a single room with smoke-stained walls, seats polished from constant use, and an acrid fug. As it was near the handsome mansions in Hatton Garden, it was full of people with loud views and good opinions of themselves. Will Chiffinch was there, relaxing after a heavy night of entertainment with His Majesty. In his self-important bray, he informed his fellow imbibers that all goldsmiths should be rounded up and thrown off London Bridge for the trouble they were causing at Court. The reason for his vitriol soon became apparent: Taylor had confiscated a fine brooch in lieu of payment on his debt.

‘And he took my jewelled scent bottle on Friday,’ he whined. ‘I shall have nothing left if he persists. Damn him to hell!’

He was not the only one with complaints. Sir George Carteret was there, too, and related the tale of how he had been stripped of his buttons, valued at forty shillings each, in broad daylight on the Strand. The grumbles lasted until Chiffinch changed the subject to the plague, at which point there was a general consensus that the disease would never infect anyone of quality, but would confine itself to paupers.

It was unpleasant talk, and Chaloner flicked through
The Intelligencer
, hot off the presses that morning, so he would not have to listen to it. When he had finished and Swaddell had still not arrived, he borrowed pen and paper, and sketched all he could remember about the gun that had killed Coo.

‘You are good at that,’ remarked Swaddell, making him jump by speaking close behind him. The assassin had a very stealthy tread, because not many could sneak up behind Chaloner undetected, especially now his ears were functioning normally. ‘It must be a useful talent. In counterfeiting, for example.’

‘I would not know,’ replied Chaloner, not about to admit to that sort of skill. ‘However, if I lose my post with the Earl, I could always become an artist.’

It was meant as a joke, but Swaddell nodded earnestly, and Chaloner supposed he did not have a sense of humour. It was something to bear in mind, lest flip comments were reported as facts to the Spymaster.

‘It is always good to have another career option,’ the assassin said gravely. ‘If ever I decide to abandon my own line of work, I shall become a perukier.’

Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘Really?’

‘I have never made a wig, but how hard can it be? And everyone is wearing them these days, so it must be a very lucrative trade.’ Swaddell nodded towards the drawing. ‘Is this the weapon that killed Coo?’

‘And Neve and Fatherton. Probably.’

‘Then let us visit the gunsmiths and see if they know who owns it.’

It was a pretty morning, and Chaloner might have enjoyed the walk to St Martin’s Lane had he not been in company with a dangerous assassin. The sun shone gently, birds sang and an early butterfly danced across the long, waving grass in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Then they reached Long Acre, which was being fumigated by two enormous bonfires that belched out choking white smoke, and all signs of spring were obliterated. With a pang, Chaloner noticed that two more houses had red crosses on their doors, including the one in which he had recently rented rooms. His heart went out to Landlord Lamb.

‘It is not plague,’ said an old woman, seeing him looking at it. ‘It is dropsy. Unfortunately, Mr Lamb’s lodgers left, which means he does not have enough money to bribe the searchers.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner guiltily.

‘But perhaps he will be freed early,’ she went on. ‘Cheapside folk are talking about storming their shut-up houses and letting the inmates out. If it works, we might do the same here.’

‘That would be reckless,’ said Swaddell in alarm. ‘The disease will spread for certain, and hundreds may die. Thousands, even.’

‘Rubbish!’ declared the woman. ‘These measures are just an excuse for the government to stamp on the poor. The idea probably came from the bankers, who resent us because we see them for what they are: greedy, unscrupulous scoundrels!’

Troubled, Chaloner and Swaddell walked to the end of Long Acre and turned down St Martin’s Lane, where the premises of William, George and Edmund Trulocke, gunsmiths, was a seedy affair about halfway along. It was guarded by a fierce dog, which repelled all but the most determined patrons. But Chaloner had bribed it with bones in the past, and it remembered; it wagged its tail and licked his hand, allowing him and Swaddell to enter unmolested.

Inside, the shop smelled of hot metal and gunpowder, and displays of muskets and pistols adorned the walls, all secured with chains to prevent pilfering. It was full of shady customers, most of whom took care to keep their faces concealed, and who were almost certainly not the kind of people who should be in possession of firearms.

‘Mr Swaddell,’ said the largest of the Trulocke brothers. ‘What can I do for you?’

Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised that the assassin was known to men who sold weapons. Swaddell was doubtless a regular and much-valued client.

‘Tell me who owns this gun.’ Swaddell handed him Chaloner’s drawing.

‘James Baron,’ replied Trulocke promptly. ‘We made him a pair of them about a year ago.’

‘Well, that was easy,’ said Chaloner, following Swaddell outside, and stunned by the speed with which they had gained their answer. He was used to prising information from the Trulockes piece by piece, using money or force. ‘Can he be trusted?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Swaddell. ‘He knows the consequences of lying to me, because he has done it before. His information will be accurate, you can be sure of that.’ He shot Chaloner an admonishing glance. ‘We should have followed this lead sooner – we could have had Baron in our cells days ago.’

Yet doubt niggled at the back of Chaloner’s mind. ‘I cannot escape the sense that someone is manipulating us, pushing us to draw these conclusions. Coo’s killer waggled the gun at me, and Neve’s killer did the same to Kipps, as if they
wanted
the weapon identified.’

‘Well, I am happy with the solution, and Williamson will be, too. Once Baron is arrested and his operation crushed, you and I can concentrate on tomorrow’s mischief.’

At that moment, a contingent of soldiers trotted past, wearing the distinctive buff jerkins and stripy sleeves of Williamson’s troops. Their captain saw Swaddell and hurried over.

‘We are summoned to King Street,’ he panted. ‘Randal Taylor made a speech to a lot of appreciative courtiers. Unfortunately, his words annoyed the local traders, who have Parliamentarian leanings, and the two sides are squaring up for a brawl. Williamson wants it stopped before the trouble spreads.’

‘We had better come with you and arrest the villain,’ said Swaddell. ‘Damn him! Why choose now to make a nuisance of himself?’

‘I doubt he will be there now,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘He is not the sort to linger when danger threatens. We should look for him in Bread Street, where he keeps his mistress.’

Swaddell glared at him, and the captain promptly slunk away to rejoin his unit, unwilling to remain while the assassin looked so deadly.

‘And when were you going to share this information with me?’ demanded Swaddell, acid in his voice. ‘Christ God, Chaloner! We are supposed to be working together. How many more vital facts will you keep to yourself? Anyone would think you do not trust me.’

He turned away before Chaloner could respond and flagged down a hackney by leaping in front of it; Chaloner had no idea how the driver managed to miss him. Seething, Swindell ripped open the door.