The Cheapside Corpse (41 page)

‘Government business,’ he hissed with such icy menace that the passenger within could not relinquish his ride fast enough.

He climbed in, gesturing for Chaloner to follow. The hackneyman sensed it would be wise to obey the order for speed, and set off at a tremendous pace, Chaloner clinging on grimly as he was flung from side to side. Swaddell scowled out of the window, and Chaloner, not sure how to make amends, did not try. They made the journey in a tense silence.

They alighted in Cheapside, and Chaloner was about to lead the way down Bread Street when he happened to glance towards the music shop. There was a red cross on its door and a watcher stationed outside.

All that remained of the great bonfire that had caused such concern the day before was a great pile of charred logs and a lot of ash; other than these, the road had returned to normal. While Swaddell began to question passers-by about Randal’s lady, Chaloner went to the music shop. The watcher tensed and fingered his musket, so Chaloner raised his hands to show that he was not about to do anything rash.

‘The wages of kindness,’ the watcher whispered, patently glad to talk to someone who had not come to rail at him. He nodded to the Oxley house next door. ‘She went to tend the youngster in there, as his parents were dead and he was frightened. She nursed him through his last hours.’

‘They have all gone, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Oxley, Emma and the boy?’

The man nodded. ‘The girl, too. Me and the other watchers think she died of the sickness last night, and was buried secretly by family friends. And it really
was
the plague. No one can claim it was spotted fever, dropsy or drunkenness this time, as
they
do not carry off entire households in a day.’

Absently, Chaloner reached out to touch the cross on the Shaws’ door. It was brighter than the others, perhaps because it was new. Or maybe it just seemed that way because the victims were people he knew. Then the window above it opened and Lettice leaned out. Shaw was behind her, his face even more gloomy than usual – and with good reason.

‘Robin thinks me a fool,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘But the lad was afraid, and I could not leave him to die alone. It would not have been right.’

‘I shall be on my way, then,’ said the watcher, squinting up at them. ‘My colleague down the road is having trouble and he needs help.’

He hurried away, leaving Chaloner staring after him in astonishment.

‘We are responsible people,’ explained Shaw bitterly. ‘We can be trusted not to make a bid for escape, unlike the other folk who have been shut away.’

‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’ asked Chaloner. He would have to steal it if there were, as he had no money to make purchases.

‘No,’ replied Shaw, a little ungraciously. ‘Misick has left us a flask of his Plague Elixir, which he says will keep us healthy.’

‘He put extra alum in it,’ added Lettice. ‘I wonder if it came from your family’s mines. I should like to think so, because it would be a good omen.’

‘Those who owe us money will be pleased when they hear of our predicament,’ said Shaw, while Chaloner decided to overlook Lettice’s peculiar obsession with the mineral in the interests of compassion. ‘They will not have to pay us if we die.’

On that note, he withdrew and Lettice followed. Chaloner hurried back to Bread Street, where Swaddell was having no luck locating Randal’s woman. The assassin was angry, his restless black eyes burning with bad temper. As he was usually in icy control of his emotions, this was an unsettling development.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Chaloner warily, wondering if he was the sole cause of Swaddell’s ire, or whether someone else had done something to annoy him.

Swaddell shot him a sour look and began to list his gripes on long, bony fingers. ‘We are at war; the plague is spreading because people are too stupid to accept our measures; Baron’s murder of Coo has outraged all Cheapside—’

‘Baron’s
possible
murder of Coo,’ cautioned Chaloner. ‘Yet I feel—’

‘—the banks have generated so much ill feeling that they threaten the stability of the whole country; something terrible will happen tomorrow; Randal is stoking bad feeling between Royalists and Parliamentarians; and you withhold vital information.
That
is what is wrong.’

‘It did not seem important to—’ began Chaloner defensively.

‘We took a vow,’ hissed Swaddell, and something very nasty flared in his eyes. ‘We are partners. We do not deceive each other.’

‘I did not
deceive
you,’ hedged Chaloner, hoping to heal the rift before Swaddell decided to renounce their pact. ‘It was—’

‘You take the east side of the road, and I will cover the west. Call me if you find her.’

Swaddell stalked away, colliding with a baker as he went, causing the man to scatter his wares all over the road. The man drew breath to remonstrate, but Swaddell whipped around with a glare of such malice that the words died in his throat. Swaddell strode on, and the baker quickly bent to gather up what he had dropped, evidently of the opinion that a little manure and ash never hurt anyone, before racing away as fast as his legs would carry him.

As knocking on doors and asking if Randal’s mistress lived there seemed a poor strategy, Chaloner went to the lane that ran along the back of the road, and began to climb over garden walls, to see what could be learned from peering through windows.

Toys strewn around the first three suggested they belonged to families with children, and he doubted Randal’s lady would have brats in tow, but the fourth was more promising. Discarded clothes lay on the floor, including petticoats and breeches. Had Randal received a passionate welcome after his rabble-rousing speech in King Street? Chaloner opened a window and climbed through: if Randal was within, he would fetch Swaddell and they would confront him together.

He found himself in a pantry that screamed of slovenly living. Vegetable parings sat in a festering pile on the table, and what was in the pot suspended over the ashes in the hearth did not look as though it had been very appetising before it had gone mouldy. The place reeked of decaying cheese, old fat and dirt. Then he heard voices.

They were coming from the floor above, so he aimed for the stairs, treading carefully so as not to make them creak. A shriek had him freezing in alarm, but it was followed by laughter, so he resumed his journey. He reached a bedroom, and peered around the door to see Randal and a woman lying in bed together.

The mistress could not have been more different from the wife – she was pretty, even slathered in cheap face-paints, and everything about her was sensual, brash and a little indecent.

Something pungent was burning in a brazier, so a smoky haze hung inside the room, accentuating its general air of seaminess. Unfortunately, the fumes irritated Chaloner’s still-sensitive nose. He backed away, trying to stifle the irritating tickle, but it was no use. He sneezed.

The couple started in alarm, while he cursed under his breath. There was no time to fetch Swaddell now – he would have to tackle Randal alone. He flung open the door and strode in, sword in his hand. The woman screamed, hauling the bedclothes to her throat as if she imagined they might protect her. Randal dived for the gun that lay on the bedside table, but Chaloner reached it first. He grabbed it, then stared in shock. It had an ivory butt and an engraved barrel.

‘Oh, it is you,’ said Randal. He lay back and put his arms behind his head to show he was unconcerned. ‘
You
will not shoot me. Our mutual friend would not approve.’

‘Temperance?’ Chaloner sneezed again. ‘She will never find out.’

‘Oh, yes, she will,’ countered Randal. ‘And she will be livid. She likes me because I pay my bills on time, unlike most of her customers. Now go away. You do not frighten me.’

Chaloner supposed a sneezing invader was more ridiculous than intimidating. ‘I will go as soon as you have answered some questions. Where is the second gun?’

‘What second gun?’ asked Randal warily.

Chaloner waved the weapon. ‘This is one of a pair. Where is the other?’

‘I have only ever had the one. It was a gift, but do not ask me who from, as I cannot recall.’ Randal settled himself more comfortably. ‘A great many people shower me with presents for writing
The Court & Kitchin
, and they tend to blend together in my mind.’

‘Then do you remember
when
you were given it?’

Randal gazed at the ceiling as he pondered. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘Last week! I went to a grand reception hosted by my brother Silas, and when I got home, that gun was one of several trinkets in my pockets. I imagine its giver made some pretty speech about what a fine token it is – they all do – but I was drunk and I cannot bring it to mind now.’

‘When was this party exactly?’ Chaloner sneezed a third time, wondering what foul concoction was being incinerated in the brazier.

‘Sunday perhaps. Or Monday.’

‘Dr Coo was murdered on Monday – with this gun or its partner. Am I to assume that you did it? And that you killed Neve in Clarendon House yesterday?’

Randal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I have not killed anyone! Tell him, Polly.’

The woman nodded. ‘He rarely leaves my side, and he was here all day yesterday.’

Chaloner looked at the weak-chinned, dissipated character in the dirty bed, and was inclined to suspect that Randal would be incapable of committing two bold murders in broad daylight.

‘Was James Baron at this soirée?’ he asked, struggling not to sneeze again.

Randal blinked. ‘No, of course not! Silas’s guests were merchants and courtiers. And bankers, of course. He knows lots of those, and they are always trying to curry favour with me in the hope that I will praise them to my father.’

Chaloner doubted Taylor would pay much attention to Randal’s opinions. He shoved the gun in his pocket, sheathed his sword – he did not need either for Randal – and changed the subject, although he intended to return to the dag and its giver later.

‘We did not finish the conversation we started in the brothel,’ he began. ‘You—’

‘What brothel?’ interrupted Polly angrily.

‘It is not a brothel,’ replied Randal irritably. ‘It is a gentlemen’s club – a respectable place, where men go to smoke and read newsbooks. Ignore him, Poll. He does not want me to publish my next book, and aims to stop me by causing trouble in my personal life.’

‘I
will
stop you,’ vowed Chaloner. ‘For your own good as much as London’s.’

‘You mean for the good of the people I shall denounce,’ jeered Randal. ‘Well, they deserve it. I could have been master of my trade by now, but Starkey and Mrs Cromwell ruined me.’

Chaloner sneezed a fourth time. Exasperated, he emptied a jug of water on to the brazier to put an end to its nasty reek. It hissed and sizzled, and Polly screeched her outrage.

‘That is to prevent the plague! Do you
want
us to catch it?’

‘He is a Parliamentarian so he probably does,’ said Randal sulkily. ‘Like all those who object to
The Court & Kitchin
, he considers himself Mrs Cromwell’s champion.’

‘Perhaps I do,’ said Chaloner tartly. ‘Because she is not corrupt or miserly, she never stole heirlooms from White Hall, and she certainly did not keep cows in St James’s Park for making butter. Everything you wrote was a lie.’

‘It serves her right,’ said Randal, unrepentant. ‘She and Starkey should not have told everyone that I cannot cook.’

‘She left White Hall five years ago.’ Chaloner went to open a window, because the stench from the wet brazier was worse than when it had been dry. ‘Why wait until now to make a fuss?’

Randal shrugged. ‘I needed to get my grievances into the open, to stop them gnawing away at me. It worked – I am much happier now.’

‘You are,’ agreed Polly. ‘And best of all, neither Starkey nor Mrs Cromwell know why Randal Taylor should have taken against him. They still think you are John Smith.’

‘Get dressed,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking that Williamson could decide what was to be done with the petty Randal. He himself had more important matters to attend.

‘No,’ said Randal, folding his arms. ‘You aim to take me to my wife and tell her about Poll. Well, I am not going and you cannot make me.’

Chaloner was sure he could.

‘Your
what
?’ demanded Polly.

‘His wife,’ supplied Chaloner, as Randal blanched at the inadvertent slip. ‘Surely you knew? They were married a few weeks ago.’

Polly gaped at her lover. ‘You bastard! You told me that once the sales of your book had made you rich, you would make
me
your lawful wedded spouse.’

Randal grabbed the hand that was flying forward to slap him. ‘I will, Poll, I swear! I want
you
, not Joan. Just say the word, and we shall run away to Dorking together.’

‘Dorking?’ squeaked Polly, appalled. ‘I do not want to go to Dorking! I want to stay here and be part of your family – to attend goldsmiths’ feasts and be presented at Court masques. Like you promised.’

‘You will,’ Randal assured her. ‘I will escape the contract, never fear.’

Chaloner drew breath to tell him again to dress, but the smoke was still irritating his nose, and he sneezed yet again. Unfortunately, it meant that he did not hear the person creeping up behind him, and by the time he did, it was too late. He whipped around to find himself facing a gun – the partner of the one that was in his pocket.

Chaloner reacted instinctively when he saw the weapon. He lashed out with his fist, and although it did not connect, it was enough to spoil the gunman’s aim. The dag went off with a crack that made his ears ring, but the bullet missed him. The attacker hissed his annoyance and Polly began to scream. A second assailant was on the heels of the first, pulling a knife from his belt. Both wore plague masks to conceal their faces.

The gunman hauled out a second pistol, older and less elegant than the first. Chaloner grabbed it and tried to wrest it away, but the accomplice began jabbing at him with the dagger. Using every ounce of his strength, Chaloner twisted the gunman around and used him as a shield. The gunman released a howl of pain as his friend’s blade struck home, and the dag went off, showering all three with plaster from the ceiling.