The Cheapside Corpse (44 page)

He stopped abruptly, because Joliffe had broken through the door and reached the roof.

There was a lot of jeering as Taylor was bundled unceremoniously out of the Standard and into a waiting coach. Chaloner glimpsed Misick’s massive wig inside and medicines being proffered. Then the driver cracked his whip and the carriage rattled away. He supposed Taylor would share the fate of his hapless colleague Johnson, and be packed off to Bedlam.

‘Oh, God,’ groaned Swaddell, as Evan took his father’s place on the balcony. ‘Now what?’

‘Good people of London,’ Evan began in a voice that was weak and high compared to his father’s authoritative bass. ‘You should not believe all you hear about—’

‘You are a villain!’ howled Farrow. ‘Worse than a thief, because you are already rich, but you aim to make yourself wealthier on the backs of decent, hard-working folk. Shame on you!’

‘Shut your mouth,’ snarled Joliffe, striding towards him and shoving his face menacingly close. ‘Or I will shut it for you.’

Unfortunately for him, far from being intimidated, Farrow took a swing at the tempting target. Joliffe reeled back with blood gushing from his nose, while the crowd roared its delight. Evan ducked back into the stairwell when a hail of stones flew towards him, wisely abandoning his efforts to make amends for his father’s proclamations.

When some of the bankers’ henchmen waded into the horde to extricate Joliffe, Chaloner braced himself for the start of a serious fracas, but Baron’s trainband saved the day. They were polite but firm, and as neither guards nor onlookers were willing to fight the King of Cheapside, they began to disperse. Yet many did not go far: some congregated around the plague houses, muttering in low voices, while many formed sullen packs that lurked in alleys. Others walked with silent purpose down Friday and Bread Streets.

‘Taylor’s stupid opinions have provided the spark that folk have been waiting for,’ said Swaddell in a low voice. ‘I sense trouble looming.’

So did Chaloner. ‘They are aiming for Goldsmiths’ Row,’ he said urgently. ‘Come on!’

He and Swaddell hurried there, and arrived to find people clamouring at the doors of every financier for the funds they had deposited. The run had started.

‘The banks are on the verge of collapse, and you will lose everything unless you take all your money out
now
.’ It was Farrow again. ‘Hurry! Reclaim—’

Swaddell grabbed his arm. ‘Enough,’ he said fiercely. ‘You are not helping.’

‘Not helping whom?’ snarled Farrow. ‘The goldsmiths? Who cares? They are maggots.’

‘Very possibly,’ said Swaddell. ‘But if they fail, we will not be able to fight the Dutch.’

‘Good! It was a stupid idea to go to war anyway.’

‘Then think about the plague. The government will need to borrow from them to pay for watchers, bonfires—’

‘If it comes, it will be
their
fault for not shutting themselves up when they were infected,’ interrupted Farrow, stabbing an accusing finger towards the opulent houses. ‘And the searchers’ fault for claiming that everything is the plague unless someone bribes them to say otherwise. The whole city is corrupt, and we have had enough of it.’

Farrow’s rant was drawing approving nods from onlookers, so Chaloner backed away, pulling Swaddell with him, as arguing was doing more harm than good. Then one of Williamson’s officers arrived with a small unit of men and a brief, exasperated message saying there was a legal hiccup over the warrant – which had to be sound or the case against Baron would collapse before it had started. Swaddell and Chaloner were to keep the peace until the matter could be resolved.

‘I expected more than this from cooperating with the Spymaster,’ grumbled Chaloner, daunted by the scale of the task that confronted them. The mood of the multitude was growing more dangerous by the minute, and it was obvious that a serious riot was in the offing. For a start, many folk were wearing masks – ostensibly to protect themselves from the plague – which rendered them anonymous; it was common knowledge that those who believed themselves to be unrecognisable were more likely to misbehave.

Swaddell shot him a black look. ‘He will be doing his best, but the wheels of justice do not always move swiftly.’

They did not seem to be moving at all as far as Chaloner was concerned, and there followed one of the longest and most trying days he could ever recall passing. Swaddell directed Williamson’s soldiers in a complex game of cat and mouse with the ringleaders of the brewing unrest, while Chaloner spirited any number of troublemakers down dark alleys and advised them to desist. Between them, they managed an uneasy status quo through the afternoon and into the evening, but both knew that all bets would be off once darkness fell.

Shopkeepers thought so, too, and were closing their shutters. They were hampered by petty thieves, who worked in packs to dart in and steal. Baron’s trainband was trying to stop them, but as soon as they had secured one business, another came under attack. The King of Cheapside was losing control. Was it because he was distracted by Caesar’s probable fate? And why were more of Williamson’s troops not on hand to help?

‘Because we do not have enough men,’ snapped Swaddell when Chaloner asked. ‘We cannot keep the plague from spreading
and
quell unrest. It is not an army – just a few soldiers.’

Chaloner happened to be passing the Oxley house at dusk, and saw the plague cart arrive to collect the bodies. It was a grim vehicle, tall with high sides, operated by two men in masks and long cloaks. They had a brazier burning on the seat next to them, which released a noxious stench, and grey-white powder dropped from the back of the wagon each time it hit a rut in the road – the lime that was used as a disinfectant.

Shaw came to the window to watch, and a ragged cheer of encouragement went up from passers-by. He acknowledged it with a weary smile. He was wearing an old blue coat, which he hugged around himself as if he were cold.

‘Lettice wrapped them as well as she could,’ he called to the drivers. ‘But she could not find enough big blankets, so please be careful. One is a child.’

There was no response from the men, who had doubtless seen other children that day. They adjusted their clothes, took deep breaths, and opened Oxley’s door. Moments later, they emerged with a bundle. As they swung it into the waiting wagon, the blanket fell away. Chaloner braced himself for an ugly sight, but Emma looked strangely peaceful, her skin marble white. Oxley was next, followed by the boy.

‘Do you have any dead?’ asked one driver, glancing up at Shaw.

‘Not yet,’ came the whispered reply.

The wagon trundled away to its next port of call, while the crowd watched in silence.

Darkness fell, but still there was no word from Williamson, and householders and shopkeepers all along Cheapside lit pitch torches in the hope that the light would deter thieves. Throngs of men and women emerged from the alleys and adjoining streets to prowl, and although they pretended to be taking the air, Chaloner knew they were there to join the trouble when it came.

Then one of the Spymaster’s captains arrived with four burly men in tow. They were not soldiers, but the louts Williamson engaged when he needed an intimidating presence, which meant they were neither loyal nor particularly trustworthy.

‘Here is the warrant at last,’ the captain said, handing a piece of paper to Swaddell. ‘Mr Williamson wants it executed immediately, and he sent these fellows to help.’

‘Baron has an entire trainband at his disposal,’ remarked Chaloner, watching Swaddell scan the document quickly, then shove it in his pocket. ‘I think we might need more than four hired hands to persuade him to leave his home and come with us.’

‘Well you cannot have them,’ retorted the captain. ‘There is trouble in King Street, Drury Lane, London Wall, Fleet Street and Tower Hill. All London is in uproar tonight.’

‘I thought it was just Cheapside,’ said Swaddell.

‘If only,’ growled the captain.

‘What about Randal’s book?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Has Williamson found the publisher yet?’

‘No, but he has risen from his sickbed to lead the search himself – he had no choice, given that he has no spare agents. He told me to hurry back and help him, so I had better oblige. Good luck.’

Chaloner thought they would need it. With the four men lumbering behind, he and Swaddell ran to Baron’s house, only to find it in darkness, its doors locked and windows shuttered. A passer-by explained why: Baron had decided that London was too dangerous for his wife and children, so he had sent them to the country.

‘He is still here, though,’ the man added. ‘He would never abandon his kingdom. I saw him not long ago, heading for the Feathers.’

Unlike most taverns, which were enjoying a roaring trade from people keen to fuel their courage with ale, the Feathers was closed, and there was no sign of the doormen who were usually on hand to collect entry fees from guests. Chaloner and Swaddell crept to the back of the building, where light seeped dimly from under a single shutter. The rear door was locked but Chaloner had it open in a trice.

He indicated that the hirelings were to wait outside while he and Swaddell went to find out what was happening. The quartet nodded wordlessly, although they were patently uneasy, and he wondered how long their nerve would hold. Why had Williamson provided such paltry troops when he had claimed that quelling the trouble around Cheapside was important? But it was no time to ponder, because Swaddell was poking him in the back, prompting him to step inside.

The main part of the tavern was empty, but there were voices coming from the room that was lit. Chaloner padded towards it, Swaddell at his heels. The assassin had such a stealthy tread that Chaloner glanced around twice, just to make sure he was still there.

They reached the occupied room, a large chamber that was far more handsomely furnished than the rest of the inn. It was full of people, who sat around tables, all playing cards in an atmosphere of hushed concentration. They were drinking wine, not ale, and Chaloner understood why when he recognised the participants. Some, like Chiffinch, Bab May, Brodrick and Sir George Carteret, were courtiers; others included wealthy merchants, one or two clergymen and – somewhat unexpectedly – Misick. The game was primero, and the amount of money on the tables was more than Chaloner would earn in a decade.

‘Such high stakes are illegal,’ whispered Swaddell, as if he imagined Chaloner might not know. ‘Although it is no shock to learn that Baron ignores the law.’

The felon himself was standing near the back of the room, watching the proceedings with a fatherly smile, although there was a glint of greed in his eyes. Doe was at his side, while Poachin prowled with a wine jug.

‘No wonder these people are in debt,’ murmured Chaloner. ‘Doubtless, this is the kind of game that destroyed Colburn.’

Swaddell eased forward to get a better view but inadvertently knocked a tankard from a shelf. Chaloner watched in horror as it toppled and began to fall. Swaddell reacted with impressive speed, though. He twisted around and the vessel dropped neatly into his hands, so the clatter that would have betrayed them was no more than a click as the lid snapped shut. The games continued undisturbed, although Poachin excused himself to fetch more wine from the cellar.

‘Good,’ murmured Swaddell. ‘Now there is only Baron, Doe and four of their trainband. We shall be evenly matched when I fetch our warriors.’

‘You are not counting the gamblers,’ whispered Chaloner.

‘They will not fight for Baron – or against us.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course they will! The alternative is being exposed for illegal gaming.’

‘They would not dare. Besides, Misick is trained to heal wounds, not cause them, while Brodrick would never raise a hand against his cousin’s man.’

‘He might, if it means keeping the Earl in the dark about his antics. And Chiffinch and May would love an opportunity to kill me. We need to ask Williamson for more soldiers.’

‘You heard: he does not have them to lend us. And this is perfect, Chaloner! Baron will never evade prison if we catch him in the act of presiding over illegal card games. Now fetch our troops while I keep an eye on him.’

Chaloner was deeply unhappy but began to creep back through the tavern. He was not at all surprised when he reached the street to discover that the hirelings had disappeared. Wearily, he started to return to Swaddell, but a creak made him whip around.

‘Are you looking for me?’

It was Baron. Chaloner reached for his sword, but Baron had a gun and shook his head, tutting as he did so. Doe and Jacob were with him, the latter looking nothing like a footman with his unshaven face and rough clothes; Chaloner supposed he had reverted to the kind of person he had been before landing a cushy post in Tothill Street.

‘It is all right, Baron,’ said Swaddell, stepping out of the shadows. ‘Chaloner knows nothing that can incriminate us. Shall we adjourn to your office to discuss the situation? I confess I am surprised to see you holding a meeting tonight. You did not tell me.’

‘You will find a message waiting for you in Westminster, Mr Swaddell,’ replied Baron, while Chaloner looked from one to the other in dismay. ‘Do not worry. You will not lose out.’

Chaloner did not know whether he was angrier at himself for thinking that he and Swaddell might be on the same side, or with the assassin for being swayed by what were probably very large sums of money.

Chaloner fought with all his might when Doe came to lay hold of him, ignoring Swaddell’s pleas to surrender with good grace. Baron brandished his gun, but Chaloner ignored it, knowing the felon would not want to alarm his distinguished guests by blasting away with firearms. With a grimace, the King of Cheapside entered the affray with his fists, at which point Chaloner knew the battle was lost. He went down in a flurry of punches, but continued to struggle until a sack was pulled over his head and he was bound so tightly that he could not move.

There followed an uncomfortable journey tossed over someone’s shoulder – he suspected Baron’s, because he was toted as though he were made of feathers. He knew they were on Cheapside, as he could hear the bells of St Mary Woolchurch, while a choking stench from one of the plague bonfires permeated the sack, almost asphyxiating him.