The Cheapside Corpse (45 page)

Next there came the sound of doors being opened and relocked, and he was bumped roughly down some stairs. The temperature dropped, telling him that he was underground. His stomach turned to ice at the notion that he was being taken to a cell, and with Hannah living in White Hall and Thurloe away, no one would think to look for him for days, if not weeks. Panic made it more difficult to draw breath into his lungs, and he felt himself begin to black out.

The next thing he knew was that he was lying on a cold stone floor. The sack was off his head, and he was no longer tied up, although he had no recollection of being freed. He opened his eyes, and a quick check revealed what he had already suspected: that he had been stripped of all his weapons, probably by Swaddell, who would know where to look.

The faint smell of damp cloth told him that he was in the cellar below Baron’s house, where the stolen drapery was stored. He sat up to see that one corner of the room had been converted into a little parlour, with an eclectic selection of fine furniture, including cushion-strewn benches and a table loaded with food and wine. Baron, Doe, Poachin and Swaddell were talking in low voices nearby, and when Swaddell saw that Chaloner was awake, he went to the table and poured a cup of wine. Chaloner did not take the proffered goblet.

‘Now I know why you wrote part of your letter to Williamson in cipher,’ he said coldly. ‘It told him to ignore the following “plea” for help, which is why it took so long to arrive – and when it did, it comprised four hirelings who would disappear at the first sign of trouble. There was probably no warrant either. You are just another traitor, seduced by the scent of gold.’

Swaddell’s restless eyes stopped roaming around the room and settled on him, which Chaloner found distinctly unnerving. They were cold and hard, like a shark’s.

‘An oath is an oath,’ he said. ‘My loyalties are—’

‘Swaddell and I have an understanding,’ said Baron, coming to join them and giving Chaloner one of his engaging grins. ‘One that has been in force for some time.’

Chaloner recalled what the felon had said when he and Swaddell had visited the Feathers together – that he had made Swaddell the same offer that he had made Chaloner. Obviously, Swaddell had been less squeamish about accepting.

‘Protection Tax,’ explained Swaddell. ‘Baron pays it as well as collects it.’

‘Each month, Mr Swaddell here earns a nice little allowance in return for keeping the authorities from being too interested in what I do,’ Baron went on smugly. ‘All without the knowledge of Spymaster Williamson, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaloner flatly. He was furious with himself for believing that Swaddell could be trusted. The man was an assassin, and such people were not noted for their sense of honour. Worse, Chaloner had even felt the stirrings of respect for him, and the sense that perhaps they might do some good together.

‘You did well,’ said Baron, turning to Poachin. ‘I did not hear them prowling about.’

‘It was the tankard falling off the shelf.’ Poachin was obviously pleased by the praise. ‘When it dropped, the lid snapped, so I went to investigate. I found four men outside, but sixpence saw them on their way.’

Doe was pouting jealously. There were more bruises on his face than there had been earlier, and Chaloner was glad that some of his punches had struck home.

‘Poachin did
not
do well,’ he snapped. ‘He mishandled the situation badly. He allowed Chaloner to create a rumpus that upset our visitors, and they called an early end to the games. It has lost us a lot of money.’

‘It was you who caused the rumpus,’ countered Poachin, nettled. ‘I was about to slip up behind him and slit his throat, nice and quiet, but you started a brawl.’

‘Doe was right to stop you,’ said Baron sharply. ‘Gashed necks are difficult to pass off as accidents, as I have told you before.’

‘Was it card games run by you that ruined Colburn?’ asked Chaloner, watching Poachin’s face take on a murderous expression. It turned darker still when Doe smirked at him, and Chaloner wondered if he could use their enmity to his advantage.

Baron was nodding. ‘I did suggest he rein back, but the urge had bitten him and he would not listen. We refused to let him play after he had lost all he owned, but he promptly went to the bankers for money.’ He shrugged. ‘Once he could pay his debts again, we let him return. It was not our fault that he ruined himself and others – it was his decision to keep gambling, and to lie to the goldsmiths about why he wanted loans.’

‘We lost money in the end, too,’ added Doe. He limped to the table, hand to his side, and poured himself some wine. ‘He gave us a house to pay off one debt, but it was a place he had already sold to someone else. He cheated us.’

There was a rattle of footsteps on the stairs, and Jacob appeared. ‘I saw all your guests safely away from Cheapside, like you ordered,’ he reported. ‘Except Misick, who wanted to stop at the music shop and leave more medicine for Lettice Shaw. But he was too late – she is dead.’

‘And?’ asked Baron, unmoved by the news, although Chaloner was sorry.

‘Word is that the turmoil in the rest of the city has been quelled, but I suspect it is because all the troublemakers and malcontents have come here. They heard rumours that we are on the verge of a riot, see, and want to join in. I was told this by the several strangers who I stopped.’

‘Who started these tales?’ demanded Baron angrily.

‘A man who kept his face hidden by a scarf,’ replied Jacob wryly, ‘which describes half the population of London at the moment. Regardless, his lying tongue has brought a lot of undesirables into our domain, and there are too many for the trainband to oust.’

Baron’s expression was dark. ‘What do they want? To loot our shops and businesses?’

‘Some do. Others are here to support us in defying the government’s unfair plague measures. But most came to protest against the bankers.’

‘Taylor,’ spat Baron. ‘
He
is the problem. People accused Wheler of being greedy, but he was a saint compared to Taylor. The other financiers profess to abhor his methods, but they will adopt them now they have seen how well they work, which will bring Cheapside even more bother.’

‘There is bad feeling over
The Court & Kitchin
as well,’ added Jacob, ‘because of a rumour that its author has been murdered.’

‘Then we had better go and sort it out,’ said Baron tersely. ‘With God and the trainband’s help.’

‘Shall we kill Chaloner before we start?’ asked Doe, starting forward eagerly.

‘No,’ said Swaddell sharply. ‘Unless you want the Lord Chancellor prying into our affairs.’

Doe backed off, although Chaloner doubted the Earl would give them much cause for concern. When he failed to report, his employer would simply assume he had either died of plague or had disappeared to avoid paying Hannah’s debts.

‘What shall we do with him then?’ asked Baron, regarding Chaloner coolly. ‘I do not want him working for me now.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Swaddell, with a smile that made Chaloner’s blood run cold. ‘But first, we had better go outside to see what is happening for ourselves.’

The moment the door had closed behind his captors, Chaloner embarked on a frantic search of the cellar, but he discovered nothing he had not seen on his last visit. He was in an underground chamber with stone walls, no windows and a door that had been secured from the outside with a bar. He was trapped until Swaddell decided that it was time for him to die.

He was not hungry, but he ate some of Baron’s victuals anyway, partly for something to do, but also because keeping up his strength seemed like a good idea. Perhaps he would overpower or outwit Swaddell. Unfortunately, he knew he was deluding himself: the assassin was no novice at sly murder, and Chaloner held no great hope of seeing another dawn. Indeed, perhaps
Swaddell
was the killer he had been hunting for the last week – after all, Wheler’s death had allowed the assassin to make a profitable arrangement with Baron, while the other victims might have been sacrificed to ensure it could continue.

After he had eaten his fill, Chaloner sat on the bench, closed his eyes and cleared his mind of everything except his investigations. He started at the beginning, and reviewed all he had learned, painstakingly discarding hearsay and distilling fact from fiction. It was the first opportunity he had had for such an exercise, and gradually the glimmer of a solution began to appear.

Not long afterwards, there were footsteps and the door was unbarred. Baron strode in and went straight to the table for wine. Doe hobbled after him, although Poachin held back, and Chaloner sensed there had been a further falling out. Jacob was a silent presence at Doe’s side, while Swaddell lurked behind them all, like a spider. For one crazed moment, Chaloner considered launching himself at the assassin. It would certainly mean his own death, but he was doomed anyway, and there was something very appealing about taking Swaddell with him to the grave.

Then he reconsidered. The sight of Swaddell had aroused in him a burning desire not to be the next victim. He wanted to survive, to thwart whatever was happening, so that Swaddell would not emerge victorious. But how? He glanced at Doe’s battered face, then at Poachin. Again, he wondered how to aggravate the dissent between the two, and encourage one to his side.

‘All is not well in your domain, Baron,’ he said, beginning by testing the first conclusion he had drawn from his analysis. ‘Someone has been betraying you.’

Baron’s lack of surprise told him that this was not news. The felon said nothing, and poured himself another drink, which Chaloner took as permission to continue. Perhaps Baron wanted what he already knew to be repeated by an independent source. Chaloner did not look at the two captains, but was acutely aware that both were as taut as bowstrings.

‘Oxley and his family did not die of the pestilence,’ he went on. ‘I saw Emma’s body. It was white, and free from plague tokens. It means she was murdered and—’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Poachin impatiently. ‘Not every victim of the disease is afflicted with buboes. Ask any
medicus
.’

‘I shall,’ said Baron, regarding him coolly.

‘Perhaps
I
should look at the bodies,’ said Doe. He had his hand to his side again, and was obviously in pain. ‘I wonder what I would find.’

‘Stay away from the plague pits, Doe,’ said Poachin warningly. ‘I do not care if you die, but I do not want you bringing the disease back to us.’

‘Yet Chaloner poses an interesting question,’ said Baron softly. ‘Misick claims he saw buboes, but can he be trusted? He loves cards but has no money – he is so deeply in debt to Joan that he is obliged to jump every time she barks. So how could he afford to visit our tables tonight? Could it be that someone
bribed
him – a verdict of plague in exchange for a hand of primero?’

‘Well, do not look at me,’ said Poachin angrily. ‘
I
know nothing about it.’ He stabbed an accusing finger at Chaloner. ‘And do not listen to him either. He has a cunning tongue, and is trying to sow the seeds of suspicion, so we will turn against each other. Do not let him—’

‘See how the rat scampers when it is trapped,’ interrupted Doe, arms folded and a gloating expression on his face. He glanced at Baron. ‘I told you he was betraying us.’

‘It is you who is the traitor,’ snarled Poachin, although there was unease in his eyes, and he edged towards the door. ‘Do not listen to these lies, Baron. We have been friends for years, and you
know
I am loyal. We grew up together…’

‘We did,’ conceded Baron. ‘But that was years ago. We are different people now.’

‘
You
certainly are,’ snarled Poachin, finally abandoning his attempts to convince. ‘You have changed since Wheler died, and not for the better. Your wife thinks the same. She—’

With a roar of rage, Baron leapt at him, but Poachin had anticipated an attack and was ready. He raced for the door, slamming it so hard that the latch jammed. By the time Baron had wrenched it free, his captain was gone. Meanwhile, Chaloner had charged towards Jacob, aiming to have the cutlass, but the ex-footman darted behind a table, giving himself time to haul out the weapon. As Chaloner could not fight him empty-handed, he was forced to retreat.

‘See?’ Doe asked Baron, all smug satisfaction. ‘I told you Poachin was no good.’

The felon glowered and the younger man had the sense to wipe the grin from his face. ‘After him,’ Baron ordered curtly. ‘And bring him back. Alive. You go too, Jacob.’

‘Do not worry about Chaloner,’ said Swaddell, when Doe hesitated. He drew a pistol from his belt. ‘He will not do anything reckless.’

There was silence in the cellar after Doe and Jacob had gone. Baron took a deep breath, and Chaloner wondered if he knew that Doe would ignore the last part of his order, and that Poachin would soon join the growing body count. He glanced at the door. Could he reach it before Swaddell shot him? A glance at the assassin’s watchful eyes told him he could not. And even if the weapon flashed in the pan, Chaloner would have to pass Baron, and there were trainband men in the corridor outside. He would not escape by running.

Absently, he wondered what was happening on the street above. How many Londoners were doing battle over their grievances? And was Randal’s deadly sequel even now being hawked around the local taverns and coffee houses? Although Chaloner doubted he could have done much to stop it, it was nevertheless frustrating to be locked up while the city turned on itself.

‘Did you kill Wheler?’ Chaloner did not know why he bothered to ask. Baron had not confessed when he had raised the matter before, so was unlikely to do it now.

But Baron surprised him. ‘I did not,’ he said firmly. ‘I would have preferred him alive for a little longer. I never wanted to be King of Cheapside, and had made the decision to retire once he had died of lung-rot, leaving Poachin or Doe to succeed me.’

Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘Then why did you move so fast to take control?’

‘To protect what he and I had built – I did not want it to collapse just because Joan did not know what she was doing. When the current trouble is over, Doe can have my crown, because Poachin is right: I
have
changed since I took over, and Frances does
not
like what I have become. I have learned the hard way that power corrupts.’