The Cheapside Corpse (50 page)

Wiseman gave a terse account of what had happened, while Chaloner struggled to think. Where was Shaw now? Among the masked rioters, watching the mischief he had caused?

‘I always thought his music shop was an odd concern,’ said Baron. ‘His customers were courtiers who seldom pay their bills, and I never did understand how he made enough to survive.’

‘He brought Colburn to the Feathers, even when the man bleated that he had no more money,’ added Poachin, while Chaloner thought about Hannah’s flageolet. Perhaps he should have been suspicious sooner of a creditor who let forty pounds remain outstanding for so long. ‘He kept promising that his luck would change with the next hand. It never did, of course, and when Colburn was finally ruined, I had the sense that he was pleased.’

‘And now we know why,’ said Wiseman. ‘So his debts would destroy the bankers.’

‘Plague,’ said Baron tersely. ‘
That
is the terrible thing Shaw has planned for today – his ultimate revenge on the whole city.’

‘And he might do it,’ said Wiseman, ‘if Taylor’s box really does contain infected cloth.’

‘Get this fire under control,’ Baron ordered Poachin. ‘I will look for Taylor.’

‘Go to the Standard,’ suggested Poachin. ‘He was there not long ago.’

Baron began to run, moving with surprising speed for a man his size, Chaloner trotting next to him and Wiseman ploughing along behind.

They reached Cheapside to find it full of howling rioters. Some were attacking the wealthier mansions, while others clustered around the plague houses, and there was a great cheer when a man arrived with a bucket of whitewash and painted over the red cross on Widow Porteous’s door. When it was done, he marched on to the next one.

‘Where are the watchers?’ cried Wiseman, horrified.

‘Fled for their lives,’ replied Baron. ‘Although the plague is not in most of the houses the authorities have shut up, so there is no real danger—’

‘There
is
danger!’ yelled Wiseman. He jabbed a finger at Widow Porteous, who was at her window calling down to the crowd. ‘Look at her! You can see she has a fever from here.’

‘There are fevers other than plague—’

‘Would you let her touch Frances or your children?’ demanded Wiseman. ‘No? Then I suggest you keep her in her house, where she belongs.’

They stood face to glowering face, and for a moment Chaloner thought Baron would refuse. Then the felon nodded assent, and turned to Chaloner.

‘Find Shaw before he causes any more mischief.’ He whipped around to Wiseman. ‘And you must stop Taylor. I will try to contain matters here.’

Chaloner reached the music shop to find that the cross had been daubed out, but the windows and door were still nailed shut. He hurried to the back, and was not surprised to find the rear gate unlocked. Damp footprints on the step indicated that it had been used recently.

He entered with every nerve in his body taut with tension. The shop was deserted, but then he heard someone talking in the cellar. He aimed for the stairs. There was a light at the bottom, but it was feeble, and the glow it cast did not allow him to see much. However, it did show that work had continued apace since he had last been there. The cellar floor had been raised by another ten feet, and comprised an evil, reeking soup of molten mud. It almost reached the scaffolding, which now formed a narrow walkway running around all four sides of the room. Above it all hung the massive leather bucket, mostly full and almost ready to be poured.

Taylor was squatting near the base of the steps. His nightgown was filthy, and there was blood on his sleeves. His handsome face was flushed and his eyes were too bright, while his hair was a wild mat that stood up in all directions. He was muttering to his box in an unsettled, agitated way, fiddling with the hinge. Chaloner swallowed hard. Had he already opened the thing, and touched its filthy contents? Was that why he was feverish?

‘You should not be here.’ Chaloner whipped around to see Lettice on the stairs above him. She held a gun. ‘There is plague in this poor, benighted house.’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘I saw your body tossed on the cart…’ But all he had seen was a corpse wrapped in a blanket and a cold white hand. Understanding dawned. ‘It was Oxley’s daughter. She was supposed to have run away…’

Lettice giggled. ‘She served a higher purpose.’

‘So you killed the whole family, then told Misick to say there were buboes on Emma so the house could be shut up.’ Chaloner looked for Shaw. It was too dark to see, but he could sense the man’s presence. ‘Oxley never demanded lots of ale, and nor did you send it to him – he was dead the whole time. And he was telling the truth when he claimed that Emma was suffering from the after-effects of too much ale—’

‘If they had been better neighbours, we might have let them live. Stand still, Mr Chaloner. I
will
shoot you if you move.’

Chaloner had stepped towards Taylor. ‘I need to take his box away. You must know what the plague—’

‘I do – better than most,’ interrupted Lettice bitterly. ‘My daughter died of it, if you recall.’

‘Then you will not want it inflicted on anyone else.’

‘Oh, but I do!’ Her voice was hard, and the hand holding the gun was rock steady. ‘Our fellow goldsmiths could have saved us from the Tulip Bubble, but they did nothing. Well, now
they
will know what it is like to lose everything. And
their
children will die of that vile disease.’

‘But so will others who are not bankers—’

‘I do not care! Let the plague take this whole, filthy city.’

Chaloner scanned the darkness desperately. Where was Shaw? Did he have a gun, too? And how good a shot was Lettice? Would she hit him if he made a dive for Taylor’s box?

‘You have been clever,’ he said, wondering if he could distract her with words. ‘You have created unease and ill-feeling with rumours—’

‘We
created
nothing. We merely exacerbated what was already there. People were angry with the bankers and the plague measures anyway.’

‘And you used Joan. Through her, you controlled Misick, Oxley, Farrow and Doe.’

‘Not Mr Doe. He acted for his own interests, although we might have given him the occasional prod. Robin appeared to him tonight, for example, in a hooded cloak.’

‘But there is no powerful sponsor. That was a lie, to convince Joan to do your bidding. Who did you claim? A member of the Privy Council? Another banker?’

Lettice giggled. ‘Spymaster Williamson, who is the kind of fellow to initiate clandestine plots. Robin told her that he would ensure she had everything she had ever wanted if she followed our instructions. She is a clever lady, but too greedy, twisted and ambitious to be wise. As if Williamson would work through the likes of us!’

Chaloner listed all they had done. ‘You fomented trouble over
The Court & Kitchin
and organised a sequel; encouraged your “good friend” Colburn to run up huge debts; started rumours about the integrity of the bankers that made depositors demand their money back—’

‘All so easy.’ Lettice adjusted her hat, the one with the feathers that the Court milliner had made, and something else snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind.

‘The tale that something would happen on Tuesday came from Howard,’ he said. ‘And who was his last customer? You!’

‘I might have let something slip when he handed me his final creation. It has served to heighten tension, and these things are often self-fulfilling.’

Chaloner started to edge towards Taylor again, but stopped when someone materialised at Lettice’s side. It was Shaw, holding a pitchfork with wickedly sharp tines. The couple exchanged a glance, and Chaloner sensed their excitement as the plot marched towards its climax.

‘It is time for Mr Taylor to walk along Cheapside again,’ said Lettice. ‘He will open his box to—’

‘No!’ begged Chaloner. ‘You cannot—’

‘And when the bankers are dead or ruined, we shall rise from the ashes,’ finished Shaw. ‘We shall begin to reclaim our fortune with the Chaloner alum mines.’

‘
Our
alum mines now,’ corrected Lettice, smiling triumphantly at the spy. ‘Mr Howard forged a will in your name before the plague took him, one that leaves your interest in them to us, in lieu of Hannah’s debt.’

‘Then you will remain destitute,’ warned Chaloner, ‘because I do not—’

‘Do not lie,’ said Shaw coldly. ‘We had the truth from Hannah and your uncle, and we believe them over you.’

‘The soul of London!’ sang Taylor suddenly, lurching to his feet. ‘Pretty, bright things.’

‘Open the box!’ called Lettice, her voice full of malice. ‘Bring out your worms, and give some to Mr Chaloner. Do you remember him? His wife owes you a fortune, but he aims to cheat you of it.’

Taylor walked towards Chaloner, who tried to back away, but Lettice made a sharp sound with her tongue, warning him to stay put. The mad banker came closer, and Chaloner watched in horror as he began to lift the lid. He flinched as the goldsmith held it out for him to see.

‘Pretty, bright things,’ Taylor chanted again. ‘The soul of London.’

The box contained nothing but treasure.

Chaloner stared into Taylor’s box, while Lettice’s mocking laughter echoed around him. There was Bab May’s hatpin, Brodrick’s watch, Chiffinch’s scent bottle, Carteret’s buttons and Hannah’s pearls. He rubbed his head tiredly. Of course it contained jewels – Joan had been angry with Misick for letting Taylor wander off before she had had the chance to raid it. He tore his eyes away from the gaudy glitter and glanced upwards.

‘There is no plague in it,’ said Shaw scornfully. ‘How could there be? The theory about worms is a nonsense – it is carried in a miasma. But Taylor
will
take the disease into the city today – on his person.’

‘But he may not have it. You should know – it was you who encouraged Misick to dose him with a deadly mixture of medicines. That is what ails him, not the pestilence.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lettice. ‘But you are beginning to annoy me. It is time to end this pointless chatter and be about our real business.’

She took aim and fired, but the gun flashed in the pan, causing her to jerk back with a squeak of surprise. Chaloner lunged at Shaw, aiming to grab the pitchfork, but Shaw stabbed so hard that the spy almost toppled backwards into the pit. Chaloner thought fast. Hoping Lettice did not have a second dag, he wrenched the box from Taylor’s hands, opened it up and seized a handful of buttons.

He lobbed them into the mud. They lay on the surface for a moment, then sank. Taylor gave a wail of distress. The Genovese watch went next.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Lettice in horror. ‘Stop!’

‘Then come and get them,’ taunted Chaloner, holding Bab May’s hatpin aloft so that they all could see it, then letting it drop. He dipped into the chest again and pulled out a crystal salt cellar. Was it the one Starkey had left as a pledge? Regardless, into the muck it went.

Taylor released a great bellow of dismay and leapt into the pit after it, sending up a fountain of thick brown sludge. He vanished beneath the surface and did not reappear. Chaloner gaped in disbelief, imagining the terrified struggle that would be taking place beneath. He had not intended that to happen!

‘Enough!’ roared Shaw, running down the steps and raising the pitchfork threateningly. ‘I will kill you if you do it again.’

Defiantly, Chaloner tossed a cameo of Good Queen Bess over his shoulder, although he could not bring himself to do the same with Hannah’s pearls – those went in his pocket. Shaw howled his anger, and aimed a wild jab that came nowhere near its intended target, while Lettice hurried down the steps after her husband and knelt on the walkway. The salt cellar lay tantalisingly close, and stretching out, the tips of her fingers could just brush it.

But it was a fraction too far. She lost her balance and toppled in. The mortar was thicker around the edges than the middle, so she sank more slowly than Taylor had done.

With a howl of rage, Shaw raced towards Chaloner, jabbing furiously with the tines. Chaloner backed around the scaffolding and in desperation tossed the box and all its remaining jewels into the pit, hoping Shaw would abandon him in the hope of salvaging something. But Shaw came at him again and again, driving him back, step by step.

‘Stop!’ Chaloner shouted. ‘Save Lettice!’

His foot slipped on mud that had slopped up when Taylor had jumped, and he only just avoided the savage lunge aimed at his chest. He scrambled upright, then struggled to retreat fast enough as Shaw surged after him again.

‘Lettice is drowning,’ he yelled. ‘She will…’

He faltered when he realised that Shaw had been driving him on for a reason – to reach the lever that would release the next batch of mortar. He made a spectacular leap that saw him just clear when it gushed out, narrowly avoiding being washed off the walkway and driven to the bottom of the pit.

Furious that his plan had failed, Shaw resumed his advance. Chaloner turned to run – they had travelled three sides of the cellar and one more would see him at the stairs again. He reached the steps but had no more than set his foot on the first when a hand fastened around his ankle. It was Lettice, using him to pull herself upwards. Shaw jabbed with the pitchfork at the same time, and Chaloner fell.

Seeing his quarry trapped, Shaw lifted the deadly tines. Chaloner twisted away, and the pitchfork bit into the wood so deeply that Shaw could not tug it free. Cursing vilely, he heaved with all his might. As it came loose, Chaloner punched his knee.

Shaw toppled into the sludge. He tried to spread his weight, but he had landed badly – his legs were already caught and he began to sink fast. He clawed frantically, but to no avail.

Chaloner had problems of his own. No matter how hard he fought, Lettice would not let go of his foot. He glanced behind him but could see nothing of her except an arm. Was he going to be towed to the bottom by a corpse? He flailed wildly for a handhold but his hands were foul with mud and he could not gain purchase.

‘You will die with us,’ came a weak voice.

Chaloner twisted around to see mud ooze up Shaw’s neck, then reach his mouth and nose, until only the top of his head remained. He recoiled at the hatred in the music-seller’s eyes before they finally slid from view.