The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  He continued in this vein for several minutes, then turned and strode away without giving the Shaws a chance to respond, humming happily to himself.

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner, watching him go. ‘Is he in his right wits?’

  ‘He loves money more than life,’ said Shaw, then glared at his wife. ‘I was looking forward to singing tomorrow. Why did you let him bully you into accepting his invitation?’

  Lettice sighed. ‘We cannot offend a powerful man – especially one who is friends with Joan. We do rent our shop from her, after all.’

  When the bankers had gone, Shaw took control of the situation, albeit reluctantly. A messenger was sent to notify the authorities, Coo was carried inside his house, the laundress was paid to scour his blood from the step, and the remaining gawpers were dismissed with a few pithy words.

  ‘Could Taylor be right?’ asked Chaloner, feeling he had a right to linger, given that he had almost shared the physician’s fate. ‘Coo was shot on Baron’s orders?’

  Shaw shook his head slowly. ‘Baron might be a ruthless criminal with a powerful trainband at his disposal, but he would never kill a popular fellow like Coo – the culprit will earn the undying enmity of all Cheapside, and he is too canny to incur that sort of dislike. Unless Coo refused to pay the Protection Tax, of course. Then Baron might strike.’

  ‘The Protection Tax is what we on Cheapside pay to ensure we are not burgled, burned down or vandalised,’ explained Lettice in response to Chaloner’s questioning look. ‘It is extortion, of course, given that Mr Baron’s men will be doing the burgling, burning and vandalising.’ She turned to her husband. ‘But Dr Coo was exempt, Robin – his reward for tending the trainband.’

  Shaw shrugged. ‘Well, even if Baron was rash enough to kill Coo, no one will ever prove it. He kept Wheler’s nasty operation – his nasty operation now – running smoothly for years, and he knows how to hide his tracks. He will never be charged with a crime.’

  He would, if the Earl had his way, thought Chaloner. ‘You say Wheler’s operation is now Baron’s, but how did Baron win control? Or does he work for Joan?’

  ‘When Wheler died, she inherited everything,’ explained Shaw. ‘But Baron seized the illegal side of the venture – the brothels, gambling dens and Protection Tax – before she could stop him. She was livid, but what could she do? She can hardly take him to court, given that the concerns she wanted to reclaim are criminal.’

  ‘It was probably his antics that encouraged her to marry Randal,’ added Lettice. ‘No one will steal from her now she is under Mr Taylor’s wing.’

  ‘So who killed Wheler?’ asked Chaloner, ever hopeful for an easy solution. ‘Baron?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Lettice. ‘Unfortunately, there are lots of rumours but no evidence to support any of them. No one actually saw him stabbed.’

  ‘When the body was found the next morning,’ Shaw continued, ‘it had been stripped completely naked. That suggests to me that it was the work of opportunistic thieves.’

  ‘Not an unhappy client?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Or a colleague? Or even a wife who wanted to inherit his business?’

  ‘All are possible,’ shrugged Shaw. ‘But as Lettice said, there is no proof.’

  ‘The affair has caused much discord on Cheapside, though,’ sighed Lettice. ‘Everyone is using it to accuse everyone else – paupers blaming bankers, bankers suspecting their clients … I suppose that is what happens when a man so universally hated is dispatched.’

  ‘Wheler led the way in setting very high interest rates,’ explained Shaw. ‘Along with ruthless methods of collecting – an example that is now being followed by Taylor. I deplore such tactics, personally. It would never have happened in my day. Then, bankers were gentlemen.’

  Chaloner could only suppose that had been a very long time ago. ‘Do you think Wheler was killed by the same people who shot Coo?’ He glanced to where the laundress was still scrubbing stains from the step. ‘Or are there two murderers on Cheapside?’

  Lettice chuckled. ‘I suspect there are rather more than two! Mr Baron does not recruit angels for his trainband.’

  ‘The two deaths are not connected,’ said Shaw irritably, while Chaloner wondered why such a morose fellow had wed a woman who could not stop laughing. ‘How could they be? A much-loved physician and an unpopular banker? One shot, the other stabbed? One killed in an alley, the other on his doorstep? One now, the other two months ago?’

  He had a point. ‘Plague,’ said Chaloner, thinking that as Coo was now unavailable for questioning, he would have to quiz others instead. ‘Have you heard that an infected man named Georges DuPont became ill in Long Acre, but came to Cheapside to die?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Shaw. ‘But there have been no other cases, thank God. It was a selfish thing to have done, and I cannot imagine what he was thinking.’

  Chaloner asked more questions, but although Shaw and Lettice were willing to talk, they knew little of value. Then the parish constable arrived, and it immediately became apparent that the fellow was more interested in returning to the beer he had abandoned than gathering information – he would not be investigating the physician’s death.

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said Shaw, when he and Chaloner were standing out on the road together; Lettice was helping the laundress lay Coo out. ‘He probably thinks Baron is the culprit, and dares not rile him.’

  ‘Why are you no longer a banker?’ asked Chaloner, somewhat out of the blue.

  Shaw’s expression was far from pleasant. ‘Tulips.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘They fetched extraordinarily high prices a few years ago, and I, like many others, traded in them. But it was a bubble – a speculative plan that collapsed. At its height, a single bulb was worth twelve acres of land. I might have weathered the storm had we bankers stuck together, but it was every man for himself. Yet losing all was a blessing in disguise.’

  ‘It was?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

  Shaw smiled, the first genuine one Chaloner had seen him give. ‘Selling music to the Court is a far more rewarding existence than banking could ever be. It is not just the war and this terrible scramble to raise money for the King, but there was the Colburn Crisis.’

  ‘My wife mentioned him. He gambled, and lost thousands of borrowed pounds.’

  Shaw winced. ‘I would have lent him money, had I been a goldsmith. He was a respectable vintner, who offered houses and land as collateral. Unfortunately, he had already lost these at cards, so bankers who expected a field or a cottage when he defaulted found themselves with nothing. Several have been ruined.’

  ‘Were Backwell and Taylor badly affected?’

  ‘Yes, but they are wealthy enough to weather the crisis. However, Percival Angier committed suicide, while John Johnson went mad. My heart goes out to their families.’

  Chaloner spent the rest of the evening talking to Cheapside residents about Wheler, Baron, Coo and DuPont, but learned nothing he did not already know. Wheler had been greedy, vicious and unpopular, and most people seemed glad he was no longer alive. By contrast, no one had a bad word to say about Coo, who was loved for his kindness and generosity.

  When the daylight had faded, and he was sure of not being seen, Chaloner walked to the New Coffee House on Gracious Street, which he knew to be a favourite haunt of Spymaster Williamson. It was not that he was keen to seek out such disagreeable company, but he needed to know more about DuPont if he was to discover what had possessed the dying Frenchman to wander across half the city. A conversation with Williamson might save him some time.

  The New Coffee House was a small but elegant establishment that attracted clerics and the wealthier kind of merchant – the sort of men who, unlike Chaloner, did not mind being seen hobnobbing with a person whose remit was to spy on the general populace. Its decor was discreetly affluent, and although it still reeked of pipe smoke and burned beans, there was also an underlying aroma of furniture polish and the lavender that had been
set in bowls on the window sills.

  Chaloner walked in, appreciating its cosy warmth after the chill of a spring evening, and saw he was in luck: Joseph Williamson, Under Secretary of State and the current Spymaster General, was lounging by the fire. Williamson was a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding to dabble in politics. He was smooth, ruthless and devious, and while he and Chaloner had been forced to work together in the past, it was an uneasy alliance, and neither trusted the other.

  Williamson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when Chaloner sat next to him. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you were chasing insurgents in Hull. Or, if Buckingham is to be believed, fomenting rebellion with your kin in Guisborough.’

  ‘Then Buckingham is mistaken. My family are peaceful folk.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but they are bitter over losing their alum mines, according to the Duke,’ Williamson went on. ‘Especially now that it is in such great demand for plague remedies. But do not worry about him – he needs to travel north himself soon, to pay off his debts by selling some land, and will soon forget that he is irked with you.’

  Chaloner regarded him sombrely. ‘Do you think the plague will come?’

  Williamson grimaced. ‘It is already here – a dozen cases in St Giles. Unfortunately, there have been rumours about an outbreak for so long now that the terror has worn off, and the foolish think we have escaped. But I sense it is just biding its time.’

  Chaloner shuddered and changed the direction of the discussion. ‘What do you know about Georges DuPont, the French spy who was diagnosed with the disease in Long Acre, but who went to die in Bearbinder Lane?’

  Williamson regarded him in alarm. ‘What French spy?’

  ‘He offered to supply intelligence on the Dutch, apparently.’ Chaloner was careful to conceal the Earl’s involvement – Williamson would not appreciate meddling in his domain.

  ‘Well, he was not one of mine, although all manner of worms are emerging from the woodwork these days, hoping to earn a quick profit by selling information. Few know much of value. However, I am rather more concerned about people wandering around with the plague. Did the fellow set out to spread the contagion deliberately?’

  ‘I do not know, although a physician named Coo assured me that no new cases have arisen from the episode. Or he was assuring me, before he was shot and killed.’

  Williamson eyed him balefully. ‘You do lead an exciting life, Chaloner. You cannot have been home many days, yet you are already embroiled with spies, plague and murder.’

  ‘Hours, not days,’ said Chaloner ruefully.

  ‘Coo was a popular man on Cheapside, and people will want vengeance. May I assume that you plan to look into his death, given that he seems to be connected to your DuPont?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Chaloner half wished he was back under a hedge in Yorkshire. It had been uncomfortable, but at least his mission had been straightforward.

  ‘Good. The Dutch war has left me very short of operatives, and I do not have a man to spare. Find out who killed Coo and what this DuPont was doing, then report to me.’

  ‘My Earl will not—’

  ‘Your Earl will be delighted with an opportunity to serve his country, and will not demur when I inform him that you are working in both our interests.’

  Chaloner stood to leave. The visit had been a waste of time: DuPont was not known to Williamson, and he had learned nothing to further his enquiries. Worse, he now had the Spymaster expecting answers from him. He sincerely hoped the Earl would not object to Williamson being briefed, too, as he had no desire to be caught in the middle of two such powerful men.

  It was late by the time Chaloner left the coffee house, and although he knew he should tackle Baron, it had been a long day and he was not in the mood. He started to walk home, but then thought of something he would far rather do – visit John Thurloe in Lincoln’s Inn. Feeling his flagging spirits revive at the prospect of seeing an old friend, he set off at a jaunty clip, and was just passing the Poultry Market when a coach drew up beside him.

  It was the aspiration of every ambitious Londoner to own a private carriage – an expensive commodity that required not only purchasing the vehicle itself, but also horses, stabling and staff to care for them. This one was new and shiny, and its horses had been chosen for their matching colours. There was a coat of arms on its side, but not one Chaloner recognised, although he was relieved to note that it did not belong to Buckingham. He peered at it in the light from a nearby tavern, then recoiled in astonishment when he saw what the bear rampant was doing to the hart.

  ‘It is a joke, Tom,’ said Temperance North, pulling aside the carriage’s curtain to laugh at his shock. ‘Do you not think it amusing?’

  Chaloner supposed it did have a certain style, although he suspected there would be some who would take offence at such ribaldry. Cromwell’s Puritans might no longer be in power, but that did not mean they had gone away.

  He had met Temperance three years earlier, when she had been a shy teenager. Her parents had died not long after, and she had startled everyone by using her inheritance to establish an exclusive brothel – although she preferred the term gentlemen’s club – which had made her very wealthy. Dining on expensive delicacies with her patrons had taken its toll on her figure, and she was now a very large young woman, something her costly clothes failed to conceal. She was losing her teeth, too, presumably from all the sweetmeats that were readily available.

  ‘Do you like my coach?’ she asked, waving a plump hand at it with undisguised pride.

  ‘Very nice,’ replied Chaloner, dutifully admiring the smart black paint with the gold trim. The driver wore a scarlet uniform, as did the footmen who stood on the back. One jumped off to open the door, revealing one of the most luxuriously appointed interiors Chaloner had ever seen, all plush satin and lacy curtains. Its opulence told him that the club was continuing to make Temperance richer and richer.

  ‘Now that you are home, I need you to talk to Richard,’ she said as he climbed in, referring to Richard Wiseman, her lover, who held the post of Surgeon to the King.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked coolly, hurt that she had only waylaid him to beg a favour.

  ‘You must talk to him about the plague.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I am sure he knows a lot more about it than I do.’

  She glared at him. ‘I do not want you to teach him about it. I want you to convince him not to risk himself by entering infected houses should it come. And you must also make him promise not to invent a cure.’

  ‘I suspect that might be beyond even his lofty abilities,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘There is no cure for the plague.’

  Temperance’s expression was wry. ‘But there is money to be made in selling palliatives. However, as a man of integrity, Richard will want his to be effective, and I am afraid he will take it to a victim to see whether it works.’

  ‘I should hope so! How else will he know if it is worth the money?’

  ‘That is not the point, Thomas,’ said Temperance irritably. ‘I do not want him to die.’

  She pulled out her pipe and began to puff furiously, filling the coach with fumes. They were still stationary, and with no breeze to dissipate the fug, the air soon turned poisonous. Chaloner started to open a window, but she stopped him.

  ‘Tobacco is the best way to prevent infection. In fact, it is the only way to stay healthy.’

  ‘Did Wiseman tell you that?’

  ‘No, it is common knowledge. Richard has some lunatic notion that the plague is caused by worms, creatures so small that they cannot be seen by the naked eye.’

  ‘I was just speaking to a physician who thought the same. Abner Coo.’

  ‘Yes – he, Richard and a colleague called Dr Misick have devised this wild theory between them, although every other sensible person knows that a miasma is to blame.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Coo?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Several times. A nicer man is difficult to im
agine.’

  ‘So everyone says, but he has just been shot.’

  Temperance listened in horror as Chaloner recounted what had happened. ‘Richard will be upset when he hears. He likes Coo. I must send him a message at once.’

  She snapped her fingers, and one of the footmen instantly appeared to do her bidding. She gave him a brief report, then dispatched him to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, after which she felt the dent in Chaloner’s hat. ‘And it was definitely Coo who was the target? Not you?’

  Chaloner regarded her balefully, wishing she held him in higher regard. ‘I have not been home long enough to warrant those sorts of attentions. It was certainly him they meant to kill.’

  ‘Ask Richard or Dr Misick about him. They knew him better than I. Especially Misick. He is physician to the bankers, and can usually be found in and around Goldsmiths’ Row. Where are you going, by the way? Now I have my own coach, I can take you there.’

  ‘Chancery Lane,’ replied Chaloner. ‘To see John Thurloe.’

  As it transpired, Chaloner would have made better time on foot, because London was in the grip of one of its ‘stops’ – traffic was often heavy on Cheapside, even late into the evening. A vehicle had broken a wheel by the Little Conduit, and coaches, hackney carriages and wagons were jammed nose to tail, none going anywhere until it was removed.

  Chaloner begrudged the wasted time, although Temperance was content to lounge in smoky luxury, chatting about the club. Her patrons gossiped, especially when they were in their cups, and as some were members of government, the Church, various national committees and the Privy Council, they were party to a good deal of sensitive information. Thus Chaloner learned that the war was predicted to cost a good deal more than the two million pounds that had originally been anticipated, and that this, along with the reckless excesses of Colburn the gambler, had put the city’s bankers in a tight spot.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Robin Shaw mentioned it earlier.’