The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘You again,’ she said coolly. ‘I hope you are not wasting your time with my first husband’s murder. It will never be solved, as I told you, and I would rather he was left in peace. Indeed, recalling that terrible night is distressing, so I shall not speak of it with you again.’

  ‘Quite right,’ nodded Evan. ‘If the Lord Chancellor wants to do something useful, tell him to pay his retainers’ debts. You, Neve, Kipps, Edgeman – you all owe us a fortune.’

  ‘My box,’ announced Taylor suddenly. ‘It contains all I need to defeat the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse – the ones in the Book of Revelation.’

  ‘Four Horsemen,’ corrected Chaloner, then staggered when Evan delivered a warning thump from behind. He whipped around fast, but thought better of hitting Evan back when he saw that one of the guards held a handgun, while the others fingered daggers and knives.

  Taylor seemed unaware of the hostility that crackled in the air around him. ‘The Bible miscounted,’ he declared. ‘There are three. I saw them when you were last here, Chaloner.’

  ‘You saw a snake with three heads, Father,’ Evan reminded him. ‘As did many folk.’

  Taylor scowled furiously. ‘How dare you contradict me! I saw the Three Horsemen: plague, death and war. There will be no famine, because we shall be able to eat the corpses of the—’

  ‘Chaloner has come to pay the money he owes,’ interrupted Joan briskly. ‘Where is the ledger? Or have you already calculated what you want from him?’

  Taylor grinned, an abrupt change of mood that caused Evan to shoot Joan a worried glance. The banker coughed, took a sip from a bottle labelled The Duchess of Kent’s Plague Water, then looked up, his dark eyes blazing acquisitively.

  ‘I want three pounds a week,’ he said, and suddenly he did not seem mad at all. ‘Ten shillings every day. Except Sunday, when I shall be in church. I shall take the first instalment now. Do you have it, or shall we visit your house to see what might suffice in lieu of specie?’

  Chaloner did have ten shillings, but parting with it would leave him virtually penniless, and he had just been told that he could not draw more pay until the Earl had his curtains. However, he was heavily outnumbered, and suspected they would have the money from him anyway, so he handed it over, deciding to keep his dignity intact. Taylor counted it greedily.

  ‘Thank you. Come again at the same time tomorrow.’

  Evan opened the door to indicate that the interview was at an end, and Chaloner was about to step through it when someone else arrived. It was Silas, the youngest of the Taylor sons. He was a bluff, hearty fellow with sandy hair and a ready smile. Unlike Evan, he had considerable presence, and had been a popular commander during the wars, although Chaloner had liked him mostly because he was a talented composer and music had been an important diversion during a time when so much else had been bleak and harrowing. Silas stopped dead in his tracks, then his face broke into a wide grin of delight.

  ‘Tom Chaloner! What are you doing here?’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Evan suspiciously.

  Silas flung a comradely arm around Chaloner’s shoulders. ‘We fought in several skirmishes together after our families enrolled us to fight for Cromwell.’ Then he pretended to look hangdog. ‘But I misspeak. No one admits these days that they hedged their bets during the wars by having a foot in both camps.’

  Chaloner’s clan had been Parliamentarian through and through, and there had been no hedging of bets with them, but he made no effort to say so. Evan grimaced his annoyance at his brother’s remarks, while Taylor frowned, almost as if he was trying to recall who Silas was.

  ‘We never—’ began Evan irritably, but Silas interrupted.

  ‘It is good to see you, Tom!’ He turned to his father. ‘He and I shared many a bold adventure. We were ambushed once near Newbury, and I was knocked senseless and tossed in a raging river. He risked his life to fish me out.’

  The ‘ambush’ had been a prank by a group of their friends, and Silas had been drunk. He had fallen in a brook, and Chaloner had indeed pulled him out, although the water had only been knee deep, and the only danger had been getting wet.

  ‘Then we owe you our gratitude,’ said Taylor, although Evan remained pointedly silent, and Chaloner sensed there was no love lost between the brothers. ‘Perhaps you will accept a biscuit as a reward. Joan bakes them for me every day, because they are my favourite.’

  Silas’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment to learn that his life was only worth a pastry, while Evan grinned tauntingly. Chaloner took a cake from the proffered plate, and recognised it as one from a cook-shop on Fleet Street. Joan shot him a threatening glare, an expression that was quickly masked when Silas looked at her. She simpered, and Chaloner saw she was smitten with his old friend.

  ‘Randal is a lucky man,’ Silas told her gallantly. ‘A wife who is pretty, intelligent and can cook.’ Joan inclined her head graciously, but Silas had turned back to Chaloner before she could respond further. ‘Do you still play the viol?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Yes, whenever I can.’

  ‘Excellent! I also dabble in music.’ He spoke modestly, because even the great Henry Lawes had praised Silas’s compositions. ‘And I am holding a soirée on Friday, so you must come. Are you married? Yes? Bring your wife. What does she play?’

  ‘She prefers to listen,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to admit to having a spouse who had stooped to learning the flageolet. And if that were not bad enough, she had not even paid for it.

  ‘Then you should not have wed her,’ said Silas, quite seriously. ‘Or do you have servants who can accommodate you by the parlour fire of an evening?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, although the cosy image reminded him of his very happy childhood in Buckinghamshire, where music had been an integral part of family life.

  ‘I suppose you have been forced to dismiss them because you are in debt to Taylor’s Bank,’ said Silas heavily. He had always been astute. ‘Well, I think—’

  ‘Stay out of it, Silas,’ warned Evan. ‘Go back to Harwich, and be thankful that I was willing to buy you a post that keeps you out of mischief.’

  Silas glanced at his father, who was talking to his box. He frowned, but Evan hastily stepped in front of the desk, shielding their sire from view. Silas threw up his hands in surrender, and turned to Joan instead.

  ‘I need a word with your husband, sister,’ he said, positively oozing charm. ‘He borrowed my lute a couple of months ago, and I want it back. I know he is hiding because of the trouble he caused with his silly pamphlet, but this is important. Where is he?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ replied Joan with a sultry smile. ‘But he refuses to confide. However, you might try the Green Dragon – it is one of his favourite haunts.’

  Chaloner listened with interest: he had seen Randal near that very tavern when Temperance had given him a lift along Cheapside.

  ‘Joan!’ hissed Evan angrily. ‘What are you—’

  ‘Silas is family,’ interrupted Joan crisply. ‘He has a right to speak to Randal if he likes.’

  ‘Chaloner is not, though,’ countered Evan. ‘He is a client, and has asked after Randal before. He could be a Parliamentarian sympathiser for all you know, itching to avenge himself on the man who maligned his Lady Protectress.’

  Joan regarded him coolly. ‘If he is, then I am sure my brave Randal can look after himself.’

  ‘The Green Dragon,’ mused Taylor, not taking his eyes off the box. ‘That big, flashy inn. I go there myself sometimes, but it is always full of debtors. I shall blow them all up one day.’

  ‘Blow them up?’ echoed Silas in bafflement. ‘I would not recommend that, Father. How will they pay what they owe you if they are dead?’

  Taylor’s reply was lost to Chaloner, because Evan had bundled him towards the door.

  ‘Bring ten shillings tomorrow,’ Evan said coldly. ‘Or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’ asked Chaloner loudly, aware that Silas was listening, and aimi
ng to make Evan back down. But Evan only sneered, first at Chaloner and then at his brother.

  ‘Or else we will break your neck. And do not think your friendship with Silas will save you.’

  ‘Steady on, Evan,’ objected Silas angrily. ‘Tom is one of my—’

  ‘Shut up, Silas,’ snarled Evan. ‘And do not come here again. We are too busy to bother with your damned lutes. Go back to Harwich and play with your ships.’

  ‘I need fifty pounds,’ said Silas, not moving. ‘To buy cannon for the Plymouth.’

  Evan opened his mouth to refuse, but Taylor made them both jump by speaking close behind them. ‘Get it for him, Evan. It is our patriotic duty to help the navy. Moreover, obliging with the occasional donation will make it more difficult for the King to request bigger sums.’

  It was a shrewd strategy, and left Chaloner more uncertain than ever about the enigma that was Rich Taylor.

  Chapter 6

  Once out in Goldsmiths’ Row, Chaloner waited for Silas to emerge, delighted by the prospect of renewing a friendship with a man he had liked and admired. True, they had not met since the wars had ended almost fourteen years ago, but Silas seemed much the same – jovial, energetic and fiercely devoted to his muse.

  Chaloner leaned against a wall and looked around. There were groups of clients outside each great banking house, all kept in line by liveried guards, although the gaggle that clustered around Taylor’s was different from the rest. His petitioners comprised folk who had the frightened, bewildered look of people for whom life had gone awry, whereas the other banks were beset by depositors demanding the return of their money.

  ‘Of course you may have it,’ one of Vyner’s clerks was assuring a particularly agitated customer. ‘But it is company policy not to release large sums all at once. Our city is rife with crime, and we are mindful of your safety – it is unwise to strut around loaded down with cash.’

  ‘You are the criminals,’ cried the saver, distressed. ‘You steal from those who trust you – I heard the tale in my coffee house this morning, so I want my money and I want it now!’

  ‘The tale is a lie,’ replied the clerk superiorly. ‘And you may have your capital whenever you wish, as long as you keep your withdrawals to within the limits set out in the agreement you signed. These rules are in place to protect you, as your interests are our prime concern.’

  Chaloner laughed at that notion, then turned to see that Silas had also been listening.

  ‘Vyner, Backwell and the others cannot return their depositors’ money,’ Silas explained softly, so that no one else would hear. ‘If they did, they would have nothing to give the King for the war. Thank God my father is excluded from the royal demand for “donations”.’

  ‘He is lucky, but it is a pity he does not share his good fortune with his clients.’ Chaloner pointed to the disconsolate rabble outside Taylor’s door. ‘His greed is ruining lives.’

  Silas grimaced. ‘I did suggest he show some mercy, but he said such silly sentimentality is why I was packed off to Harwich – a place where my radical views can do no harm.’

  ‘He is the fool, Silas,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘There is a rumour that his friend Wheler was killed by a disgruntled customer, and if your father continues in this vein, he might suffer a similar fate.’

  Silas indicated the liveried guards. ‘They will protect him – he pays them so generously that he has their complete and undying loyalty. The other bankers have followed his example and recruited reliable old soldiers of their own.’ He began to walk towards Cheapside. ‘Take no notice of Evan, by the way: he is all bark and no bite. My father should never have made him heir to the family business – he is not up to the mark.’

  ‘Who should it be then? You?’

  Silas grinned impishly. ‘Of course. It is only a matter of time before Father realises his first-born is no good, while he has already dismissed Randal as worthless. The day will come when he will beg me to step in and save the day.’

  ‘Unless Joan steps in first.’

  Silas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Yes, she could be a threat to my plans.’ Then he laughed boyishly. ‘But she adores me, so I shall offer her my person in exchange for a clear run at my goals. It will make a cuckold of Randal, but who cares?’

  ‘You had better not return to Harwich, then. Your father does not seem entirely well to me, and you might have to put your schemes into action sooner than you think.’

  ‘Oh, he is all right,’ declared Silas with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘He is probably just recovering from the shock of seeing that serpent in the sky.’

  ‘There was no serpent. I was with him when he claimed to have seen it, and it was a figment of his imagination. He also thought he saw a stoat in the New Exchange – eating sweetmeats.’

  Silas laughed again. ‘He was just enjoying himself at your expense. But where are you going now? Do you have time for an ale with an old friend?’

  ‘In the Feathers?’ asked Chaloner, aiming to further his investigations and enjoy Silas’s company at the same time.

  Silas blinked. ‘Really? It is terribly seedy.’

  He shrugged when Chaloner began to walk there, and fell into step at his side, chatting amiably about old times. They reached the Feathers, where Chaloner was surprised but pleased when they were ushered inside without being asked for an admission fee. They were also supplied with free ale, and this time Emma did not insist on selling her nasty pies. But best of all, when Silas winced at the racket the musicians were making, someone suggested that it was time they took a break, and blessed silence fell.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Oxley, all greasy servility when Chaloner asked if Baron was available. ‘He is not here at the moment, but you are welcome to wait until he returns, although we do not know when that might be. Is there anything I can fetch you in the meantime? More wine? Some French cheese? A clean whore?’

  ‘As I doubt all this fawning is for my benefit,’ said Chaloner to Silas when the henchman had gone, ‘I can only assume that it is you they aim to impress. Why? Because of your father?’

  Silas chuckled. ‘He would never set foot in a place like this. They pander to me because I play the occasional game of cards here, and I tip generously. I cannot abide Oxley, though. He loves money too much to be loyal to any master, and if I were Baron, I would get rid of him. But never mind that rogue. Why did you want to come here?’

  Chaloner saw no reason not to tell him about DuPont. Silas listened intently until he had finished, then flicked his fingers at the staff. They sidled over nervously, reminding Chaloner that while Silas might be bluff and amiable to his friends, he could be formidable to minions.

  ‘Ask your questions, Tom,’ he said, eyeing the rabble sternly. ‘They will be truthfully answered.’

  ‘Yes, DuPont was a regular here,’ said one, when Chaloner told them what he wanted to know. ‘But we never met any Everard, and we have no idea about onions or wells.’

  Chaloner pressed them further, but it soon became clear that while DuPont had spent a considerable amount of time in the Feathers, no one knew much about him. However, none seemed surprised to hear that he might have offered to sell information about the Dutch.

  ‘Spies,’ said the drummer in rank distaste. ‘I might have known a fellow like him would dabble in murk. It is a good thing he is dead, because you never know what side vermin like that are on – they profess to be friendly, but then they betray you.’

  ‘Well, there you are, Tom,’ said Silas, amused. ‘The real truth about intelligencers.’

  There was no more to be learned, so Chaloner led the way outside, blinking in the brightness of the day after the subterranean atmosphere of the tavern.

  ‘Now where?’ asked Silas amiably. ‘Or may I choose this time?’

  ‘Bearbinder Lane,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Where DuPont died.’

  ‘You cannot – it is closed with the plague. Come, walk with me and I will show you. A maid became ill last night, and the authori
ties have shut it off until the searcher has issued her verdict.’

  Searchers were poor and usually elderly women who were paid to look at the sick and dying, to determine what was wrong with them. They had no medical training, so their diagnoses tended to be hit-and-miss. Moreover, many were not averse to being bribed, so often gave false reports to spare a house from being shut up.

  Silas paused by the Great Conduit, his face a mask of disapproval. ‘My God! Look at those brats. They are Oxley’s spawn, and will hang unless he takes them in hand.’

  He pointed to a boy and a girl in their mid teens. The boy was flinging mud at passers-by, and when his victims stopped to remonstrate, the girl picked their pockets.

  ‘That house,’ said Chaloner, nodding to a glorious jewel of architecture that stood proudly between some very drab neighbours. It had recently been refurbished, and bespoke unlimited wealth. ‘Who lives there? A banker?’

  ‘James Baron,’ replied Silas. ‘He did well for himself when he seized the criminal half of Wheler’s empire. Joan was livid, of course, as she wanted it for herself.’

  ‘Then your family must have been relieved that she was thwarted. Running pickpockets and a protection tax are hardly activities that respectable financiers should condone.’

  Silas roared with laughter. ‘You would never make a businessman, Tom – too ingenuous by half. My father will make money any way he can, and he was as disappointed as Joan to lose the shadier side of Wheler’s operation.’

  The door to Baron’s house opened at that moment, and the King of Cheapside himself stepped out. There was a woman at his side, a slim, pretty blonde dressed in clothes designed to accentuate her fine figure. A boy and a girl of roughly the same age as Oxley’s offspring trotted demurely at her side, while behind them were Doe and Poachin. The family stood in an expectant huddle, then broke into cries of delight when a servant appeared with a horse.