The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  He continued to denigrate his colleagues while he performed the peculiar ritual of stone-lifting that he undertook each morning. His muscles bulged under his mantua, and Chaloner pitied his patients. They would be powerless to resist once he had decided upon a course of treatment, and he was not a gentle man.

  When the rest of the meal arrived, Wiseman set to with heartening enthusiasm. Chaloner might have been eating paper for all he could taste through his cold, but he took everything Wiseman passed him on the grounds that it would save him buying something later with his dwindling funds. Then there was a knock on the door and the footman hopped back in.

  ‘Mr Taylor of Goldsmiths’ Row dropped a box on his toe last night,’ he reported. ‘And now he is in great pain. Dr Misick asks if you will go at once, because surgery is needed.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wiseman. ‘Bring me my clothes. The red ones.’

  As all his clothes were red, Chaloner expected the footman to query the order, but the fellow left obediently, apparently knowing exactly what was required.

  ‘I love being Surgeon to the Person and Master of the Company of Barber–Surgeons,’ grinned Wiseman. ‘It means I am summoned by all manner of wealthy and influential people –Taylor is one of the richest men in London, although I cannot say I like him.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘When you are there, assess whether he is losing his reason.’

  ‘Oh, I am fairly sure he is. But come with me. You will see him when he is vulnerable, and even the biggest tyrants turn coward in the presence of their medicus.’

  ‘It is a tempting offer, but I owe him money.’ Chaloner told him about Hannah’s loan.

  ‘He will not demand anything if you are with me. Indeed, he may even agree to renegotiate the debt – I am rather good at getting people to do what I want just before painful procedures.’

  ‘Is that ethical?’

  ‘As ethical as Taylor abusing his clients,’ Wiseman shot back.

  Chaloner had a lot to do that day: take Temperance to Clarendon House to look at the Earl’s curtains; make more enquiries along Cheapside about the deaths of DuPont, Coo, Fatherton and Wheler; learn who had tried to burn him alive; and find Randal. But Hannah’s predicament weighed heavily on his mind and it would be a relief to have the interest reduced to a more reasonable level. When the surgeon had dressed in scarlet long-coat with matching breeches, crimson hat and black boots with red heels, Chaloner followed him down the stairs and out through the gate, feeling the plan was worth a try.

  Dawn was breaking, and carts were rumbling in from the surrounding countryside, bringing produce for London’s ever-hungry stomach – onions, cheese, butter, eggs, beer and milk. Street vendors were also arriving, slouching towards their patches with trays of cakes, pies, flowers, vegetables and herbs. A clean breeze had been blowing from the west, carrying the scent of blossom, but it was quickly masked by soot as thousands of sea-coal fires were lit across the city.

  When they reached Cheapside, two more houses had red crosses on the doors, each with an uneasy watcher stationed outside. The affected buildings were the poorer kind of tenement, and there was a good deal of resentment from passers-by, who claimed the inmates were suffering from quinsy, not the plague. One or two apprentices even fingered daggers, as if considering an attack to free those imprisoned within. Tension was thick in the air, especially when a bell began to toll to announce that someone had died.

  ‘I know forty days is a long time to be incarcerated,’ murmured Wiseman, watching a crowd begin to gather outside one house to yell abuse at the hapless guard, ‘but how else will we stop the disease? People are not taking the threat as seriously as they should.’

  ‘Can you blame them, when the rich are allowed to buy different verdicts?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And if you do not believe me, look over there.’

  A crude message had been daubed on the door of one mansion, claiming that plague was within, but a few pieces of silver could turn it into spotted fever.

  ‘These double standards will have the city in uproar,’ sighed Wiseman. ‘Although that will not matter if the plague comes. Nothing will.’

  At Goldsmiths’ Row, a maid was waiting to escort Wiseman to Taylor’s bedside, and made no demur when the surgeon informed him that Chaloner was there to assist. They followed her up the stairs to the top floor, where Chaloner stopped in astonishment: the hall outside Taylor’s chamber thronged with hushed-voiced well-wishers. They included not only members of the Goldsmiths’ Company, but wealthy merchants, clerics and even one or two courtiers. Oxley was there, too, standing out like a sore thumb in his rough clothes. Chaloner could only suppose he had been charged to represent the King of Cheapside.

  ‘I thought Taylor had hurt his toe,’ Chaloner whispered. ‘But he must be on his deathbed.’

  The surgeon, inured to such scenes, was more interested in his surroundings. The floor was covered in silk rugs, and the ceiling had bosses picked out with gold leaf. The walls were panelled in ebony, although they were mostly invisible beneath the many paintings that hung there.

  ‘Look at them,’ he breathed. ‘Portraits by Samuel Cooper and Lely, and of such subjects – Lady Castlemaine, Lord Rochester, George Carteret, Prince Rupert, Will Chiffinch, Bab May…’

  ‘All people who owe him money,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Taylor must have taken them in lieu of payment, along with their hatpins and jewelled buttons.’

  He turned as Evan approached, pale and rumpled, as though he had spent a difficult night. Even so, avarice gleamed in his eyes.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have come to pay us our thirty shillings.’

  ‘Twenty,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘Ten from yesterday and ten for today.’

  ‘Twenty from yesterday: there is a penalty for being late. Well? Where is it?’

  Chaloner sneezed, and was gratified when Evan backed away.

  ‘You shall have your money, Evan,’ said Wiseman, ‘the moment you have paid us for our visit here today. However, quality costs – I am the King’s personal surgeon, and my services do not come cheap. Neither do Chaloner’s, and he has graciously agreed to be my assistant this morning. I hope you have plenty of cash to hand.’

  ‘We are a bank,’ retorted Evan. ‘Of course we have cash. However, we will not be overcharged by a jumped-up—’

  ‘I never overcharge,’ asserted Wiseman icily. ‘I merely set a fee that is commensurate with my abilities. Come, Chaloner. Let us see what we can do for our patient. It is unethical to chatter out here while he is desperate for the relief that only we can provide.’

  He sailed through the door before Evan could take issue, Chaloner at his heels. Taylor was sitting on the bed, his face crumpled in agony. He hugged his box with one hand and his toe with the other, vigorously resisting the efforts of Silas and Joan to make him lie back. Misick, who was mixing a remedy on a bench near the window, heaved a sigh of relief when he saw Wiseman.

  ‘Let me put your chest on the table, Father,’ Silas was begging. ‘You will hurt yourself if you grip it so hard. I am not sure it should be in bed with you anyway, not if it contains what you say.’

  Taylor clutched it harder. ‘My Plague Box contains the fate of all London, and I am its guardian,’ he hissed dangerously. ‘Gold and silver, worms and miasmas.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Silas gently. ‘But let me help you with the burden. It is too much for one man.’

  ‘You mean to steal it,’ cried Taylor. ‘You have hated me ever since I packed you off to the wars to fight for Cromwell.’

  ‘I do not hate you. I am merely concerned that—’

  ‘You have been plotting with Backwell to overthrow me,’ interrupted Taylor. ‘Oh, yes! I have seen the two of you muttering together when you think no one is looking.’

  ‘We discuss the war,’ said Silas shortly, beginning to be irked. ‘Now, the surgeon is here. Give me the box, so he can tend you.’

  He made a grab for it, but Taylor released a howl of such anger and distress that S
ilas started back in alarm.

  ‘Leave him be, Silas,’ warned Misick. ‘Let Wiseman do it.’

  ‘It should not have been necessary to summon a surgeon,’ said Joan, her small face hard and unfriendly. ‘You should have made him better, Misick. We pay you enough.’

  ‘You pay me nothing,’ Misick reminded her with quiet dignity. ‘I render my services for free, in exchange for you writing off the money I borrowed from your husband.’

  ‘Yes, and you have the better end of the bargain,’ snapped Joan nastily. ‘Infinitely better, given that you call in someone else whenever there is a problem. At our expense.’

  ‘I have done it once,’ countered Misick, stung. ‘For a surgical problem. Or would you have me attempt a procedure for which I am not qualified?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Joan, and rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘Forgive me, Dr Misick. It has been a long night and—’

  ‘Enough babble,’ ordered Wiseman curtly. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Silas tried to steal the Plague Box, and it fell on Father’s foot during the ensuing struggle,’ obliged Evan. ‘It is his fault that—’

  ‘I was not stealing it,’ interrupted Silas irritably. ‘He told me that it contains plague worms, which is not the sort of thing anyone should be toting around. Of course I tried to wrest it away from him. So would any loving son.’

  ‘I love him, which is why I would never risk anything that might harm him,’ said Evan haughtily. ‘You, on the other hand—’

  ‘I acted for his own good,’ flashed Silas angrily. ‘Anyone can see he is witless.’

  ‘I am not witless,’ said Taylor.

  Everyone turned to look at him, startled by the quiet reason in his voice: he sounded astonished, even hurt, that anyone should consider him anything other than a rational being. He set the box on the bedside table and folded his hands in his lap, the very picture of lucidity. ‘And if my temper has been short, it is because of this agonising pain. Well, Wiseman? Are you just going to stand there like some great crimson ape, or are you going to amputate?’

  ‘Father, I was only—’ began Silas, disconcerted by his sire’s sudden lucidity.

  ‘You are worse than Randal,’ said Taylor coolly. ‘He is worthless, too, with his silly book that has set Royalists and Parliamentarians at each others’ throats. How does he expect commerce to thrive when the city is in such turmoil?’

  ‘He aims to publish a sequel,’ interposed Chaloner, seizing the opportunity to discuss it, ‘which will cause even more trouble. Tell me where he is hiding and I will persuade him to stop.’

  ‘We have already told you that we have no idea,’ said Joan sharply. ‘I wish we did, because I would order him to desist myself.’

  ‘I should never have let him marry you,’ murmured Taylor, looking up at her affectionately. ‘You are far too good for him. I should have taken you myself.’

  Joan said nothing, but it was clear that she thought the same. She shot Silas a rather longing look, too, but he was telling Wiseman how his father had come to be injured and did not notice.

  In essence, he and Taylor had grappled for the box, which had fallen in such a way that one corner had landed square on Taylor’s unprotected big toe. Blood had pooled beneath the nail, and increasing pressure was causing the discomfort.

  ‘It is a serious case,’ averred Wiseman, reaching into his bag and laying out an array of gruesome-looking implements. ‘It is a good thing you called me, Misick. There is only one man in London who can bring about a happy outcome, and that is me.’

  He spoke with such arrogant authority that no one dared argue, and all watched in appalled fascination as he began heating a metal probe in the flame of a candle. Silas promptly abandoned his father’s bedside and retreated to the far side of the room, although Joan was made of sterner stuff and held her father-in-law’s hand, whispering words of comfort. Chaloner joined Silas, unwilling to witness anything grisly if it could be avoided.

  ‘Are you sure you have not seen Randal?’ he whispered. ‘We really do need to warn him against publishing another pamphlet.’

  ‘I have not seen him in weeks,’ Silas muttered back. ‘He might even be dead for all I know. However, if he is, Joan is the first person I shall question about his murder. Are you still coming to my soirée tonight, by the way? I can promise you some excellent music. Well, as long as you do not sing – you sound like an old saw. Rough night, was it?’

  Chaloner had forgotten his friend’s invitation, but saw no reason not to accept. After all, the Earl was not paying him, so could hardly complain about him taking an evening off. Misick overheard, and came to join them.

  ‘You should cancel it, Silas,’ he said. ‘Your father will not be well enough to attend.’

  ‘I doubt he will mind staying at home – he does not like music anyway.’ Silas’s voice turned acerbic. ‘I am sure Evan will keep him company.’

  ‘Few bankers do appreciate music,’ said Misick, tactfully ignoring the last part. ‘Perhaps the sound of clinking coins destroys their ability to listen to anything else. Vyner, Glosson, Hinton – none knows his Gibbons from his Playford. And as for Wheler…’

  ‘He was incapable of carrying even the simplest of tunes,’ agreed Silas. ‘No wonder Joan did not spend long mourning him. Imagine a life without music!’

  Chaloner shuddered.

  ‘He had lung-rot,’ added Misick, ‘and would have been dead by now, even if someone had not stuck a knife in his chest.’

  ‘Coo mentioned his illness,’ recalled Chaloner. ‘Can we assume that his killer was someone who did not know? After all, why commit murder when it is unnecessary?’

  ‘Perhaps the culprit could not wait,’ suggested Silas. ‘Personally, I always thought it was Joan. After all, look at her now – wealthy in her own right and married into the strongest banking dynasty in London. She was nothing but a housewife when she was wed to Wheler.’

  ‘Joan is no killer,’ breathed Misick, shocked. ‘And not stupid either, to take such a risk when she would have been a widow within a few weeks anyway.’

  ‘Much can happen in a few weeks,’ countered Silas. ‘Wheler might have changed his will, my father might have refused an alliance, Wheler’s increasing incapacity might have damaged his business. Joan is not a woman to sit back and let fate decide.’

  Wiseman interrupted at that point with a demand for Chaloner’s help. Chaloner wanted to refuse but he could hardly claim to be Wiseman’s assistant if he skulked squeamishly in the background. Reluctantly, he gripped the banker’s foot, then forced himself to watch as the surgeon directed the now red-hot probe towards the afflicted digit. There was a hiss, followed by a spurting pop as the trapped blood escaped. Taylor, who had been lying with his eyes squeezed tightly closed, sat up in astonishment.

  ‘The pain has gone!’ he cried. ‘It is as though it was never there. I am completely cured!’

  ‘Of course,’ said Wiseman smugly. ‘I am a master of my profession.’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Misick. ‘I would not have summoned him otherwise. Now drink this potion.’

  ‘He does not need poppy juice,’ said Wiseman sharply. He pointed to a bottle on the table. ‘And certainly not if he has been taking Venice Treacle. They do not mix well.’

  ‘This is not poppy juice, it is my Plague Elixir,’ explained Misick, removing a tendril of his wig that had plopped into the cup. He glanced at Chaloner. ‘To prevent my patient from catching whatever he has.’

  ‘In that case, give him double.’ Wiseman turned to Taylor. ‘Now we shall discuss the small matter of remuneration.’

  Chaloner expected trouble when the surgeon named an outrageous sum, but Taylor was too grateful to quibble, and indicated that Evan should pay. Evan baulked, though, so Wiseman fixed him with one of his imperious glares.

  ‘I am Master of the Company of Barber–Surgeons and Surgeon to the Person. I do not haggle – I tell you my price and you pay. And my assistant will have the same.’

&nbs
p; ‘Just for holding a leg?’ demanded Evan, outraged. ‘No! You cannot—’

  ‘Perhaps we can compromise,’ interposed Joan quickly, when Taylor’s expression darkened at the notion that Evan should haggle over the cost of his well-being. ‘Chaloner will waive his fee, and we will forget the thirty shillings he owes.’

  ‘You will forget forty shillings,’ argued Wiseman, much to Joan’s irritation. Evan folded his arms and scowled at the floor like a petulant child. ‘Because he will pay nothing tomorrow either, and the day after is Sunday, so the next instalment will not be due until Monday. Agreed?’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain. I like that in a man.’ Taylor smiled at Joan. ‘Or a woman.’

  ‘And now I must go,’ said Wiseman, aiming for the door, red coat-tails flying importantly behind him. ‘There are dozens more customers in desperate need of my services, and I cannot waste time listening to your effusions of gratitude, no matter how richly I might deserve them.’

  In the corridor outside, people jostled forward to demand news of the patient’s condition. Wiseman described how he had saved Taylor’s life, and although everyone professed to be delighted, Chaloner was sure few were sincere. Then Silas emerged and went to talk to Backwell, who was standing with the Shaws. Chaloner edged towards them. The crowded room was as good a place as any to eavesdrop, and Vyner’s bulk provided a convenient screen – the portly banker was engrossed in a newsbook, and had no idea of the service he was providing.

  ‘…off the coin presses yesterday,’ Backwell was saying as he brandished a new shilling. ‘See how it glitters? I intend to show it to your father later. His spirits will soar at the sight, and any residual debility will vanish like mist in the sun.’

  ‘Perhaps you should offer it as a cure for plague,’ suggested Shaw. His face was grave, but amusement glinted in his eyes, and Lettice began to giggle.