The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Perhaps I should,’ agreed Backwell seriously. ‘The reason people die is because they lose hope. But no one will do that if they know a few of these beauties are waiting for them to recover.’

  ‘There is no need for you to linger,’ said Silas to the Shaws. ‘You are not bankers, so you have no need to visit ailing colleagues, and I am sure you have better things to do. Such as selling my music to as many courtiers as you can.’

  Shaw’s expression was wry. ‘You know Joan is our landlord, and we cannot afford to annoy her, so we thought it politic to come and show our faces. But if the crisis is over…’

  ‘This one is,’ said Backwell, looking at Silas. ‘But there is a rumour that another will befall us on Tuesday. I heard it from Howard the milliner – before he died, obviously – but it must be true, because it has been repeated to me by several customers since.’

  ‘What sort of something?’ Silas cast an irritable glance at the music-sellers, and it was clear that he wished they would leave so he could talk to Backwell alone. But the couple missed the look and continued to loiter.

  ‘One that will serve us “greedy bankers” right, apparently,’ replied Backwell worriedly.

  ‘Another run?’ asked Silas sharply. ‘Like the one precipitated by the Colburn Crisis? That would be disastrous! Not even the larger banks will survive a second emergency.’

  Backwell was pale. ‘I know, so let us hope it is something else.’

  Shaw eyed him reproachfully. ‘If it is a run, you only have yourself to blame. You caused much distress by selling your debtors. One was so upset by a visit from Taylor’s henchmen that she refuses to eat, while two others lie in suicides’ graves.’

  Backwell became defensive. ‘On the contrary, I am the victim – my customers abused my soft-heartedness for years, and I should have taken a firmer hand ages ago. Take Howard, for example. He earned a good wage selling hats at Court, but he told me he was poor, because he had ten children. I believed him and treated him gently. But do you know the truth?’

  ‘No,’ replied Shaw cautiously.

  ‘He was a gamester! He played in Baron’s gambling dens, and that is why he never had any money. He had been taking advantage of my kindness for years.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Lettice doubtfully. ‘He always seemed so nice.’ She gestured to her hat, a fancy creation with too many feathers in it for Chaloner’s liking – he preferred to see them on birds, where they belonged. ‘He made me this last week, and chatted with such happiness about his newest child … I do not see him as a gambler.’

  ‘Well, he was,’ said Backwell sourly. ‘He owed money to lots of people, including poor Dr Coo. In fact, perhaps he shot Coo, in order to avoid paying his bills.’

  ‘He would never have done such a thing!’ cried Lettice, shocked. ‘It is far more likely to have been a ruffian from Baron’s trainband. They are an unruly horde.’

  ‘I doubt Baron would have allowed that,’ said Silas. ‘He was grateful to Coo for tending his minions when they were sick or injured.’

  ‘Perhaps it was done without Baron’s knowledge,’ suggested Shaw. ‘He does not seem to have the control he enjoyed a few days ago. His authority is slipping.’

  ‘Pity,’ sighed Silas. ‘I rather like him.’

  ‘Most people do,’ said Shaw. ‘But he is a felon with a penchant for the property of others, and he is not averse to using violent means to get it. Charming he might be, but it is a dangerous charm, and you should be wary of it.’

  ‘Then I shall,’ said Silas lightly. ‘But there is really no need for you two to waste any more of your time here. I shall tell Joan that you came. Goodbye.’

  Thus dismissed, the Shaws had no choice but to take their leave. Chaloner peered around Vyner and watched Backwell and Silas embark on a discussion that was too low for him to hear. Then Silas glanced up and looked directly at him.

  ‘Join us, Tom,’ he called. ‘I am sure you have plenty of useful thoughts on asset turnovers.’

  ‘Excellent!’ beamed Backwell. ‘Although I hope they are more sensible than his uncle’s.’

  There was no more to be learned from Taylor’s house, and Chaloner was more than happy to leave. He started to walk up White Goat Wynd, recalling that it was here that Wheler had been stabbed. The lane was deeply shadowed, and he saw it would be easy for a killer to hide there unseen, especially at night. It was also the kind of place that common thieves might haunt – an alley with plenty of hiding places that was used by wealthy pedestrians. If Chaloner had been a robber, White Goat Wynd would certainly be high on his list of hunting grounds.

  He whipped around suddenly when he heard a sound behind him, but it was only Silas.

  ‘I have been working on your behalf yet again, Tom,’ his old comrade said genially. ‘Although I did not want to tell you so in front of Backwell. These are uncertain times, and I have learned to be wary of everyone.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Chaloner, bemused by Silas’s eagerness to help him.

  ‘I was in the Feathers last night, and got talking to a rogue named Watkin, who knew DuPont. Watkin will wake with a sore head this morning, because I plied him with enough ale to float a ship. But it paid off – he told me the whereabouts of a Dutch spy!’

  ‘How is he party to such information?’ asked Chaloner sceptically.

  ‘Because he and DuPont curbed the villain’s house together, and DuPont snagged some of his secret documents. It was these that he planned to sell to your Earl, apparently – intelligence reports. Shall we go there now? The spy lives at the Sign of the Swan on Bread Street.’

  ‘“Three swan in bread”,’ quoted Chaloner. ‘Fatherton certainly sent DuPont that way.’

  The Sign of the Swan was halfway up Bread Street, and they soon found the house in question. Its windows were either boarded over or broken, anti-Dutch slogans were daubed on its walls, and excrement had been smeared on the door. It was a long time before their knock was answered, and they were permitted inside only because Chaloner was able to speak Dutch. They were an elderly importer of Chinese porcelain named Jan Meer and his wife. Both were terrified.

  ‘We are trapped here,’ Meer gulped, ashen-faced. He used English out of courtesy to Silas. ‘We did not have enough money to buy passage across the Channel when war first broke out, so we had to stay until we had sold all our belongings. But thieves came and stole every last penny of what we had managed to raise, leaving us stranded…’

  ‘Other than the money, a few clothes and some letters, the only thing left in the house was the curtains,’ added his wife, gesturing to the room in which they stood, from which even the door handles and latches had been removed. ‘We had arranged to take them to Mr Baron the following day, but the burglars got them first. They were pretty things, too – patterned with roses.’

  So that was how Fatherton had known where to send his curbers, thought Chaloner, recalling those particular items in Baron’s cellar. Meer had gone to the King of Cheapside in panicky desperation, and Baron had responded by arranging to steal what he had offered to buy, along with all the couple’s painstakingly amassed coins for a journey home.

  ‘The villains even took the messages we had written to our children,’ Meer went on tearfully. ‘The ones we hoped would reach them one day, should anything terrible happen to us here…’

  ‘Were they in Dutch?’ asked Chaloner.

  Meer blinked. ‘Of course. Would you write to your children in a foreign language?’

  ‘They are not spies,’ declared Silas, once he and Chaloner were outside again. ‘They are just people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I shall arrange for them to take a ship to France today. I know a fisherman who will oblige.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘And I agree – documents stolen from Meer are unlikely to help with the war. However, I doubt letters from one house would have been enough to send DuPont flying to the Earl with offers of secret intelligence. He must have burgled other Dutchmen, too.’

/>   ‘Then I had better visit the Feathers again, to see what might be learned from DuPont’s other cronies.’ Silas held up his hand before Chaloner could speak. ‘No, you cannot join me – they will not talk to Clarendon’s envoy. I, however, am popular there.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Chaloner. ‘But—’

  ‘You are concerned for my well-being,’ said Silas, draping a comradely arm over Chaloner’s shoulders. ‘Well, do not be. Common criminals are no match for the Keeper of Stores at the Harwich Shipyard, and I am delighted to serve my country by thwarting Dutch spies.’

  Silas’s safety had not crossed Chaloner’s mind – his friend was more than capable of looking after himself – and his reservations arose from the fact that he was baffled by Silas’s determination to help him. Then he shook himself. He had been a spy for too long, and should learn not to react to every offer of help with instant suspicion. He nodded his thanks, and they parted ways.

  It was mid-morning by the time Chaloner had finished with Silas, and the streets were busy, but he knew one place where business would just be winding down. He started to walk towards Hercules’ Pillars Alley, then saw a familiar red figure striding along ahead of him. He ran to catch up.

  ‘Being with those bankers has made me feel unclean,’ confided Wiseman. ‘And although many important patients clamour for my services, I feel the need for some decent company first – Temperance and her lasses.’

  Chaloner supposed the financiers must have galled Wiseman indeed if he felt obliged to cleanse himself with whores. ‘I am going there, too – to ask about her curtains.’

  Most of the guests had gone by the time they arrived, and judging from the state of the lingerers who were being packed into carriages, it had been another night of rollicking good fun.

  ‘You cannot come in,’ said the doorman when he saw Chaloner. ‘We are closing.’

  He had never liked the spy, and getting past him was invariably a trial. His name was Preacher Hill, and he loved working at the club, because the timing of his duties left him free to harangue people about the perils of sin during the afternoons. He genuinely failed to see that working in a brothel meant he was not in a strong position to criticise the morals of others.

  ‘He is with me,’ said Wiseman. ‘But stand back – he has a cold.’

  Chaloner sneezed obligingly, and when Hill shied away, he took the opportunity to sidle past. Hill could have followed, but evidently decided it was not worth the risk to his health, as he turned to help an emerging patron into a hackney carriage instead. Inside, Temperance rushed to give Wiseman a hug, but held out a hand to tell Chaloner to keep his distance.

  ‘And stay away from the girls,’ she instructed sternly. ‘We cannot have them snuffling all over the clients.’

  Her helpmeet, the formidable Maude, was more sympathetic. She whisked Chaloner to the kitchen, where she and Wiseman argued about what should go in a tonic. While they quarrelled, Chaloner helped himself to a piece of beef pie – Temperance’s cook was one of the best in London, and the spy could always find a corner for Monsieur Bonnefon’s wares.

  ‘From The Court & Kitchin?’ he asked. The mercurial Bonnefon spoke a bizarre combination of Latin, French and Spanish, and Chaloner was one of few people who could communicate with him.

  ‘I do not serve English muck here,’ replied Bonnefon archly, then gave a Gallic shrug. ‘Although Mrs Cromwell is the person to convince me otherwise. She has some excellent and innovative ideas.’

  When the discussion between Maude and Wiseman grew heated – and he did not want to be used as an experiment to see whose remedy was more effective – Chaloner went to the parlour, where Temperance was chatting to the last of her guests, who comprised a prominent churchman, three members of parliament and two of the more dissipated rakes from Court. Someone else was there, too: Randal Taylor. Chaloner stepped towards him, but Temperance grabbed his arm.

  ‘No, Tom,’ she warned. ‘Randal might be a maggot, but he is a customer – one who pays his bills promptly. Do not pester him here.’

  Chaloner nodded demurely, waited until she was distracted by the politicians, then advanced on his quarry. Randal was a miserable specimen. His clothes were stained and rumpled, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor that resulted from too many pipes, drinks and late nights. Chaloner was not surprised that his family did not seem to have much time for him.

  ‘Your book,’ he said, getting straight to the point before Temperance could come and stop him. ‘The one about Mrs Cromwell.’

  ‘It has caused quite a stir,’ grinned Randal, peering at him through bloodshot eyes, ‘which is excellent for sales. I have sold hundreds of copies, although I cannot say I like a lot of venomous old Roundheads trying to kill me. I have had to go into hiding, you know.’

  Chaloner did. ‘I have just seen your wife. She wants a word with you.’

  ‘Dear Joan,’ slurred Randal. ‘Well, she can wait, because I am not dancing attendance on her. She is a shrew, and makes no bones about the fact that she would rather have had Silas or my father instead. Have you read my book, by the way?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘And I have a few questions. How do you know that Mrs Cromwell eats marrow pudding for breakfast? And who told you that her cook Starkey was always drunk?’

  ‘I never reveal my sources,’ replied Randal loftily. Then he smirked again. ‘Just wait until you see my sequel. It will set London aflame, and good riddance. I hate this city.’

  ‘Then live somewhere else, but do not publish your book. If you do, there will—’

  ‘Temperance!’ Randal screeched, so loudly that Chaloner almost jumped out of his skin. ‘This man is threatening me! Get him away from me before I take my custom elsewhere.’

  Temperance swooped down like an avenging angel, and Randal took the opportunity to scuttle through the front door. Chaloner tried to go after him, but Temperance blocked his way. He could have knocked her aside, but not without hurting her, which he had no wish to do.

  ‘I told you to leave him be,’ she shouted angrily. ‘How dare you ignore me!’

  ‘Easy, dearest,’ cooed Wiseman, who had hurried from the kitchen when he had heard raised voices. ‘What has poor Chaloner done this time?’

  ‘Upset Randal Taylor. Probably over that stupid book.’

  ‘All I did was ask him not to publish another,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘I do not suppose you know where he lives, do you? He is in hiding, but—’

  ‘I would not share such information with you if I did!’ declared Temperance curtly. ‘He is a customer, and thus entitled to my protection.’

  ‘Just tell me one thing,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘How much did you pay for the curtains that were stolen? The ones you bought from Baron?’

  ‘Curtains?’ echoed Temperance, wrong-footed by the question. She shook her head in bemusement. ‘Why in God’s name would you want to know that?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds. I was delighted with them at first, as the red and gold went perfectly with my new wallpaper. Unfortunately, they were a fire hazard, so perhaps their theft was a blessing in disguise. We shall stick with shutters from now on.’

  ‘I think they might be hanging in Clarendon House.’

  Temperance gaped at him. ‘You mean your Earl stole them from me? Lord! Who would have thought it of an upright prig like him!’

  ‘Of course he did not steal them,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘He bought them in good faith from Baron, whose curbers probably reclaimed them from you when the Earl asked for some of the same colour. Will you come to Clarendon House to look?’

  ‘No,’ replied Temperance shortly. ‘I am too tired – last night was unusually taxing. Come for me tomorrow morning instead, and we shall do it then. Incidentally, I meant to tell you the other day that Hannah visited me a couple of weeks ago. She wanted to borrow some money.’

  Chaloner winced. ‘How much do we owe you?’

  ‘Nothing – I had just bought five beds, so I
did not have any spare cash to give her. She was disappointed, and said you would be vexed if you ever learned about the perilous state of your household finances. She was trying to sort them out before you came home.’

  ‘Raising new debts was hardly the best way to go about it,’ said Chaloner sourly.

  ‘Yes and no,’ replied Temperance, her voice kinder than he would have expected. ‘I would not have charged her interest.’

  Chaloner went to White Hall next, to try and persuade more of the Earl’s enemies to buy goods from a man who would cheat them. He aimed for the Spares Gallery, a room so named because the King deposited duplicate or unwanted pieces of art there. It was used by minor courtiers as a kind of common room, and Chaloner was pleased when he saw a number of suitable victims.

  He stood in the shadows listening to the chatter that swirled around him. There was a rumour, gloatingly reported, that there would soon be a heavy tax on anyone who had supported Parliament during the wars. This was not news, as Chaloner’s family could attest, but the tale would alarm those who had managed to talk their way out of it so far – men like the bankers, who had sided with Cromwell but who now declared themselves to be Royalists.

  Another group was discussing the murders of Wheler and Coo, and how they continued to cause strife along Cheapside. The plague was also a popular topic of conversation, with most courtiers of the opinion that the poor objected to the measures devised to control the disease for no reason other than pure cussedness.

  Two of the Earl’s most bitter enemies, Bab May and Will Chiffinch, were standing near the wine bemoaning their debts. As far as they were concerned, the tailors, vintners, grocers and others who provided them with goods had no right to demand what they were owed. They were also vexed with the bankers for insisting that some of the massive sums they had borrowed be repaid – if not in cash, then in kind.

  ‘Taylor took my ship-shaped hatpin when I could not produce a hundred pounds,’ May grumbled. ‘The one made of pearl with gold mast and rigging. I love it dearly, but I doubt I shall ever be able to redeem it.’