The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

‘Very disturbing,’ agreed Doe, but he had been at the wine and was in an ebullient mood, so his menacing scowl dissolved quickly into a proud grin. ‘What do you think of my clothes?’

  He had contrived to dress in an outfit that was identical to Baron’s, even down to the ill-fitting wig. Baron patted his shoulder, flattered, although Chaloner would have been mortified.

  ‘I heard today that something terrible will happen on Cheapside next Tuesday,’ Chaloner said, aiming to see what they knew about the rumour. ‘It is true?’

  ‘Who knows what the future holds?’ replied Baron with a shrug. ‘It is all in the hands of God, so we must put our trust in Him to keep us safe.’

  A quartet began to play at that point, so he hurried over to Frances and led her in a jig around the room, while Poachin and Doe clapped in time to the music. It was not a dancing or clapping sort of occasion, and the other guests gawped at their gaucheness. Chaloner could not bear to watch, so went to stand near where Taylor was holding court in the next chamber.

  The banker had acquired a sycophantic audience, and was giving his opinion about liquidity ratios, asset turnovers and net profit. He sounded as sane as any other man of commerce, and the only hint of oddness was the box under his arm. Joan added observations that had the other financiers in the throng murmuring appreciatively. Misick came to talk to Chaloner.

  ‘He is not well enough to be out really,’ he whispered, absently picking a lock of wig out of the syllabub he was eating and sucking it clean. ‘I wish he had agreed to stay home and rest.’

  ‘He seems all right to me,’ said Chaloner. ‘Less lunatic than usual.’

  Misick frowned. ‘He is not a lunatic, he is afflicted with the eccentricity of genius. And I was actually thinking about his poor toe, which remains sore after Wiseman’s ministrations. Still, I have dosed him with my Plague Elixir, so—’

  ‘Chaloner,’ interrupted Evan, his loud voice making both men turn. ‘The pearls your wife is wearing – my father wants them.’

  ‘I am sure he does,’ said Chaloner icily, ‘but you agreed to demand no more money until Monday.’

  ‘They will serve to help pay off the capital, not the interest,’ said Evan. ‘Those are two separate and distinct issues. And besides, debtors do not dictate terms to my father. He—’

  Chaloner took a step towards him. He could be intimidating when he was angry, and he was angry now – not just that Evan should try to take the only keepsake Hannah had from her mother, but that he was graceless enough to do it at a social function. Evan blanched and scurried away.

  ‘I really dislike him,’ confided Misick. ‘He has none of his father’s charm, but all his greed. And speaking of greed, here comes another banker – Backwell.’

  ‘I have been counting money all day,’ announced Backwell with a contented sigh. ‘So many lovely, lovely coins…’

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure how else to respond to such a bizarre declaration. ‘Did Silas assist you? You seem to spend a lot of time with him these days.’

  ‘We discuss the war,’ said Backwell airily. ‘We are both afraid of the spiralling costs. The King should have restrained himself, because the conflict will beggar us all. Hah! There is Hinton. You must excuse me while I go to commiserate with him. He declared himself bankrupt today.’

  He bowed and hurried away. Chaloner watched him go, wondering what it was about conversations between Silas and Backwell that always set alarm bells ringing in his mind. There was no reason why the pair should not discuss the war, yet he was certain that Backwell had just lied to him. He started to follow, aiming to have the truth, but bumped into Shaw and Lettice, who had been given the task of handing out sheets of music. A quick glance at the notes, and all else flew from Chaloner’s mind. It was a motet in ten parts, with some very intriguing harmonies.

  ‘Silas wrote it,’ said Lettice with a giggle. ‘We cannot wait to hear it performed.’

  Silas had been talking in a low voice to Poachin, but he abandoned the discussion when he heard his name and came to join them.

  ‘Baron is a fine bass by all accounts,’ he murmured, ‘but he cannot read music, so I have enlisted Poachin’s help in persuading him against volunteering for a solo.’

  Chaloner frowned: it had not looked like that sort of conversation to him. But Lettice was addressing him, so he was forced to give his attention to her.

  ‘Thank you for ridding us of Slasher,’ she said. ‘The butcher was incandescent with rage, and Mr Oxley must pay him compensation. The dog has now been sold.’

  ‘You can pay us the forty pounds next year if you like,’ said Shaw generously. ‘It may help you, as Silas tells us that you are heavily in debt to his father. We know what it is like to be broken financially, and would not inflict it on anyone. Imagine how we would feel if you chose the same path as poor Colburn – suicide.’

  ‘Poor Colburn?’ asked Silas archly. ‘He was a rogue, who knowingly destroyed others just so he could enjoy himself at the card tables. Do not waste your sympathy on him.’

  ‘He was a friend,’ said Shaw sharply. ‘One of few who stood by me after the Tulip Bubble.’

  ‘This is gloomy talk,’ said Lettice. She smiled at Chaloner. ‘Hannah was just telling us about your alum mines again. They sound very interesting, and I should love to visit them, but I doubt I shall ever make such a journey. The north is a wild and dangerous place, by all accounts, and I am not as young as I was…’

  Chaloner wished he had reminded Hannah to put the record straight with them that evening, and started to explain the position again, but an impatient gesture from Silas sent them scurrying away to distribute more music.

  ‘Meer and his wife are safely away,’ said Silas in a low voice. ‘I saw them off myself. They should reach France by the morning, and I gave them money to travel by coach the rest of the way. Or rather Evan did. I raided his funds when he was not looking.’

  ‘I knew I should not have come tonight,’ declared Brodrick furiously, storming up before Chaloner could respond. ‘Your wretched brother has just deprived me of my Genovese watch.’

  Silas raised his eyebrows. ‘How crass. Shall I ask for it back?’

  ‘No,’ said Brodrick sullenly. ‘He will only take it away again tomorrow, at which point he might demand something else, too, as interest. Damn him for an ungentlemanly villain!’

  ‘Well, let us soothe our ragged tempers with music,’ said Silas. ‘Chaloner, will you take a viol?’

  Chaloner would always take a viol, so the rest of the evening passed very pleasantly indeed.

  Chapter 9

  The next day, Saturday, dawned clear and bright, but Chaloner was unimpressed to find that his cold was still with him. Would the thing never go? He had enjoyed the music the previous night, but felt he would have performed better had his ears not been plugged, his nose blocked and his throat sore, while sneezing and coughing had been a nuisance, particularly during one adagio. Worse, he had not been able to sing, which meant that Silas had been one part short for his motet so it had not been performed.

  He dressed and went to the kitchen, where he found Gram hacking at a grey, rubbery slab with a knife. It was week-old oatmeal, but Chaloner ate the slice he was offered anyway.

  ‘I understand you were born and bred on Cheapside,’ he said. ‘Did you know Dick Wheler?’

  ‘Of course not! I do not demean myself by consorting with bankers. And he was a nasty piece, anyway – not a man I would want as a friend. He was stabbed, you know.’

  Chaloner did. ‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have done it?’

  ‘Plenty. But the one I favour is that the culprit was a customer who objected to his rough tactics – Wheler bullied dozens of folk every day. And now the Taylor clan is following in his footsteps. Personally, I think too much money sends men insane, so perhaps it is just as well that you are destitute, sir. You would not want to be like them.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, although he thought there was proba
bly a happy medium on the scale between obscene wealth and looming debt. ‘So you do not believe that Baron killed Wheler?’

  ‘He might have done, I suppose. But so might Taylor, who also gained from Wheler’s death. Or Joan. In fact, there are lots of people who wanted him dead, so I hope you do not intend to solve the case. You will not succeed, and you will make dangerous enemies in the process.’

  That was an occupational hazard in Chaloner’s line of work, and he had learned not to worry about it. ‘What do you think of Baron?’ he asked.

  Gram pondered the question. ‘A curious man. He is charming, kind to his family and loves animals – horses in particular. But woe betide anyone who crosses him. Then he is a monster.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He is ambitious and greedy, and even has his tentacles in White Hall. I escorted the mistress there yesterday and heard people talking: Buckingham, Shaftesbury, Rochester and Arlington have either bought stuff from him already, or have arranged to put in an order today.’

  Good, thought Chaloner. That made five new customers with Lady Castlemaine, and if Swaddell did what he promised, there might be even more. Baron would have to fulfil his end of the bargain now. He nodded his thanks to Gram for the ‘breakfast’ and left.

  He reviewed his investigations as he walked. The negatives were that he had failed to convince Randal not to publish a second book; he still did not know who had murdered Wheler, Coo and Fatherton; and he had no idea what dire event was planned for Tuesday. On the positive side, the last two pairs of curtains should be delivered soon; he had taken steps to distance his Earl from Baron; and he had worked out how DuPont had aimed to gather intelligence.

  He reached Cheapside just as the tenor bell of St Michael’s Church began a dreary toll to mark the death of a man in his forties. Two more houses had been shut up, but the watchers were no longer lone men toting swords and cudgels – they were squads of grizzled veterans armed with muskets. Small gaggles of people clustered around each, howling abuse.

  ‘My uncle had a stoppage in the stomach,’ shouted a woman from the attic of one building. ‘He had been suffering from it for weeks. Ask anyone. It was not the plague.’

  The watchers took no notice, but there was a sudden flurry of activity at the window, and something was levered out. It was a body, which landed with a crunch that made everyone shy away in alarm.

  ‘Examine it!’ she screeched. ‘Then you will see.’

  The watchers did not oblige, but one onlooker – the laundress, Widow Porteous – stepped forward and pulled off the sheet. Even Chaloner, from his safe distance, could see a notable absence of plague tokens, and wondered whether the authorities might have been over-hasty.

  ‘A stoppage of the stomach,’ Widow Porteous announced, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. It was shiny with sweat. ‘This is no case of plague.’

  ‘Then take it up with Williamson,’ said the chief watcher, staring stoically ahead so he would not have to meet anyone’s eyes. ‘We are just following orders.’

  There was a chorus of jeers, but the soldiers were armed and the hecklers were not, so there was little that could be done. The mob was, however, thoroughly bad-tempered, and the plague was not the only subject that was cause for dissent. An argument had broken out over Randal’s pamphlet, while a fist-fight was in progress over Coo’s murder – someone had accused Baron of the crime, and members of his trainband had taken umbrage.

  Chaloner left them to it and walked to Baron’s house, wanting the matter of the Earl’s curtains resolved as soon as possible so he could be reinstated on the payroll. The door was answered by Frances, who began to chat happily about the ‘pretty jigs’ played at Silas’s soirée the previous evening. Chaloner bristled: it was no way to refer to Lawes, Gibbons and Dumont. Then he reminded himself that here was a woman who had danced a reel to Dowland.

  She took him to a parlour, where her children were at their lessons. Then the peace was shattered by a sudden roar of rage from the yard below. Chaloner joined her and the children at the window to see what had elicited it.

  Joan was there with a party of Taylor’s henchmen and a lawyer. The cry had come from Baron, who was standing with his horse. With a wail of dismay, Frances raced towards the door, the children at her heels, and all three appeared in the yard a moment later to cluster protectively around the nag. Chaloner opened the window so he could hear what was being said.

  ‘I am offering you a good price,’ Baron was snarling. ‘Why will you not take it?’

  ‘Because I am disinclined to sell,’ replied Joan loftily. ‘Now step aside.’

  ‘No!’ cried Baron. ‘You do not want Caesar. You are punishing me because you think you should be in charge of business here. You—’

  ‘That horse is lawfully mine,’ interrupted Joan coldly. ‘I inherited it, and if you do not believe me, this gentleman has a copy of my late husband’s will.’

  The lawyer stepped forward, but Baron waved him away, and there followed as distressing a scene as Chaloner had ever witnessed. Joan refused to negotiate, and sly references to the speed with which Baron had installed himself as King of Cheapside explained exactly why she had struck where he was vulnerable. The children and Frances wept as Caesar was led away, but Baron waved his trainband back when they started to intervene. It was a wise decision: they were heavily outnumbered and Taylor’s men had guns.

  ‘There,’ said Joan in satisfaction. ‘Our business is done. Good day to you.’

  She strode out, head held high, leaving Chaloner thinking that if she was shot or stabbed in the next few days, he would not have far to look for the culprit. She was a fool to enrage such a dangerous man, and he wondered whether it was her idea or Taylor’s. Regardless, the dark expression on Baron’s face told him the incident was unlikely to be forgotten or forgiven.

  It was some time before Baron appeared in the parlour. His eyes were red, and the fury that oozed from him in waves reminded Chaloner to be on his guard – he did not want to pay the price for Joan’s spite. Doe and Poachin obviously thought the same, as they kept their distance. A fourth man was with them, and Chaloner recoiled in surprise. It was Jacob, his erstwhile footman.

  ‘You dismissed your staff, so I took him on,’ said Doe. His tone was triumphant, as if he imagined he had somehow scored a victory over the spy. Chaloner suspected that both men were in for an unpleasant surprise – one when he learned he had hired an inveterate sluggard, and the other when he realised he was employed by a man who expected him to work.

  ‘Come to my office,’ instructed Baron curtly. ‘I do not do business in this room.’

  He led the way, Doe and Poachin at his heels, while Chaloner and Jacob brought up the rear.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Chaloner whispered, feeling obliged to warn the footman against the path he had elected to take. ‘You are—’

  ‘You ousted me,’ said Jacob coldly. ‘I had no choice but to throw myself on Doe’s mercy.’

  ‘Hannah will ask at Court whether there are vacancies in—’

  ‘Do not bother. But I will have my revenge, Chaloner. I shall tell your wife’s fine friends about her frolics with the Duke of Buckingham.’

  Chaloner declined to be provoked into a fight in a place where it was likely to see him trounced – or worse – and treated the remark to the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. Jacob was a fool for running to Doe, but if he would not to listen to good advice, then there was nothing Chaloner could do about it.

  They reached Baron’s office at the same time as two men carrying sacks and long poles, and it did not take a genius to see that here were a pair of curbers bringing spoils to their masters. Poachin made an impatient noise at the back of his throat and bundled them away before they could say anything incriminating. Baron smiled coldly.

  ‘My commercial interests are diverse,’ he said, and Chaloner had the feeling that he was being challenged – that both knew stolen goods had just been paraded, and Baron w
as defying him to do anything about it. ‘God has been good to me. In business, at least. He let me down rather in the matter of Caesar. I shall have to have a word with Him later.’

  ‘I have supplied you with the requisite number of new customers,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment on Baron’s relationship with the Almighty. ‘Where are the Earl’s curtains?’

  ‘New customers,’ mused Baron, tapping his chin. ‘Who, exactly?’

  ‘Lady Castlemaine and lords Rochester, Shaftesbury, Arlington and Buckingham,’ replied Chaloner briskly. ‘Seymour and Southampton will soon follow – almost twice as many as stipulated in our agreement.’

  ‘Their servants have opened negotiations certainly, but no coins have yet changed hands.’

  If Baron intended to wait for money before honouring the agreement, the Earl might never see his goods, thought Chaloner in alarm. Those particular courtiers never settled bills promptly.

  ‘I have every faith in your ability to collect what you are owed,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘And now it is time for you to keep your promise.’

  There was a flash of something unreadable in Baron’s eyes, while Doe tensed, ready to spring forward with his fists, and Poachin fingered the knife in his belt. Chaloner saw he should have been more circumspect. Then Baron laughed, and clapped a friendly arm around his shoulders. Chaloner sneezed, and he removed it quickly.

  ‘You should work for me,’ he said. ‘I could do with a man like you.’

  ‘No!’ objected Jacob. He gulped when Baron whipped around to glare at him. ‘I mean you do not want him in your retinue, sir. He has a reputation for insolence.’

  ‘Then I would kill him,’ said Baron, and laughed again. Chaloner had no idea if he was joking. Then the felon gestured to where food had been left to keep warm over the fire. ‘Eat with me, Chaloner. My wife is an excellent cook, and has prepared a mash of eggs with smoked pork and onions. Leave us, Jacob. You, too, Poachin.’

  Doe smugly took a seat at the table, and behind Baron’s back, Poachin’s eyes blazed with envy. He did not move for a moment, but stamped out when Baron swivelled around to look questioningly at him. Doe began to pass around spoons and knives, while Baron brought the pot from the hearth. It might have been a homely scene, if Chaloner’s dining companions had not been two very dangerous criminals.