Not long afterwards, Chaloner spotted Silas. His old friend was with Misick, and they had evidently indulged in a musical interlude, as both held flutes, although it did not seem that Silas had enjoyed the session, as his face was darker than Chaloner had ever seen it. Such an expression did not sit well on his usually jovial features, and made him look uncannily like his sire.
‘I am no longer my father’s son,’ he said bitterly, when Chaloner went to ask what was the matter. ‘He has disowned me.’
‘He is not in his right mind,’ said Chaloner soothingly. ‘I doubt he meant it.’
‘Oh, yes, he did,’ countered Silas. ‘And dear Evan was there to bear witness to the fact.’
‘Randal is dead,’ said Chaloner, hating to be the bearer of more bad news. ‘I am sorry. He was shot during an altercation at his mistress’s house.’
But Silas only shrugged, although Misick’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘He always did lead a chaotic life. Who did it? His latest whore? Or Joan, aiming to wed a better man?’
Chaloner had no answer. ‘Before he died, he mentioned a soirée you held last week. One of your guests gave him a gun, which had been used to kill—’
‘I know nothing about his antics with weapons,’ interrupted Silas shortly. ‘You will have to speak to his whores about them.’
‘Then do you know who plans to publish his sequel tomorrow?’ Chaloner grabbed Silas’s arm when his friend started to stride away, tired of the discussion. ‘It is important, Silas! He will have the city awash with blood, as it will provide the perfect excuse for a riot.’
Silas laughed harshly. ‘They have plenty of excuses already, Tom. My brother’s ravings will make no difference. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak to Backwell.’
He shouldered his way through a group of butchers’ apprentices who happened to be in his way. Chaloner braced himself for trouble, but there was something in his savage mien that warned the lads against shoving him back. They scowled, but made no attempt to retaliate.
‘Take no notice,’ said Misick, clutching his wig when a passing urchin made a mischievous grab for it. ‘He is upset over the spat with his father, but will soon return to his usual sunny self.’
‘I hope so,’ murmured Swaddell, ‘because I do not like the sullen Silas at all.’
Neither did Chaloner, and Swaddell’s earlier words kept coming back to him. With Randal dead, Silas was one step closer to the family throne.
‘Have you heard about the Shaws?’ Misick was asking. ‘I told Lettice she should not have risked herself for the Oxley boy, but she would not listen. Now she has a fever.’
‘Then give her more of your Plague Elixir,’ said Chaloner. Unbidden, a memory of Aletta filled his mind, but he forced it down. He could not afford to be distracted when he had so much else to occupy his thoughts.
‘She has had a hefty dose already,’ said Misick. He looked sheepish. ‘But it is not as effective as I had hoped, even with the extra alum. It did not save the Howard family either.’
Chaloner turned when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Backwell, who had Vyner, Glosson and several other financiers at his heels, although Silas had evidently decided against talking to the man, as he was not among the gathering. The bankers were attracting even more angry attention, and their guards were nervous. Several toted guns, and Chaloner hoped they would not be panicked into using one. Backwell was angry.
‘You carry the government’s authority,’ he snapped, looking first at Chaloner and then at Swaddell. He held a coin, which he raised absently to his lips, like a talisman. ‘So tell these folk to stop harassing us every time we step out of our houses. It is beginning to be irksome.’
‘I am sure it is,’ replied Swaddell, equally cool. ‘But it is difficult to persuade them to respect Goldsmiths’ Company members when you are ruled by a madman.’
‘We are not,’ retorted Backwell shortly. ‘Not any more. It was decided that Taylor is no longer the man for the task, so an emergency election was called. Flatteringly, my colleagues voted me into office as Master.’
Chaloner frowned his surprise. ‘You said you were too busy for such a role.’
‘I am, but my fellow goldsmiths need me, so it is my duty to step into the breach.’
‘Does Taylor know?’ asked Swaddell.
‘Joan will tell him when she gets home. But I am not the only one who needs to make sacrifices. You must emulate your bold uncle, Chaloner – he would not have stood by helplessly while the very foundations of his country crumbled. He would have acted.’
‘And what would he have done?’ Chaloner was willing to try anything to avert a crisis, although he doubted his reckless kinsman would have devised anything very sensible.
‘Used his imagination,’ replied Backwell unhelpfully. Then he glared, and Chaloner saw a darker, less pleasant side to the seemingly amiable financier. ‘The King will not want a run on the banks, so think very carefully before denying our requests for help.’
‘A run has already started,’ said Glosson grimly. ‘Someone began a rumour that I am on the brink of collapse, and my depositors are clamouring for their money back. The tale was untrue, but that might change if the tale persists.’
‘And our failure means the fall of the government,’ warned Backwell. ‘So you two had better do something fast.’
‘Go home,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking the situation might ease if the goldsmiths did not parade their expensive clothes and armies of henchmen. ‘It is—’
‘Pah!’ spat Backwell. ‘You are no more worthy of your name than Evan is of his.’
‘What is taking Williamson so long?’ asked Chaloner agitatedly, as time ticked past and no word came from the Spymaster. ‘You say arresting Coo’s killer will calm Cheapside, but I am not sure that will be true for much longer – the situation will have moved past that point.’
‘There is Baron,’ said Swaddell, not answering. ‘In the doorway of that tavern. Did you see his face when his horse bumped into Joan? She will order it destroyed and he knows it. Perhaps we should follow her, and catch him when he appears to blow her brains out.’
Baron was staring down Cheapside with an expression that was difficult to fathom. Then Doe and Poachin approached. Doe was limping and there was a bruise on his face, while Poachin’s hair was less perfect than usual. Chaloner wondered whether their rivalry had spilled over into physical violence.
‘He has seen us,’ said Swaddell sharply, ‘and is coming over. Not a word about the gun. He might run if he thinks we are on the verge of arresting him.’
Chaloner did not think so: Baron was not the sort of man to flee trouble, and besides, where would he go? Cheapside was his home, and he was far more likely to make a stand there. He watched the felon approach, Doe at his side, while Poachin lagged behind in a way that should have warned Baron that his partiality for the younger man had created a dangerous rift.
‘I was sorry to hear about Oxley,’ said Swaddell politely. ‘I imagine you will miss him.’
Baron inclined his head. ‘The plague is a terrible thing, and I pray to God that my own family will be spared.’
‘Amen,’ said Doe, although there was a smirk in his eyes.
‘My trainband shut up three houses on Friday Street today,’ Baron continued. ‘All bankers. Williamson’s searchers pretended it was something else, so we decided to act ourselves.’ He patted Doe’s shoulder. ‘Look at my young friend’s face – battered as he fought to seal these diseased merchants in their lairs.’
‘But I won,’ boasted Doe, puffing out his chest. ‘They will not spread their filthy contagions among decent people again.’
‘We do not want to die because the rich can buy favourable verdicts,’ added Poachin. ‘It would not be right.’
‘Impoverished ancients will always be partial to bribes, I am afraid,’ said Swaddell. ‘Yet some are conscientious. They rooted out two cases on Cheapside this morning, which your own searchers seem to have missed, even though
I am told they visited.’
‘I shall look into the matter,’ said Baron smoothly.
‘Do,’ said Swaddell. ‘And remember that this is a deadly disease. We cannot afford to play games with it.’
‘We shall do our bit,’ replied Baron coldly. ‘If you ensure the rich do theirs.’
He gave a brief, rather challenging bow before sauntering away, his captains following. Chaloner stared after them. If Baron aimed to turn the situation into a war against the bankers, then perhaps he had murdered Coo – the saintly physician would certainly not have condoned locking healthy people away and letting infected ones go free on the basis of their finances.
‘Perhaps I should go to Williamson,’ said Swaddell, as more time passed and the mood along Cheapside grew increasingly tense. ‘You are right – if we do not arrest Coo’s killer soon, it will not matter, because there will be trouble here anyway.’
Chaloner agreed. ‘I have never seen this road so crowded.’
‘Nor have I, and one of the plague measures Williamson was ordered to implement is to prevent large gatherings of people. You do not need me to tell you why: if one infected person moves among them…’
‘Perhaps one already has,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘If all these closed homes represent genuine cases of the pestilence – not other ailments, as most people believe – then it is spreading anyway. The measures are not working.’
‘Perhaps not, but they are all we have. Or are you ready to give up and resign yourself to epidemics like the ones that ravaged Venice and Amsterdam?’
Chaloner did not know what to think, and looked at the nearest plague houses, which were Oxley’s and the music shop. Some spectators were calling for the inmates to come to their windows, but none did.
‘All dead,’ shouted one crone. ‘They were shut up and left to die.’
‘Then you should be glad they perished inside, not out here among you,’ called a nervous watcher, hoping to appeal to reason. ‘We have no choice but to isolate suspected cases.’
He should have kept quiet, because his remark prompted an argument. It was confined to angry words, although there was some pushing and shoving at the back. Then Chaloner spotted a familiar figure.
‘There is Taylor. What is he doing?’
The banker had snagged a passing mason, and was muttering in a way that had the fellow shying away in alarm. Taylor jabbed an irritable forefinger at what he wanted, and the mason handed over a sledgehammer, although with obvious reluctance. Taylor set his Plague Box carefully on the step of the Standard, picked up the sledgehammer, and dealt the door to the fountain an almighty blow. Nothing happened, so he did it again and there was a metallic screech as the lock disintegrated. He tossed the implement away, picked up his Plague Box and disappeared inside.
Intrigued by the unusual sight of a goldsmith laying siege to a public building, people began to gather around the Standard to see what would happen next.
‘There is nothing inside except a cistern and a spiral staircase that emerges on the roof,’ said Swaddell, puzzled. ‘There is a rail at the top, but it has corroded from the foul air.’
‘You mean Taylor might fall if he goes up there?’
‘He might. And it is a long way down, so he will certainly die.’
‘He must be having one of his turns. But here is Evan. He will coax his father away.’
Evan tried the door but it would not open, so he charged at it with his shoulder. He reeled away with a howl of pain when it held firm, and the onlookers laughed. Mortified, Evan snarled an order to his henchmen. One was Joliffe, who had the sense to use the sledgehammer. However, although the wood splintered, the door did not open, and it quickly became apparent that Taylor had blocked it from the other side. The crowd jeered mockingly when Joliffe’s assault faltered.
Then Taylor appeared on the roof. He was an imposing figure, and eyed the people below with haughty disdain. Even from a distance, Chaloner sensed the power of the man, and the onlookers’ merriment faded when his dark eyes swept across them. The banker nodded once, then removed a bottle from his pocket and treated himself to a sip.
‘Is he drunk?’ wondered Swaddell.
‘Medicine,’ muttered Chaloner, recognising the phial as one of Misick’s. ‘Let us hope it brings him to his senses before he does anything rash.’
‘It will be too late – he is going to throw himself off! Lord! That will do nothing to raise confidence in the financial market!’
‘No, it is worse!’ breathed Chaloner. ‘He is going to make a speech. We must stop him before he says or does something to cause a riot.’
‘How?’ asked Swaddell archly. ‘If Evan’s brawny followers cannot batter down the door, then we are unlikely to succeed. Or are you suggesting that I shoot him?’
‘I cannot imagine that would help. Let us hope Evan is in time then.’
Taylor took another leisurely slurp from his flask, after which he tipped the remainder on to Joliffe’s head. There was a roar of appreciative laughter from the onlookers, during which Taylor drew himself up to his full height. An expectant hush fell over those below.
‘Debt is a terrible thing,’ he boomed. ‘And only fools allow themselves to be seduced into it. They should all be taken to Tyburn, and hanged by the neck until they are dead.’
‘It is the bankers who should be hanged,’ bellowed Brewer Farrow, his voice the loudest over the howls of indignation that greeted Taylor’s remarks. ‘They are the ones who lent the money in the first place, and who set crippling rates of interest. Wheler destroyed me before he was stabbed – and good riddance to him.’
There was a frenzy of cheers, although several financiers, safely behind a wall of henchmen, gave vent to yells of ‘Shame!’ Chaloner noticed that the crowd was growing larger by the minute, and its mood was ugly.
‘Bankers are angels of God,’ bawled Taylor, a claim that startled even his colleagues. ‘I saw an omen – a three-headed serpent – and I know what the Lord wants me to do. I must save the world from debtors by unleashing the plague on them. I have it in here.’
He brandished the box and the crowd flinched backwards. Then he leaned against the rail, which flexed alarmingly.
‘Plague worms and gold, gold and plague worms,’ he chanted, shaking the box up and down so it rattled. ‘The pestilence will cleanse the city of all vile vermin.’
‘What vermin?’ demanded Farrow. ‘You had better not mean us.’
‘Colburn,’ hissed Taylor. He grabbed the rail with his free hand. It released a tortured shriek of protest, but miraculously did not tear from the wall. ‘He started this evil, but I showed him. He is in his grave now, and the plague worms will eat him.’
‘Lord! I hope he has not just confessed to killing Colburn,’ muttered Swaddell. ‘Williamson will not want me to assassinate the outgoing Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company.’
‘Misick’s Plague Elixir,’ yelled Taylor. ‘I drink it every night. It will keep me clean, but the rest of you will perish in a stinking blackness of pestilence and—’
He stopped abruptly, because Joliffe had broken through the door and reached the roof.
There was a lot of jeering as Taylor was bundled unceremoniously out of the Standard and into a waiting coach. Chaloner glimpsed Misick’s massive wig inside and medicines being proffered. Then the driver cracked his whip and the carriage rattled away. He supposed Taylor would share the fate of his hapless colleague Johnson, and be packed off to Bedlam.
‘Oh, God,’ groaned Swaddell, as Evan took his father’s place on the balcony. ‘Now what?’
‘Good people of London,’ Evan began in a voice that was weak and high compared to his father’s authoritative bass. ‘You should not believe all you hear about—’
‘You are a villain!’ howled Farrow. ‘Worse than a thief, because you are already rich, but you aim to make yourself wealthier on the backs of decent, hard-working folk. Shame on you!’
‘Shut your mouth,’ snarled Joliffe, stridin
g towards him and shoving his face menacingly close. ‘Or I will shut it for you.’
Unfortunately for him, far from being intimidated, Farrow took a swing at the tempting target. Joliffe reeled back with blood gushing from his nose, while the crowd roared its delight. Evan ducked back into the stairwell when a hail of stones flew towards him, wisely abandoning his efforts to make amends for his father’s proclamations.
When some of the bankers’ henchmen waded into the horde to extricate Joliffe, Chaloner braced himself for the start of a serious fracas, but Baron’s trainband saved the day. They were polite but firm, and as neither guards nor onlookers were willing to fight the King of Cheapside, they began to disperse. Yet many did not go far: some congregated around the plague houses, muttering in low voices, while many formed sullen packs that lurked in alleys. Others walked with silent purpose down Friday and Bread Streets.
‘Taylor’s stupid opinions have provided the spark that folk have been waiting for,’ said Swaddell in a low voice. ‘I sense trouble looming.’
So did Chaloner. ‘They are aiming for Goldsmiths’ Row,’ he said urgently. ‘Come on!’
He and Swaddell hurried there, and arrived to find people clamouring at the doors of every financier for the funds they had deposited. The run had started.
‘The banks are on the verge of collapse, and you will lose everything unless you take all your money out now.’ It was Farrow again. ‘Hurry! Reclaim—’
Swaddell grabbed his arm. ‘Enough,’ he said fiercely. ‘You are not helping.’
‘Not helping whom?’ snarled Farrow. ‘The goldsmiths? Who cares? They are maggots.’
‘Very possibly,’ said Swaddell. ‘But if they fail, we will not be able to fight the Dutch.’
‘Good! It was a stupid idea to go to war anyway.’
‘Then think about the plague. The government will need to borrow from them to pay for watchers, bonfires—’
‘If it comes, it will be their fault for not shutting themselves up when they were infected,’ interrupted Farrow, stabbing an accusing finger towards the opulent houses. ‘And the searchers’ fault for claiming that everything is the plague unless someone bribes them to say otherwise. The whole city is corrupt, and we have had enough of it.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 34