Farrow’s rant was drawing approving nods from onlookers, so Chaloner backed away, pulling Swaddell with him, as arguing was doing more harm than good. Then one of Williamson’s officers arrived with a small unit of men and a brief, exasperated message saying there was a legal hiccup over the warrant – which had to be sound or the case against Baron would collapse before it had started. Swaddell and Chaloner were to keep the peace until the matter could be resolved.
‘I expected more than this from cooperating with the Spymaster,’ grumbled Chaloner, daunted by the scale of the task that confronted them. The mood of the multitude was growing more dangerous by the minute, and it was obvious that a serious riot was in the offing. For a start, many folk were wearing masks – ostensibly to protect themselves from the plague – which rendered them anonymous; it was common knowledge that those who believed themselves to be unrecognisable were more likely to misbehave.
Swaddell shot him a black look. ‘He will be doing his best, but the wheels of justice do not always move swiftly.’
They did not seem to be moving at all as far as Chaloner was concerned, and there followed one of the longest and most trying days he could ever recall passing. Swaddell directed Williamson’s soldiers in a complex game of cat and mouse with the ringleaders of the brewing unrest, while Chaloner spirited any number of troublemakers down dark alleys and advised them to desist. Between them, they managed an uneasy status quo through the afternoon and into the evening, but both knew that all bets would be off once darkness fell.
Shopkeepers thought so, too, and were closing their shutters. They were hampered by petty thieves, who worked in packs to dart in and steal. Baron’s trainband was trying to stop them, but as soon as they had secured one business, another came under attack. The King of Cheapside was losing control. Was it because he was distracted by Caesar’s probable fate? And why were more of Williamson’s troops not on hand to help?
‘Because we do not have enough men,’ snapped Swaddell when Chaloner asked. ‘We cannot keep the plague from spreading and quell unrest. It is not an army – just a few soldiers.’
Chaloner happened to be passing the Oxley house at dusk, and saw the plague cart arrive to collect the bodies. It was a grim vehicle, tall with high sides, operated by two men in masks and long cloaks. They had a brazier burning on the seat next to them, which released a noxious stench, and grey-white powder dropped from the back of the wagon each time it hit a rut in the road – the lime that was used as a disinfectant.
Shaw came to the window to watch, and a ragged cheer of encouragement went up from passers-by. He acknowledged it with a weary smile. He was wearing an old blue coat, which he hugged around himself as if he were cold.
‘Lettice wrapped them as well as she could,’ he called to the drivers. ‘But she could not find enough big blankets, so please be careful. One is a child.’
There was no response from the men, who had doubtless seen other children that day. They adjusted their clothes, took deep breaths, and opened Oxley’s door. Moments later, they emerged with a bundle. As they swung it into the waiting wagon, the blanket fell away. Chaloner braced himself for an ugly sight, but Emma looked strangely peaceful, her skin marble white. Oxley was next, followed by the boy.
‘Do you have any dead?’ asked one driver, glancing up at Shaw.
‘Not yet,’ came the whispered reply.
The wagon trundled away to its next port of call, while the crowd watched in silence.
Darkness fell, but still there was no word from Williamson, and householders and shopkeepers all along Cheapside lit pitch torches in the hope that the light would deter thieves. Throngs of men and women emerged from the alleys and adjoining streets to prowl, and although they pretended to be taking the air, Chaloner knew they were there to join the trouble when it came.
Then one of the Spymaster’s captains arrived with four burly men in tow. They were not soldiers, but the louts Williamson engaged when he needed an intimidating presence, which meant they were neither loyal nor particularly trustworthy.
‘Here is the warrant at last,’ the captain said, handing a piece of paper to Swaddell. ‘Mr Williamson wants it executed immediately, and he sent these fellows to help.’
‘Baron has an entire trainband at his disposal,’ remarked Chaloner, watching Swaddell scan the document quickly, then shove it in his pocket. ‘I think we might need more than four hired hands to persuade him to leave his home and come with us.’
‘Well you cannot have them,’ retorted the captain. ‘There is trouble in King Street, Drury Lane, London Wall, Fleet Street and Tower Hill. All London is in uproar tonight.’
‘I thought it was just Cheapside,’ said Swaddell.
‘If only,’ growled the captain.
‘What about Randal’s book?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Has Williamson found the publisher yet?’
‘No, but he has risen from his sickbed to lead the search himself – he had no choice, given that he has no spare agents. He told me to hurry back and help him, so I had better oblige. Good luck.’
Chaloner thought they would need it. With the four men lumbering behind, he and Swaddell ran to Baron’s house, only to find it in darkness, its doors locked and windows shuttered. A passer-by explained why: Baron had decided that London was too dangerous for his wife and children, so he had sent them to the country.
‘He is still here, though,’ the man added. ‘He would never abandon his kingdom. I saw him not long ago, heading for the Feathers.’
Unlike most taverns, which were enjoying a roaring trade from people keen to fuel their courage with ale, the Feathers was closed, and there was no sign of the doormen who were usually on hand to collect entry fees from guests. Chaloner and Swaddell crept to the back of the building, where light seeped dimly from under a single shutter. The rear door was locked but Chaloner had it open in a trice.
He indicated that the hirelings were to wait outside while he and Swaddell went to find out what was happening. The quartet nodded wordlessly, although they were patently uneasy, and he wondered how long their nerve would hold. Why had Williamson provided such paltry troops when he had claimed that quelling the trouble around Cheapside was important? But it was no time to ponder, because Swaddell was poking him in the back, prompting him to step inside.
The main part of the tavern was empty, but there were voices coming from the room that was lit. Chaloner padded towards it, Swaddell at his heels. The assassin had such a stealthy tread that Chaloner glanced around twice, just to make sure he was still there.
They reached the occupied room, a large chamber that was far more handsomely furnished than the rest of the inn. It was full of people, who sat around tables, all playing cards in an atmosphere of hushed concentration. They were drinking wine, not ale, and Chaloner understood why when he recognised the participants. Some, like Chiffinch, Bab May, Brodrick and Sir George Carteret, were courtiers; others included wealthy merchants, one or two clergymen and – somewhat unexpectedly – Misick. The game was primero, and the amount of money on the tables was more than Chaloner would earn in a decade.
‘Such high stakes are illegal,’ whispered Swaddell, as if he imagined Chaloner might not know. ‘Although it is no shock to learn that Baron ignores the law.’
The felon himself was standing near the back of the room, watching the proceedings with a fatherly smile, although there was a glint of greed in his eyes. Doe was at his side, while Poachin prowled with a wine jug.
‘No wonder these people are in debt,’ murmured Chaloner. ‘Doubtless, this is the kind of game that destroyed Colburn.’
Swaddell eased forward to get a better view but inadvertently knocked a tankard from a shelf. Chaloner watched in horror as it toppled and began to fall. Swaddell reacted with impressive speed, though. He twisted around and the vessel dropped neatly into his hands, so the clatter that would have betrayed them was no more than a click as the lid snapped shut. The games continued undisturbed, although Poachin excused himself to fet
ch more wine from the cellar.
‘Good,’ murmured Swaddell. ‘Now there is only Baron, Doe and four of their trainband. We shall be evenly matched when I fetch our warriors.’
‘You are not counting the gamblers,’ whispered Chaloner.
‘They will not fight for Baron – or against us.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Of course they will! The alternative is being exposed for illegal gaming.’
‘They would not dare. Besides, Misick is trained to heal wounds, not cause them, while Brodrick would never raise a hand against his cousin’s man.’
‘He might, if it means keeping the Earl in the dark about his antics. And Chiffinch and May would love an opportunity to kill me. We need to ask Williamson for more soldiers.’
‘You heard: he does not have them to lend us. And this is perfect, Chaloner! Baron will never evade prison if we catch him in the act of presiding over illegal card games. Now fetch our troops while I keep an eye on him.’
Chaloner was deeply unhappy but began to creep back through the tavern. He was not at all surprised when he reached the street to discover that the hirelings had disappeared. Wearily, he started to return to Swaddell, but a creak made him whip around.
‘Are you looking for me?’
It was Baron. Chaloner reached for his sword, but Baron had a gun and shook his head, tutting as he did so. Doe and Jacob were with him, the latter looking nothing like a footman with his unshaven face and rough clothes; Chaloner supposed he had reverted to the kind of person he had been before landing a cushy post in Tothill Street.
‘It is all right, Baron,’ said Swaddell, stepping out of the shadows. ‘Chaloner knows nothing that can incriminate us. Shall we adjourn to your office to discuss the situation? I confess I am surprised to see you holding a meeting tonight. You did not tell me.’
‘You will find a message waiting for you in Westminster, Mr Swaddell,’ replied Baron, while Chaloner looked from one to the other in dismay. ‘Do not worry. You will not lose out.’
Chaloner did not know whether he was angrier at himself for thinking that he and Swaddell might be on the same side, or with the assassin for being swayed by what were probably very large sums of money.
Chapter 14
Chaloner fought with all his might when Doe came to lay hold of him, ignoring Swaddell’s pleas to surrender with good grace. Baron brandished his gun, but Chaloner ignored it, knowing the felon would not want to alarm his distinguished guests by blasting away with firearms. With a grimace, the King of Cheapside entered the affray with his fists, at which point Chaloner knew the battle was lost. He went down in a flurry of punches, but continued to struggle until a sack was pulled over his head and he was bound so tightly that he could not move.
There followed an uncomfortable journey tossed over someone’s shoulder – he suspected Baron’s, because he was toted as though he were made of feathers. He knew they were on Cheapside, as he could hear the bells of St Mary Woolchurch, while a choking stench from one of the plague bonfires permeated the sack, almost asphyxiating him.
Next there came the sound of doors being opened and relocked, and he was bumped roughly down some stairs. The temperature dropped, telling him that he was underground. His stomach turned to ice at the notion that he was being taken to a cell, and with Hannah living in White Hall and Thurloe away, no one would think to look for him for days, if not weeks. Panic made it more difficult to draw breath into his lungs, and he felt himself begin to black out.
The next thing he knew was that he was lying on a cold stone floor. The sack was off his head, and he was no longer tied up, although he had no recollection of being freed. He opened his eyes, and a quick check revealed what he had already suspected: that he had been stripped of all his weapons, probably by Swaddell, who would know where to look.
The faint smell of damp cloth told him that he was in the cellar below Baron’s house, where the stolen drapery was stored. He sat up to see that one corner of the room had been converted into a little parlour, with an eclectic selection of fine furniture, including cushion-strewn benches and a table loaded with food and wine. Baron, Doe, Poachin and Swaddell were talking in low voices nearby, and when Swaddell saw that Chaloner was awake, he went to the table and poured a cup of wine. Chaloner did not take the proffered goblet.
‘Now I know why you wrote part of your letter to Williamson in cipher,’ he said coldly. ‘It told him to ignore the following “plea” for help, which is why it took so long to arrive – and when it did, it comprised four hirelings who would disappear at the first sign of trouble. There was probably no warrant either. You are just another traitor, seduced by the scent of gold.’
Swaddell’s restless eyes stopped roaming around the room and settled on him, which Chaloner found distinctly unnerving. They were cold and hard, like a shark’s.
‘An oath is an oath,’ he said. ‘My loyalties are—’
‘Swaddell and I have an understanding,’ said Baron, coming to join them and giving Chaloner one of his engaging grins. ‘One that has been in force for some time.’
Chaloner recalled what the felon had said when he and Swaddell had visited the Feathers together – that he had made Swaddell the same offer that he had made Chaloner. Obviously, Swaddell had been less squeamish about accepting.
‘Protection Tax,’ explained Swaddell. ‘Baron pays it as well as collects it.’
‘Each month, Mr Swaddell here earns a nice little allowance in return for keeping the authorities from being too interested in what I do,’ Baron went on smugly. ‘All without the knowledge of Spymaster Williamson, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Chaloner flatly. He was furious with himself for believing that Swaddell could be trusted. The man was an assassin, and such people were not noted for their sense of honour. Worse, Chaloner had even felt the stirrings of respect for him, and the sense that perhaps they might do some good together.
‘You did well,’ said Baron, turning to Poachin. ‘I did not hear them prowling about.’
‘It was the tankard falling off the shelf.’ Poachin was obviously pleased by the praise. ‘When it dropped, the lid snapped, so I went to investigate. I found four men outside, but sixpence saw them on their way.’
Doe was pouting jealously. There were more bruises on his face than there had been earlier, and Chaloner was glad that some of his punches had struck home.
‘Poachin did not do well,’ he snapped. ‘He mishandled the situation badly. He allowed Chaloner to create a rumpus that upset our visitors, and they called an early end to the games. It has lost us a lot of money.’
‘It was you who caused the rumpus,’ countered Poachin, nettled. ‘I was about to slip up behind him and slit his throat, nice and quiet, but you started a brawl.’
‘Doe was right to stop you,’ said Baron sharply. ‘Gashed necks are difficult to pass off as accidents, as I have told you before.’
‘Was it card games run by you that ruined Colburn?’ asked Chaloner, watching Poachin’s face take on a murderous expression. It turned darker still when Doe smirked at him, and Chaloner wondered if he could use their enmity to his advantage.
Baron was nodding. ‘I did suggest he rein back, but the urge had bitten him and he would not listen. We refused to let him play after he had lost all he owned, but he promptly went to the bankers for money.’ He shrugged. ‘Once he could pay his debts again, we let him return. It was not our fault that he ruined himself and others – it was his decision to keep gambling, and to lie to the goldsmiths about why he wanted loans.’
‘We lost money in the end, too,’ added Doe. He limped to the table, hand to his side, and poured himself some wine. ‘He gave us a house to pay off one debt, but it was a place he had already sold to someone else. He cheated us.’
There was a rattle of footsteps on the stairs, and Jacob appeared. ‘I saw all your guests safely away from Cheapside, like you ordered,’ he reported. ‘Except Misick, who wanted to stop at the music shop and leave more
medicine for Lettice Shaw. But he was too late – she is dead.’
‘And?’ asked Baron, unmoved by the news, although Chaloner was sorry.
‘Word is that the turmoil in the rest of the city has been quelled, but I suspect it is because all the troublemakers and malcontents have come here. They heard rumours that we are on the verge of a riot, see, and want to join in. I was told this by the several strangers who I stopped.’
‘Who started these tales?’ demanded Baron angrily.
‘A man who kept his face hidden by a scarf,’ replied Jacob wryly, ‘which describes half the population of London at the moment. Regardless, his lying tongue has brought a lot of undesirables into our domain, and there are too many for the trainband to oust.’
Baron’s expression was dark. ‘What do they want? To loot our shops and businesses?’
‘Some do. Others are here to support us in defying the government’s unfair plague measures. But most came to protest against the bankers.’
‘Taylor,’ spat Baron. ‘He is the problem. People accused Wheler of being greedy, but he was a saint compared to Taylor. The other financiers profess to abhor his methods, but they will adopt them now they have seen how well they work, which will bring Cheapside even more bother.’
‘There is bad feeling over The Court & Kitchin as well,’ added Jacob, ‘because of a rumour that its author has been murdered.’
‘Then we had better go and sort it out,’ said Baron tersely. ‘With God and the trainband’s help.’
‘Shall we kill Chaloner before we start?’ asked Doe, starting forward eagerly.
‘No,’ said Swaddell sharply. ‘Unless you want the Lord Chancellor prying into our affairs.’
Doe backed off, although Chaloner doubted the Earl would give them much cause for concern. When he failed to report, his employer would simply assume he had either died of plague or had disappeared to avoid paying Hannah’s debts.
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