Chaloner staggered to his feet and raced forward, butting Baron powerfully enough to make him loosen his hold for the moment that Swaddell needed to wriggle free. They exchanged a glance of understanding, then attacked together, but Baron was impervious to their thumps, punches and kicks. The ones he gave back, however, were debilitating, and Chaloner knew that unless they did something fast, they were going to be pummelled into oblivion.
He glanced around wildly and his eye fell on Swaddell’s pistols. He snatched one up, and managed to dart in and deliver a sharp blow to the side of the felon’s head. Baron collapsed to his knees, reeled for a moment, then crashed to the floor.
‘Good,’ muttered Swaddell, retrieving both guns and indicating that Chaloner should take the cutlass. ‘Now follow me.’
They did not get far. When they reached the top of the stairs, they saw Doe at the end of the hall with Jacob and several other members of the trainband. Chaloner and Swaddell could not pass them, so they ducked into a conveniently located coal cupboard. They would have to wait until the coast was clear. Then Baron staggered up the stairs.
‘Swaddell has betrayed us,’ he said in a low voice that nevertheless held considerable rage. ‘Find him. He will not be far.’
‘Later,’ said Doe, pulling a gun from his belt and pointing it at Baron. ‘I have dealt with Poachin. Now it is your turn.’
Baron gaped at Doe. So did Swaddell, although Chaloner had guessed the identity of the traitor during the discussion about Caesar. Baron had made an erroneous assumption: that Doe would not have killed the witness who heard Wheler bequeath him the horse. He had overestimated his protégé’s affection for him, and the truth was that Doe did not care that Coo’s murder had lost Baron an animal for which he had formed a very deep attachment.
‘You have killed Poachin?’ asked Baron hoarsely. ‘I told you to bring him back alive.’
Doe limped down the passageway. ‘He will die tonight and so will you. You are too old for this business, and the time has come to yield to a younger man.’
Before Baron could respond, Doe lurched forward and dealt him a blow with the pommel of his dagger. It would not have landed had Baron been himself, but he was still dazed and went down hard. Scenting victory, Doe was on him like a wild animal, kicking and punching.
‘The trainband will never follow a weasel like Doe,’ hissed Swaddell to Chaloner in the darkness of their cupboard. ‘His coup will be a disaster. Baron is the lesser of two evils – we shall have to save him.’
‘For what?’ Chaloner whispered back. ‘Williamson to hang?’
Swaddell grimaced. ‘You kept saying that someone wanted us to think Baron guilty of murder. Well, it seems you were right.’
Chaloner knew it. ‘Doe is the killer. He shot Coo to turn people against Baron, which means he probably also killed Randal, Neve and Fatherton.’
‘Well, he will not get away with it. Now think!’
Chaloner assessed the situation. Doe had five armed men; he and Swaddell had a cutlass, two unloaded guns and the element of surprise. The odds were not good.
Meanwhile, Baron had mustered enough strength to push Doe away and take refuge behind a chest. Doe stood with one hand to his side – the assault had hurt him as much as his victim.
‘I should have known.’ Baron’s eyes glittered with rage. ‘All those sly words about Poachin … but it was you who plotted against me.’
‘For my rightful inheritance,’ stated Doe. ‘I stabbed Wheler so that I could take over, but you seized control before I could act.’
‘You shot Coo,’ said Baron, his voice thick with disgust. ‘A good man. God help you!’
Doe shrugged. ‘I used your gun and waved it all along Cheapside, to make sure people saw. Then I gave it to Randal, saying it was from you, in the expectation that Williamson would see it when he visited him to discuss The Court & Kitchin. But stupid Williamson never did find Randal, which meant I had to get the weapon back…’
He rubbed his side again, and then Chaloner understood exactly how he had been hurt – at Polly’s house, when he had been used as a shield against his knife-wielding crony. It was how his face had been bruised, too – not from locking plague-ridden bankers in their houses as he had claimed.
‘How could you have used a sot like Randal to further your plans?’ sneered Baron. ‘Fool!’
‘It was a mistake,’ acknowledged Doe. ‘However, there were no misjudgements with Neve. I killed him with your other gun, and soon everyone will believe that you are the culprit.’
‘I suppose you burned Milbourn’s workshop as well. That was stupid – tame printers are useful.’
Doe shrugged. ‘I told him not to publish Randal’s book, as I could see it would cause trouble, but he ignored me. I shall tell everyone that you did it – and that you killed Fatherton before incinerating his corpse in Bearbinder Alley.’
So Noll had run to Doe when he had been told to fetch the constable, thought Chaloner. But there was no time to ponder the lad’s betrayal, because Baron was speaking again.
‘No one will believe you. I have no reason to want Fatherton dead.’
‘I shot him in the head, which is how you killed Parliamentarians during the wars. It is more difficult than aiming for the body, and you always did love to show off your skill as a marksman. Unfortunately, no one has made the connection yet, but I will make it known when I am King of Cheapside.’ He hissed between his teeth as he took a cudgel from Jacob. ‘It is a pity you will not be alive to see how well my clever plot will work.’
Swaddell glanced at Chaloner. ‘It has to be now. Ready?’
Chapter 16
Swaddell exploded from their hiding place, and his flailing pistols knocked one man insensible and caused two more to stagger back in alarm, while Chaloner slammed into Doe so hard that the cudgel cartwheeled from his hand. It was caught by Baron, who raised it above his head with a roar of triumph. Chaloner whipped around to deal with Jacob, dealing the ex-footman a kick that sent him sprawling.
Swaddell fell to a savage punch, so Chaloner stood over him, fending off attack after attack, while the assassin blinked frantically to clear his vision. Baron laid about him like a madman, and Jacob was struck stone dead as he tried to struggle to his feet. Doe glanced at him, which was his undoing – he did not see the knife in Baron’s other hand. He shrieked in pain and fury as it entered his innards, and once he was down, the fight went out of his surviving men. They backed away, then fled. Baron was after them with a vengeful howl.
‘Baron is doomed,’ whispered Doe, as Chaloner crouched next to him. ‘The murders of Wheler, Coo, Fatherton, Neve, Randal, the chaos here on Cheapside – all will be blamed on him.’
‘You should not have killed Coo,’ said Swaddell coldly. ‘He was a good man.’
Doe squinted up at him. ‘This is your fault – if you had been halfway efficient, you would have arrested Baron … But Taylor will put everything right, and Cheapside will be…’
‘Will be what?’ demanded Swaddell.
Doe coughed weakly. ‘I am not sure, but it will happen today. I met him not half an hour ago and he told me. He wore his hooded cloak and spoke with the voice of doom. He told me that he manages everything with a song. For vengeance.’
‘He is rambling,’ said Swaddell in disgust. ‘Leave him. There are more urgent matters—’
‘Now I know why DuPont went from Long Acre to Bearbinder Lane,’ said Chaloner, recalling how Doe had gloated over him for his ignorance. ‘It was not for free medicine, but because Doe paid him to go. Doe wanted the plague brought to Cheapside.’
‘No, I wanted it brought to Baron,’ corrected Doe softly.
‘Landlord Grey told me that DuPont had a visitor who wore a plague-mask,’ Chaloner went on. ‘Doe has one – he donned it to shoot Randal. Grey also said the visitor’s clothes were respectable without being showy, which describes those of a felon who makes a decent living. He wore the mask when he ordered Kelke and his cronies to inciner
ate Bearbinder Lane as well.’
Doe grimaced. ‘You should have died when I locked you in DuPont’s room. I cannot imagine how you contrived to escape.’
‘And then there was the hissing,’ Chaloner went on, ignoring him.
‘Hissing?’ queried Swaddell.
‘DuPont’s visitor hissed, which Grey thought was a sign of unease; Coo’s killer hissed when he saw me; Neve’s killer hissed in Clarendon House; Randal’s killer hissed when he met trouble; and Doe hissed when he was about to bludgeon Baron. A hissing man also met Fatherton and Onions in the Green Dragon to discuss stealing documents from Dutchmen.’
Doe scowled. ‘That was an ingenious plan. It should have worked.’
‘It was a ridiculous notion,’ countered Swaddell harshly. ‘Not one of your overly elaborate schemes stood a chance of succeeding, and you have done untold damage in the process. I suppose the deaths of the Oxley and Howard families were part of this stupid intrigue, too.’
‘No – they died of the plague.’ Spite flashed in Doe’s eyes. ‘And so will you. Taylor has the disease in his box. He told me so, and he will release it today…’
Baron returned and Chaloner tensed, not sure the felon would be in the mood to appreciate who had rescued him.
‘There is trouble afoot,’ Baron said tersely. ‘My trainband cannot stop it and neither can Williamson’s forces. Tear up the warrant for my arrest, and let us work together to save our city.’
Swaddell hesitated, but then pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. Baron snatched it and ripped it into shreds.
‘Shake hands,’ he instructed, ‘as a mark of our alliance. Just until this crisis is over, of course. After that, all bets are off.’
Chaloner’s hand was grasped first by Baron’s meaty paw, and then by Swaddell’s limp, damp one. So could they be trusted? He supposed he would find out.
Chaloner was assailed with a sense of the surreal as he padded along the dark streets with Swaddell on one side and Baron on the other, the trainband streaming at their heels, and he wondered at the quirks of fate that had led him to join forces with a criminal and an assassin.
It was the deepest part of the night, perhaps one or two o’clock, and Cheapside was eerie, because it was full of people at a time when it was normally quiet. It was brightly lit in parts, where the wealthier houses and shops were illuminated with pitch torches; the watchers had done the same with the plague houses, to deter anyone from attempting to storm them. In other areas, the darkness was absolute, especially in the alleys.
Everywhere was the sense that something was about to happen. Many folk strutted along armed to the teeth, their faces taut with anticipation; others skulked in the shadows. Another crowd had gathered around the Standard, where several people had followed Taylor’s example, and were making speeches. Their competing voices meant that none could be heard very well, which was fortunate, as not one was saying anything sensible.
Chaloner glanced at the music shop as he passed, and saw that the plague cart had stopped outside it. The door was open, and he skidded to a halt to watch two men emerge with a body wrapped in a sheet. They failed to swing it high enough to lodge on the corpses already there, and it slithered off again, landing on the ground with a thump.
‘Get back!’ barked one, when Shaw started forward with a cry of dismay. ‘You are law-bound to stay within your own four walls.’
‘Please!’ Shaw whispered hoarsely. ‘That is my wife. My Lettice…’
The men threw the body upwards again, and this time it stayed. A dead, white hand slipped out, and Shaw closed his eyes tightly.
‘There,’ said one of the men gruffly. ‘It is done. Now go back in.’
‘I hate this city,’ said Shaw in a low voice. ‘How could this have happened? It is a cruel place, and nothing is fair.’
He trudged inside and shut the door. Then Swaddell gave an angry shout, calling Chaloner on to Goldsmiths’ Row, where the bankers’ henchmen were struggling to keep an enormous crowd away from their employers’ properties. Several scuffles had broken out, and Chaloner was alarmed to note that the arrival of Baron and his trainband had done more to exacerbate the situation than calm it. Baron knew it, and thrust through his people to stand at the front of the screaming protesters, armed with nothing but the force of his personality.
‘Go home,’ be bellowed, and the sheer volume of his voice quelled much of the bickering. ‘There will be no trouble tonight.’
‘We are not going anywhere,’ yelled a man who wore a scarf over his face, although he was still recognisable as Brewer Farrow. He was surrounded by cronies who were similarly disguised.
‘The bankers have bled us dry,’ added a cooper, identifiable by the tools in his belt. It was evident from the restless way he fingered them that he did not have barrel-making in mind that night. ‘I cannot make a profit from my business, because they take it all.’
‘And now they refuse to return what we deposited with them,’ called a clerk. ‘They plan to keep my money for themselves. And to top it all, Taylor says he will give us the plague.’
The resulting roar of outrage was so loud that Chaloner fancied it rattled the nearby windows. The bankers’ guards drew weapons, and Chaloner recalled what Silas had told him – that they were well paid for their loyalty. He hoped his friend was right, because if not, there would be nothing between the mob and the riches within. Swaddell darted forward and grabbed Baron’s arm.
‘The whole country will be plunged into chaos if the goldsmiths are ruined by looters. We need economic stability, or we might as well surrender to the Dutch right now. Do something!’
Baron tried again. ‘Disperse, or as God is my witness, I will—’
‘We are not paying your Protection Tax any more either,’ hollered Farrow. ‘We want Doe instead – he has offered to halve it.’
Cheers vied with the trainband’s howls of indignation, and whatever else Baron bawled was lost in the racket. Someone lobbed a stone, and although it did him no harm, his followers reacted with fury. They shoved forward, trapping the crowd between their weapons and those of the bankers’ sentries. No blows were struck, but it was clear that a fight would not be long in coming.
Chaloner watched Baron struggle to regain control. Then he spotted two familiar figures ‘hiding’ at the entrance to White Goat Wynd: Wiseman and Misick.
‘Taylor has lost his reason,’ said Misick worriedly. He had tied his wig under his chin to prevent it from being snatched off, and the effect was bizarre. ‘Evan insisted on summoning help, so Joan told me to fetch Wiseman, but we cannot reach the house – we keep being pushed back.’
‘Why me?’ grumbled Wiseman. ‘I am a surgeon, not a mad-doctor. Unless she wants his head amputated.’
Given the embarrassment caused by Taylor’s unpredictable behaviour, Chaloner suspected the family might be by no means averse to such a solution.
‘I hope there is someone inside who can stop him from coming out and making another reckless speech,’ Swaddell said anxiously.
‘Yes – Evan,’ replied Misick.
Wiseman snorted his disbelief. ‘You think he can control Taylor? You should have sent a servant to fetch me and stayed by your patient’s side.’
‘I have only been gone for a few minutes,’ objected Misick. ‘And—’
‘I imagine it takes longer than that to play primero in the Feathers,’ interrupted Chaloner, unwilling to stand by while the physician told brazen lies.
‘The Feathers?’ echoed Wiseman, regarding the physician accusingly. ‘`But you said the other day that you would never set foot in such a place.’
Misick grew angry. ‘First, I did not leave Taylor’s side until he was asleep – it is hardly my fault the noise of this rabble woke him. And second, what I do in my spare time is none of your business. It is not illegal to gamble.’
‘It is when the stakes are so high,’ countered Swaddell.
‘The government has no business dictating how I spend my ow
n money,’ snapped Misick. ‘I would not have to visit such places at all if it fostered a more enlightened attitude.’
‘It is right to impose such laws,’ said Wiseman, and nodded to the seething crowd. ‘It was reckless games of chance that ruined Colburn and precipitated this nonsense.’
‘No! Taylor precipitated “this nonsense” by offering to give everyone the plague,’ argued Misick.
‘By threatening to release plague worms,’ scoffed Wiseman. ‘But everyone knows they cannot be gathered up like caterpillars, so no one believed him.’
‘Oh, yes, they did,’ countered Misick. ‘And he does have some worms, anyway – he collected items of clothing from plague victims, ones that teem with the things.’
Chaloner looked at Wiseman. ‘Would that let him spread the disease?’
Wiseman was suddenly pale. ‘Taylor would never—’
‘There he is!’ breathed Swaddell in alarm. ‘His family have let him escape, and he has a pair of guns! Christ God! If he fires one, we shall have a riot for certain. Misick, go and give him some of your calming medicine. Quickly!’
‘Me?’ squeaked Misick. ‘How am I supposed to tackle an armed man? I am a physician, not a warrior.’
Taylor stood alone, looking around with detached interest. He wore an odd combination of nightclothes and riding boots, while the top of his box poked from the bag he carried over his shoulder. Then Evan and Joan appeared. Evan tried to take his father’s arm, but Taylor roared in fury and pointed a gun at him. Evan cowered away, so Taylor lowered the weapon and went back to surveying the crowd, allowing Evan and Joan to scramble to safety. Chaloner started towards him, but the gun came up a second time, forcing him to retreat. Tensely, he assessed the distance between them. Could he cover it and disarm the banker without triggers being pulled in the process?
‘I told you that particular sleeping draught would not be very effective,’ snapped Evan at Misick. ‘Especially after doses of your Elixir, Venice Treacle, Goddard’s Drops, Mithridatum, Turpentine Pills and tobacco.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 37