The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Taylor has swallowed all that?’ cried Wiseman, shocked. ‘Then no wonder he is raving! These quack potions are dangerous on their own, but when mixed … What were you thinking, Misick? It is you who has driven him out of his wits – with a cocktail of poisonous ingredients!’

  ‘Oh, come,’ interrupted Joan dismissively. ‘Medicines cannot harm anyone. They are—’

  Evan cut across her. ‘Father was perfectly rational before Misick came along. He would never have bought the other bankers’ bad debts if he had been sane. Nor would he have ordered such extreme measures to collect on them.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Misick wearily. ‘You were happy to implement his decisions when people were too cowed to object, but now they are in revolt, you aim to shift the blame to me. You—’

  He stopped abruptly as Taylor approached. Chaloner eased a knife from Wiseman’s belt. Could he disable Taylor without the guns going off? He tensed, ready to lob it, but the banker read his intention and aimed a dag at Swaddell.

  ‘Money,’ he announced. ‘Give me some or I shall blow his brains out.’

  ‘Come inside,’ coaxed Misick, although from behind Wiseman. ‘I will make you a—’

  ‘Give me money now,’ hissed Taylor. ‘Or Williamson’s creature dies.’

  Chaloner could see he was in earnest, so he pulled out Maude’s cabochon, hoping she would forgive him. ‘I have no money, but will this suffice?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Taylor fixed it with manic eyes. ‘Almandine garnets prevent the plague.’

  He reached for it with one hand and struck Chaloner under the nose with the other, an unexpected and sly move that caught the spy by surprise. His eyes watered furiously, and by the time he had blinked them clear, the cabochon had been wrenched from his fingers and Taylor had disappeared down White Goat Wynd. Swaddell and Misick had tried to stop him, but had tripped over each other in the process.

  Chaloner hurried after the banker, Swaddell at his heels. They emerged on Cheapside, bright and thronged with people, but Taylor was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Now what?’ muttered Chaloner. ‘He will cause a riot for certain if he wanders about robbing people at gunpoint.’

  ‘I think we will have one anyway,’ said Swaddell, looking wildly this way and that. ‘Especially if Randal’s sequel makes an appearance.’

  Back on Goldsmiths’ Row, the mood of the mob was growing uglier, although the guards continued to stand their ground. Baron was doing his best to disperse the protesters, but he and his trainband were too few to make much of an impact. Swaddell stalked towards the doorway where Evan, Joan, Misick and Wiseman had taken cover.

  ‘Evan, find your father,’ he ordered. He turned to Joan and Misick. ‘You two stay here, lest he tries to go home. He must be apprehended.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do against a lunatic armed with pistols?’ demanded Evan.

  ‘And I must protect my bank,’ added Joan.

  ‘Whose bank?’ demanded Evan sharply.

  Joan regarded him with dislike. ‘Mine – the one made powerful with my inheritance and my ideas. Do not argue, Evan. You know I have been running it while your sire has turned mad.’

  ‘Discuss it later,’ barked Swaddell. ‘Now do as I say – all of you!’

  Evan and Joan looked as though they would argue, but a glance at the assassin’s face warned them that this would be ill-advised. Scowling, they and Misick slouched away. Swaddell started to give orders to Wiseman, too, but Chaloner interrupted urgently.

  ‘Doe misled us. He claimed he met Taylor not long ago, wearing a hooded cloak, but Taylor is not sane enough to disguise himself. Moreover, Doe said that Taylor was managing everything “for vengeance”. But—’

  ‘Later!’ snapped Swaddell. ‘This is not important now.’

  ‘Yes, it is, because all this mischief is being deliberately orchestrated by someone – each sly rumour is specifically designed to enrage. And Doe actually met the culprit – a person purporting to be Taylor, although Doe was too dim-witted to question the claim.’

  Swaddell stared at him. ‘You are right,’ he breathed. ‘Someone has been sowing the seeds of dissension. And I know who: Silas, the strongest and cleverest of Taylor’s sons.’

  Chaloner wanted to disagree, but was painfully aware that Silas had lied about his association with Backwell and had declined to answer reasonable questions. He also had good reason to want vengeance, given the shabby treatment he had received at the hands of his family. But—

  ‘Advance!’ howled Farrow. ‘Take what is yours. Then we shall free the folk shut up in their houses because the bankers left them no money to bribe the searchers.’

  The multitude bayed its delight and pressed forward. The cordon of guards buckled but held.

  Swaddell’s voice was urgent. ‘I will go to Cheapside and try to keep the plague houses shut. You must find Silas and stop him causing more mischief. Can you tackle him alone?’

  ‘Chaloner will not be alone,’ said Wiseman grandly. ‘He has me.’

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Chaloner, as Swaddell raced away, but there was too much noise, and the assassin did not hear. He tried to follow, but another surge towards the shops blocked his way.

  ‘Where will Silas be?’ asked Wiseman. ‘His home? A tavern?’

  ‘Silas is not the culprit,’ snapped Chaloner, taut with agitation. ‘Misick is.’

  Wiseman gaped at him. ‘No! He is neither cunning nor audacious enough to have devised such a plan. I have known him for years.’

  ‘He deliberately fed Taylor potions to make him insane – even I know that mixing different remedies is dangerous, so a physician certainly will. Moreover, you are a surgeon, who knows nothing of diseases of the mind, so why summon you, when he could have called someone better qualified? Because he did not want a medicus who would see what was really happening!’

  ‘I did, though,’ said Wiseman smugly. ‘But it was not his idea to fetch me – it was Joan’s.’

  ‘Joan!’ exclaimed Chaloner, as all became clear at last. ‘Of course! She is cunning and audacious, and she was the one who hired Misick in the first place. He owed her money, and she offered to cancel the debt in exchange for his services.’

  ‘I heard her giving him orders – brusquely. I wondered at the time why he put up with it.’

  ‘His lack of funds leaves him no choice, and his situation is unlikely to improve if he continues to gamble in the Feathers. Then there is her husband Randal – I cannot imagine it is coincidence that his sequel is due to be released today.’

  ‘But these reckless antics threaten the safety of her bank. Why would she—’

  ‘You heard her answer that yourself – with Taylor ill and Evan minding him, who has been running the business? She has! And she has a plan for it, although I have no idea what it might be.’

  It was not easy for Chaloner and Wiseman to fight their way through the mob to where Joan and Misick were supposed to be on the lookout for Taylor. They arrived to find no sign of either. Then Chaloner glimpsed movement in White Goat Wynd – the pair were turning down the tiny alley that provided the residents of Goldsmiths’ Row with rear access to their properties.

  ‘You grab her, while I tackle Misick,’ growled Wiseman. ‘And if he is punched for trying to use me to further his nefarious plans, then that is too bad.’

  But Joan and Misick had too great a start, and had disappeared through a door long before Chaloner and Wiseman could reach them – a door that was now locked and barred from within.

  ‘Taylor’s house,’ remarked Wiseman. ‘Can you break in?’

  Chaloner tried, but it was a bank – specifically designed to thwart invaders. He turned his attention to an adjacent window instead, although it took his expertise and Wiseman’s strength before they were able to prise it open. He climbed through it quickly, then turned to the surgeon.

  ‘Find Swaddell. Tell him what we have reasoned and ask him to send help.’

  Inside, the ancient stone walls muted the
racket from the street at the front, rendering the building eerily silent. He lit a lamp and began to explore.

  The kitchen was enormous, and had several pantries leading off it. Two were locked, suggesting that there was something inside worth seeing. He picked the mechanism on the first to discover a great stack of pamphlets entitled More Tayles from the Court & Kitchin. At least they had not been distributed yet, he thought.

  He relocked it, then moved to the other, which was empty except for a pallet bed, where the body of a maid lay. He edged closer, then jumped at Wiseman’s voice close behind him.

  ‘Plague,’ the surgeon said, using a poker to examine it. ‘With running buboes and filthy dressings that will certainly give the disease to anyone rash enough to touch them.’

  Chaloner jerked away in alarm. ‘Did you deliver my message to Swaddell?’

  ‘Cheapside is so crowded that finding anyone would be impossible, so I decided to help you instead.’ Wiseman gestured to the corpse. ‘There has been no report of plague here, which means her sickness has been concealed from the searchers. Or the searchers have been bribed to look the other way.’

  ‘The house appears to be deserted, which means her fellows have fled – perhaps taking the disease with them.’

  ‘Then God help us all,’ breathed Wiseman.

  Chaloner pushed him out and refastened the door. ‘Now we must find Joan and Misick.’

  Moving stealthily, Chaloner and Wiseman searched the ground floor, but their caution was unnecessary: there was no one to stop them. The jewellery displays had been dismantled and the door to the vault was ajar: a glance showed it was empty. Had Taylor’s people stolen everything before they had fled? Then there was an angry roar from outside, audible even through the thick walls. How long would it be before the horde forced its way past the guards? Chaloner only hoped that he and Wiseman would not be in inside when it did.

  The first floor was also full of the signs of hasty abandonment – inkwells on their sides, ledgers and papers scattered across floors, and a half-eaten pie on a table. Then Chaloner heard voices coming from Taylor’s office. He crept towards it, indicating with a wave of his hand that the surgeon should stay back.

  The door was open, so he peered around it. Inside were Joan and Misick. The physician’s wig was dishevelled, presumably from its passage through a hostile crowd. Joan’s ferrety face was malevolent in the flickering lamplight, and her eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘You should have stopped him,’ she was snarling. ‘You know what is in his Plague Box. How could you let him wander off with it?’

  ‘I thought you wanted him loose in the city with the thing under his arm,’ Misick snapped. ‘He will be torn to pieces when he is recognised.’

  ‘His jewels are in it. I wanted to take them out first.’

  The crack of a stone hurled at a window warned Chaloner that it was no time to eavesdrop. He surveyed the room quickly, and saw that while there was a handgun within grabbing distance of Joan, Misick was unarmed. He flung open the door and dashed in.

  Joan moved fast, yet Chaloner would still have reached the pistol first if Misick had not reacted with impressive speed. The physician hurled himself forward, knocking into Chaloner and unbalancing him just long enough to allow Joan to seize the weapon. Hope of rescue evaporated when Chaloner saw that Wiseman had not stayed put as ordered, but had followed him.

  ‘There is no time for this,’ he said, when a second pebble hit the glass. ‘Those people will storm this building soon, and anyone they find inside will be—’

  ‘They will not touch me,’ declared Joan. ‘I am not responsible for Taylor’s excesses.’

  ‘I doubt they will see it that way.’ Chaloner wondered if she had been at Misick’s medicines herself, for it was a naive remark. ‘Now put down the weapon, and come—’

  ‘Tie them up, Misick,’ Joan ordered. ‘We do not want them getting in our way.’

  Misick stepped forward with cords from the curtains. Chaloner started to back away, but Joan pointed her gun at Wiseman’s head. Would she shoot, knowing that the sound might precipitate an attack by the rabble outside? He looked at her ruthlessly determined face and suspected she would. Thus there was nothing he could do as Misick secured his hands behind his back. He clenched his fists, though, aiming to prevent the cords from being pulled too tight, but Misick guessed what he was doing and compensated by making a slip knot and hauling on it as hard as he could. Then he did the same to Wiseman. As an additional precaution, both prisoners were then roped to Taylor’s desk to prevent any sudden lunges.

  Wiseman regarded Misick in distaste. ‘What led you to take such a dark path? Dosing patients with dangerous concoctions, throwing in your lot with those who mean London harm…’

  Misick shrugged. ‘I have an expensive lifestyle and medicine does not support it.’

  Chaloner twisted his hands frantically behind his back, but Misick had done his work well: his knots were rock-hard and the cord so taut that there was no give in it whatsoever. Then a third stone hit the window, and this time the glass shattered. When both Misick and Joan swung towards the sound, Chaloner used the opportunity to lean towards a pot of writing implements on the desk.

  As his hands were behind him, he could not see what he was doing, although he managed to snag something before Joan and Misick turned back again. Unfortunately, it was not the quill-sharpening blade he had been aiming for, but a ‘fountain’ pen – a new-fangled invention with its own supply of ink. The upside was that its nib was metal and fairly sharp; the downside was that it was not very big. He began to saw at the cord anyway, praying that it would be equal to the task.

  ‘Misick’s motives are greed and self-interest, but what about yours?’ asked Wiseman, treating the physician to another contemptuous glance before addressing Joan. ‘The same?’

  ‘She objected to being fobbed off with Randal,’ supplied Chaloner. He spoke calmly, but behind his back he was frantically scraping the makeshift blade against his bonds. ‘She thought she deserved better.’

  ‘Taylor should have married me,’ declared Joan. ‘Then we could have ruled my first husband’s empire together. But he gave me his least appealing son, then refused to take back what Baron had stolen from me. He and Evan will not survive today.’

  Outside, Farrow was yelling, and although Chaloner could not make out the words, he could tell the mob was loving them. Through the broken pane, pitch torches illuminated upturned faces – at least two hundred, probably more. He sawed harder, trying not to wince when the pen slipped and cut his hand. There was a wet cascade over his fingers as the ink drained out of the reservoir.

  ‘Enough,’ he said urgently. ‘Or do you want to die? Cut us loose and—’

  ‘It is you who will die,’ snapped Joan. ‘You are Swaddell’s creature, whereas I am just a helpless woman. Who do you think the mob will kill?’

  ‘All of us,’ said Chaloner desperately. The pen was slippery now, and difficult to manipulate. ‘And even if by some miracle you do survive, you will have nothing left – this building will be razed to the ground, and every coin and scrap of gold will be gone.’

  ‘Yes, this house will burn, but we will sue the city for a new one. And looters will not find a penny – I emptied the vault and hid the treasure days ago. But they will find something else.’

  ‘Pamphlets to cause a rumpus, and the plague,’ put in Misick with a chilling smile.

  ‘You want people to die of the disease?’ asked Wiseman, shocked. ‘But you are a medicus!’

  ‘Nothing will happen to those who stay outside,’ said Joan icily. ‘But those who break in to loot will suffer a fate that serves them right.’

  ‘And what happens when these “robbers” return to their wives and children?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Are innocent babes to be punished with death as well?’ He pressed on before they could reply. ‘But I doubt all this is your idea. You have not had time, what with managing the bank, gambling at the Feathers and poisoning Taylor.’<
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  They declined to answer, but he was right, of course. Chaloner knew he should concentrate on escaping, but he could not leave the question alone. So who was directing their actions? Was Silas at the heart of the mischief after all? Or Backwell?

  Out in the street, Farrow was still yelling, and Chaloner saw Joan smirk her satisfaction.

  ‘He is in your pay,’ he said in understanding. ‘Your personal rabble-rouser.’

  ‘He is so desperate to avenge himself on the trade that ruined him that I did not even have to give him any money,’ she gloated. ‘Just whisper in his ear and point him in the right direction.’

  ‘But it was your first husband who destroyed him. Why would he listen to you?’

  ‘I do not treat with such people myself,’ she said disdainfully. ‘I delegate to minions.’

  ‘Minions like your husband, I suppose,’ said Wiseman in distaste. ‘A weak man, who obligingly wrote inflammatory tracts.’

  Chaloner recalled Randal’s claim. ‘It was Joan who told him that he would feel better once his grievances were out in the open.’

  ‘He did feel better,’ smirked Joan. ‘He has thoroughly enjoyed the stir his stupid pamphlet has caused.’ She jumped at a sudden clatter of stones on the windows.

  ‘We should ready ourselves,’ said Misick uneasily. ‘I am not sure the guards can hold them back much longer.’

  ‘Staying here flies in the face of all reason,’ said Chaloner, desperately looking from one to the other. ‘Which means you are under orders from someone else – someone who does not care about your safety. You are being used, as you have used others! How can you not see it?’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Joan, although uncertainty flared in her eyes. ‘Of course we shall survive. I am needed to lead London’s only bank.’

  At that moment, there was a cheer from outside: the guards’ line was disintegrating. Scenting victory, the mob surged forwards.

  ‘There are more people here than I expected,’ gulped Misick. ‘Are you sure we have to—’