Thus he was delighted and grateful to be home. Tothill Street had a heartening familiarity about it, and he quickened his pace. His house was the big one in the middle, far larger than he and Hannah needed, but she was lady-in-waiting to the Queen and appearances were important to her. The extravagance worried Chaloner, though, who felt they should put aside at least some of their earnings for a rainy day. She disagreed, and some very fierce arguments had ensued.
A hackney carriage was parked outside, which meant she had guests. Chaloner’s heart sank. He disliked the hedonistic, vacuous courtiers Hannah chose as friends, and he had hoped she would be alone. He bypassed the front door and headed for the back one, aiming to slip up the stairs and change his travel-stained clothes before she saw him – more than one quarrel had erupted because he had joined a soirée in a less than pristine condition. With luck, by the time he was presentable, the visitors might have gone.
He strolled into the kitchen and was met by the warm, welcoming scent of new bread. All the servants were there. The housekeeper sat at the table with her account book, the cook-maid fussed over the loaf she had just removed from the oven, the scullion swept the floor, and the footman and the page perched on a window sill, polishing boots.
It was a comfortable scene, yet Chaloner immediately sensed an atmosphere. The staff were a surly horde, and he had often wondered how Hannah had managed to select so many malcontents. The housekeeper was inflexible and domineering; the cook-maid, scullion and footman were lazy and dishonest; and the page, old enough to be Chaloner’s grandfather and thus elderly for such a post, was incurably disrespectful. But even by their standards, the kitchen was not a happy place that particular day: all were uneasy, and the girls had been crying.
‘Oh,’ said the housekeeper disagreeably, when she saw Chaloner. ‘You are back.’
It was no way to greet the master of the house, but she was secure in the knowledge that her long association with Hannah’s family meant she would never be dismissed, no matter how discourteously she behaved. She was a lean, cadaverous woman whose loose black clothes and beady black eyes always reminded Chaloner of a crow. He did not check her for impertinence that day, however, because she was so wan that he wondered if she was ill.
‘Who is with Hannah?’ he asked, startled and suspicious when the others came to offer a variety of curtsies, bows and tentative smiles. They usually followed the housekeeper’s example of sullen contempt, and he was unused to deference from them.
‘They did not leave their names,’ replied the footman. ‘But they have been here before. The mistress owes them money, see.’
Chaloner felt the stirrings of unease. Hannah had accrued some serious debts the previous winter, and it had not been easy to settle them all. Appalled by how close they had come to fiscal disaster, she had promised to be more careful while he was away. Chaloner had believed her assurances, and was alarmed to learn that he might have been overly trusting.
‘Money for what?’ he asked.
‘Everyone at Court is in arrears with payments for things these days,’ said the housekeeper evasively. ‘So she is not alone.’
‘No, indeed,’ put in the scullion. ‘Will Chiffinch and Bab May owe tens of thousands.’
Supposing clean clothes would have to wait, Chaloner aimed for the drawing room. Hannah was proud of this chamber. It boasted a French clock, a Dutch chaise longue, and the walls had been covered with paper, an extravagance that had been decried by Cromwell’s Puritans, but that was a very popular fashion among the reinstated Royalists.
He arrived to find Hannah sitting on a chair looking frightened, while two louts loomed over her. The knife he always carried in his sleeve slipped into his hand, and he started towards them, but he had not anticipated a third man lurking behind the door. He jerked away in time to avoid the blow directed at his head, but it left him off balance, which gave the other two time to launch an attack. He deflected one punch with a hastily raised arm, but another caught him on the chin and down he went. Hannah’s cry of relief at his appearance turned to a shriek of alarm.
Blinking to clear his vision, he saw a cudgel begin to descend. He twisted to one side, ramming his blade into the fellow’s calf and kicking the feet from under another, just as Hannah sprang into action and dealt the last man a wild clout that made him stagger. The cosh-wielder released a howl of pain and hobbled towards the door, while his cronies, loath to tackle anyone who fought back, were quick to follow. Chaloner scrambled upright, but he was still giddy, and by the time he had recovered enough to give chase, the three men were long gone.
‘Oh, Tom!’ wailed Hannah. ‘Thank God you are home. You have been gone so long and—’
‘Who were they?’ demanded Chaloner.
‘No one to worry about,’ she replied unconvincingly, and flung herself into his arms so vigorously that she almost sent both of them flying. She snuffled into his shoulder, while he held her rather stiffly, supposing he should say something to comfort her, but not sure what. Eventually, she pushed away from him and went to stand in the window.
‘I had my portrait done by Peter Lely while you were away,’ she said in a muffled, distracted voice that made him suppose she was hurt by his failure to dispense the necessary solace. She pointed to the wall above the fireplace. ‘Do you like it?’
Chaloner stared at the picture. It captured perfectly her laughing eyes, snub nose and inconvenient hair. The quality of the work was no surprise, though, because Lely was Principal Painter in Ordinary to the King, and thus the most sought-after artist in the country. His popularity meant he could charge whatever he liked for a commission, and it was common knowledge that his prices were far beyond the reach of all but the richest of patrons.
‘Oh, God!’ gulped Chaloner. ‘So that is why we are in debt again!’
It was not the homecoming he had hoped for. Chaloner sat in his extravagant parlour, sullenly sipping expensive wine, while Hannah perched at his side and chatted about all that had happened since he had left – she was rarely cool with him for long. There had been another comet that presaged a major disaster – even astronomers from the Royal Society thought so, and they were no fools. Then there had been an ugly purple mist with leprous spots, followed not long after by a coffin-shaped cloud.
‘Some folk say these things foretell an outbreak of the plague,’ Hannah explained. ‘Because there have been a dozen cases in the slums near St Giles-in-the-Fields since February. But I think they are wrong. It has not spread to other areas, so the danger is probably over.’
Chaloner had lost his first wife and child to plague in Holland, and although it had been more than a decade ago, the memory was still painful.
‘Those men,’ he began, keen to think of something else, even if it was a matter that was likely to annoy him, ‘what did they—’
‘Your Earl has been the focus of a lot of scurrilous talk,’ Hannah interrupted, equally keen to postpone the spat that both knew was likely to follow once the subject of debt was broached. ‘As you know, people were starting to call his new mansion Dunkirk House, because he sold that port back to the French at a ridiculously low price, but now everyone is doing it. They are angrier than ever with him, as Dutch pirates are using it as a base from which to harry British shipping.’
‘It was not his idea to sell it,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘Perhaps not, but he oversaw the arrangements, and people think he let the French bribe him, because we should have got more for it. The douceur he took to let them have it cheap probably did pay for his fine new house.’
Chaloner was more interested in their own affairs. ‘What did those louts want with—’
She cut across him a second time. ‘Our housekeeper has been ill. Surgeon Wiseman has been treating her, but she has needed several visits to Epsom for the waters, which are costly…’
Chaloner regarded her in alarm. ‘How much do we owe?’
‘A few thousand pounds,’ mumbled Hannah, rather indistinctly.
‘What?’ It was far worse than he had anticipated. ‘How much Epsom water did she drink? Or is it the Lely portrait that has ruined us?’
‘We are not ruined, Thomas,’ said Hannah irritably. ‘We are temporarily embarrassed. And it is not the housekeeper or Lely who put us there – she paid for most of her treatment herself, while Lely agreed to defer payment until next year.’
Chaloner regarded her accusingly. ‘You promised not to spend more than we earned. In fact, you swore an oath.’
‘And I have kept it,’ declared Hannah indignantly. ‘I have not spent a shilling more than we agreed – other than the Lely, which I knew you would not mind. He was free for a few weeks, and it was too good an opportunity to miss. The painting is an investment, you see.’
‘So why are we in debt? Again.’
‘Because I inadvertently defaulted on the loan I had to take out when I bought my post with the Queen. I had no idea the conditions had changed until the demands came for the arrears.’
Chaloner blinked. ‘You bought the post? I assumed you won it on merit.’
‘Oh, really, Thomas! That is not how things work at White Hall. You may have unique talents that earls clamour to purchase, but the rest of us are rather more ordinary.’
Chaloner almost laughed at the notion that noblemen were falling over themselves to hire his services. He had fought for Parliament during the civil wars, and had worked for Cromwell’s intelligence services thereafter. Employment was scarce for such men in Restoration England, and he was fortunate that the Earl had been willing to overlook his past loyalties and take him on.
‘I hardly think—’ he began.
‘Anyway, it cost three thousand pounds, which obviously I did not have, so I had to borrow from Edward Backwell. But the King asked the bankers to donate a million pounds for the Dutch war, and as they do not have such a huge sum to hand, they have to raise it by any means they can. Most do it by selling their debts – Backwell sold his to Rich Taylor.’
‘I have heard of Rich Taylor. He was one of few goldsmith–bankers who remained a Royalist during Commonwealth.’
Chaloner knew this because such loyalties had been deemed suspect when Parliament was in power, so Taylor was one of those whom John Thurloe – then Cromwell’s Spymaster General – had been obliged to monitor.
‘Well, he is a terrible rogue,’ said Hannah. ‘And I am now in debt to him.’
Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You must have had this arrangement with Backwell when we married. You have been a lady-in-waiting for more than three years now but I have never heard of it before. Why not?’
‘Because the money was always taken directly from my salary, so I never had cause to think about it. Many courtiers are in the same position, and handling “standing orders” is a service that White Hall’s accompters offer. They gather all the payments together, and deliver them to our creditors on the first day of every month.’
‘So what has changed? Did the clerks forget?’
‘No – the problem came when Taylor revised the agreement I made with Backwell, which I only discovered when I received a letter informing me that I was in arrears. I went to the Solicitor General, expecting to be told that Taylor had acted illegally, but it seems he was within his rights to change the terms.’
‘How did he change them?’
‘Instead of the five per cent interest that Backwell charged, Taylor wants fifteen. I refused, of course, but all that means is that my debt has mounted, and I am now in rather a muddle.’
‘But that is extortion – usury. Which is illegal, no matter what the Solicitor General says.’
Hannah sighed. ‘Unfortunately, there is a clause in the contract that lets any new lender do as he pleases. I queried it when I signed with Backwell, but he told me not to worry, as he would never sell the arrangement.’
‘But he did sell it,’ said Chaloner heavily.
She nodded. ‘He apologised profusely, but I could see he was in a bind – he cannot refuse a “request” for funds from His Majesty. Unfortunately, Taylor has demanded so much that I have been unable to pay the butcher, the grocer, the baker, the milkman…’
‘So who sent those three louts? Taylor, or one of the others?’
‘Taylor. But all will be well now that you are home. You have not drawn your salary for two months, which might appease him for a while.’
From that remark, Chaloner surmised that his outstanding wages would not cover all that was needed. Unless Taylor could be persuaded to agree to more reasonable terms, of course, which he might, once informed that sending henchmen to the homes of ladies while their husbands were away was not the best way to enhance his reputation as an honourable man of business. Chaloner looked at the painting, and wondered if anyone would buy it.
‘No,’ said Hannah, reading his mind. ‘Prices for works of art are low at the moment, because of the war – no one wants to buy any, just in case the Dutch invade us and steal it all. We need to wait until the crisis is over. Besides, we shall never win recognition at Court unless we flaunt a little wealth. As I said, the Lely is an investment.’
‘It will be a redundant investment if we are arrested for debt,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I doubt the Queen will keep you if you are obliged to live in the Fleet Prison.’
‘She might, because I should be in very good company,’ Hannah flashed back. ‘Any number of courtiers are in the same position. But this is not my fault, Tom! How was I to know that Backwell would sell my debt to someone like Taylor? And there is Colburn, of course.’
Chaloner regarded her in alarm. ‘Who is Colburn? Another creditor?’
Hannah eyed him stonily. ‘He was a gambler, who took massive loans from virtually every banker in the city, which he cannot repay because he killed himself. A number of the smaller concerns are ruined – which has put even greater pressure on those who weathered Colburn’s sly dealings, as there are fewer of them to fund the war.’
‘So is that why Taylor is charging so much interest? To raise money for the King?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Hannah bitterly. ‘His Majesty has not demanded a contribution from him, because he remained loyal to the monarchy during the Commonwealth. His coffers are safe, unlike all the others, who declared for Parliament. But we will survive this nastiness, Tom. The housekeeper is going to stay with her mother in Shoreditch, which will be one fewer mouth to feed.’
Chaloner doubted the departure of one person was going to make much difference to their predicament. ‘I did not know that loans could be bought, sold and renegotiated.’
‘Nor did anyone else at Court, and Taylor’s antics are doing nothing to make bankers popular. But this is tedious talk for your homecoming! I am delighted to have you back, and to prove it, I shall bake you a cake.’
Chaloner’s heart sank. Hannah was the least talented cook he had ever encountered. A cake would mean a sticky mess for the staff to clean up afterwards, and some inedible offering that he would be obliged to praise.
‘I have a letter to deliver to the Earl,’ he said, standing quickly lest he was invited to watch her at work – invariably a fraught experience. ‘I should go to White Hall.’
‘He prefers to lurk in Dunkirk House these days, because everyone at the palace hates him so. You will have to go there if you want to see him.’
Chaloner left Tothill Street with a mind that teemed with worry. He was so preoccupied that he forgot to change his grimy clothes before visiting the man who lived in the newest and most extravagant stately home in the capital.
He walked to Clarendon House wondering what had possessed him to marry a woman with whom he had so little in common, and who was about to land him in debtors’ gaol into the bargain. And there was little that unsettled him more than the prospect of a spell behind bars – he had once been caught spying in France, and the following incarceration had been so harrowing that it still haunted his dreams. Even the thought of being in prison brought him out in a cold sweat, and he determined to visit Taylor
as soon as possible, to see what could be done to avoid it.
He cut through St James’s Park, a pleasant expanse of formal garden and woodland, and emerged on the semi-rural lane called Piccadilly. Clarendon House had stood in glorious isolation when he had left London six weeks before, but now it seemed the Earl was to have neighbours. Two more mansions were rising out of the mud, although neither was as grand as Clarendon’s with its fluted columns, ornate balustrades and lofty windows. The Earl’s home screamed of wealth and privilege, and he was not surprised that Londoners resented it.
He was standing at the gate, regarding the place with dislike, when something slammed into the back of him, almost knocking him from his feet. He spun around to find himself staring down a roll of cloth. It was being toted by two men who grunted and sweated under its weight, and who did not seem to care that they posed a considerable menace to others. A quick glance down the lane told him that he was not the only one who had been butted – a number of people rubbed shoulders and heads.
‘You should have moved,’ said one of the men, unrepentant. ‘We called out to tell you to mind.’
Chaloner was sure they had not, but the load looked heavy, and he would not have wanted to lug it around on such a warm day, so he let the matter pass unremarked.
‘Curtains,’ explained the other, more contrite. ‘All the best houses have them.’
‘Do they?’ Glumly, Chaloner wondered how long it would be before Hannah wanted some.
‘There is much to commend them over shutters,’ added the first. ‘They exclude draughts, look pretty in a window, and do not need painting.’
‘Before the year is out, all fashionable houses will have them,’ predicted the second. ‘You mark my words.’
Chaloner began to walk up the gravelled drive, and they fell into step behind him, chatting as they went. They informed him that their names were Gabb and Knowles, and that they worked for a person named James Baron.
‘He buys and sells,’ elaborated Gabb with a meaningful wink. ‘And he is a powerful force along Cheapside. Ask for him if you need anything – anything at all – and he will get it for you.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 2
