‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the Earl, who prided himself on his morality, knew that his fashionable new drapery hailed from such a dubious-sounding source.
‘Here,’ said Gabb, shoving a card into Chaloner’s hand. It was an advertisement for the services Baron offered to potential clients. Such notices had been rare in Cromwell’s time, but there had been a proliferation of them since the Restoration, as every businessman hastened to legitimise himself with the printed word. This one read:
Jaymes Baron, purveyor of Fyne Cloffs and other Superiore Items to Howses of Qualitye and Fashon, including curtaynes, linin, goode furnichure, piktures, cloks and ornamentals.
Aske for Jas. Baron, at the Sign of the Feathers on Chepeside.
Anythinge bawt or solde. No Questyons Askd.
Printed by Thos Milbourn of St Martin le Grand
Personally, Chaloner thought that Thos Milbourn should have advised his customer to reword the last part, as it screamed of criminality. A little editing for spelling would not have gone amiss either. He started to hand it back, but Gabb indicated that he should keep it.
‘You might want something yourself one day,’ he said. ‘And if you do, tell Mr Baron that you was sent by Gabb and Knowles, because then you will get a better price, and we will get what is known as a commission.’
‘Of course, we are unimpressed that Mr Baron treats with Dunkirk House,’ said Knowles, nodding towards Clarendon’s stately pile with considerable disapproval. ‘Cromwell worked hard to get that port off the French, and Clarendon was wrong to sell it back to them.’
‘He let them bribe him,’ stated Gabb with such authority that anyone listening might have been forgiven for thinking that he had been there when it happened. ‘He sold it out of self-interest.’
‘Is that so,’ said Chaloner flatly, thinking they had no right to denigrate the Earl when they worked for a man who offered to buy and sell property of debatable provenance.
Gabb nodded. ‘Of course! How else could he afford this fine house? Or do you think he earned it all from being Lord Chancellor?’
Chaloner agreed that the Earl’s current post was unlikely to generate sufficient income to fund an expensive project like Clarendon House. However, his employer’s finances were not for discussion with delivery men, so he led them to the back of the building, where such goods were received.
Because the Earl wanted his new home to be at the forefront of fashion, he had hired a man to ensure that it never lagged behind. John Neve was a thin, harried perfectionist whose finicky attention to detail was likely to drive him to an early grave. He was an upholder, which meant he was not only qualified to fit furniture with material, but was also an expert in interior design. He was waiting at the door, and gave a relieved smile when he saw the curtains.
‘Good,’ he said, waving them inside. ‘That is the seventh pair. Two more to come.’
‘No, these are the last,’ said Gabb, dropping them on the floor and mopping his sweating face with a grimy sleeve.
‘Nonsense,’ said Neve impatiently. ‘There are nine windows in the Great Parlour, and I ordered a set of curtains for each. I am unlikely to have miscounted.’
Gabb shrugged. ‘Take it up with Mr Baron. Lord! It is hot for such labour. Would you happen to have a cup of cool ale for two tired and thirsty men?’
‘No, I would not!’ cried Neve indignantly. ‘And certainly not until you have brought everything that we paid for. Well? What are you waiting for?’
Chaloner was amazed by how much Clarendon House had changed since he had left. Then, it had been lavish, but now it was unashamedly ostentatious. Every wall was hung with priceless paintings, sculptures abounded, and ceilings and doors had been slathered in gilt. It was more opulent than White Hall by a considerable margin, and he wondered what the King thought about being upstaged by his Lord Chancellor. The two no longer enjoyed the easy relationship they had once shared, mostly because His Majesty disliked being treated like an errant schoolboy, and the Earl deplored the merry monarch’s licentious lifestyle. Moreover, the King did not have as much money as he thought he should, and Clarendon’s brazen affluence was bound to rankle.
‘I am glad to see you back, Chaloner,’ said Neve, once the curtains had been toted upstairs and he and Chaloner were watching them being unrolled ready for hanging. He looked tired and out of sorts. ‘You have been missed.’
‘I have?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘By whom?’
‘By the Earl. His suppliers have been causing problems, as you just saw, and he says almost every day that he wishes you were here to sort them out.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner despondently. He had been a very good intelligencer during the Commonwealth, and his analyses of enemy shipping and troop movements had earned him praise from princes and generals. But the Earl wanted him for handling awkward traders!
‘It is important,’ Neve assured him earnestly. ‘He will not be happy until his Great Parlour is perfect, and he will be furious when he learns he is still two pairs of curtains short.’
‘Perhaps you should buy them from someone else,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking of the blatantly felonious notice in his pocket, and sure the Earl would not approve if he knew what manner of ‘linen-draper’ his upholder had engaged.
‘Why should we, when we have paid for these?’ said Neve crossly. Then he noticed Chaloner’s less-than-sartorial appearance, and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Lord! If you intend to see him today, you had better come to my office while I sponge off your coat. And when was the last time you shaved?’
Chaloner ran a hand over his jaw, and was startled by the amount of stubble there. No wonder the likes of Gabb and Knowles had regaled him with details of their master’s dodgy dealings! He must look thoroughly disreputable.
He followed Neve down two flights of stairs – so as not to spoil the fine symmetry of the house’s façade, all the rooms allocated to the staff were below ground level – and through a maze of dim corridors to the upholder’s chamber. It was near the buttery, and smelled of bad milk. It was barely large enough for the desk and two chairs that were crammed into it, and every available surface, including the floor, was covered in plans and receipts.
Within moments, they were joined by Thomas Kipps, the Seal Bearer, a bluff, friendly man who, unlike most of the Earl’s household, did not care that Chaloner had sided with Parliament during the wars. He always wore the Clarendon livery of blue and yellow, and was never anything less than immaculately attired. His duties were minimal, and involved standing around at ceremonies with as much pomp and dignity as he could muster.
He took one look at Chaloner and called for soap and hot water. While Chaloner shaved and removed the more obvious dirt from his face and hands, Neve set about the mud-spattered coat with a damp cloth. Kipps perched on the table and regaled them with Court gossip.
There was a lot of it, because White Hall was a lively place with many flamboyant characters, and someone was always sleeping with someone else’s wife. Then there was the usual gamut of rumours – an imminent Dutch invasion, omens predicting disaster, and one that claimed bankers were embezzling their depositors’ money.
‘And are they?’ asked Chaloner.
Kipps shrugged. ‘Probably. They are a dishonest rabble, interested in nothing but making themselves richer. Personally, I consider them a curse, and wish them all to the devil.’
From that, Chaloner surmised that Kipps was in the same boat as Hannah apropos finances.
‘I doubt Satan will want financiers in the dark realm,’ said Neve acidly, pointing at Chaloner’s boots, to remind him to scrape off the mud.
Kipps laughed and turned to another subject. ‘Clarendon will be pleased to see you, Tom, but I doubt he will show it. He is irascible at the moment.’
The Earl was always irascible as far as Chaloner was concerned, and although the spy had proved himself loyal on countless occasions by saving his life, reputation, money and family, it was never enough. The Earl
needed Chaloner to help him stay one step ahead of his many enemies, but deplored the necessity, and treated him with a disdain that bordered on contempt – he had awarded him the title of Gentleman Usher purely so it would look more respectable in the household accounts. The dislike was fully reciprocated, and Chaloner would leave the Earl’s employ without hesitation if another opportunity arose. Unfortunately, it was unlikely that one would.
‘He will be pleased,’ agreed Neve. He glanced at Kipps. ‘I was just telling Chaloner that he might be asked to speak to Baron – those curtains were ordered weeks ago.’
He stood back to assess his handiwork with the cloth. Unfortunately, even sponged clean, Chaloner’s travelling coat was not something that should appear in the august company of lord chancellors of England.
‘Baron is a scoundrel,’ averred Kipps. ‘You should never have done business with him.’
Neve was annoyed by the censure. ‘He was the cheapest, and the Earl told me to cut costs.’
‘He is only the cheapest if he actually supplies what he promised,’ Kipps pointed out caustically. ‘Have you heard of him, Chaloner? He was the chief henchman of a very corrupt banker called Wheler, but when Wheler was stabbed two months ago, Baron took over the criminal side of his operation. He is now known as the King of Cheapside.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I am sure the Earl’s enemies will be delighted to learn that he buys goods from felons.’
‘Baron is not a felon,’ snapped Neve irritably. ‘He has never been convicted of a crime.’
‘Not yet, perhaps,’ harrumphed Kipps. He turned back to Chaloner. ‘And if the Earl does order you to treat with the fellow, I recommend you take your sword.’
Chaloner was grateful for the warning. The Earl had a nasty habit of sending him into dangerous situations armed with only half a story, so he appreciated Kipps’s concern.
‘This is a peculiar headpiece,’ said Neve, picking up Chaloner’s hat and beginning to slap the dust from it. ‘It looks as though it is made of cloth, yet the crown is as hard as steel.’
‘It is steel,’ replied Chaloner. It was a gift from a Spanish lady he had once loved, and had saved his life on more than one occasion, protecting him from sly blows, and even an attack from a persistently violent gull. ‘I always wear it when I travel.’
‘Very wise,’ said Kipps. ‘Incidentally, Secretary Edgeman has just arrived with this month’s payroll. Claim yours now – he ran out of money last time, and some of us were obliged to wait two weeks before we were given what we were owed. There is a shortage of coins at the moment, because of the rumour about the bankers mismanaging their clients’ funds.’
‘It is probably untrue, but people are withdrawing their cash at a tremendous rate.’ Neve snickered spitefully. ‘The faint-hearted fools think it is safer under their beds.’
‘Then I imagine burglars will be pleased,’ said Chaloner. ‘Large sums of money under beds is always a boon for them. It is the first place they look.’
Kipps regarded him in alarm. ‘Really? I had better move mine somewhere else, then.’
For all his faults, the Earl of Clarendon worked hard, and was always either at his offices in White Hall, or the grandly named My Lord’s Lobby in Clarendon House, surrounded by papers that represented affairs of state. My Lord’s Lobby was a frigid, marble monstrosity with windows that looked out across what would eventually become a park, but that was currently an expanse of weed-infested mud.
The Earl had always been plump, even when he had shared the King’s exile on the continent and regular meals had not been guaranteed, but high office and a sedentary lifestyle had combined to make him fatter still. He was balding under his luxurious blond wig, and the profusion of lace at his throat accentuated rather than concealed his flabby jowls. He favoured a T-beard – a thin moustache on the upper lip with a tiny sprout of hair on the chin below – and even at leisure, he liked to wear the elegant robes that marked him as Lord Chancellor. It was a vanity that his many enemies loved to mock.
‘There you are at last,’ he said coolly, when Chaloner knocked on the door and walked in. ‘I was beginning to think you had abandoned me these last few weeks. What took you so long?’
‘The Hull rebels were not dangerous, sir,’ Chaloner explained, supposing the letters he had written outlining the situation had not been read, ‘but it still took a while to root them all out. Here is the sheriff’s report.’
The Earl tossed it, unopened, on to the table, where Chaloner suspected it would suffer the same fate as his missives. ‘Did you visit your uncle’s kin when you were in the north?’
Chaloner hailed from a very large family. His father had had twelve siblings, and his mother nine. Most had married, some more than once, so he had enough relations to populate a small village. However, none lived near Hull.
‘My uncle, sir?’ he asked cautiously, not sure why the question was being put.
‘The regicide,’ snapped the Earl. ‘Your namesake.’
This was a sore subject. Thomas Chaloner the elder had been one of the fifty-nine men who had signed the old king’s death warrant, which impressed diehard Parliamentarians, but that had earned his family the eternal hatred of Royalists. The younger Chaloner had been a teenager at the time, powerless to influence events one way or the other. However, he had never thought that executing a monarch was a very good idea, and deplored his kinsman’s role in the affair. His uncle had died in Holland several years before, but his radical politics still continued to haunt the surviving members of his family.
‘I have not seen my cousins in years,’ replied Chaloner warily. ‘And—’
‘They live in Yorkshire,’ interrupted the Earl, and added pointedly, ‘Near the alum mines.’
The Guisborough alum mines were the reason why the Chaloner clan had sided with Parliament in the first place. His grandfather had discovered rich deposits of alum – a mineral used for medicine and dyeing – on his land, and had turned them into a profitable business. This had attracted the envious attention of the old king, who had promptly decided to take them for himself. It was brazen theft, and the family had never forgiven the outrage, although Chaloner thought it was time the matter was forgotten – there was no point brooding over something that had happened so long ago and that was unlikely ever to be rectified.
‘Yes, they do,’ he conceded guardedly. ‘But the mines are nowhere near Hull.’
The Earl regarded him balefully, and Chaloner felt a stab of alarm. While he disliked working for the man, he could not afford to be dismissed, especially now that Hannah had debts to pay off. ‘They did not support the insurgents?’
‘Of course not! My family do not involve themselves in politics these days. We are all tired of rebellion, and none of us want more of it.’
‘Buckingham claims otherwise,’ said the Earl with a grimace. ‘But he does not like you, and I should have known better than to believe him.’
Chaloner’s last London-based investigation had caused the Duke some embarrassment, so he was not surprised that the nobleman had avenged himself with a few spiteful stories. ‘The sheriff has included a complete list of rebels with his letter,’ he said, nodding towards the table. ‘You will see that none of my family are on it.’
‘Good. I could not have kept you on if your kin were plotting to overthrow the government. Which would have been a nuisance, as there is something I need you to do for me.’
‘Talk to Baron about your last two pairs of curtains,’ predicted Chaloner heavily.
Neve had reported the shortfall before the spy had been granted an audience, and it had been impossible not to hear the angry tirade that had blasted through the closed door.
The Earl nodded. ‘I want them delivered tomorrow at the latest.’
Chaloner had a sudden vision of his flamboyant, accomplished uncle, and was glad he would never learn what his nephew was reduced to doing for a living. He would certainly be unimpressed, and perhaps even ashamed. It was not an e
asy thought to bear.
‘Are you sure it is a good idea to do business with Baron, sir?’ he asked, aiming to duck the assignment. ‘He is almost certainly a criminal.’
The Earl gaped at him, and Chaloner could tell his shock was genuine. ‘A criminal? No! Neve told me that he is a linen-draper.’
Chaloner pulled the card from his pocket, feeling it was ample evidence of the kind of operation that Baron ran. The Earl read it, then handed it back.
‘I suppose he does sound a little unethical,’ he conceded. ‘I should have known that three thousand pounds was rather too cheap for such fine quality material.’
‘Three thousand pounds?’ Chaloner was stunned. It was an enormous sum and not cheap at all – at least four hundred times what the average labourer earned in a year. ‘For curtains?’
‘They are brocade,’ said the Earl, as if that explained everything. ‘I suppose you had better visit the man, and make it clear that the purchase was made by my upholder, not by me. I shall deny any involvement with him, should anyone ask.’
‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, wondering how to do it in such a way that the villainous-sounding Baron did not immediately scent an opportunity for blackmail.
‘But before you offend him, make sure our order has been delivered in full. Those curtains go beautifully with my new carpets – red with a hint of gold.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘It might be wiser to end the association at once, sir, before it causes you problems.’
‘But no other linen-draper has that particular shade, and my wife has set her heart on it. I must have them.’
‘As you wish.’ Chaloner was careful to keep his voice neutral, but was unimpressed that his employer should persist with the arrangement when it was clear that it should be terminated immediately. Moreover, Lady Clarendon was a sensible woman, who would place her husband’s political safety above the colour scheme in her Great Parlour, so it was almost certainly the Earl who was determined to have the things. And it was reckless.
The Cheapside Corpse Page 3
