‘The man who sells music to the Court? He is a morose fellow, and I cannot imagine how Lettice puts up with him. However, they did teach me how to play “Green Sleeves” on the flageolet that I bought from them. I shall entertain you with it the next time you visit.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, sincerely hoping she would forget.
‘There is his shop.’ Temperance pointed out of the window, reminding him that they had only travelled half the length of Cheapside since he had embarked. ‘And the scruffy place next door is the home of that revolting Oxley family. Did Shaw tell you about their sewage?’
‘Lettice mentioned an overflow from her neighbours’ cesspit.’ The conversation had taken a distinct nosedive, and he searched for a way to bring it back to his investigations.
‘It caused a terrible mess,’ Temperance went on before he could think of one. ‘Oxley is in Baron’s trainband, which he thinks gives him the right to do whatever he likes. However, his wife is a whore, while his children should have been strangled at birth.’
‘You do not like them, then.’
‘No, I do not,’ spat Temperance, then became aware that he was laughing at her. She scowled at him and fell into a sulk, although not for long. The sight of a carriage that was even more sumptuously appointed than her own prompted another bout of gossip.
‘That is Backwell’s coach. He is impossibly wealthy, but even he cannot give the King everything he wants for the war, so he has been obliged to sell his clients’ debts to Taylor.’
‘Yes,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘Hannah’s was one of them.’
‘Then I pity her. Taylor is a beast, and so are the men he hires to do his bidding.’
‘The bankers should tell the King that they cannot meet his demands. It is unreasonable to expect them to pull money from thin air.’
Temperance smirked. ‘They are afraid that if they do not give him what he wants, he will follow his father’s example and help himself.’
‘Impossible! A monarch seizing his subjects’ assets would start another civil war.’
‘On the contrary, everyone hates the goldsmiths and would love to see them broken. Indeed, it would make His Majesty the most popular man in the country. After all, would you give your life to defend the riches of wealthy financiers?’
Chaloner would not, especially after their dealings with Hannah. ‘James Baron,’ he said, turning to another matter. ‘Have you ever met him?’
‘Several times.’ Temperance smiled. ‘I know he is a lout, but I like him very much, and he has been nothing but charming to me. He visits the club on occasion, and although some of my patrons were wary at first, he soon won them around.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘At the far end of Cheapside, near St Mary Woolchurch. He has a very nice house, more like the home of a respectable merchant than a felon. He has a beautiful but stupid wife named Frances, and two well-behaved children who are a world apart from the Oxley brats.’
She began to list the crimes that Baron was alleged to have committed – theft, extortion, fraud, burglary, robbery. As they were still on Cheapside, she was even able to point out some of his operatives: the crook-backed man was a counterfeiter, the fair-haired boy was a pickpocket, while the pair in the grubby brown coats – whom Chaloner recognised as Gabb and Knowles –collected the Protection Tax.
‘I would invite you to see my new curtains,’ she said, after Chaloner had given her a brief account of the Earl’s problem, ‘but someone stole them last week. I have no idea how, because every door and window was locked. It was almost as if they disappeared into thin air.’
‘My wife – my first wife, that is – put curtains in our house in Amsterdam,’ recalled Chaloner, surprising himself with the confidence. He rarely spoke about Aletta. ‘They were always full of soot and were a nuisance to wash. I do not think the fashion will last.’
‘Perhaps, but they do look pretty. All the best houses have them, and to be without is considered passé, although I do not think I shall replace the ones at the club. They are a fire hazard when you have patrons who are careless with their pipes. I am surprised that Hannah has not invested in some, though. She is a lady of fashion and taste.’
‘Please do not talk to her about it,’ begged Chaloner. ‘We cannot afford them.’
‘Then take out a loan,’ suggested Temperance. ‘You dismiss such things as frippery, but appearances matter at Court, and Hannah might lose her post if she is seen as miserly or impecunious. She is not just being frivolous, you know.’
At that moment, they crawled past the broken coach, and both peered out of the window to look at it. It was illuminated by pitch torches, and to Chaloner, the damage looked deliberate, as though someone had taken a mallet to the spokes. The driver was struggling to replace them, working alone, because the footmen who should have been helping were involved in a furious fracas with a band of thickset, pugilistic louts. The argument was about Coo’s murder, with each side accusing the other of being responsible.
‘That carriage belongs to the Goldsmiths,’ said Temperance, annoying Chaloner, who was trying to listen to the squabble. ‘Their hall is in Baron’s domain, but its members have decided not to pay the Protection Tax. I suppose their coach has just suffered the consequences.’
‘There will be a fight,’ predicted Chaloner, watching the footmen produce cudgels, cheered on by apprentices from their Company, who had been drawn to the trouble like moths to a flame.
‘There he is,’ said Temperance suddenly, lowering her voice. ‘The King of Cheapside.’
Chaloner studied Baron with interest. The felon was tall and powerfully built, although the area around his middle was tending to fat. Even from a distance, he was a person who commanded attention, and when he spoke, people stopped bickering and listened.
‘The pair standing behind him are his captains,’ Temperance continued. ‘The one with the big nose is Charles Doe, said to be wild, dim-witted and dangerous.’
Chaloner had met lots of men who fitted that description, but he could believe it of Doe, who was a ball of restless energy; his red face suggested he had been drinking.
‘And the other?’ he asked, looking at a small fellow whose shoulders seemed to be sewn to his ears, so that his head sank into his body like a tortoise’s. His hair was his own, a thick brown mane that was swept directly back from his forehead to tumble impressively down his back. It formed a smooth roll at the front, and Chaloner could not imagine how it stayed in place. With egg white, perhaps.
‘Francis Poachin,’ replied Temperance. ‘He runs the Feathers tavern, which is famous for its naked dancers.’ She sounded disapproving, which was rich coming from a brothel-keeper. ‘And there is Oxley. I might have known he would appear where there is trouble.’
Oxley might have been handsome were it not for the look of sullen resentment on features that had been allowed to grow dissipated. He had black hair and blue eyes, and brandished a stick that was longer and thicker than anyone else’s. Chaloner was sorry for the Shaws – they seemed decent people and deserved better neighbours.
‘That slimy Randal Taylor is here, too,’ Temperance chattered on. ‘He comes to the club sometimes, and I would refuse to let him in were it not for the fact that he always pays his bills on time. He is the middle son of Taylor the banker – the one who married Joan Wheler.’
‘I met Joan today,’ said Chaloner absently, looking to where she pointed. Randal was a puny, tow-haired individual who looked nothing like his charismatic sire.
‘Ferret-face,’ said Temperance nastily. ‘She hitched herself to Randal with indecent haste, just to secure an alliance with his father. Of course, it was a shrewd decision. It has given her enormous power – more than most men.’
‘Who will inherit the bank when Taylor dies?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Randal?’
‘Evan, the eldest. By all accounts, Joan wanted to marry Taylor himself, but he was not in the market for another wife at the time, although word is
that he now regrets turning her down. Then she asked for Evan, but he was already wed, so it had to be the next in line – namely Randal. She was stupid to have accepted him – she should have held out for Silas.’
‘Silas?’
‘The youngest of the Taylor boys. He is handsome, charming and single. Apparently, she is furious with herself for taking Randal before looking at Silas, but she was under pressure to secure a strong ally fast, lest Baron stole any more of her inheritance.’
‘I served with a Silas Taylor in the army,’ mused Chaloner, wondering if it could be the same man. ‘He was the son of a banker. He was also very interested in music.’
‘And in killing Royalists, presumably,’ remarked Temperance.
Chaloner veered away from that subject. ‘He is an excellent violist, and composed airs—’
He jumped when there was a thump on the door, but it was only a ragged boy shoving a leaflet at them. It transpired to be one of Baron’s semi-literate notices – the felon was taking advantage of the stop to engage in a little impromptu advertising.
Suddenly, the shouting outside reached a new phase of intensity, and Oxley drew a knife. It was the spark that both sides had been waiting for, and the quarrel quickly became a brawl. One apprentice lobbed a pot of oil with a burning cloth stuffed into its neck, which exploded on impact. As such items took time to prepare, it was clear that he had come expecting the situation to turn violent. It skittered beneath Temperance’s carriage, shedding flames as it went. Terrified, her staff fled without a backwards glance, prudently stripping off their scarlet finery as they went.
‘Tom!’ shrieked Temperance, as smoke began to ooze up through the floor.
Chaloner flung open the door, and was obliged to draw his sword when Oxley ran towards him, aiming to trounce him before ransacking the vehicle. Chaloner drove him back with a wild slash, then pulled Temperance to safety. Others snatched at them as they hurried past, but half-heartedly, and it was clear that they were more interested in the coach.
He draped his coat around Temperance’s shoulders to disguise her fine clothes, and she had had the sense to remove her costly wig. She was shaven-headed underneath, so he gave her his hat, and they beat a tortuous path through the frenzy of flailing fists, aiming for the nearest alley. It was not easy, but they managed eventually, after which he took her hand and led her home.
By the time Chaloner had delivered Temperance to the club, it was too late to visit Thurloe, who liked to retire early. He went home instead, where he found the house oddly quiet. The housekeeper had gone to Shoreditch to convalesce, while the footman, cook-maid and scullion were out. Hannah was still at Court, so the only person in was the elderly page – Gram – who grinned amiably when Chaloner walked into the kitchen.
Chaloner nodded coolly, knowing perfectly well that Gram was trying to ingratiate himself in the hope that he would not feature among the economies that would have to be made to resolve Hannah’s debt problem.
‘But I like it here,’ the page objected, when Chaloner told him the ploy would not work.
Chaloner was sure he did. None of the servants worked very hard, but they still enjoyed regular meals, pleasant living quarters and a generous salary. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as me,’ cried Gram. ‘I have nowhere else to go.’
‘You have no family?’
‘All dead,’ replied Gram. ‘They perished to a man in the plague that swept through London the year that Good Queen Bess passed away.’
‘But that was more than sixty years ago!’ exclaimed Chaloner, feeling it should have been enough time for Gram to have either married and produced a family of his own or acquired some friends.
‘So?’ sniffed Gram. ‘I still feel their loss keenly. But if you cannot pay me, you may have my services for free – which is better than me starving in a Cheapside gutter.’
‘Cheapside?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘Why there?’
Gram shot him a lugubrious look. ‘Because that is where I was born – and where I will die if you oust me.’
He proceeded to tell Chaloner the story of his life – a singularly uneventful one, as his way of dealing with the political and social upheavals that had occurred that century was to pretend they were not happening. The wars had touched him not at all, and the closest he had come to witnessing a significant incident was hearing the bells toll after the old king’s execution.
He and Chaloner shared the remains of a pie and a jug of ale, after which Chaloner wrote a brief message to the Earl outlining his meagre discoveries, and asked Gram to take it to Clarendon House. Gram seized it with a pathetic eagerness to please, and disappeared into the night.
Chaloner went to bed and slept until Hannah arrived home, which she did just as the nightwatchman was calling the hour as three o’clock. She had been to a banquet, and wore a fabulous dress of green silk. It caught the colour of her eyes and accentuated her dainty figure, yet all Chaloner could wonder was how much it had cost.
‘We need to discuss our predicament,’ she said soberly, stepping out of it and laying it carefully on a chair. The only jewellery she wore was a necklace of pearls, which had belonged to her mother. ‘Bab May was waylaid by Taylor’s henchmen tonight, and only escaped a beating by giving them a beautiful gold hatpin in the shape of a ship.’
Chaloner sat up, rubbing his eyes. He had been enjoying an unusually deep sleep, and his wits were sluggish. ‘Were they the same louts who came here?’
‘I believe so. Bab’s experience encouraged others to admit their difficulties, too – Lord Rochester and Sir Alan Brodrick are also being hounded by them.’
‘I met Robin and Lettice Shaw yesterday.’ Chaloner swallowed, feeling an unpleasant scratchiness at the back of his throat; he supposed he had been snoring. ‘They told me that you bought a flageolet from them.’
Hannah pulled a disagreeable face. ‘Do they still want to be paid? How tiresome! I bought it ages ago, when I was trying to impress you with my musical talents.’
Chaloner refrained from remarking that she was fortunate not to have driven him away. ‘You also told them that I owned some alum mines.’
Hannah’s expression grew decidedly furtive. ‘They were going to withhold credit, but they knew your uncle, and he had mentioned the mines. So I made a few general observations about the venture, and it was hardly my fault that they concluded you were his heir.’
‘You mean you deliberately misled them,’ said Chaloner coolly.
Hannah came to sit next to him. ‘Yes and no. Your uncle talked to me about Guisborough once, and he said the concern belonged to all the Chaloners.’
‘Perhaps he did, but that does not make it true. And even if they were returned to my family, I would not be a beneficiary. I am the youngest son of a youngest son – too far removed to be in line for anything.’
‘That is a pity,’ sighed Hannah. ‘We could do with a windfall. But you cannot castigate me for letting the Shaws believe what they wanted to hear – they were so keen to imagine me as the wife of a wealthy alum mine owner that it would have been churlish to disillusion them.’
Chaloner shot her an irritable glance, and told her to bring all the outstanding bills to the drawing room, where they began the depressing task of sorting through them. His temper was not improved by the breakfast she cooked, which comprised eggs fried to the consistency of rubber, heaped on a piece of bread from which she had not bothered to scrape the mould.
‘We can extricate ourselves from this muddle,’ he said eventually, sitting back and trying to ease the ache from his shoulders. ‘But it will involve sacrifices.’
Hannah promptly burst into tears. She did not often cry, and it had the effect of making him feel guilty as well as disheartened. He rested his elbows on the table and scrubbed his face with his hands. His eyes were sore, and her cooking had exacerbated the rawness of his throat. He waited until her sobs had subsided – it did not occur to him that she might appreciate a hug or a few kindly words
– before continuing.
‘First, we must move out of this house. What do you say to an attic in Long Acre?’
‘I would sooner die,’ sniffed Hannah. She saw his dark expression. ‘All right, we will leave our home, but not for an unfashionable location like Long Acre. I will ask at Court today. Someone may have rooms we can rent, perhaps in Cannon Row or Axe Yard.’
‘Second, we must dismiss the servants. Can you find them posts elsewhere?’
She nodded, dabbing her eyes. ‘The housekeeper has offered to take unpaid leave while she recovers from her illness, and the girls will be easy to place, as there is always a demand for cook-maids and scullions. The footman will be more difficult, because he is surly and has an aversion to work. And as for poor Gram…’
‘Perhaps Temperance will take him, although I cannot imagine what he might do.’
‘Temperance.’ Hannah brightened. ‘She is wealthy. Perhaps she will lend us—’
‘No,’ interrupted Chaloner firmly. ‘We do not borrow from friends.’
There were more tears when he listed the possessions that would need to be sold, and he wished she had commissioned Lely to paint someone other than herself. No one would be interested in a portrait of a minor courtier, whereas one of the King or a famous noble might have been worth something. Unfortunately, although the outstanding pay he had collected from Clarendon House the previous day would allow him to disburse the baker, butcher, fishmonger, tailor and grocer, it would not begin to touch what they owed Taylor.
‘Or Shaw,’ he added. ‘Where is that flageolet? I know it is dented, but Shaw still might agree to reduce the amount we owe if we give it back to him.’
‘I threw it away. You did not appreciate my musical efforts, so I lost interest in it.’
He knew they would argue if they debated her casual approach to expensive belongings, so he let the matter drop. ‘Are there any other debts that I should know about?’
She shook her head. ‘The only truly pressing one is Taylor’s – which would not have been a problem if Backwell had not sold it.’
Chaloner glanced at the figures he had scrawled on a piece of paper, and hoped Taylor would agree to wait until she had secured buyers for some of their belongings.
The Cheapside Corpse Page 7
