‘I do not suppose you know anything about a Frenchman named Georges DuPont, do you?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. Misick had not, but perhaps Coo had discussed the case with Wiseman. ‘Coo diagnosed him with the plague in Long Acre, but he managed to rise from his sickbed and walk to Bearbinder Lane, where he died.’
‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ replied Wiseman. ‘Coo told me that he manifested symptoms that included griping in the guts, faltering speech, frenzy and blains rising all over the body. Plague tokens, in other words – swellings in the groin and armpits that turn black and pestilential with—’
‘Actually, I meant something other than his symptoms,’ interrupted Chaloner, loath to be reminded of what the sickness could do. ‘Such as why he traipsed halfway across the city.’
‘It was a question I put to Coo,’ said Wiseman bleakly. ‘But he had no answer. All I can tell you is that DuPont was selfish to have made such a journey. Most folk believe the disease is spread by a miasma, but it is actually caused by worms so tiny that they are carried in the breath and clothes of an infected person – which is why those exposed to it must stay in their houses.’
‘Or they will pass it to healthy folk without realising what they are doing,’ elaborated Misick, as if he imagined that Chaloner might not understand the implications. ‘Yet there is no indication that DuPont shed these worms over anyone, Wiseman. The only cases – other than him – are confined to the St Giles rookery.’
Rookeries were slums, where the poor were packed into teetering tenements, sometimes twenty or thirty people to a room, and where disease was rife anyway.
‘So far,’ said Wiseman grimly. ‘But I fear he will set the trend for others. I was told last night that most victims’ families object to being shut up for forty days, and several have threatened to leave and go about their business.’
‘They have,’ sighed Misick, shaking his head in mystification at such foolery. ‘So an hour ago, the government passed emergency measures to stop them – measures that will be enforced by Spymaster Williamson, who is the only one with troops at his fingertips since the army disbanded. I feel sorry for him. He has his hands full with the Dutch war, and it is unfair to ask him fight the spread of invisible worms as well.’
‘Well, I hope he makes it a priority,’ said Wiseman soberly. ‘Or it will not matter if the Dutch win or lose, because we shall all be dead.’
According to Misick, the best place to catch Baron was the tavern named the Feathers, which was located on a dirty, insalubrious lane behind St Mary Woolchurch.
‘Not that I have ever been, of course,’ he said. ‘I do not mingle with felons.’
‘You mingle with Taylor,’ said Wiseman drily. ‘And he is the greatest rogue in the city.’
Misick raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I owe Joan money, and she offered to write off the debt in exchange for my medical services. Refusal was not really an option.’
Chaloner left them debating the ethics of such an arrangement, and followed their directions to the Feathers, a building identifiable by the sign above its door depicting a woman wearing nothing but a strategically placed plume. Two thickset men stood guard outside, and he was obliged to pay an entry fee before he was allowed in.
Inside, the Feathers was dim. All the window shutters were closed, and its few lamps had been draped with red gauze for atmosphere. It reeked of cheap tobacco, and a trio of musicians played an unimaginatively improvised medley of popular songs. They were loud, which made talking difficult, but Chaloner doubted the clientele were there for conversation anyway – there was a dais at the front, on which scantily clad women cavorted; ogling men slipped coins into what remained of their clothing in the hope of persuading them to remove more.
Chaloner found a table and ordered wine from a lady who wore nothing but an apron. It was early for strong drink, but his throat was still raw, and he thought a sip of claret might do it good.
There was no sign of Baron, although Shaw’s pugnacious neighbour was there with a group of rowdy men. Oxley called something lewd to one dancer, but fell silent when another woman – a busty person with the jaded look of someone who lived hand to mouth – came to hover menacingly at his shoulder, after which there were a lot of jokes about the folly of whoring in front of one’s wife. Eventually, she came to ask if Chaloner wanted some game pie.
‘No, thank you,’ replied Chaloner, knowing that ‘game’ in such establishments might mean virtually anything. ‘But I would like to speak to Mr Baron.’
‘I shall see if he is available,’ she replied haughtily. ‘But only if you take the pie. I made it myself, see, and everyone says that Emma Oxley’s pies are the best on Cheapside.’
Chaloner nodded acceptance of the terms and she marched away. He hoped Baron would not be too long, because the music was giving him a headache. The food arrived, and he was obliged to eat it because Emma loomed over him, and made it clear that she was going nowhere until she had been complimented. It was much as he had feared – tough meat of indeterminate origin mixed with peas and onions in a glutinous sauce that appeared black in the murky light.
When it and Emma were gone, Chaloner sensed someone behind him, and glanced around to see the King of Cheapside flanked by his ‘captains’ – the big-nosed Doe and Poachin with his mane of swept-back hair. None looked friendly, and when Poachin and Doe perched on either side of him, they sat too close, aiming to intimidate.
‘You wanted to talk to me,’ said Baron, sitting opposite. ‘Who are you?’
Chaloner introduced himself as an agent for the Earl, and Baron’s manner immediately changed. He grinned engagingly, and Chaloner understood why Temperance had found him charming – Baron possessed a magnetism that was far more attractive than Taylor’s raw power.
‘Why did you not say?’ He clicked his fingers, and although the snap was inaudible above the music, Emma immediately appeared with better wine and clean goblets. ‘Clarendon is my most valued client, God bless him. I am honoured to entertain any member of his household.’
Chaloner’s heart sank. Baron was clearly delighted by the kudos accruing from having a member of the government among his customers, and was unlikely to appreciate being told not only that the association was at an end, but that he was no longer allowed to mention it. Chaloner forced a smile, and hoped he would at least manage to resolve one of his employer’s concerns.
‘Good, because his latest order has gone awry,’ he said. ‘He ordered nine pairs of curtains, but only seven have been delivered.’
‘Really?’ Baron was all shocked mystification. ‘Doe, fetch my ledger, will you? We must settle this matter before any offence is taken. By either party.’
Chaloner stifled a sigh, suspecting he was about to be shown ‘evidence’ that the Earl was mistaken. He was not wrong. The ledger, in a surprisingly elegant hand, showed that two thousand, nine hundred pounds had been paid for seven pairs of curtains. Neve had endorsed the entry, although there was a suspicious smudge over the seven that made Chaloner suspect it had been altered after the upholder had signed. There was another discrepancy, too: the Earl had said they cost three thousand, so where was the other hundred?
‘You are in error, I am afraid.’ Baron’s eyes were bright with triumph, although his face was grave. ‘Seven pairs were ordered and seven have been delivered. Or are you saying that your Earl wants to buy two more?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner patiently. ‘But there are nine windows in his Great Parlour, so it is unlikely that Neve made a mistake. It is—’
‘Are you accusing us of cheating?’ demanded Doe, gimlet-eyed.
‘Of course he is not,’ said Baron, gently chiding. ‘We are just talking here.’
‘Have another drink, Mr Chaloner,’ said Poachin, then smiled coldly. ‘Before you go.’
Chaloner wondered what to do as he sipped the wine. The Earl would not be happy until the remaining drapery was delivered, but it was clear that Baron was not going to provide them without additional payment.
He fought down his irritation. He was an intelligencer of some repute, so why was he in a dingy tavern arguing about curtains? Neve should be sorting this matter out – he was the one employed to furnish Clarendon House. Then an idea came.
‘We have a problem,’ he began. ‘Clarendon says you are the only one who can supply that particular colour.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Baron. ‘My brother-in-law the linen-draper made them to order. Seven pairs.’
‘So bugger off,’ growled Doe. ‘Before I break your legs.’
Chaloner shot him a contemptuous glance. Doe was a brute, whose solution to problems was to hit them. Poachin was cleverer, although Chaloner sensed that Baron trusted Doe more. Perhaps the felon was nervous of Poachin’s greater intelligence.
‘However, most things are available for a price,’ said Poachin, raising a hand to his hair. The lotion applied to keep it in place had set it rigid, like a helmet. ‘I am sure we can come to an arrangement.’
‘I am sure we can,’ agreed Chaloner smoothly. ‘Especially if we understand that money is not the only currency. Recommendations can be worth a great deal more.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Doe irritably. ‘Recommendations? We are not interested in those. We want good hard cash, or you can take your custom elsewhere.’
‘Wait,’ ordered Baron, as Chaloner took him at his word and stood. ‘Explain, if you please.’
‘Curtains are currently in vogue,’ obliged Chaloner. ‘And wealthy courtiers are prepared to pay well for good ones. If the Earl is satisfied, he will tell his friends about you.’
‘In other words, if we give him two more pairs for free, he will send us new clients,’ surmised Baron. ‘It is a tempting offer and I admire your audacity, but your Earl is unpopular. He does not have enough friends to make this deal worth our while.’
‘Nobles do not make these purchases themselves,’ said Chaloner, risking a good deal by injecting a note of scorn into his voice. ‘People like Neve do – upholders or trusted stewards, whose duty is to oversee such matters.’
Baron was thoughtful. ‘And you are on good terms with these upholders and stewards?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘The King’s mistress is always eager to redecorate, while the Duke of Buckingham had a house-fire recently. And Lord Rochester is a man of fashion, as is Bab May.’
‘They are also deeply in debt,’ said Poachin, the intelligent one. ‘They may want our wares, but they will be unable to pay for them.’
Chaloner smiled to conceal his exasperation: it was a valid point. ‘They can always find money for luxuries. Ask anyone at White Hall.’
‘How many additional customers can you promise?’ asked Baron.
‘Four,’ replied Chaloner, hoping it would be possible. ‘However, as you pointed out, my Earl is unpopular, so do not mention him to these new clients. It would be a pity if they took their custom elsewhere, just so as not to be associated with him at any level.’
Baron laughed. ‘Very well, you have a bargain: four new clients in exchange for two pairs of curtains. You have my word on it, as God is my witness.’
There was nothing godly about the King of Cheapside, and Chaloner was left feeling as though he had just made a pact with the devil. Still, his plan should work: the Earl’s enemies would not be able to condemn him for dealing with a criminal if they were doing it themselves. All Chaloner had to do now was persuade key members of their households to buy Baron’s goods without them guessing what he was trying to do.
‘Wheler,’ he said, launching into another subject as Baron and his captains stood. ‘He was killed in your domain, but I am told the murder remains unsolved. Does that not disturb you?’
‘Dreadfully,’ replied Baron blandly. ‘I would have investigated myself, but Spymaster Williamson came to do it instead, although he met with no success, and I fear he has given up. Poor Wheler! It was a terrible crime, and I miss him very much.’
‘We all do,’ put in Doe. ‘Although it was not nearly as grave a crime as the one against Coo, which has all Cheapside in an uproar. Coo was a good man – a saint, in fact.’
‘And Wheler was not?’ probed Chaloner.
Baron laughed, a genuine guffaw that had other patrons glancing over and smiling with him – he was audible even over the thumping music. ‘Wheler never professed to be anything other than what he was,’ he managed to gasp once he had his mirth under control. ‘A banker.’
‘And that says it all,’ drawled Poachin.
There was no time like the present, so Chaloner decided to put his plan into action immediately. He walked to the King’s Head tavern near White Hall, which was a favourite haunt of Lady Castlemaine’s steward, and settled down to wait.
It was not long before his quarry appeared. Crispin Blow was a handsome fellow, hired more for his shapely legs and legendary skill in the bedchamber than for his business acumen. He was already drunk, so it was absurdly easy to convince him that Baron of Cheapside was the only place to go for superior upholstery at wholesale prices. Blow was delighted by the tip, because his mistress had confided only the previous day that she wanted curtains in her boudoir.
One down, three to go, thought Chaloner, as he returned to Cheapside in the hope of waylaying Joan Taylor. Her new father-in-law had declined to reveal where Randal was hiding, so perhaps she would oblige. He was in luck, because she had been visiting the Shaws, and he was able to catch her between the door of their shop and her carriage.
Unlike Taylor, she did not recognise the elegantly clad courtier as the man in rough travelling clothes who had been shot at the previous day, so Chaloner introduced himself as an envoy of the Lord Chancellor and engaged her in conversation by congratulating her on her recent nuptials. Like many merchants, she was impressed by rank, and was more than happy to exchange pleasantries with someone from White Hall. Such was her arrogance that she did not once stop to wonder why a member of Clarendon’s household should be interested in her.
‘I was delighted to join the Taylor clan,’ she said smugly. ‘Although I would be happier if Randal did not write silly pamphlets that force him to go into hiding.’
‘You mean his cook book?’ asked Chaloner innocently.
‘I mean his barbed denunciation of Mrs Cromwell,’ she spat. ‘I cannot imagine why he decided to pick on her. Why bother? She is nothing now.’
‘Perhaps he knew she is unlikely to fight back,’ suggested Chaloner, and before she could object to the inference that her new husband was a coward, he added, ‘I should like to wish him happiness, too. Do you know where he might be found?’
‘None of the family do – we thought it would be safer if he kept his whereabouts to himself. You will have to wait until the fuss has died down before giving him your felicitations.’
Chaloner had no idea whether to believe her. ‘It must be upsetting to have him disappear when you have not been wed for long.’
Joan shrugged. ‘I am too busy to pine. I have many duties and responsibilities, not just at Taylor’s Bank, but with the properties I inherited from my first husband.’ She gestured behind her. ‘Such as this one – the Shaws are my tenants.’
‘Do you have more to do now than when Wheler was alive?’
Joan smiled. ‘Oh, yes! Dick liked me to sit quietly at home, but my new family appreciates my worth and encourages me to stretch my wings. And not just because I brought them a fortune, but because I have innovative ideas about commerce. They are beginning to solicit my opinion in all the important decisions.’
‘Beginning to solicit? You mean they do not—’
‘It is only a matter of time before I am accepted as their equal,’ she interrupted icily: his question had irked her. ‘Now, if you will excuse me…’
Chaloner segued hastily to another subject. ‘The Earl means to bring your husband’s killer to justice. Can you tell me anything that might help?’
Joan grimaced. ‘I have already reported all I know to Spymaster Williamson. Dick was walking up White Goat W
ynd when he was waylaid by robbers. It was an opportunistic crime – a random attack by villains from the rookeries. I doubt Clarendon will solve it, although it is good of him to take an interest. Thank him for me, but tell him not to waste his time. Good day.’
She strode towards her carriage, leaving Chaloner to stare after her thoughtfully. She had certainly benefited from her husband’s death, not only by inheriting his wealth, but with the opportunity to shine in the world of finance. Had she hired someone to dispatch him? Chaloner had no trouble believing her capable of such a thing.
Chaloner loitered in and around Cheapside for the rest of the day, asking questions about Joan, Wheler, Randal, Taylor’s Bank and Coo, but learned nothing new. Eventually, he arrived at Bearbinder Lane, at the extreme eastern end of Cheapside. It was time to concentrate on DuPont.
The alley linked Cheapside with Walbrook Street, although few used it as a shortcut. Its narrow entrances were uninviting, and it was characterised by four-and five-storey tenements on either side, rendering it dark and dismal, like a canyon. There were one or two unlicensed alehouses, but most of the buildings were the kind of places that rented out single rooms to whole families, and were unkempt and dingy. Mildew crept across façades that never saw the sun, and the ground was unpleasantly sticky underfoot.
Chaloner started down it, but was stopped before he had taken many steps by the sight of a house being boarded up. Two men were nailing wooden planks across its ground-floor windows, while a third painted a large red cross on the door. He did not need to be told what was happening – plague measures were being implemented. He glanced up to see the residents clustered at an upstairs window, their faces strained and frightened. A ‘watcher’ – someone hired to make sure they did not escape – stood ready to begin his unenviable duties.
‘Their maid has the plague,’ he was explaining to the horrified neighbours. ‘They must be kept inside now, lest they spread the disease to others – to you.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 10
