The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘But they are healthy,’ objected the brewer named Farrow. ‘However, they will certainly sicken if they are locked in there with an infected scullion.’

  ‘And they include father, mother, ten children, grandmother, aunt and two more servants,’ added a seamstress disapprovingly. ‘You cannot condemn them all to death.’

  ‘They are the Court’s milliners,’ added Farrow. ‘But poor, because they have so many brats. If they had been rich, the authorities would have looked the other way – recorded that the maid has dropsy or spotted fever. It is always the same: one law for them and another for us.’

  ‘We should not put up with it,’ declared the seamstress. ‘We must make a stand.’

  She did not say how, but it was a sentiment that won the approval of the other onlookers, who jeered when the watcher tried again to explain the government’s rationale. The scene reminded Chaloner painfully of his first wife, and suddenly all he wanted was to go home. DuPont could wait until morning.

  Night was approaching as he trudged west, and he stopped at the Half Moon on the Strand for something to eat, doubting there would be much on offer at Tothill Street. When he saw the prices, he wondered if he should find somewhere else, but he was tired, hungry and his throat hurt, so he stayed. He ordered something called ‘a Turkish dish of meat’, which sounded more palatable than stewed udders or eel pie, which were the alternatives. It transpired to be one of the most delicious things he had ever tasted – thin slices of beef wrapped in bacon and then simmered with rice, onions and spices. He complimented the landlord.

  ‘It is a recipe from The Court & Kitchin,’ the man confided. ‘Although it galls me to admit it. This is a Royalist establishment, see, and I bought that book because I hate Roundheads and wanted to learn some nasty secrets about Mrs Cromwell. But that bit was dull, so I looked at the recipes instead. And they are all excellent.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Chaloner, surprised.

  ‘I would not have minded living in White Hall myself if she had been running the kitchen,’ the landlord went on. ‘Such skill and imagination!’

  Chaloner had never seen any indication that Mrs Cromwell was a good cook, and she had certainly not tried her hand when he had been in Northamptonshire, but he said nothing. He nodded a farewell to the landlord, and was just passing the New Exchange when he saw the Earl’s private carriage disgorging his employer, Lady Clarendon and a gaggle of chattering ladies. Chaloner kept walking, but Lady Clarendon spotted him and called him over.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she said, as he escorted her up the steps to the front door. She smiled rather girlishly. ‘My friends and I are going on a foray for bargains.’

  The New Exchange, a building that was at least half a century old, boasted upwards of two hundred shops, all catering to the wealthier end of the market. It was the last place to find bargains, and Chaloner suspected his master was in for a very expensive evening. The other ladies hurried after her, forming a chirruping cluster, all bustling skirts and excited voices. The Earl watched with an expression of gloomy resignation, then turned to Chaloner.

  ‘Have you learned what happened to DuPont?’

  ‘He died of the plague.’ Chaloner had included this in the letter he had sent to Clarendon House with Gram the previous evening, but confirmation that his missives were routinely ignored came in the Earl’s shocked response.

  ‘What? The plague is on Cheapside now?’

  ‘In Bearbinder Lane. Two cases so far, including DuPont’s.’

  ‘Do not put yourself at risk again,’ ordered the Earl, but even as Chaloner looked at him in astonishment for the uncharacteristic display of concern, he added, ‘I do not want you bringing it to Clarendon House. Now, what about my curtains?’

  ‘The only way to ensure Baron’s silence about your association with him is to furnish him with some new customers. I think I have given him Lady Castlemaine, and I shall see about Buckingham and a few others tomorrow. He will provide the remaining drapery in return.’

  A slow, vengeful smile spread across the Earl’s face. ‘Lord, that is sly! My enemies cannot condemn me for dealing with a felon if they are doing it themselves. You really are a devious rogue, Chaloner, and I am glad you are not working against me. I should be impeached in days!’

  Chaloner was not entirely sure this was meant as a compliment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Accompany me,’ instructed the Earl, eyeing the shops with considerable trepidation. ‘The company of another man might make this excursion bearable.’

  Inside, the New Exchange comprised a large piazza with a covered walkway, and the stalls were in two tiers around the edges; standing sentinel above them were life-sized statues of past monarchs. It was a place to be seen as much as to buy, and the ambitious navy clerk, Samuel Pepys, was among the glittering throng. Pepys only ever acknowledged Chaloner when he thought it would be worth his while, and being in the company of an earl was enough to bring the clerk scurrying over. He almost swooned with delight when the Earl touched his head in an affectionate manner and praised his work with the Tangier Committee.

  ‘Damn!’ breathed the Earl suddenly, grabbing Chaloner’s arm and pulling him away. ‘Taylor and his friends are here. I do not like the way he has bought debts from the other bankers and called them in. He has put my poor friend Bishop Morley in a terrible position.’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned it yesterday.’ Chaloner was disappointed but not surprised that Randal was not among the throng that clustered obsequiously at the financier’s heels.

  ‘And look at Joan,’ the Earl went on cattily. ‘She certainly landed on her feet when her husband died. Of course, she paid a high price for her alliance with the Taylors – namely marriage to the insipid Randal. Still, he is better than his older brother Evan, who is frightened of his father and bullies everyone else in revenge. He—’

  He stopped talking and donned a patently false smile when Taylor saw him and came to exchange greetings. The Master of the Goldsmiths had Joan on one arm, and his rosewood box under the other. Evan was behind them, along with several other financiers, most of whom the Earl addressed by name – Vyner, Glosson, Backwell. The Shaws were there, too, and Chaloner recalled that Backwell had invited the couple out for anchovies and shopping.

  ‘This is the man who aims to look into Dick’s murder,’ Joan told Taylor, indicating Chaloner with a rather contemptuous flick of her hand.

  ‘On my orders,’ put in the Earl. ‘It is a crime that should be solved.’

  ‘It should,’ agreed Taylor. ‘However, Williamson could not do it, and too much time has passed for you to succeed where he failed. Concentrate on your personal finances instead. Have you considered investing in commodities with a high market liquidity?’

  There followed an extremely tedious conversation with Joan playing no small part. She had not exaggerated when she had boasted about her commercial acumen – she knew a great deal about the matter in question and was not afraid to express her opinions. Taylor’s eyes glowed in admiration, but then he started in surprise and pointed at a nearby shop.

  ‘There is a stoat in that confectionery,’ he declared, cutting abruptly into her analysis of graduated dividend yields. ‘It is eating all the comfits.’

  Everyone turned, but all Chaloner could see was Joan’s startled reflection in the window. Taylor grabbed the Earl’s hand and towed him towards it, muttering darkly about the known fondness of all mustelines for any form of sugar. His colleagues followed, careful to conceal their bemused glances, but before Chaloner could rescue his employer, he found his way barred by Evan. He could have shoved past the man, but was curious to know what he wanted.

  ‘I hope you will not forget our little conversation earlier,’ Evan said softly. ‘Utter one word about my father’s … eccentricities, and you will find yourself in deeper debt than ever.’

  Chaloner almost laughed, given what Taylor had just done in front of a member of the Privy Council and London’s most prominent financiers. He glanced
towards them. Taylor was scowling, but his angry expression lifted when Backwell announced in an artificially bright voice that he had just seen the stoat devour a honey-coated almond. The other bankers nodded sycophantically, all afraid of contradicting the Master of the Goldsmiths. Did Taylor know it, Chaloner wondered, and was seeing how far he could push them before one had the courage to challenge him?

  ‘He is tired, not mad,’ Evan was saying. ‘He should not have worked today, and it is a pity that he insisted on joining Backwell this evening. He should have had an early—’

  He was interrupted by an equine bray and his jaw dropped in horror when he realised the sound had come from his sire. Taylor pawed the floor with one foot and neighed again, while the other bankers regarded him in alarm and the Earl’s eyes went wide with astonishment. Taylor finished his display and glared around imperiously. Most shrank from the basilisk gaze. Then Joan took his arm and distracted him by pointing out some prettily decorated cakes in the shop window.

  ‘We should enjoy them while we can,’ remarked Taylor, and suddenly he was the picture of normality. ‘It will be difficult to import sugar once the war gains momentum.’

  There was an audible sigh of relief from the company when it seemed the peculiar interlude was at an end. Chaloner started towards the Earl a second time, but was intercepted by someone else. This time it was Backwell, who was holding two coins in his hand, which he stroked lovingly. The Shaws were with him.

  ‘Lettice tells me that you are Tom Chaloner,’ said Backwell pleasantly. ‘I thought you looked familiar when we met yesterday. You must be kin to my old friend, the Member of Parliament for Scarborough. I see the likeness in your eyes.’

  ‘My uncle,’ said Chaloner, heartily wishing his kinsman had kept a lower profile. Loved or hated, he had made an indelible impression on those he encountered, and Chaloner was frequently accosted by people with something to say about him.

  ‘He was a great man,’ averred Backwell. He lowered his voice. ‘He understood the beauty of money, and I did a great deal of business with him when I was financial advisor to Cromwell. I am sorry he died – especially as he promised to give me some shares in his family’s alum mines.’

  ‘Chaloner’s wife offered us the same,’ said Shaw, adding pointedly, ‘in the event of her not being able to pay for the flageolet she bought.’

  ‘Hold out for the alum,’ advised Backwell. ‘It is an excellent venture and will make you rich. Is that not so, Chaloner?’ He continued before Chaloner could reply. ‘Tell Shaw where you can be contacted, and I shall invite you to my next soirée. They are lovely occasions, and we always devote plenty of time to discussing money. You always enjoy them, do you not, Shaw?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Shaw, heavily sarcastic, and it was probably fortunate that Backwell’s attention was caught at that moment by Joan dropping her reticule. Coins spilled out of the little bag, and the banker was one of several men who raced to help her retrieve them.

  ‘I would keep your whereabouts secret, if I were you, Chaloner,’ said Shaw sourly. ‘Or you will find yourself compelled to attend occasions like this – overcooked fish and stilted conversation, followed by a shopping expedition where you will be permitted to watch wealthy folk buy things that they do not need at obscenely inflated prices.’

  ‘Mr Backwell is trying to be nice, Robin,’ said Lettice chidingly. ‘And he extends his largesse not just to us, but to Mr Meynell, Mr Hinton, the wives of Mr Johnson and Mr Angier…’

  She nodded towards a despondent gaggle who stood apart from those who formed the glittering horde around the confectioner’s stall. Their clothes were of good quality, but not the height of fashion – folk who had been rich but who had fallen on hard times. They looked uncomfortable and resentful, and Chaloner suspected that they had not wanted to be included in the foray any more than Shaw, but had dared not refuse.

  ‘The widows of Johnson and Angier,’ corrected Shaw. ‘Johnson died of broken wits in Bedlam, while Angier killed himself. Both were destroyed by the Colburn Crisis.’

  ‘They should have done what we did, and opened a different kind of business,’ said Lettice. ‘We may not be rich, but I warrant we have better lives.’

  ‘Our neighbours being the only fly in the ointment,’ sighed Shaw. ‘I am sure they tip extra water into their cesspit to ensure their filth keeps overflowing into our cellar. Damn them!’

  ‘But Joan has hired builders to remedy the problem,’ said Lettice, glancing to where the lady in question was addressing her father-in-law in softly soothing tones. ‘We shall soon be all clean and fragrant again.’ She turned to Chaloner. ‘You had better give us your details. Mr Backwell loves to entertain, and he was fond of your uncle. He will certainly want you at his next occasion.’

  ‘You will regret it,’ warned Shaw.

  ‘Oh, fie! You loved the time when the King’s Private Musick came to entertain us, as it gave you the chance to hear the best violists in the country.’

  It was enough to convince Chaloner, who was willing to endure a great deal for the sake of his muse. Moreover, there was always the possibility that an invitation to hobnob with Backwell and his friends would provide him with an opportunity to further his investigations.

  Chapter 5

  The next day was clear and bright, although Chaloner was in no condition to appreciate it. He woke with a sore throat, a blocked nose and the urge to cough. He fought it, because it would disturb Hannah, and he had no wish to deal with the sour temper that always assailed her first thing in the morning. Her mood on waking was so different from her mien during the rest of the day that he had once taken her to Surgeon Wiseman, sure there was something wrong with her.

  He glanced at her as she slumbered next to him, and wondered again what had possessed him to marry her. They had nothing in common and disagreed over the most basic of things. He supposed he loved her, although he had never been very good at analysing his feelings, let alone expressing them, a failing that had become more pronounced as he had grown older. He also did not understand hers, which was a sight more dangerous.

  Unbidden, his first wife’s face swam into his mind. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, but even at the time he had known that their passion for each other was unlikely to have lasted had she lived. He had always tried to resist comparing Hannah to Aletta, for the simple reason that Aletta had been dead for more than a decade and he had forgotten any annoying habits she might have had, while Hannah’s tended to plague him on a daily basis. Then Hannah shifted in her sleep, bringing him back to the here and now, and he winced. What sort of husband was he to be gazing at one wife while thinking of another?

  To take his mind off the conflicting emotions he always experienced when he pondered his marriages, he turned his mind to what he had to do that day: find Randal, provide Baron with three more customers, investigate the murders of Wheler and Coo, and explore the business with DuPont. He would also have to give notice to his landlord in Long Acre, as the attic refuge was no longer a luxury he could afford. He would be sorry to lose it, and sighed without thinking, which irritated his throat. He began to cough and Hannah’s eyes flew open.

  ‘Do not hack over me,’ she snapped, covering her mouth and nose with the blanket. ‘I do not want to catch your cold.’

  ‘Is that what it is?’ he asked, startled to find his voice a full octave lower than normal.

  ‘Yes – there are a lot of them around at the moment. Still, better that than the plague. Do not look so wretched, Tom. Surely you have had a cold before?’

  Chaloner supposed he must have done, although he could not recall ever suffering a more unpleasant collection of symptoms. He had always been blessed with robust good health, and disliked feeling so low. His wits were muddy, there was a nagging ache behind his eyes, and even breathing hurt his inflamed throat.

  ‘It will be gone in a few days,’ said Hannah, dropping the waspish tone and adopting a kinder one. He regarded her warily, suspicious of sympathy at an hour whe
n she was usually either asleep or simmering with bad temper. ‘Rest, and drink plenty of honey-water.’

  She began to get up, chatting amiably, and he was beginning to wonder if she was unwell herself when it occurred to him that she was making an effort to be cordial because she felt guilty about the debt. As well she might, he thought sullenly, because it would not be her carted off to gaol if they could not pay, given that he was responsible for such matters in the eyes of the law.

  ‘Peter Newton, that bald Gentleman Usher, is dead,’ she told him. ‘He hanged himself.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Chaloner, struggling to recall if he had ever met the man.

  ‘Debts,’ said Hannah, not looking at him. ‘But his were far greater than ours, and he decided that he could never repay what he had borrowed, so he put a rope around his neck and jumped off the Holbein Gate. You will not consider such a solution, will you, Tom? It is quite unnecessary – we will manage, even if we have to sell everything we own.’

  ‘Did he owe money to Taylor?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if the hapless Newton had not killed himself at all, but had been dispatched by the banker’s henchmen as a warning to others.

  ‘Yes, and to Vyner and Hinton, although Hinton is ruined now, so he is irrelevant. Poor Newton even gave up the emeralds he inherited from his grandmother.’

  ‘Did you write references for the servants?’ asked Chaloner, supposing they should discuss their own situation rather than pawing over someone else’s. ‘And look for a smaller house?’

  ‘The number of insolvent courtiers increases by the day,’ Hannah chattered on, ignoring his questions. ‘Lady Castlemaine is in the greatest trouble, because she likes to play cards. She is easily distracted by anyone who flirts with her, so she forgets to concentrate and loses a lot.’

  With a pang, Chaloner wondered if it had been kind to encourage the Lady’s steward to buy goods from Baron, who was unlikely to be very patient with outstanding bills. Then he reminded himself that the King’s sharp-tongued mistress had done his Earl a great deal of cruel and unnecessary harm. A run-in with Baron might teach her the importance of compassion.