The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘The poor Duke has had some of his debts recalled, too,’ Hannah went on. She referred to Buckingham, for whom she had formed a rather unfathomable attachment. ‘That is why he was so keen to discover the Philosopher’s Stone earlier in the year – to save himself by turning lead into gold. It is a pity you ruined his experiments. Did you hear about the Howards, by the way?’

  ‘The Earl of Carlisle’s family?’

  ‘No, silly! The milliners from Bearbinder Lane. You must know them, as no one at Court would wear hats made by anyone else. Well, their house was shut up yesterday. Parents, children, elderly relatives and servants, all locked in with a sick maid. It makes me cold to think of it.’

  ‘I saw it being—’

  ‘It is Backwell’s fault,’ blurted Hannah. ‘The situation with my debt, I mean. Everything worked perfectly until he sold it. I would never have borrowed money if I had known that he would sell my loan to Taylor. Taylor is a pig, who has even made things difficult for George Morley, and he is a bishop!’

  ‘The servants,’ prompted Chaloner, feeling they had skirted the matter quite long enough. ‘I assume you have told them that they must look for other positions?’

  Hannah looked away. ‘I could not bring myself to do it. I was hoping that perhaps you…’

  When Chaloner entered his dressing room, it was to find smart clothes laid out for him, beautifully pressed and starched. The shirt smelled of lavender and sage, herbs used not only to give laundry a pleasant aroma, but to repel moths, lice and fleas. There was also hot water and equipment put ready for shaving. As the servants did not usually bother to pamper him, he could only assume they were trying – belatedly, as far as he was concerned – to make themselves agreeable.

  He washed and shaved quickly, noting as he did so that his travel-stained clothes had been laundered and his boots buffed to an impressive shine. Someone had even polished his sword, which now gleamed rather artificially. He walked down the stairs, and was surprised to be intercepted by Nan the cook-maid, who was evidently in charge now that the housekeeper had decanted to the country to regain her health.

  ‘Would you like some breakfast, sir?’ she asked with a bobbing curtsy. ‘There is smoked pork and eggs, and I rose very early to bake you an eel pie with oysters. I followed one of Mrs Cromwell’s recipes, because I know you are partial to Parliamentarian food.’

  Chaloner did not particularly like eels or oysters, and the combination sounded unappealing. Moreover, such elaborate fare was more likely to be popular with the hedonists at White Hall than the Commonwealth’s abstemious Puritans.

  ‘You have read The Court & Kitchin?’ he asked.

  Anxiety flashed across Nan’s face. ‘Only the recipes, sir, as I thought I could make them for you. I did not read the preliminary remarks.’

  Chaloner imagined she had. He wondered if he should let her fête him with a sumptuous breakfast and then tell her that she and her cronies were dismissed, but decency won out. ‘I need to talk to all the servants as soon as possible.’

  ‘It is not convenient,’ said Nan, in a transparent attempt to postpone the inevitable. ‘Everyone is busy with the many tasks necessary for running a household of this size.’

  ‘I am sure.’ Chaloner took a step towards the kitchen, but she grabbed his arm.

  ‘You cannot oust us just because you are in debt,’ she hissed, unctuous servility evaporating. ‘It would not be fair, and the mistress swore that we would not suffer.’

  ‘It was not in her power to make such a promise,’ said Chaloner, wishing Hannah had not seen fit to hire them in the first place. ‘And we have no choice.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Nan turned tearful, and Chaloner wondered why he felt guilty. It was not his extravagance that had brought them to this pass, and Nan, surly, rude and disagreeable, had never made the slightest effort to win his good graces. ‘You could keep us if you wanted.’

  He pulled away from her and strode towards the kitchen, flinging open the door before she could stop him. The servants were not busy at all. Jacob the footman was by the fire drinking ale, the scullion was fast asleep in the corner, while Gram the page was cleaning his nails with one of the dinner knives. The aforementioned pie was stamped with the name of the cook-shop from which it had been bought, and most had already been eaten.

  ‘We are resting briefly after working frantically since first light,’ declared Jacob, leaping to his feet. Gram shoved the dinner knife out of sight, and the scullion slipped under the table, where she pretended to be scrubbing the floor. ‘We have been—’

  ‘Stop,’ commanded Chaloner. ‘I appreciate that you are reluctant to abandon such a comfortable existence, but I am afraid we can keep you no longer.’

  ‘You cannot get rid of us,’ said Jacob defiantly. ‘We know things about you and your wife, and you do not want us gossiping. We are staying on, and nothing will change.’

  ‘That’s right,’ averred Nan. ‘Jacob and Gram hail from Cheapside and have friends in Baron’s trainband. Even you must have heard what they do to folk who annoy them. If you dismiss us, they will come here and…’

  She faltered when Chaloner whipped around to glare at her, not about to stand meekly while she threatened him in his own house. He controlled his temper with difficulty.

  ‘Hannah will try to find you posts elsewhere. You may stay here until they start.’

  It was more consideration than most employers would show, and while he felt they did not deserve it, he did not want to toss them out if they had nowhere to go. He had been poor too often himself to inflict that sort of misery on anyone else.

  ‘Discharge us, and we will tell everyone about your debts,’ warned the scullion, her small face full of spite as she emerged from under the table to stand with her fellows. Only Gram held back. ‘And we shall inform all London that your uncle was a king-killer and that you were once a Roundhead spy.’

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Those are not secrets.’

  ‘Then we will say that Hannah is the Duke of Buckingham’s whore,’ declared Nan, eyes flashing. ‘And that he visited her here every night when you were away.’

  Had Nan been a man, Chaloner would have punched her. ‘You can try,’ he said, ice in his voice. ‘But bear in mind that no one will hire you ever again if you reveal yourselves to be the sort of people who slander former employers.’

  ‘We are not going,’ snarled Jacob, fists clenching at his side. ‘My cousin is married to Doe’s niece, and Doe is Baron’s favourite captain. Moreover, Gram taught Doe how to…’

  He trailed off, and from Gram’s agonised expression, Chaloner judged that whatever skill had been passed on was either illegal, unethical or unpleasant, and definitely something the elderly page would have preferred kept quiet. Jacob’s obvious irritation at the slip suggested that he also knew the claim was unlikely to strengthen their argument.

  ‘I know this is inconvenient,’ said Chaloner. ‘And we are sorry, but—’

  ‘Do not bother to find us other posts,’ interrupted Jacob coldly. ‘I have no intention of working my fingers to the bone in another household. I shall go back to Cheapside, where Baron will find a use for my talents. Indeed, I shall go today, and you can do your own chores.’

  He turned and stalked towards his bedchamber to pack, leaving Chaloner wryly amused that the footman should baulk at the prospect of a job where he might actually have to do what he was being paid for. All injured indignation, the two women followed his example, and began tossing their belongings into bags. Chaloner stopped the scullion from including one of his coats and Hannah’s silver ladle, but was disinclined to do battle for two pots, a set of brushes and a milk jug.

  ‘You will regret this,’ vowed Nan, shouldering past him roughly enough to make him stagger. ‘I swear it on my life.’

  Jacob looked as though he would like to jostle Chaloner, too, but changed his mind at the last minute. It was a wise decision: the spy might overlook an assault by a cook-maid, but a footman was an
other matter altogether. The scullion was next through the door, although not before she had shoved a brass poker up her sleeve. She turned to spit at Chaloner when she was sure she was far enough away not to be caught in the event of a chase.

  ‘That went well,’ remarked Hannah, emerging from the shadows. Chaloner felt a flash of irritation that she should have been watching but had not come to support him. ‘Who is this terrifying Baron they kept mentioning? He is not the linen-draper who is going to supply Lady Castlemaine’s new curtains, is he?’

  ‘Please,’ came a quiet voice before Chaloner could answer, and they saw that Gram had not followed the others. ‘Jacob has family on Cheapside, while the girls will get work in Mr Starkey’s new bakery. But I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Tom is going to secure you a post in Hercules’ Pillars Alley,’ said Hannah. ‘You can stay here until it is all arranged, but I am afraid we cannot pay you.’

  ‘You have not paid me in weeks anyway,’ shrugged Gram. ‘So what is different?’

  The house where Chaloner rented an attic was in the middle of Long Acre. It was a nondescript building, neither overly shabby nor particularly smart, and he was sorry he could no longer afford it. It had been a useful refuge in the past, and he would miss having a place where no one minded his viol. Landlord Lamb nodded glumly when Chaloner informed him that he was moving out.

  ‘You are the second this week. Is it because you fear the plague?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘It is because of—’

  ‘That damn DuPont,’ Lamb went on bitterly. ‘Why could he not have died quietly, instead of attracting attention by trailing across half the city?’

  ‘That is a good question.’

  ‘Poor Mr Grey is ruined,’ Lamb went on. ‘He owns the house where DuPont became sick, and all his tenants have vanished lest the authorities order the place shut up with them inside. I do not blame them. Who can afford to be locked away for forty days? They would starve!’

  ‘The parish will provide food.’

  ‘Bread, cheese and herrings,’ spat Lamb in disdain. ‘But who can live without beer and sausages? And what about a fellow’s livelihood? Being kept from business for the best part of seven weeks will kill it dead. Of course, most of Grey’s residents were thieves, so I suppose we would not miss them plying their trade.’

  ‘DuPont was a criminal?’ Here was something new.

  ‘Well, put it this way, Grey does not rent to angels. You should ask him about DuPont. I imagine he will have stories to tell.’

  ‘I have heard that DuPont was a spy. Could it be true?’

  ‘DuPont?’ asked Lamb, startled. ‘I would not have thought so. He had friends in St Giles.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘And that precludes him from being an intelligencer?’

  ‘Of course! What spymaster would hire someone who chooses to loiter in that sort of place?’

  Chaloner climbed the stairs to his attic for the last time, but it contained very little that belonged to him. The furniture was Lamb’s, and the only thing of value was his viol – a better instrument than the one that lived in the cupboard under the stairs in Tothill Street. He pulled off the cover and ran his fingers over its silky wood. Then, because he felt like it, he began to play.

  His skill with and love of the viol had once led him to dream of becoming a professional musician, but his family had considered it an unworthy occupation for a gentleman. They had not been particularly impressed by espionage either, and would have prevented it had Thurloe not convinced them that it was an honourable way to serve his country. Chaloner winced as he imagined his parents’ dismay if they could see him now – chasing undelivered curtains and investigating murders.

  His gloomy mood caused him to bow sad, tragic airs by Lawes and Dowland, but gradually his spirits lifted, and he launched into lighter pieces by Ferrabosco. As always, he became lost in the music, so it was a shock when he glanced out of the window to see that it was nearing noon. He packed his remaining belongings and set them ready to be sent to Tothill Street. He paid the outstanding rent from his rapidly dwindling supply of money, and thanked Lamb for his kindness.

  ‘I shall miss that viol,’ sighed Lamb. ‘So will the coach-spring maker next door, and he could do with something to cheer him up. He borrowed heavily to expand his business, but few folk want carriages in the present financial climate, and he cannot repay his loan. He spends all his time hiding from his bankers – damned leeches!’

  Chaloner walked to the grubby tenement where DuPont had lived, and this time the landlord was home. Grey was a man who matched his name. He was drab in every respect, from his pewter-coloured hair and watery eyes to his dirty clothes and pallid skin. He sniffed mournfully when Chaloner asked about DuPont, and indicated that the spy was to enter his lair. The inside of the house was worse than the outside, and reeked of burned cabbage and dirty feet.

  ‘There is only me here now,’ he said glumly. ‘So if you want a room, I got plenty spare.’

  ‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Chaloner, sincerely hoping he and Hannah would not be reduced to accepting. ‘Now, what can you tell me about Georges DuPont?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Grey suspiciously.

  ‘Because Spymaster Williamson charged me to find out.’

  ‘Christ! I heard rumours that DuPont was an intelligencer, but I dismissed them as nonsense. Clearly, I should not have done, given that his death has attracted the government’s interest.’

  ‘Why did you not believe the tales?’

  ‘Because he did not move in the right circles. He was always disappearing into the St Giles rookery, for a start, and nothing ever happens in there that is interesting enough for espionage.’

  ‘Where in St Giles did he go? And who did he meet?’

  ‘He never told me, but you could ask his friend Everard. Of course, I have no idea where he lives either, but he has a purple nose. That might help you track him down.’

  ‘Why? Is it an unusually large one? Or an odd shape?’

  Grey shook his head. ‘No, it is quite normal. Just a different colour to most.’

  Chaloner suppressed a sigh: he doubted that snippet of information was going to prove very useful. He moved on. ‘What can you tell me about DuPont’s death?’

  Grey looked furtive. ‘Well, it was not the plague – it was some other kind of fever.’

  ‘That is not what Dr Coo says.’

  Grey’s expression darkened with anger. ‘For a saint, he had a very loose tongue. He should have kept quiet, like I asked. Then my tenants would not have moved out, leaving me all alone with debts to pay.’

  Chaloner was beginning to think he was wasting his time. He asked to see DuPont’s room, and followed Grey up stairs that needed to be negotiated with care, as several had rotted away.

  ‘He did not use his quarters here very often,’ the landlord said as they went. ‘He must have had another place elsewhere. Probably Bearbinder Lane, given that is where he died.’

  ‘I understand he was a criminal.’ Grey opened his mouth to deny it, but Chaloner raised his hand. ‘No lies, please – unless you would rather explain yourself to Williamson?’

  ‘God, no!’ blurted Grey. ‘Very well, then. DuPont was a thief, although I do not know any more than that. We never discussed it – wise rogues keep their doings to themselves, and DuPont was good at what he did.’

  ‘How do you know he was good if you never talked about it?’

  ‘Because he was often flush with cash, as talented felons always are. Of course, he never kept it very long. He liked playing cards, see.’

  ‘You leased him a room, even though you knew he was dishonest?’

  Grey twisted around to glare rather defiantly. ‘Even crooks have to sleep somewhere, and their rent money is as good as anyone else’s.’

  They arrived at the top floor, where he opened a door to reveal a dismal chamber. There were patches of mould on the walls, and one window shutter was so
badly warped that the chamber might as well have been open to the elements. The bed was a mess of rumpled covers, a pair of boots lay in a corner where they had been tossed, and a half-eaten meal was on the table. A glance told Chaloner that nothing had been touched since DuPont had left, probably because no one wanted to risk infection.

  ‘He took nothing with him when he went?’ he asked, stepping inside reluctantly.

  ‘A bag, but I did not see what he put in it. Dr Coo had already diagnosed the plague—’ Grey stopped speaking abruptly when he realised that he had just contradicted his earlier claim. He shot a sly glance at Chaloner, who tactfully pretended not to have noticed. ‘I stood here in the doorway, and asked where he was going. He said he had business in Bearbinder Lane.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘He did not tell me, but he had entertained a visitor not long before, and I think it might have had something to do with him.’

  ‘Who was it? His friend Everard?’

  ‘No – someone smaller. But he was wearing one of those plague-masks, so I never saw his face, and there is not much I can tell you about the rest of his clothes, except that they were good quality without being showy. Yet there was one thing…’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Chaloner.

  ‘It will sound odd, but he hissed under his breath. I think he was nervous.’

  As well he might be, thought Chaloner, if he was in company with a man who had a deadly and contagious disease. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Well, there was a jingle when DuPont hefted the bag over his shoulder, and I know the sound of shillings clattering together when I hear it.’

  ‘You think this hissing man gave him money?’

  Grey nodded. ‘Because I had asked DuPont for the rent earlier that morning, and he said he did not have a penny to his name. He could have been lying, but I do not think so. He never went anywhere else that day, so he could only have got the coins from his hissing guest.’