‘Caesar,’ said Silas, watching. ‘The nag, I mean. It was Wheler’s, but Baron loves it and so do his family. I cannot imagine why – it is a wretched old thing.’
Chaloner was inclined to agree, and doubted if Caesar had ever been worthy of its lofty name. It was sway-backed, its tail was set too high and its chest was too narrow. However, it had a good nature, and nuzzled affectionately at the family when they came to pet it. Baron’s hard eyes softened and Chaloner saw that Silas was right: the felon did love the animal. Meanwhile, Doe hissed his impatience at the delay, while Poachin was more difficult to read.
‘Shall we pay our respects?’ asked Silas. ‘I rather like Baron. It is not easy to foil Joan, and I am all admiration for any man who succeeds.’
He set off across the road without waiting for a reply, but Chaloner did not mind. Meeting Baron was one of the reasons why he had gone to the Feathers, after all.
‘You left the card table last night without settling your debt,’ snarled Doe when Silas reached the little party, thrusting his large nose aggressively forward. ‘You owe—’
‘Stop!’ snapped Baron, holding up a beefy hand. ‘You know we do not discuss business in front of Frances.’
Doe opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat when a fierce expression suffused Baron’s face. He closed it quickly, and Poachin smirked to see his fellow captain in trouble. Baron glared a moment longer, then beckoned to his family, who tore their attention from Caesar with obvious reluctance, and came to bob and curtsy.
‘God has blessed me and Frances with these two fine children,’ he said, obviously proud of their pretty manners. ‘We are about to go shopping for more Turpentine Pills.’
‘Very wise,’ said Silas. ‘They are excellent for colic and other digestive perils, and there is evidence that they also prevent the plague.’
‘They do,’ averred Baron. ‘We have been taking them ever since we heard about the first case in St Giles back in February.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Here is some money, chicken. Buy yourself a nice ribbon while I talk to these gentlemen. I shall join you when I have finished.’
‘She will spend it on apples for Caesar,’ piped the boy, while Chaloner reflected that Hannah would be livid if he used such patronising tones on her – and with good cause. He could only assume that either Frances was very patient or very stupid. ‘He adores apples.’
Baron beamed at them both. ‘He heard you! Look at the way he paws the ground! Run along now, before he grows impatient. Poachin will go with you.’
‘I would rather stay with—’ began Poachin, but stopped when Baron turned a glare of such malignancy on him that he blanched. It was Doe’s turn to gloat.
‘You can buy more alum for your hair,’ he said, sober-faced, although his eyes were bright with malicious glee. ‘Frances will advise you, I am sure.’
‘Alum?’ asked Chaloner warily.
‘It is the only thing that will hold,’ explained Poachin, attempting to show that he was unfazed by Baron’s scowl with a show of amiable chattiness. ‘Most folk use egg white, but that has a tendency to dissolve in wet weather. An alum-based lotion, on the other hand, lasts all day.’
‘Bugger off, then,’ said Doe. ‘Or you may find the barber has sold out.’
Poachin turned to offer Frances his arm, but thrilled by her husband’s generosity, she and the children had already skipped away, leaving him scampering to catch up. There was a happy innocence about the trio, and Chaloner wondered how long it would last – it was only a matter of time before one of them came to understand the truth about how Baron made his living.
‘Our money, Silas,’ said Doe, the moment the family were out of earshot. ‘Where is it?’
‘I was just coming to deliver it,’ said Silas, handing him the purse containing the fifty pounds for Plymouth’s cannon. Chaloner struggled to keep his expression blank. Was the ship to put to without them then? ‘When is the next game?’
‘Tonight,’ replied Doe, removing a few coins, but passing the lion’s share to Baron. ‘Same place, same time, same rules.’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Silas. ‘I shall look forward to winning it back.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Join us. It sounds as though you need a windfall.’
Chaloner did, but was not so rash as to believe that gambling was the way to do it. He murmured a polite refusal, then addressed Baron. ‘My Earl has asked me to collect his curtains today. When will they be ready?’
Baron put a heavy arm around his shoulders. ‘I understand his impatience, but he has not yet fulfilled his end of the bargain. Lady Castlemaine ordered brocade drapery for her bedroom today, and there is talk of more, but she is only one customer. You promised four.’
‘And you will have them,’ promised Chaloner. ‘But perhaps you will show good faith by—’
‘Four clients,’ interrupted Baron firmly. ‘And the curtains are his, as God is my witness.’
Chaloner could see there was no point arguing, so indicated weary acquiescence. Baron clapped him on the back, then regaled him with a list of the best places to buy Turpentine Pills and the kind of apples that were most favoured by horses.
‘Caesar might not look like much,’ he confided, lowering his voice as if he feared the remark might be heard by the beast in question, ‘but he has a lovely nature, and the face of an angel. Do you not agree?’
Chaloner nodded cautiously, not daring to look at Silas in case he laughed. ‘I understand he was Wheler’s.’
‘The loveliest creature in his stables! Unfortunately, Joan inherited him, and we are negotiating for ownership. Do you have any advice, Silas? She is your sister-in-law, after all.’
‘Just bear in mind that she will cheat you,’ replied Silas. ‘It is a pity she knows you care for the animal, because that will drive up the price. You did not dispatch Wheler to lay hold of it, did you? She told me last night that you did.’
‘She has a wicked tongue on her,’ said Baron, while Chaloner noted that he had not denied the charge. ‘She probably started the rumour that I sent assassins to kill Coo as well.’
‘I heard that tale in the market today,’ said Doe. He did not look at Baron, leaving Chaloner wondering whether there might be some truth to the claim. ‘People are angry about his murder.’
‘They are angry about many things,’ sighed Baron. ‘Coo, greedy bankers, the new plague measures. It is not easy being King of Cheapside, and I cannot imagine how His Majesty manages an entire country. Perhaps I should ask his advice.’
Silas released a sharp guffaw. ‘He would demand your head if you did! But we have kept you from Caesar quite long enough. Good day, Baron.’
Chaloner watched the two felons saunter away. Baron was a ruthless and inflexible rogue, but he was a lot more personable than Joan, and Chaloner found himself hoping that Baron would not transpire to be Wheler’s killer, as it would be a good deal more satisfying if Joan were the culprit.
‘What will happen to Plymouth?’ he asked. ‘Or will she sail to war unarmed?’
Silas chuckled. ‘Backwell bought and paid for her cannon weeks ago.’
‘You lied to your father and Evan?’ asked Chaloner, startled.
‘Why not? They forced me to join the New Model Army and take a dull job in Harwich, so they owe me something, and I will win the money back sooner or later. Perhaps even tonight. But here we are at Bearbinder Lane, and there seems to be trouble.’
There was indeed trouble. As Silas had reported, Bearbinder Lane was closed, and a watcher had been stationed at the entrance to prevent anyone from coming or going. A crowd had gathered there, and virtually every person present was muttering resentfully. The watcher was obviously terrified, and gripped his cudgel tightly.
‘We know the Howard maid is sick,’ said Farrow the brewer. Chaloner noticed several other familiar faces in the crowd, including the laundress who had been hired to scrub Coo’s blood from his doorstep. ‘But why seal off the whole lane?’
‘You know
why!’ shouted the laundress before the watcher could answer. ‘Because its residents are poor. This would not be happening if it were Goldsmiths’ Row.’
‘Yes, it would,’ argued the watcher, although he did not look convinced and neither were the onlookers. He was a scrawny fellow with bad teeth and oily skin, who was probably not being paid enough to do battle with hostile mobs. ‘There have been three cases here now – DuPont, the Howard maid and Mother Sage. This is the plague, you know. We cannot risk—’
‘Mother Sage has dropsy, not plague,’ shouted Farrow. ‘Is that not so, Widow Porteous?’
‘It is,’ agreed the laundress. ‘I visited her myself. It is not the plague.’
‘Oh, and you are a searcher, are you?’ demanded the watcher archly.
‘I do not need to be a searcher,’ flashed Widow Porteous. ‘I know dropsy when I see it.’
The watcher shrugged. ‘Then the lane will be re-opened. However, until I hear otherwise, it must be kept closed. For your own safety.’
‘When do you expect the searcher to tell you her findings?’ asked Chaloner, supposing that exploring DuPont’s lodgings would have to wait until the lane was declared safe.
‘Not today. She needs to see if buboes appear, which can take a while.’
‘I need a drink,’ said Silas, backing away hastily. ‘All this talk of plague is very disturbing.’
‘At the Green Dragon?’ suggested Chaloner. ‘You can get your lute back, and I can advise Randal about the perils of producing a sequel to The Court & Kitchin.’
Silas grimaced. ‘I cannot imagine what possessed him to pick on poor Mrs Cromwell. What harm has she ever done?’
‘Parliamentarian sentiments, Silas? I cannot see your family approving of that.’
Silas shrugged. ‘Then they should not have enrolled me in the New Model Army. However, there are some who have not forgotten that a Taylor served under Cromwell, so I suppose Randal aims to make the family’s loyalties clear. Yet it seems shabby to do it by ridiculing an old lady.’
Chaloner agreed. ‘What does Randal do for a living – when he is not penning contentious pamphlets and hiding from angry republicans?’
Silas grinned. ‘He is a professional husband.’
Chaloner blinked. ‘A what?’
‘Father needed some fast capital once, so Randal offered to marry an elderly dowager – in return for a handsome allowance, of course. The crone passed away a few weeks later, so he repeated the arrangement with a second ancient. Then she died, and Joan came along…’
‘So Randal does nothing except make widows happy?’
‘I do not think their happiness features in the arrangement. He says what is necessary in church, then leaves them to their own devices. He spends his time writing and cooking, although he has no talent for either, as you will know if you have read The Court & Kitchin.’
Chaloner did not like the sound of Randal. ‘My Earl has charged me to look into Wheler’s murder. Obviously, Baron, your father and Joan are on my list of suspects, but your remarks tell me that Randal should join them there. How big an allowance did he win by wedding Joan?’
‘Oh, a huge one,’ replied Silas carelessly. ‘Randal does not sell himself cheap. However, you should have a lot more than four suspects. Wheler was hated by the people who worked for him, the people who owed him money, and the people he forced to pay him Protection Tax.’
‘Baron forces them to pay Protection Tax, too.’
‘Yes, but he actually provides the promised service, and his rates are far more reasonable. However, I am afraid your Earl is going to be disappointed, because Spymaster Williamson did his damnedest to solve that murder, and he failed. I doubt you will achieve what he could not.’
They had not walked far along Cheapside when Silas suggested visiting the music shop so he could show off his latest published work and had crossed the road before Chaloner could protest about the wasted time. Lettice was outside, sweeping muck from her doorstep.
‘I cannot bear to be indoors,’ she confided. ‘The Oxleys are having one of their rows.’
As soon as they stepped across the threshold, Chaloner understood what she meant. A screaming quarrel was under way in the house next door, the voices so loud that every word was audible. The spat was about whose turn it was to fetch water. A sharp crack followed by a lot of wailing indicated that someone had been slapped.
‘They are dreadful people,’ said Lettice unhappily. ‘The boy killed my cat last week, and had the temerity to shake its little body at me over the wall. He is a horrid child, and so is his sister. But never mind them. Allow me to apologise for the mess. We have workmen in the cellar.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Silas, wrinkling his nose in distaste. ‘Your charming neighbours arranged for their cesspit to overflow into your basement.’
Lettice smiled. ‘Thank you for persuading Joan to begin repairs, Silas. We could not have afforded it ourselves, and you will appreciate that it is not nice living with such a stench.’
Silas waved a deprecating hand. ‘All I did was remind her of her responsibilities.’
‘We reminded her and she ignored us,’ said Shaw, hearing the last remark as he emerged from the cellar. ‘But it is an expensive undertaking, so I understand why she baulked – the entire floor must be raised, so that any spillages will stay where they originate, and not encroach on our territory. Come, let me show you.’
Chaloner had better – and more pleasant – things to do, but Hannah owed them money, so he supposed the least he could do was feign an interest in their affairs. He followed them down some steps to a cavernous basement of unusual depth, which provided the perfect repository for next-door’s spare sewage.
To remedy the problem, workmen were filling the bottom half of the room with a muddy cement, a malodorous mixture of mortar, rubble and silt, all mixed with the noxious slops provided by the Oxleys. However, as the cellar was enormous, this was no mean undertaking, and many tons of material would be required before it was completed.
‘What is the scaffolding for?’ asked Chaloner politely, when Shaw turned in expectation of interested remarks. Silas’s face was a mask of distaste, so he was clearly going to make no sensible contribution to the discussion.
‘It marks where the new floor will be,’ explained Shaw. ‘Obviously, such a large volume of mortar will take weeks to set, so the walkway that runs around all four sides will allow us access to this room until the cement is hard enough to walk on.’
A plump, jolly-faced man bustled up. Shaw introduced him as Yaile, the foreman, who was equally eager to discuss details of the project.
‘It would be dangerous to step on it while it is still molten. It is like quicksand – you would disappear without a trace.’ He grinned in ghoulish glee. ‘And there would not be so much as a ripple left on the surface to indicate where you had been.’
‘Do you have any corpses to dispose of, Tom?’ murmured Silas in Chaloner’s ear. ‘If so, here is a godsent opportunity.’
‘But it is not just a case of hurling mortar in at random,’ Yaile went on, blithely oblivious of the fact that neither Chaloner nor Silas were very interested. ‘Oh, no. To get a proper finish, it needs to be mixed and poured by the ton, not by the bucket-load.’
He pointed to where an enormous leather bag was suspended from the roof. It bulged with the many pails of sludge that had been emptied into it, and water oozed through its sides.
‘Is it ready?’ asked Shaw, more animated than usual. ‘Can you give a demonstration?’
With palpable pride, Yaile yanked on a lever. The bag began to tip, and a mass of sloppy muck cascaded downwards. As soon as it was empty, Yaile’s labourers began to smooth the surface with specially designed tools.
‘And now we fill the bag again,’ he said happily. ‘By the time it is ready, the previous load will have settled, and we shall repeat the process. We shall continue until the mortar is ten feet deep and level with the scaffolding.’
Silas’s e
yes were glazed with boredom. ‘Lord! Is that the time? I shall just show Tom my latest composition, and then we must be on our way. I have an appointment with Backwell.’ He showed them several silver shillings. ‘I borrowed these from him last night, and if I do not return them soon, he will send out a search party.’
Lettice giggled as she led the way back to the shop. ‘He might! It is common knowledge that he would sell his mother if someone offered him a shiny coin.’
Shaw pulled Silas’s music from a shelf, and Chaloner tuned out the chatter around him as the notes soared through his mind. By the time he had finished scanning the piece, Shaw had turned to more gloomy topics of conversation.
‘Have you heard about Bearbinder Lane? It is closed until a searcher decides whether Mother Sage has the plague, although it is probably just another attack of her dropsy, poor soul.’
‘It would not be closed if Cromwell were still in power,’ declared Yaile, who had followed them out of the cellar in the hope of explaining his clever contraption in more detail. ‘And he would not have done such a terrible thing to the Howard family either – sixteen healthy souls shut away with a sick maid. Have you had news of them?’
‘Only that the maid died today,’ reported Lettice. ‘I cannot believe what is happening to those poor people! Mr Howard made me a hat only last week. Indeed, I may even have been his last customer, given that his house was boarded up not long after I had gone to collect it.’
‘If he or any of his family die, it will be sheer bloody murder,’ stated Yaile angrily. ‘They should be allowed out now the lass is dead.’
‘I think it would be wiser to wait,’ said Lettice reasonably. ‘The authorities are right to take serious measures against an outbreak.’
‘Then why is Essex House not closed up?’ demanded Yaile. ‘One of its maids took sick at the same time, but the grand Earl is not locked in.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 15
