‘I cannot hear properly,’ said Chaloner. He shook his head and blew his nose, but his ears remained plugged. Worse, his eyes were watery, so his vision was blurred, and his mouth felt as though it was full of cotton. How was he supposed to catch killers and hunt down curtains when half his senses did not work?
‘I could name a host of others with similar financial problems,’ Hannah went on. ‘And to make matters worse, the two million pounds voted by Parliament for the war is unlikely to be enough, so the bankers must provide more – which means the burden will fall on us, their clients. Men who wanted to fight are now saying that we should have exercised restraint. You were right all along.’
‘What have you done about the house?’ rasped Chaloner, unwilling to be mollified. ‘Have you found somewhere smaller to live?’
‘Not yet – virtually everyone at Court is trying to do the same, so it may take a while. You must be patient, Tom.’
‘Try telling Taylor that,’ retorted Chaloner. ‘And speaking of Taylor, do you have ten shillings? He wants it today, so you had better take it to him.’
‘I cannot – the Queen is entertaining the French ambassador, and she needs me with her. Besides, I only have five shillings, and as Taylor will be vexed by the shortfall, you had better go instead. He is less likely to frighten you than me.’
‘And less likely to trounce you,’ muttered Chaloner, although he took the proffered coins.
‘Do you remember me telling you about the Howard family? The milliners, who were shut up in their house on Bearbinder Lane with a sick maid? Well, word came late last night that they are all dead – mother, father, children, elderly relatives and servants. Seventeen people, all gone.’
If the pestilence spread, thought Chaloner grimly, such stories would become distressingly familiar. Had DuPont given the disease to the hapless maid? Baron had said that women had found him charming, so perhaps she had stopped to exchange greetings with him on his final, fatal journey. And as all the victims were unlikely to have breathed their last at the same time, he could only suppose that some were already dead when he and Silas had been at Bearbinder Lane the previous day, but the news had been suppressed by the survivors in the desperate hope that they might be allowed out to live another day.
‘If the plague takes hold, will you stay in London or will you leave?’ he asked.
‘I have not thought about it. Why?’
Chaloner swallowed hard, uncomfortable as always about revealing his private feelings. ‘Because my first wife … well, I should not like to lose another.’
‘I suppose that is your way of saying that you love me, although why you find it so difficult to utter those three small words is beyond me. Do you realise you have never once said it?’
‘No,’ replied Chaloner. He wished his wits were sharper. ‘I mean yes.’
‘I see,’ said Hannah, although there was a flash of amusement in her eyes, and he suspected she had enjoyed baiting him. ‘Shall I cook you breakfast? I begged eggs of some description – pigeon, perhaps – from the palace kitchen yesterday, and Gram found a cabbage.’
It sounded most unappealing, but she was insistent, and he did not have the energy to argue. She ran downstairs in her nightshift, while he rifled through his clothes in search of coins. He found another shilling, several pennies and five coffee-house tokens – small change was notoriously rare in London, so coffee-house owners produced their own, which comprised discs of metal or leather stamped with their names. They were accepted in lieu of money in many places.
He walked down the stairs, trying to summon the strength to face whatever was responsible for the foul smell that was emanating from the kitchen. He opened the door to be met by billowing smoke. Coughing, he hurried to open a window, although Hannah did not seem to have noticed anything amiss.
‘Here,’ she said, presenting him with a plate that contained something that was charred on the outside and oozed raw egg from the middle. Hunks of cabbage stalk were visible, along with hard black balls that transpired to be burned cobnuts.
‘Christ God!’ he muttered.
‘Eat up,’ said Hannah proudly. ‘You will not feel better unless you have plenty of good, healthy food inside you.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ambiguously.
A shape materialised through the smog, and Gram appeared. ‘That looks nice,’ he remarked, eyeing Chaloner’s plate hopefully. ‘Is there any spare?’
Chaloner seized the opportunity to offload most of it, and was astonished when the page devoured the lot with every appearance of enjoyment.
‘Thank you, Hannah,’ said Chaloner, when the last singed crumb had disappeared and Gram sat back with a sigh of contentment. ‘I have never had a breakfast quite like it.’
Hannah beamed. ‘Perhaps we should do it every day.’
Chaloner’s first port of call was Clarendon House, to update the Earl on his progress. It was still early, but he knew his employer would be awake because it was Thursday, the day when the Privy Council met. Being conscientious, the Earl rose before dawn to prepare, although it was a waste of time, as no one listened to what he had to say anyway.
‘We shall discuss the current financial situation today,’ he said, when Chaloner arrived to find him at his desk. ‘Namely what will happen if the banks collapse and we cannot fund the war. Why did they have to choose now for a crisis? And how have they contrived to make themselves so unpopular? Everyone hates them.’
Chaloner agreed. ‘Debtors, the poor, depositors … and there are rumours that they are dishonest. However, part of the crisis came about because the King ordered them to donate a lot of money at very short notice—’
‘Do not blame him for the trouble, Chaloner,’ said the Earl sharply. ‘If they had not been so eager to make a profit from their investors by lending what had been deposited, they would have had more cash in their coffers. Of course, it is the investors who worry us most. Do you know what happens when they lose confidence in the places that store their money?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘They demand it back, and when a lot of them do it, the banks cannot cope – they default, which frightens other depositors into making hasty withdrawals, and the whole foundation collapses. It was a “run” that destroyed Angier and Hinton recently. And if we want an example in history, then just look at tulips.’
Chaloner recalled what Shaw had told him. ‘Bulbs once fetched very high prices.’
The Earl nodded. ‘I dabbled myself, although I had the sense to withdraw before the market crashed. It caused economic chaos, and we do not want the same thing to happen again.’
‘Taylor will not be destroyed by a run,’ predicted Chaloner wryly. ‘He will simply refuse to give his investors their money, and none will be bold enough to press him.’
‘Yes, but he is part of the problem. While the other banks wobble, he grows stronger, and we are uneasy that one man has so much power. Backwell and Vyner might be greedy, but they are essentially decent. Taylor is not.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘Although I did see Backwell enjoy a very animated discussion with Silas Taylor the other day. Both were staunch Parliamentarians, so I hope they are not plotting insurrection.’
Chaloner blinked. ‘Is there a reason to suppose they might?’
The Earl flapped a plump hand. ‘It was a joke, Chaloner – a jest because it was odd to see a banker and a Keeper of Stores so deep in conversation. They were probably chatting about music.’
Chaloner was sure they had not been talking about music in the Green Dragon’s garden the previous evening, and hoped his old friend was not about to do anything reckless.
‘When did you see them, sir?’
The plump fingers were waved again. ‘I cannot recall. A week ago, perhaps? But never mind them. What did you come to report?’
He wrinkled his nose in distaste when Chaloner told what he had learned about DuPont and Wheler, and repeated his order to stay away from anywhere that might harbour the
plague. ‘Which includes Bearbinder Lane and St Giles. This “Onions at the Well” business is a nonsense, and you should forget about it. Now what about my curtains?’
‘They are not in Baron’s house. He says they are still being made.’
‘Well, tell him to hurry up,’ ordered the Earl irritably. ‘I want the matter concluded as soon as possible. Is there anything else? If not, will you send Neve to see me? I want to discuss buying another Lely.’
‘Would you like one of Hannah?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.
The Earl regarded him lugubriously. ‘I only collect portraits of princes or bishops, thank you. I do not think Lely shines as well when he paints ladies.’
Chaloner hoped no one else thought the same, or they would never sell the thing. ‘Incidentally, I know Neve was the “mutual acquaintance” who put you in touch with DuPont.’
The Earl gaped at him. ‘How did you find that out? Lord! I hope he does not think that I told you.’
‘It would have saved time if you had.’ Chaloner tried not to sound recriminatory, but did not succeed. ‘And danger – I could have learned far sooner that DuPont had died of the plague.’
‘He swore me to secrecy. And he is the best upholder in London, so I had no choice but to accede to his request. I cannot afford to lose him.’
Feeling the need for Thurloe’s wise counsel, Chaloner began to walk to Lincoln’s Inn. He stopped at the Rainbow en route to down a dish of Farr’s best, but declined to be drawn into a heated debate about bankers, as he was already bored with the subject.
‘A great sea-battle was fought against the Dutch yesterday,’ said Farr, trying to interest him in something else. ‘The guns were heard rumbling all day. Royal Katherine was involved and Captain Teddeman’s legs were shot off. Damn those butter-eaters! They aim to invade us and steal all our money.’
‘You sound like Backwell,’ said Speed, deftly turning the subject back to economics. Chaloner blew on his coffee, to cool it so he could drink up and leave. ‘He worships lucre, too.’
‘He does,’ nodded Stedman. ‘And he hates the fact that he and his fellows are being forced to fund the war, even though it is his patriotic duty.’
‘He is a greedy villain,’ declared Farr. ‘Like all bankers – rapacious parasites, who suck the wealth from others to make themselves rich.’
‘There was a fierce quarrel in my shop yesterday,’ reported Speed gleefully. ‘Over The Court & Kitchin. I love it when a book makes an impact, as it is good for sales. Copies are flying off my shelves. Have you read it yet, Chaloner?’
‘Inflaming trouble between Royalists and Roundheads is nothing to be proud of,’ said Farr sternly, before Chaloner could admit that he had not. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Chaloner left when Speed began to defend himself in a hectoring voice that was sure to annoy the others. He had hoped the coffee would perk him up, but it only made his heart pound and his head ache more than ever. He trudged lethargically along Fleet Street, the morsel of cabbage omelette that he had forced himself to swallow lying so heavily in his stomach that he was glad he had not eaten more. He coughed when he turned into Chancery Lane, as several bonfires had been lit, all loaded with damp twigs to make them smoke.
‘Spymaster Williamson’s orders,’ a soldier explained when Chaloner asked what was going on. The lower half of his face was covered with a scarf, and a dried toad hung around his neck. ‘The fumes combat dangerous miasmas, see, and a woman was took ill here yesterday. It was probably a fainting sickness, but he says we cannot be too careful.’
‘He is right.’ Chaloner wondered why the Spymaster should have been discussing such a matter with minions.
‘He is in charge of implementing the city’s anti-plague measures now,’ the soldier went on. ‘He hires watchers and searchers, sees the streets are washed, arranges for fires to be lit, and ensures the victims are locked up before they infect the rest of us. Listen! Did you hear that?’
‘What? The donkey braying? Or the pie-seller swearing?’
‘The bell! It is the second time it has tolled today. It means someone has died.’
‘People die every day,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘And bells toll. It does not mean the plague—’
He stopped to sneeze, and the soldier backed away in horror. Then a bell began to chime in a different part of the city, and Chaloner listened uneasily. Would he start to notice them now, even though it was inevitable that people would pass away on a daily basis in a city of three hundred thousand inhabitants? He had never paid them much heed before, blending as they did into the usual hubbub of London’s streets.
Chaloner arrived at Chamber XIII to find preparations for the ex-Spymaster’s departure well under way. Clothes sat in neatly folded piles, and a travelling trunk was already half filled with books, papers and gifts for the children.
‘My colleagues here at Lincoln’s Inn think I am leaving because I fear a Dutch invasion,’ said Thurloe, tearing up the government’s latest newsbook and using the shreds to pack a glass vase. ‘But the rumour that they are in Scotland is a canard. Moreover, there was no sea-battle yesterday. Royal Katherine has not yet left port, and Captain Teddeman is still in possession of both his legs. The “gunfire” people claim to have heard was thunder. After all, the weather is unusually mild.’
Chaloner sat down and helped himself to Thurloe’s breakfast, which was a good deal more palatable than his own, although there was very little of it – the ex-Spymaster was abstemious.
‘On the other hand,’ Thurloe went on, ‘the plague terrifies me. Unfortunately, it does not terrify others, and there was trouble on Cheapside yesterday over the measures taken to contain it – they are considered too harsh. Fools! Do they want it to kill them?’
‘My wife’s maid brought it to our house in Amsterdam,’ confided Chaloner. He did not normally discuss that terrible time, and supposed his cold was lowering his defences. ‘Aletta and my baby caught it because they were locked in with her, as did three more servants, two neighbours and a friend. I am sure some would have lived had they been allowed out.’
‘Perhaps.’ Thurloe’s voice was kind. ‘Or they may have spread the infection to others.’
Chaloner changed the subject, unwilling to dwell on it. ‘I still have not found Randal, but I will try again today. I know which tavern he frequents.’
‘Good,’ said Thurloe. ‘Now tell me about Hannah’s obligations to Taylor. I sense that is the matter giving you the most cause for concern.’
Thurloe had read him correctly, because Chaloner was indeed anxious about the way the debt was spiralling out of control. ‘He wants more than we can give him, and the Earl has stopped my pay until I can arrange for two pairs of curtains to be delivered.’
Thurloe rolled his eyes. ‘Your master has some very strange priorities.’
‘Hannah is not the only one in trouble. Others include Bab May, Will Chiffinch, Peter Newton who killed himself over it, Sir George Carteret who was stripped of his jewelled buttons, Lord Rochester, Prince Rupert, Lady Carnegie and the Bishop of Winchester.’
‘The government should pass a law forbidding usurious rates of interest,’ said Thurloe sourly. ‘Cromwell would never have permitted such greedy opportunism.’
‘They dare not upset the bankers, as they need them to finance the war.’
‘I sense disaster in the air, Tom. No streets will run with blood, nothing will explode, sink, burn or collapse, but people will be ruined and the usual scapegoats will take the blame – Catholics, Quakers, foreigners. And supporters of the old regime.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘Do you think you might be accused?’
‘It is possible. Perhaps you should consider leaving, too, because I sense that London will be a very bad place to live before much more time has passed.’
At Thurloe’s insistence, Chaloner went to the Green Dragon to look for Randal immediately upon leaving Lincoln’s Inn. Without Silas to attract free ale, he was obliged to pay
for a drink, as no landlord appreciated customers who occupied seats without buying. What he was served was sour and weak, but he took a tentative mouthful anyway, wondering how long he could make it last before he was obliged to order a refill.
While he waited for Randal to appear, he listened to the buzz of conversation around him. He learned that the tale about the fifteen hundred drowned Britons was exposed as a lie, fabricated by a Swede for the attention it would bring. But that was old news, and the latest was that the Dutch fleet had been sighted off Yarmouth – invasion was imminent. Any sane Londoner should know that the Dutch would never risk attacking the capital, but several jittery merchants raced off to withdraw their money from the banks anyway, leading Chaloner to wonder whether the Earl might be right to fear a run.
There was also talk about The Court & Kitchin, and an ill-natured row it had sparked on Friday Street not an hour ago. Supposing he had better read the thing to see what all the fuss was about, Chaloner took it from his pocket.
It comprised three parts: the recipes, which seemed perfectly wholesome to him; a Preface to the Reader; and an Introduction that comprised a wordy and tedious rant spangled with quotes in Latin and references to classical mythology. Most was arrant nonsense, and he was surprised a printer had agreed to produce it – personally, he would have been embarrassed to have his business associated with such a peculiar and incomprehensible piece.
That thought gave him an idea, and he turned to the title page, where he read that it had been published by Thos Milbourn in St Martin le Grand. He frowned. Thomas Milbourn had printed Baron’s advertisements, too. He pulled Baron’s card from his pocket and compared it to the book, where idiosyncrasies in the typesetting showed they were from the same press. He could almost see St Martin le Grand from where he sat, so he abandoned the remains of his ale and went there at once, thinking that Milbourn might know where Randal was living.
Unfortunately, he arrived to find that the premises had been gutted by fire. The inferno had been recent, because none of the wreckage had been cleared away, although the charred wood was cold. A man from the house opposite saw him looking, and came to talk.
The Cheapside Corpse Page 17
