The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  Baron’s trainband had arrived to fight the blaze. They did not waste time on Fatherton’s house or the Howard residence, but concentrated on the buildings to either side, a battle they were winning so handily that Chaloner could not but help wonder whether they had been ready for it. Ladders, leather buckets and fire-hooks were plied with impressive efficiency, while so much water was available for dousing that Chaloner grew more suspicious still.

  A pack of grubby children was nearby, and a bright flash of green ribbon in the fist of one showed that Noll was among them. The boy saw Chaloner at the same time, and his eyes went wide with astonishment before he turned to dart away. Chaloner did not try to follow, and could only suppose that the brat had reported his message to someone other than the constable, someone who had decided to eliminate Fatherton’s body, the scene of the crime and its discoverer in one fell swoop.

  Chaloner stepped back into the shadows and scanned the milling spectators. Oxley and his family stood near the front, drinking ale from leather flasks, clearly of the opinion that an inferno was fine entertainment. They cackled their delight as flames flew high into the sky – it was now dusk, and the cascading sparks were bright against it.

  ‘I am going to look at the corpses when they are pulled out,’ the boy was declaring with ghoulish relish. ‘I cannot wait to see them!’

  His sister shot him a disdainful look; she had not wasted time in idle gawping, and held three stolen purses. Oxley saw them, and made a lunge, but she ducked away with an obscene gesture before aiming for a merchant, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the fellow’s pockets.

  Chaloner watched in distaste. Had they set the fire? And if so, had it been of their own volition or on Baron’s orders? He glanced around, certain the King of Cheapside would be among the onlookers, and sure enough, Baron was a short distance away. His captains were with him, and he had one beefy arm draped around Doe’s shoulders while Poachin watched enviously. He turned suddenly and his eyes locked with Chaloner’s. His face was devoid of expression, so the spy had no idea whether he was surprised to see him alive. He went to see if he could find out.

  ‘Quite a sight,’ said Baron, nodding at the flames. ‘But it will not spread. My men have it under control, God be praised.’

  ‘It could have been worse,’ said Poachin. His hair had been freshly dressed, and every strand was perfectly placed. ‘Fortunately, it happened when all the tenants had left or are dead, so both places were empty.’

  ‘What about the landlord?’ asked Chaloner, watching intently for guilty glances. He was wasting his time – there was not so much as a flicker from any of the three.

  ‘Fatherton?’ Doe scratched his big nose. ‘I doubt he lingered once the flames took hold.’

  ‘How do you think it started?’

  Poachin shrugged. ‘These are old houses, made of wood, and the weather has been unusually dry. It was an accident waiting to happen.’

  ‘They are no great loss,’ added Baron. ‘They should have been demolished years ago, and a fire means we can build something better in their place. But you sound hoarse today, Chaloner. Perhaps you should go home and rest. I shall keep you in my prayers.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner. ‘But first I must speak to Milbourn, the printer who produced your advertisements. Unfortunately, his house burned down, too. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘He died in the inferno,’ replied Doe. He sighed theatrically. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘He was late with his Protection Tax,’ added Poachin. ‘And it is not unusual for people to suffer mishaps when they fail to provide what they owe.’

  ‘Not Milbourn,’ said Baron sharply. ‘He agreed to print my advertisement cards free of charge, so we exempted him.’

  Poachin’s expression darkened. ‘Did you? You mentioned nothing to me.’

  ‘Doe made the arrangements,’ said Baron, while the younger man regarded Poachin with a sly smirk. ‘I told him to let you know.’

  ‘It must have slipped my mind,’ said Doe carelessly, then addressed Chaloner. ‘We know other printers, and can introduce you to them for a price. What do you want produced?’

  ‘Promissory notes,’ replied Chaloner, to gauge their reactions. But again it was hopeless – they were far too wily to incriminate themselves with flickers of unease.

  ‘That would be illegal: only bankers can issue those,’ said Baron. ‘Have you thought any more about my offer of employment, by the way? It will not remain on the table for ever.’

  Chaloner smiled to disguise his frustration. ‘I need to discuss it with my wife.’

  Baron blinked. ‘I love Frances more than life itself, but I would never consult her on a matter of business. She is a woman.’

  ‘So is mine,’ said Chaloner. ‘And she has opinions.’

  Baron regarded him pityingly. ‘I suppose we cannot all have perfect spouses. My Frances is one in a million, and there are very few like her.’

  ‘There are very few like Hannah, too,’ said Chaloner, thinking of his breakfast.

  Baron and his men were not the only familiar faces among the crowd. There was a house on Cheapside, opposite the entrance to Bearbinder Lane, with three large upper-floor windows that afforded excellent views of the drama. Taylor was at the first one; he leaned out, watching the flames with an eager intensity, while Dr Misick hovered anxiously behind him. Backwell stood at the middle window, talking to Silas. The third housed Joan, Evan and five or six other wealthy bankers; Joan was holding forth, while the men listened with rapt attention.

  Chaloner learned from Poachin, who was more readily disposed to chat than Baron and Doe, that the building had belonged to Angier, the goldsmith who had committed suicide when his bank had failed. Ownership had subsequently fallen to Taylor. Chaloner was about to go and see whether eavesdropping was possible – he was particularly interested in what Silas and Backwell were saying to each other – when he heard his name called. It was Shaw and Lettice.

  ‘I am glad we met,’ said Shaw tightly. ‘It will save me a journey. I am afraid we must press you for the money your wife owes. Forty pounds.’

  ‘It is Mr Oxley’s fault,’ explained Lettice apologetically. ‘He has bought a terribly fierce dog, which keeps jumping into our garden, and we need to buy a taller fence to keep it out.’

  ‘We told Joan, but she says she is already spending a fortune on the cellar and cannot afford more.’ Shaw scowled as he glanced up at the sharp-faced woman in the window, but then turned from angry to agitated as he blurted, ‘Our latrine is in the garden – we cannot use it as long as that vile beast is on the loose!’

  ‘But Mr Oxley declines to tether it,’ added Lettice. ‘I am sure he bought it for spite – when our cellar is finished, his sewage will stay in his own house, which he considers an imposition.’

  ‘I love our shop,’ sighed Shaw. ‘Selling music to appreciative courtiers is a delight, but sometimes I wish I were still a banker. The cost of a fence would not have bothered us, then.’

  ‘The cost of a physician for our baby would not have bothered us either,’ whispered Lettice. ‘We could have summoned Dr Misick, and he would have saved her.’

  ‘It is no good thinking like that,’ said Shaw gruffly. ‘It will send you mad.’

  Tears glittered in Lettice’s eyes before she took a breath and pulled herself together. ‘We hate to ask for money, Mr Chaloner, but the dog leaves us no choice.’

  ‘Does the Protection Tax not cover this sort of thing?’ asked Chaloner, the first time he had been able to insert a word into the conversation.

  Shaw grimaced. ‘Oxley is Baron’s minion, so I doubt he will be sympathetic. I suppose we could poison the beast – the dog, I mean, not Baron – but I would not know how.’ Then he brightened. ‘Unless you would oblige? Then we would not need to erect a palisade, and you could have a reprieve on your wife’s debt.’

  ‘No,’ cried Lettice, shocked. ‘It is hardly the dog’s fault.’

  ‘Oxley will probably sell it any
way, once we have bought the fence,’ said Shaw acidly.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Chaloner, silently cursing Hannah for putting him in such a position. He saw Lettice’s dismay, and smiled to reassure her. ‘There are more ways to be rid of annoying animals than killing them.’

  He resumed his walk to Angier’s house, but had not gone far before he felt something dig into his side. He started to jerk away, but an arm went around his neck and the blade jabbed harder. He was disgusted with himself. Someone had just tried to incinerate him, and he should have known to be vigilant. He could only suppose that his cold was robbing him of his wits, because he was not normally careless.

  ‘Mr Taylor wants to see you,’ whispered a soft voice in his ear. ‘Now.’

  The knife and arm remained in place until Chaloner was inside Angier’s house, after which he was bundled up the stairs and shoved roughly into the room in which the bankers were watching the fire. He could have escaped at any point – no single henchman was a match for him – but his ‘captor’ was taking him where he wanted to go, so he let the man believe he was in control.

  ‘Of course, this blaze concerns me,’ Taylor told him when he arrived, as though continuing a conversation they had been having before. ‘The wind is blowing towards Goldsmiths’ Row, where my Plague Box is kept. I knew I should have brought it with me.’

  ‘Your what?’ asked Chaloner, aware that Evan was grimacing irritably, while the other bankers and Silas regarded Taylor askance. He wished his wits were sharper: his question had been stupid, given that the box had featured large in previous discussions with Taylor.

  ‘My Plague Box,’ repeated Taylor. ‘It contains worms and other items of equal importance – jewels, cloth and the like. I should never have let it out of my sight, and I shall not do it again, no matter what my firstborn advises.’ He scowled at Evan.

  ‘It is heavy, Father,’ said Evan patiently. ‘And you have not been well.’

  ‘Not well?’ Taylor drew himself up to his full height, and his eyes darkened dangerously. He looked deranged, and Chaloner wondered if he would follow the hapless Johnson to Bedlam. ‘How can I be unwell when Joan has hired Misick to tend me? And he is doing a splendid job. He gave me a dose of Red Snake Electuary with my Plague Elixir today, and I have never felt better.’

  ‘My Plague Elixir does promote good health,’ averred Misick. ‘While all the best people take Red Snake Electuary, too, including myself.’

  ‘Poachin swears by it,’ said Chaloner slyly. ‘So you are in good company indeed.’

  Evan stepped forward angrily, but Silas was suddenly at Chaloner’s side, and as his younger brother was stronger and heavier, Evan thought better of doing anything reckless.

  ‘Of course, the plague will never harm me,’ Taylor went on, ‘because I control it. It never does anything without asking me first. For example, I told it to kill Howard and—’

  ‘Ten shillings, Chaloner,’ interrupted Evan loudly. ‘It is due today, if you recall.’

  ‘Ten shillings!’ breathed Backwell, his eyes shining as he came to join the discussion. ‘Ten lovely, shiny coins. Would you like me to count them for you?’

  Perhaps all bankers were insane, thought Chaloner, eyeing him warily.

  ‘I will give you the plague if you do not pay up,’ warned Taylor. He raised his forefinger and began muttering what sounded like an incantation. Chaloner struggled to stop himself, but it was no use. He sneezed, and Taylor hopped from foot to foot in excitement. ‘See? See? I can do it even without my Plague Box!’

  ‘Chaloner does not have the plague,’ said Joan quickly, as several of the company edged towards the door. ‘It is an old debtors’ trick – a ruse to escape without paying.’

  The bankers did not look convinced, and when Taylor’s finger started to come up a second time, they backed away in consternation. Evan tugged his father’s arm in an effort to make him desist, but Taylor flung him away with a bellow of rage. Evan lost his balance and fell, but scrambled hastily to his feet and dusted himself off, laughing falsely to disguise his mortification.

  ‘Father and I love to wrestle,’ he blustered. ‘We have such japes! Is that not true, Joan?’

  ‘He does not wrestle with me,’ replied Joan haughtily. ‘Although we have excellent verbal battles over collateralised debt obligations and share capital.’

  ‘I cannot imagine he wins,’ gushed Vyner. ‘Not against you.’

  ‘I am Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company,’ stated Taylor coldly, and suddenly he did not seem lunatic at all, but angry. ‘I was elected on the basis of my superior knowledge and ability, and no one defeats me in a debate, not even Joan. Now, did you mention more debts to sell me, Glosson? Good. Come to my office, if you please.’

  He aimed for the door, Joan and Glosson scurrying after him. Evan remained and resumed his efforts to convince the other financiers that his father’s eccentricity derived from a desire to amuse himself.

  ‘It did not look as though he was jesting to me,’ said Vyner worriedly. ‘Are you sure he is well? You must understand our concern, Evan – there are already rumours about our probity, and we cannot have it said that the Master of our Company is insane into the bargain. We should have a run for certain!’

  ‘He is not insane,’ insisted Evan. ‘Buying your debts is hard work and he is exhausted. But he considers it his patriotic duty to take these tiresome clients off your hands, as he is keen to ensure that His Majesty will have enough cash to pay for the war.’

  ‘His motive is personal profit, not patriotism,’ countered Vyner sharply. ‘He is making a fortune from the customers we have been obliged to pass him. However, we shall sell him no more if he is mad. It would be unethical.’

  The others murmured agreement, although Chaloner suspected that the real reason for their sudden attack of morals was that they were jealous of the money Taylor was making – money that could have been theirs.

  ‘Well, you need not worry,’ said Misick, picking cinders from his wig. ‘As his physician, I would know if he had lost his wits. He has not, and any oddness is a result of overwork.’

  Vyner shot him a glance that was full of disbelieving disdain before aiming for the door. His cronies followed, and Evan hurried after them, still bleating excuses. It was not long before the room was empty except for Backwell and Silas. Backwell returned to the window to watch the fire, while Silas sauntered to a table and poured himself more wine. Chaloner joined Backwell, realising with a surge of relief that Taylor had forgotten to take his ten shillings.

  ‘Your uncle always said that Taylor was unstable,’ murmured Backwell, speaking softly so Silas would not hear. ‘I never believed him, but now I see he was right. Taylor is unhinged.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should elect someone else as Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company. He is causing much bad feeling with his unscrupulous tactics – bad feeling that reflects poorly on the rest of you.’

  Backwell sighed. ‘It is not that easy, and he is still the best fellow for the task, lunatic or not. These are uneasy times, Chaloner, and we need a strong leader. Even your uncle was in awe of Taylor, and he was a very difficult man to daunt.’

  ‘I am glad he is not alive to see what you did to my wife,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘Selling her debt to a man who sends louts to her house to threaten her.’

  Backwell would not meet his eyes. ‘I did not realise the connection. She took that loan before she married you, so the name on my books was Hannah Cotton. I did ask Taylor to be gentle with my old customers, but he said they are no longer my concern.’

  ‘You are a man of principle,’ said Chaloner, although he had no idea whether it was true. ‘You must be appalled by what Taylor is doing. If you were Master, you could put an end to it, and restore your Company’s good name.’

  Backwell smiled. ‘It is good of you to say so, but I cannot stand for election, even if my colleagues did agree to oust the current incumbent. I am too busy with the war.’

  When Backwell had
gone, Chaloner took the opportunity to ask Silas what he and the banker had been discussing with such seriousness in the middle window not long before.

  ‘The war,’ replied Silas shortly. ‘I imagine you do the same with your friends. As Keeper of Stores for a shipyard, you will appreciate that it is a matter I view with some concern.’

  ‘Backwell is your friend? I thought you said he was dull, and that being seen in his company would adversely affect your fun-loving reputation.’

  ‘Oh, it would,’ grinned Silas. ‘Which is why I usually meet him in shadowy places. But I have some news for you about Everard – DuPont’s crony. I have found him.’

  ‘How?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.

  Silas flung an arm around his shoulders. ‘Do not look so wary! Backwell happened to mention him in a conversation – Everard is one of the little bankers destroyed by the Colburn Crisis, and he has recently taken lodgings on Cheapside. Shall we visit him together? Now?’

  Alarm bells were ringing in Chaloner’s head, but he was shaken, bruised and far from well, so he ignored them. Indeed, he even began to relax in his old friend’s company, feeling he was probably a good deal safer with Silas than on his own, while instinct told him that he would be wasting his time by lingering longer at the scene of the fire anyway. They left Angier’s house and began to walk west, eventually reaching a small, tatty cottage near the Standard.

  ‘Everard was forced to move here when his bank failed,’ said Silas, regarding it in distaste. ‘Quite a downward slide from Goldsmiths’ Row.’

  The ruined financier was a sad, wan man who did indeed have a purple nose. He gestured that Chaloner and Silas were to enter his home, then conducted them to a room that contained nothing except a chair.