‘Of course you are,’ said Baron evenly. ‘But perhaps you would state your purpose here and leave – your presence is making our customers uneasy.’
It was true: several patrons had made themselves scarce when the assassin had arrived.
‘There have been too many deaths near Cheapside of late,’ began Swaddell. ‘Wheler, Coo, DuPont, Fatherton, Milbourn, the Howard household. Naturally, we are concerned.’
‘So are we,’ said Baron. ‘But we have no more to tell you now than when you were last in here asking about them.’
‘Wheler,’ said Swaddell with a reptilian smile. ‘You may like to know that our enquiries have continued apace, and we have made some excellent progress.’
‘Good,’ replied Baron, although Chaloner thought Poachin looked uneasy. Doe leaned against the wall and folded his arms in an attitude of boredom. ‘I miss him, God rest his soul.’
‘Do you?’ asked Swaddell. ‘His death has allowed you to grow very powerful.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Baron. ‘But that does not mean I had anything to do with his murder.’
‘You can tell us nothing to help solve these crimes?’ pressed Swaddell.
‘No,’ replied Baron. ‘Although that should not trouble you, given that you just claimed you are making excellent progress.’
‘There is a rumour that something terrible will happen on Tuesday,’ said Swaddell, turning to another matter. ‘What will it be, do you think? Another fire? More deaths?’
‘Those sound like acts of God,’ said Baron. ‘And although I claim a close association with the Almighty, I am not party to all His plans.’
‘I thought you ran Cheapside,’ said Swaddell. ‘Yet much goes on without your say-so.’
Doe reached for his dagger. ‘Are you questioning our—’
‘Our visitors mean no offence,’ interrupted Baron, resting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He smiled, although there was a hard glint in his eyes: Swaddell’s remark had rankled. ‘But perhaps it is time they left.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Chaloner, resisting when Jacob attempted to manoeuvre him towards the door. ‘Why did DuPont come to Bearbinder Lane to die? You must have tried to find out, given that his journey put the people under your protection at serious risk.’
‘Perhaps what you should ask is: why was he in Long Acre?’ Doe grinned tauntingly.
‘Meaning what?’ demanded Chaloner.
‘Meaning nothing,’ said Poachin quickly. ‘And now if there is nothing else…’
Chaloner stood his ground. ‘I learned something disturbing about my Earl’s curtains today. They are stolen property – removed from Hercules’ Pillars Alley by curbers.’
‘Impossible,’ said Baron, meeting his eyes evenly. ‘Or are you accusing me of providing your master with pilfered goods?’
‘He had better not be,’ snarled Doe, fingering the knife.
‘They were identified by burns and stains,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘Seven pairs were stolen from Temperance North’s club, and seven pairs were delivered to Clarendon House.’
Baron’s expression was sly. ‘Then arrest me. Or is your master loath to bear witness against me in a court of law? After all, he will not want it said that his fine new mansion has been furnished with items filched from a brothel.’
Baron was astute, thought Chaloner, to have anticipated the Earl so well.
The rest of the morning and the first half of the afternoon was an even greater waste of time than the interview with Baron. Chaloner and Swaddell trawled Cheapside talking to anyone who would pass the time of day with them, but learned nothing useful. At three o’clock, Swaddell went to report to Williamson, leaving Chaloner to his own devices. A bell was tolling when the spy passed St Mary le Bow, announcing the death of a mother and a child whose ages were the same as his first family. It disturbed him more than he would have expected, and he ducked into Shaw’s shop in the hope that a few minutes’ browsing would jolt him from his despondency.
‘Grace Rugley and her baby,’ Shaw was telling a customer, whose vast wig could belong to no one other than Misick. ‘They died this morning. The neighbours say it was childbed fever, not the plague, but the house is shut up anyway. Chaloner! Do come in.’
The shop was quiet, but there was a lot of noise emanating from the cellar, where work was continuing to deprive Oxley of a convenient overflow for his cesspit. Muddy footprints trailed across the floor, and Lettice was on her hands and knees trying to scrub them off.
‘Mr Yaile only needs to fill his big leather bucket eight more times,’ she reported, ‘and the work will be complete. Thank heavens! He is a nice man, but all this dirt…’
‘Of course, it takes an age to load the contraption,’ grumbled Shaw. ‘So he will be here until at least Wednesday. I am heartily sick of the disruption.’
They all leapt in alarm at the sound of smashing glass. Chaloner’s first thought was that Yaile was the culprit, but a ball bounced across the floor, and he saw Oxley’s brats through the broken window, laughing gleefully. They made obscene gestures when he went to inspect the damage, and it was clear that an apology was not on the cards, let alone an offer to pay for repairs.
‘I doubt you will find a glazier to mend it,’ said Misick sympathetically. ‘They are reluctant to visit Cheapside at the moment, lest they catch the plague.’
‘Them and our patrons,’ said Shaw glumly. ‘Courtiers do not come here now, and this morning we were asked to stay away from White Hall until the danger is past. We are losing custom hand over fist.’
‘Well,’ said Lettice in an attempt to cheer, ‘if the glaziers will not visit us, then at least we will not have to pay them. You can nail some wood over the hole instead.’
‘Then do it quickly,’ advised Misick. ‘Or you will lose everything to curbers.’
Lettice smiled. ‘Fortunately, those do not operate around here – it is one of the things covered by the Protection Tax.’
‘Is wilful destruction by Oxley’s little cherubs covered by the Tax as well?’ asked Chaloner.
‘I doubt it,’ sighed Shaw. ‘And there is no point asking Oxley to pay. He will refuse.’
‘Not if I do it,’ said Chaloner.
‘Oh, Lord!’ gulped Lettice. ‘If you coerce him, we shall know no peace at all. Please let the matter go, Mr Chaloner. Better one broken pane than twenty.’
‘Much as I should love to see you trounce the fellow, Lettice is right,’ agreed Shaw. ‘You may make him pay this once, but we shall lose in the long run. Indeed, I imagine this is revenge for Slasher. He knows we did not let her out, as we had alibis for the “crime”, but he suspects we were behind it.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Misick. ‘So how about a little music to raise our spirits? I composed a piece for four voices last night, and I should love to hear it performed.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Lettice clapped her hands in delight before turning to Chaloner. ‘We would ask you to join us, but you are hoarse, so we shall commandeer Mr Yaile instead.’
Loath to be excluded, Chaloner offered to accompany them on the virginals. He was not as good a keyboard player as he was a violist, but he was certainly able to manage the simple chords that Misick had written. Moreover, Yaile transpired to be an unusually pure alto, while Misick was a rich bass who complimented Shaw’s tenor. With Lettice on the top line, the voices were perfectly balanced, and Chaloner soon forgot the ache of sadness for his first family, his disquiet about working with Swaddell, and his irritation over the Oxleys’ antisocial antics.
They were interrupted when the door opened and Taylor strode in. Chaloner tensed, anticipating either another demand for money or a vengeful tirade about Joliffe, but the banker only stalked to the middle of the room, where he stood looking around in haughty disdain, his Plague Box under his arm. The force of his personality was almost palpable, but it was a dangerous, unsteady power, and nothing like Silas’s sunny charm or even Baron’s coarse charisma. Chalone
r looked for Joan or Evan, but the banker appeared to be alone. Misick started towards him, but a glare from his patient stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘I have never liked this house,’ Taylor declared. ‘It belonged to Wheler – the man Baron murdered. Now it is Joan’s, but perhaps I shall encourage her to sell it. It smells of sewage.’
‘Do you have evidence that Baron killed Wheler?’ asked Shaw. ‘Because if so, you must inform Spymaster Williamson. He will—’
‘My plague worms told me,’ said Taylor, eyes blazing manically. ‘Baron enticed Wheler to White Goat Wynd, and thrust a knife between his ribs.’
He grabbed a quill from a table, and demonstrated by lunging at Shaw, who cowered away in alarm. Then he began to dance with it, feinting first at the shelves and then at a viol.
‘Punta riversa!’ he shouted gleefully. ‘Not even the King can fence as well as I.’
‘Where were you when Wheler died?’ Chaloner asked, in the hope that questioning him while he was in the grip of one of his turns would shake loose a clue.
‘At home,’ replied the banker, then whipped around to address Lettice. ‘I am very fond of Joan, you know. She is too good for Randal, and I wish I had wed her myself. I would have done if I had known what an excellent financier she is.’
‘Oh,’ said Lettice, blinking her confusion at the confidence. ‘How nice. Is she—’
‘Plague worms,’ interrupted Taylor in a low hiss. He tapped the box. ‘This is full of them, and I could destroy London just by opening the lid. But I shall not do it … yet.’
‘Good,’ said Misick, advancing cautiously. ‘Shall we go home now? It is not—’
‘It is safe with me,’ declared Taylor, hugging the box with one hand and waving the feather with the other. ‘But no one else can be trusted, not even Joan. She does not understand, although she is a lovely lass.’
‘Does not understand what?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Evil,’ replied Taylor, eyes blazing again. ‘It is always with me. I carry it in my box and in my heart. It is a black blight that will eat us all.’
Lettice shrieked when he dropped the feather, reached into his belt and pulled out a handgun. Misick dived behind a bookcase, Shaw stood rooted to the spot in terror, and Chaloner ducked through the cellar door. The knife from his sleeve dropped into his hand, ready to lob if Taylor looked as though he was going to shoot someone.
‘Please put it down,’ begged Misick from his hiding place. ‘And we will send for—’
‘I cannot abide earwigs,’ declared Taylor, before pointing the gun at the ceiling and pulling the trigger. Lettice screamed again as plaster showered down, while Misick whimpered his fear and Shaw looked as though he might faint from fright.
Then the front door flew open, and Evan stood there, Joan at his heels. Both were breathing hard, and there was a veritable army of henchmen behind them.
‘There you are, Father.’ Evan assessed the scene quickly, including the fact that the gun was spent and so posed no further danger. ‘Teasing Joan’s tenants. You really are impish these days.’
‘Prosperity,’ declared Taylor, tucking the box under his arm and stalking out, pausing only to hand the useless dag to Joan. She took it warily. ‘It is all that matters.’
‘He loves a good riddle,’ said Evan with a feeble smile, signalling to the henchmen to hurry after his sire. Then he approached Chaloner and lowered his voice. ‘And do not think we will overlook what you did to Joliffe. Indeed, I have already repaid you with a nasty surprise.’
‘What—’ Chaloner began, but Taylor began haranguing a group of bemused apprentices, obliging Evan to race outside and stop him.
‘You should not let him rove about on his own,’ Misick was saying sternly to Joan. ‘He needs rest, not the opportunity to hare up and down Cheapside with a loaded pistol.’
Joan regarded him coolly. ‘He is Evan’s responsibility, not mine. I am too busy trying to ensure that business does not suffer while he is … unsettled.’
Misick shot her a reproachful glance before hurrying after his patient, pulling a tonic from his bag as he went. Joan followed more sedately, although only after she had glanced around the shop in a proprietary manner, as if to ensure that her tenants were looking after it properly.
‘Heavens!’ gulped Lettice, glancing up at the hole in the ceiling. ‘And to think that he is Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company, and holds the financial future of London in his hands.’
‘He is only a lunatic half the time, according to Misick,’ said Shaw, mopping his brow with a hand that shook. ‘Poor Joan. She cannot know from one moment to the next whether his fiscal decisions are brilliantly intelligent or dangerously insane.’
Chaloner left the music shop unsettled both by the knowledge that the country’s economy was in the hands of a part-time madman and by the prospect of being ambushed by the ‘nasty surprise’ that Evan had arranged. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he sold one of his daggers and used the money to buy drinks for anyone willing to talk to him about his investigations. By the time he ran into Landlord Lamb in the Green Dragon, he was tired, frustrated and far from sober.
‘You should go home,’ advised Lamb. ‘No good will come of excessive drinking. But I am glad we met as it happens, because I have something to tell you. You asked after DuPont when we last spoke. Well, I have since learned his real name. A chap from St Giles mentioned it in my coffee house yesterday. Georges DuPont was really George Bridge, and he hailed from Chelsey, not Paris.’
‘Pont does mean bridge in French,’ mused Chaloner, struggling to concentrate through his alcoholic fog. He remembered what the boy Noll had said in Bearbinder Lane: that DuPont’s accent tended to disappear when he was in his cups. ‘So he was an imposter?’
‘More liar than imposter, apparently – he did it to make himself seem more interesting. It worked, because women loved him, and fell at his feet by the cartload.’
‘Did he speak French?’ asked Chaloner.
Lamb nodded, then surprised Chaloner by switching to it himself. ‘Like a native, which is why he could carry off his deception with such aplomb.’
Chaloner reeled towards Tothill Street, trying to remember when he had last had so much to drink. He did not let himself become inebriated very often, as it left him vulnerable, and the sane part of his mind told him that it had been a stupid thing to do in the middle of an investigation, especially given Evan’s earlier threat. Fortunately, there were no sly attacks in the dark, and he reached home unmolested.
He stepped inside his house to find it devoid of furnishings – although the Lely still hung splendidly over the fireplace – and his footsteps echoed hollowly as he tottered along the hall to the kitchen. Hannah was there, sitting on the floor with a pile of papers. She leapt to her feet and rushed towards him, hugging him so fiercely that it almost sent both of them flying.
‘What is the matter?’ He was not usually greeted so effusively.
‘Evan,’ she sniffed. ‘He told our other creditors that we have no money, and they came here in a pack, all shouting and angry. Gram had gone to see Temperance, so I was alone. They forced their way inside and—’
‘Did they hurt you?’ asked Chaloner anxiously, supposing this was Evan’s ‘nasty surprise’.
‘No, but they frightened me half to death.’
Chaloner was tempted to storm to Goldsmiths’ Row and demand satisfaction with pistols at dawn, but Evan was unlikely to accept such a challenge, and all it would achieve was letting Evan know that his spiteful scheme had worked. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
‘What other creditors? I thought your only serious debt was to Taylor.’
Hannah looked away. ‘There are a few that I have not liked to mention … But I spoke to them before you came home from Hull, and they said they did not mind waiting. However, I suspect Evan invented some lie about us defaulting, so when I could not give them money when they demanded it today, they took what little furniture I
had kept back, most of our clothes, the utensils from the kitchen…’
‘But not the Lely?’ Chaloner stared up at it. In the gloom, its subject looked deranged with her wild hair and oddly shining eyes. Perhaps they had considered it too frightening.
‘No one seems to want it, although I cannot imagine why. I am told it is a good likeness.’
‘They do not appreciate its quality,’ said Chaloner gallantly.
Hannah sniffed again. ‘Evan is a pig. He accosted Winfred Wells – the courtier who looks like a sheep – and effectively stole an onyx cameo of Queen Elizabeth. In broad daylight! And even the Duke has creditors hounding him. He said he has never known anything like it, and feels that the common people do not respect the aristocracy as they once did.’
‘Well, these hedonistic courtiers only have themselves to blame,’ said Chaloner, a Parliamentarian notion he would never have voiced had he been sober.
For once, Hannah did not argue, and he was suddenly gripped by the conviction that she had not yet told him the worst of it. He waited, and eventually she blurted, ‘They took your viols.’
He stared at her, while the cold hand of dread gripped his heart. ‘What?’
‘I think it was the lacemaker, but I cannot be certain.’ Hannah gestured to the papers on the floor. ‘Some of the mob left a note of what they took, but others just came to loot. And there is no receipt for the viols.’
Chaloner felt weak at the knees, and looked for a chair to sit on, but there was none.
Hannah put her arms around him. ‘We will get them back, Tom. And we move out of this house tomorrow. That will save a lot of money.’
Chaloner regarded her uneasily. ‘We are not going to live with the Duke, are we?’
Hannah’s smile was wan. ‘He offered, but his finances are not much better than ours. I plan to sleep in the Queen’s apartments until this business is over, but obviously you cannot join me there, so you are going to stay with our housekeeper in Shoreditch. It is all arranged.’
‘Crikey,’ breathed Chaloner.
‘It is kind of her, because she does not like you. But she says she will not see you homeless.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 27
