The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner took a deep breath, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to smash something – it was perhaps fortunate that there was nothing to hand except the Lely, which was too high to reach. He would never forgive Evan for organising the invasion, but worse, he was not sure whether he would ever forgive Hannah. Then there was a knock on the door, and Gram walked in.

  ‘How was Hercules’ Pillars Alley?’ asked Hannah, clearly grateful for the interruption.

  Gram was all offended indignation. ‘You probably do not know this, miss, but that particular building is a brothel.’ He lowered his voice to a shocked hiss. ‘A bawdy house!’

  ‘Temperance calls it a gentleman’s club,’ said Hannah.

  ‘She can call it what she likes,’ sniffed Gram primly, ‘but it is full of loose women and the kind of fellow who does not deserve to be called a gentleman. I would sooner starve than work in a place like that.’

  ‘Then you will starve,’ said Chaloner, irked by the ingratitude. It had not been easy to persuade Temperance to take him, and he felt the page had no right to be choosy.

  ‘Look on the bright side, Gram,’ said Hannah kindly. ‘She takes very good care of her staff.’

  ‘I shall never know,’ declared Gram haughtily. ‘Because I am not working there. My mother would turn in her grave.’

  ‘I shall ask whether the Duke has anything for you,’ said Hannah, not very hopefully.

  ‘Thank you.’ Gram softened as he looked at Chaloner. ‘I did something for you today, sir –I asked questions about the villains who stole your viols. They went to a shop on Foster Lane, where the things were exchanged for cash. You can go there and get them back.’

  ‘Not with a few shillings and some coffee-house tokens,’ said Chaloner bitterly.

  Gram winked. ‘There are more ways of getting stuff than paying for it, and I have a lot of experience in such matters. You have been good to me, and I should like to return the favour.’

  So Gram was a thief, thought Chaloner. Perhaps he had decided he was too old for climbing through windows and scrambling down chimneys, so had retired to a more respectable profession. It was a pity that life as a page had not worked out. However, while it was tempting to reclaim his viols by sly means, Chaloner was disinclined to add burglary to his list of things to do. Large musical instruments were not jewels or money, and it would not be easy to spirit them away without being seen. Moreover, if they were the only items missing, it would be obvious who had taken them.

  ‘We shall go tonight,’ determined Gram, ignoring Chaloner’s weary shake of the head. ‘We could be there and back again before you know it.’

  ‘Can you get my best blue dress at the same time?’ asked Hannah hopefully. ‘And perhaps the clock? And a chair or two would be nice.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gram airily. ‘We can steal a cart to put it all in. I know where one is usually left, and the three of us could pull it easy.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, afraid they might actually do it. ‘We would end up in prison.’

  ‘So?’ countered Gram. ‘At least we would get fed.’

  Chaloner was unwilling to stay in Tothill Street when there was nothing to eat, nowhere to sit, and no wood for a fire. He mumbled something about business for the Earl, and left Hannah and Gram making wild plans to redeem their losses by crime. Fortunately, neither was inclined to put their schemes into action that night, and he hoped the cold light of morning would remind them that she was unlikely to continue as lady-in-waiting to the Queen if she was caught stealing.

  He wandered aimlessly, the loss of his instruments a dull ache in his heart. He found himself back on Cheapside, but had no desire to pursue his enquiries in the taverns and alehouses he passed. He met Silas near White Goat Wynd, and although he was not usually in the habit of unloading his problems on friends, he could not help himself. Silas listened gravely until the sad tale was told, then escorted him into the Bull’s Head near the Standard, where the landlord obligingly provided ale – Taylor apparently owned that tavern, too, because there was no question of Silas paying for it.

  ‘Do you want an accomplice when you raid the shop, Tom? Obviously, it would be better to buy the viols back legally, but as neither of us has any money … I feel responsible, given that it was my brother who precipitated all this nonsense.’

  ‘Your father,’ corrected Chaloner, knowing he should not have more to drink, but too depressed to be sensible. ‘Your mad father.’

  ‘He does seem out of sorts. I will try to reason with him again, although he was furious the last time I attempted it, and threatened to disinherit me – which would be irksome, given that I do not want to be Keeper of Stores for the rest of my life, and a legacy is the only way I shall escape.’

  He changed the subject before Chaloner could ask what else he saw himself doing, and began to talk about his next soirée. Then they drank more ale, and Chaloner stared morosely out of the window at the Standard.

  It was busy, because it was the end of the day, and tradesmen had gathered there to sell off their remaining wares. Fountains and wells were good places for such activities, as locals needed to collect water for washing and cooking, so there was always a ready supply of customers. Chaloner watched a farmer offload two plaits of onions to a pinch-faced housewife, and frowned as something began to scratch at the back of his mind. Then the answer came like a lightning bolt, and he slammed his hand on the table in understanding.

  ‘Onions at the Well! DuPont – George Bridge – told Neve that he had his information from Onions at the Well, and Everard thought it had something to do with St Giles. The answer is obvious now I think about it! DuPont met an onion-seller by a watering hole in that parish. How many wells are there in the area? Six? Eight?’

  ‘One.’ Silas shrugged at Chaloner’s startled expression. ‘It is a slum, Tom. No one cares about its residents’ health or comfort. Where are you going?’

  ‘St Giles,’ replied Chaloner, making for the door.

  ‘Are you sure you should? Rumour is that it is full of the plague.’

  It was a risk, but following the lead allowed Chaloner to forget the heartache of losing his viols, and he was determined to see where it took him. However, he made no objection when Silas fell into step at his side, and they walked in silence through the darkening streets.

  The St Giles rookery was a mass of filthy hovels and tenements near one of the finest churches in London, rebuilt forty years before by a wealthy noblewoman. There were more recent graves in its cemetery than there should have been, and Chaloner looked away when a sombre procession emerged and aimed for a newly dug hole.

  ‘Plague,’ whispered Silas. ‘God help us.’

  Entering the rookery was not easy. Williamson’s soldiers had been charged to minimise comings and goings, and were taking their duties seriously. Chaloner and Silas were reduced to hiding in the back of a cart, but once they were inside, it did not take them long to locate the area’s one and only source of fresh water.

  It was noisy, busy and smelly, with vendors desperate to sell the last of their wares before people went home. Some were so pushy that spats broke out, and the atmosphere was tense and unfriendly. A few discreet enquiries took them to the man they were looking for – a disreputable villain who was disliked for his violent temper and refusal to let other purveyors of vegetables hawk their goods on ‘his’ patch. He was known only as Onions, and fought furiously when Chaloner and Silas manhandled him down a lane so they could talk undisturbed.

  ‘I think you will chat to us,’ said Silas mildly, once Onions’ objections had petered into a furious silence. He took a knife from his belt and inspected its blade. ‘It would be rash to refuse.’

  ‘DuPont,’ began Chaloner. ‘Or should I say George Bridge? He was going to sell intelligence about the Dutch to my employer, the Earl of Clarendon.’

  Relief suffused Onions’ face. ‘Is that why you are here? Thank God! I thought you were … never mind. If you are Clarendon’s men, you will ha
ve come for these. But they will cost you.’

  He held out a sheaf of letters. They were in Dutch, and a quick glance through them told Chaloner that they were the missives written by Meer and his wife to their children.

  ‘Four shillings each.’ Onions glanced around uneasily. ‘But you cannot tell anyone you got them from me, or I am a dead man. They are reports on the Hollanders’ fleet.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner.

  Onions tapped the side of his nose. ‘I learned Dutch when I was in the navy.’

  ‘Then you will understand that they are nothing of the kind,’ said Chaloner in that language. ‘Do you have any more “reports” or is this it?’

  Onions’ blank look told him all he needed to know. He repeated the question in English.

  ‘I can get more,’ said Onions eagerly. ‘Like DuPont, I know where all the foreigners live. But you have to keep my name out of it.’

  ‘Who are you afraid of?’ asked Chaloner, watching the man glance around fearfully again.

  ‘No one,’ lied Onions. ‘Well? Do we have a deal? But do not try to cheat me, because DuPont was my man, and I know exactly what prices he agreed with Clarendon.’

  ‘How can you be sure which Dutchmen are spies?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘They might be innocent citizens trapped on the wrong side of the Channel.’

  ‘I just know,’ declared Onions. ‘And I can snag whatever is within easy reach of a window – I am every bit as good with a hook as DuPont was. You will not regret treating with me, I promise. However, there is one condition: you have to come here to collect these reports, because I am not going to the Feathers again.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Silas. ‘It is a little shabby, I grant you, but—’

  ‘Because dangerous types haunt it,’ interrupted Onions. ‘I went there with the news that DuPont was sick. I thought Baron would be pleased that I was looking out for one of his curbers, but … well, suffice to say that I shall not be going there again.’

  ‘Is that why Coo visited DuPont in Long Acre?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because you told Baron, and he sent his tame physician on an errand of mercy?’

  Onions nodded. ‘But DuPont should never have gone to Bearbinder Lane after the physician had left. He might have lived if he had stayed home to rest.’

  ‘He had the plague,’ said Silas. ‘So I doubt it.’

  Onions’ eyes widened in alarm. ‘The plague? No! It was just a falling sickness. Of course, he did spend the previous night with the whores in the Crown tavern, and several of them are dead of the pestilence…’

  He could be persuaded to say no more, and Chaloner took some satisfaction in informing him that his services would not be required for the war effort.

  Chaloner felt cheated as he and Silas left the rookery, annoyed that he had expended so much time and energy tracking down what transpired to be nothing more than petty profiteers. He should have listened to Lamb and Grey: they had said that no one who frequented St Giles would have much of interest to report, and they had been right. Moreover, DuPont had virtually told Neve that the scheme was a fiddle, but the upholder had not understood the ‘nods and winks’ – he had only nodded and winked back. It was obvious why DuPont had approached Neve, of course: he knew the upholder to be corrupt for the simple reason that he had chosen to do business with Baron the felon.

  Silas was also disgusted. ‘I thought I was doing something vital to our nation’s security, but it transpires to be a grubby little plot to swindle Clarendon. Do you do this kind of thing often, Tom? I cannot imagine your family are impressed.’

  He made his excuses to part company shortly afterwards, still muttering his displeasure. Chaloner roamed restlessly, and when he reached Fleet Street, he saw a cart on which a hastily wrapped body had been loaded. He did not want to walk past it, so he ducked down Hercules’ Pillars Alley to visit the club. Preacher Hill started to refuse him entry, but stood aside with a gulp when he saw the dark expression on the spy’s face. The club was not as busy as usual, and Maude explained that there was a case of plague further down the lane, so regular patrons were afraid to come.

  ‘But I know the searcher,’ she went on. ‘She is a drunken sot, and it is not plague at all. Her incompetence has condemned a family to forty days of isolation – and us to losing customers. I shall have strong words to say when I next see her.’

  ‘Perhaps it should be physicians who decide,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Like Coo.’

  ‘Dr Coo,’ said Maude, with a sudden smile. ‘He treated my bunions, and was a lovely man. The villain who shot him deserves to hang. What kind of person pulls out a handgun and—’

  ‘The handgun!’ exclaimed Chaloner, jumping up so suddenly that claret spilled all down his coat and breeches.

  Maude regarded him suspiciously. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I saw it quite clearly, and tracing it may lead me to Coo’s killer. I meant to ask the gunsmiths on St Martin’s Lane, but it slipped my mind – which was stupid, as it represents a good line of enquiry. I will do it first thing in the morning.’

  ‘It is Sunday tomorrow,’ Maude reminded him. ‘They will be closed.’

  ‘Not these gunsmiths.’

  Maude regarded him soberly for a moment, then reached into her bodice and produced a polished stone on a chain – it was a cabochon, also known as a carbuncle, and was thought to have special powers. ‘This is an almandine garnet, and will not only keep you safe from plague, bad dreams and poison, but will also prevent melancholy. And you seem sad today.’

  Chaloner was careless with jewellery and would almost certainly lose it. He had enough to worry about without risking the wrath of a formidable matriarch, so he refused it, but Maude was insistent.

  ‘Wear it around your neck, inside your shirt,’ she ordered. ‘You may return it when you have solved Dr Coo’s murder.’

  Chaloner was too tired and drunk to do battle, and resignedly did as she ordered. When she left him to return to her duties, he wandered into the parlour and listened to the patrons grumbling about their bankers. They had also heard about a looming disaster for Tuesday, although no one seemed to know what form it might take.

  When the subject turned to the King’s latest amour, he went to hear the musicians who were playing in the antechamber, which did nothing to improve his temper as it made him long for his own viols. He drank more wine, but it sat badly with the ale he had swallowed earlier, so he decided he had better leave before he made himself sick.

  Outside, he aimed for Lincoln’s Inn, entering that great foundation through a little-used gate at the back, so as to avoid disturbing the night-porter. He lurched across Dial Court, and although he tried to tread softly as he climbed the stairs, Thurloe was waiting with a gun in his hand when he reached Chamber XIII.

  ‘I think you had better sit down,’ said the ex-Spymaster drily, when Chaloner tried to lean on the doorjamb and missed. ‘And tell me how I can help.’

  ‘I am past salvation this time,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘Williamson has blackmailed me into working for him with Swaddell as a partner; I am expected to live with our housekeeper in Shoreditch; and some of Hannah’s debts have been settled with my viols, although we still owe Taylor’s Bank a fortune.’

  ‘Your viols?’ asked Thurloe, immediately understanding the worst of it. ‘I am sure we can buy them back again. I have some money that—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Chaloner shortly. ‘I am not borrowing anything else, especially from friends. Perhaps I should ask Baron for lessons in curbing, so I can learn how to steal.’

  ‘You do not need lessons. You were very good at it when you worked for me.’

  ‘Documents and letters. I never stole jewels or money. Or viols.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Thurloe. ‘It would have been most unethical. But I think you had better stay here tonight – you should not be roaming about the city in that state. I shall fetch you a blanket, and you can sleep by the fire. Enjoy it while you can, because this will
be my last night in the city for a while – I leave at first light. Do you have anything to report before I go?’

  ‘I tried to talk to Randal, but he would not listen. I think he will publish his sequel, because he is delighted by the trouble the first one has caused. Its controversial nature means it has sold extremely well, and has probably earned him a fortune.’

  ‘Then you must stop him by fair means or foul,’ ordered Thurloe. ‘I will not see the widow of my poor old friend maligned a second time.’

  Chapter 11

  When he awoke the next day, Chaloner was immediately aware of a cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It took him a moment to recall why, but then everything came crashing back – his viols had gone. He tried to think about his investigations, but he was queasy from the amount he had drunk the previous night, and could not concentrate. He was, however, aware of a hard knot of resentment against Hannah, Taylor and Evan. He tried to ignore it, but the feeling persisted, so he was surly company when Thurloe emerged from his bedchamber looking fresh, neat and sprightly in his travelling clothes.

  Thurloe rang a bell, and a servant brought his idea of a hearty breakfast – thin slivers of bread and meat, a boiled egg cut into sixths, and a dozen raisins. Yet even this was more than Chaloner felt like eating, and he only picked at the elegant morsels that were passed his way. While he did so, he told Thurloe all that he had learned since they had last met – his report the previous night had been too terse and disjointed to count as a proper briefing.

  ‘So,’ concluded Thurloe, ‘you still need to warn Randal against publishing his sequel; you have made no headway into the deaths of Wheler, Coo and Fatherton; you have determined that DuPont was no spy but you do not know why he staggered to Cheapside—’

  ‘He had a visitor shortly before he left Long Acre,’ put in Chaloner, a little defensively, ‘one who wore a plague mask, hissed and gave him money.’

  ‘—you have no idea who burned Fatherton’s house or Milbourn’s printworks; and your Earl is unlikely to have his remaining curtains.’