‘He does not want them now he knows the others were stolen from the club. But it all pales into insignificance when compared to what else is in the offing – war, plague, economic collapse and a disaster scheduled for two days hence.’
‘This poor city,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘Sometimes I wish I were Secretary of State again, because this would not have happened under Cromwell.’
‘And how would he have prevented an outbreak of plague?’ asked Chaloner acidly.
‘By deploying his army to implement the necessary precautions. That is the beauty of a military dictatorship, Thomas – the instant availability of armed enforcement. Williamson’s so-called troops are a pale imitation of the real thing. But time is passing, and I shall miss my coach if I dally much longer. You will not give up on speaking to Randal, will you?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘Swaddell might help. He knows how to persuade people to his point of view.’
‘No,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘I do not want Randal killed, just stopped. Try going to your coffee house and cornering Fabian Stedman. He is a printer with Royalist leanings – perhaps he will know where Randal is hiding.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘And if that fails, I shall whisk Evan down a dark alley, put a knife to his throat and ask him for answers.’
‘Do not waste your time, Tom. He does not know. I spoke to him myself yesterday.’
‘Do you think he told you the truth?’
‘Yes – he is not clever enough to deceive me.’
Chaloner stood. ‘But first, I need to ask the Trulocke brothers about the gun that killed Coo.’
‘They are away until tomorrow,’ said Thurloe, ‘but there is much you can be doing in the interim. Speak to Stedman first, then go to Southwark.’
‘Why there?’
‘Because I have learned that one of Fatherton’s tenants in Bearbinder Lane was a pewterer named Kelke, who now resides with his fiancée. I do not have a precise location, but she lives near the Bear Garden. Perhaps he will know who killed his landlord.’
Thurloe’s coach left from Holborn, so Chaloner accompanied him there, and experienced a sharp pang of loss as the vehicle rattled away in the gathering light of the new day. The ex-Spymaster might be gone for weeks, and he would miss his calm friendship and practical advice.
When the carriage was out of sight, Chaloner went to nearby St Andrew’s Church, where worshippers were gathering for their Sunday devotions. He was not a particularly devout man, but records were kept of those who did not put in an appearance at the weekly services, and he had no desire to be branded a dissenter. He watched the verger write his name in the attendance book, then slipped out through the vestry when no one was looking.
He walked down Fetter Lane, noting that it had been washed during the night in the hope of thwarting the plague. Two of Williamson’s soldiers had been charged to supervise the operation, but they and the labourers were standing in a friendly cluster, smoking, so Chaloner wondered how well it had been done. By contrast, Fleet Street was too wide and busy to be scoured, so bonfires had been lit to fumigate it instead.
He entered the Rainbow coughing and sat at his usual table, but those already there immediately eased away from him.
‘Fire,’ he managed to croak. ‘Not the plague.’
‘It is not the hacking that bothers us,’ said Speed the bookseller, very coldly. ‘It is the fact that you are on intimate terms with Spymaster Williamson. Farr told us how he came in here and greeted you like an old friend.’
‘He is not a friend, believe me,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘He must be the most unpopular man in London,’ said Farr. ‘His plague measures are detested by rich and poor alike; he has failed to gather proper intelligence for the Dutch war; he never caught Wheler’s killer; and he lets bankers ride roughshod over everyone. Including members of Court and the government.’
Chaloner was tempted to say that it was hardly a spymaster’s job to contain financiers, and that while Williamson had been charged to implement the plague measures, he had not devised them himself. But he held his tongue, unwilling to defend ‘the most unpopular man in London’.
‘The situation with the goldsmiths is disgraceful,’ agreed Stedman. ‘The rogues will beggar us all if they have their way.’
Farr grinned maliciously. ‘I had my revenge on Williamson for foisting his oily presence on us on Friday. I served him lukewarm coffee and told him there was no sugar. But Chaloner did something even better.’
‘I did?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘You gave him a cold, and he is now confined to his bed. It serves him right! I lost a lot of business that day, and several of my regulars have declined to return lest he appears uninvited a second time. He has no business imposing himself on decent establishments.’
The conversation moved on to omens at that point, and Chaloner sipped his coffee. It was cold and tasted of soot. Was Farr trying to drive him away, too? As Stedman was looking bored with a subject that had been aired so many times before, Chaloner took the opportunity to question him.
‘Did you know Thomas Milbourn, the printer who published The Court & Kitchin and who was burned to death when his shop was set alight?’
‘Yes, but he is not dead.’ Stedman lowered his voice. ‘He is staying at the Green Dragon on Cheapside – incognito, lest there are Roundheads who want to finish the job. I saw him last night.’
Chaloner blinked, startled by the fact that Stedman should so casually provide information that he had been struggling to acquire for a week. But such was the life of an intelligencer.
Chaloner had agreed to meet Swaddell outside the Rainbow at ten o’clock, but that was a good two hours hence, so he determined to put the intervening time to good use by following up on what Stedman had told him. He walked towards the Green Dragon briskly, crossing the filthy Fleet River, which was even more noxious that day as there had been no serious rain for days and its fetid banks were exposed. Then he climbed Ludgate Hill to cut through St Paul’s.
The cathedral choir was singing an anthem by Palestrina, so he stopped to listen. He was not the only one – Misick, Shaw and Lettice were also standing in rapt appreciation, all three in their Sunday best. Misick’s wig had been brushed and powdered, so it was bushier than usual, and his white flea powder coated not only his clothes, but those of his companions.
‘Albertus Bryne will play the organ soon,’ Shaw told Chaloner, once the singing had finished. ‘He has velvet fingers, and his recitals are a delight.’
‘Join us,’ invited Lettice. ‘It is sure to be a treat, and you look as though you need some restorative music. You seem unwell.’
Chaloner could not bring himself to mention his viols, even though he was sure that the music-sellers were among the few who would understand.
‘He only has a cold,’ said Misick, in the callously unsympathetic manner adopted by many medici towards the sufferings of their patients. ‘Cheer up, Chaloner. It could be worse – at least you do not have the plague. Unlike the Oxley family.’
‘Emma became sick last night,’ elaborated Shaw, ‘and their house was shut up this morning.’
‘It is a terrible thing,’ said Lettice softly. ‘We took them food last night, and Mr Oxley had to take it by lowering a rope through an upstairs window.’
‘Is it really plague?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Not something else?’
‘It really is,’ said Misick soberly. ‘I examined Emma myself.’
‘Did you?’ Chaloner took a step away.
‘From a safe distance – it is irresponsible to invite trouble, even though my Plague Elixir will protect me. However, I saw the buboes quite clearly from the door.’
‘Oxley is terrified,’ said Shaw. He tried to keep the gloat from his voice, but did not quite succeed. ‘He wanted to abandon his family in order to save himself.’
‘He is not a very nice man,’ whispered Lettice. ‘His poor children…’
‘Bryne is starting,’ said Misick su
ddenly. ‘Hush! No talking now.’
They craned forward eagerly, leaving Chaloner wishing he could stay and listen with them, especially when the first strains of a particularly fine fantasia by Scheidemann began to echo through the nave. Reluctantly, he turned and headed for the exit, although the melody filled his mind long after he could no longer hear the organ.
Since Chaloner’s last visit to the Green Dragon, enormous braziers had been installed in every room, which produced great clouds of plague-repelling smoke. He had no idea what was being burned in them, but he was not the only one coughing, so he hoped they were doing some good. There were also sacks of medicinal herbs hanging from the rafters, which represented something of a hazard to customers, who were obliged to duck and weave their way through them.
Chaloner exchanged his coffee tokens for a jug of buttered ale, and engaged Landlord Hanson in conversation. Hanson was suspicious when Chaloner asked after Milbourn, but caved in almost eagerly when spun a yarn about the printer being owed five shillings.
‘He has not paid his rent yet,’ Hanson said to explain himself. ‘I took him in as a favour to Randal, whose father owns this tavern, but I did not agree to do it for nothing. He is over there.’
Milbourn was huddled so deeply into the shadows that he was virtually invisible. He was smoking a pipe, and Chaloner had an impression of heavy eyebrows and a weak chin.
‘Poor man,’ said Hanson. ‘He is not only hunted by Roundheads, but by the banks – he borrowed heavily to start his business, but now his workshop is destroyed, he cannot repay them.’
Chaloner might have felt more sympathy had Milbourn not printed a pamphlet that slandered a helpless old lady. He was about to go and question the man when a remark from Hanson snagged his attention.
‘What?’
‘I said Milbourn is not the only one who lost all in a fire. Old Fatherton has also not been seen since his tenement burned down, and although Baron’s trainband swear the house was empty, there are many who suspect he was inside.’
‘You knew Fatherton?’
‘He came here for a drink occasionally. I always noticed, because he was a thief, and I had to watch him lest he picked my regulars’ pockets. He came the day before the fire.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, with two other men, but they kept their hats on, so I never saw their faces, although I can tell you that one reeked of onions. He was nothing, though, and it was the third who was in charge. I could tell by the way the other two bowed and scraped to him. The three of them muttered and plotted all evening.’
‘How do you know they were plotting? Did you hear their discussion?’
‘I caught snippets of it when I went to collect the empties. They were vexed, because some ruse to cheat the Lord Chancellor had gone wrong, although I cannot imagine why they imagined such an eminent personage would deal with the likes of them.’
So the scheme had involved four players, thought Chaloner: DuPont, Fatherton, Onions and someone who sounded like their leader. He recalled Onions’ unease and his disinclination to return to Cheapside. Had he heard about Fatherton, and was afraid he would suffer a similar fate if he showed his face? So who was the leader? Baron? It would certainly explain why Onions was keen to keep a low profile.
‘You say you did not see the third man’s face, but did you notice anything else about him? His clothes? His size? Did he have an unusual gait?’
Hanson raised his hands helplessly. ‘He kept himself wrapped in his coat all night. People do these days, as they hope it will protect them against the plague. Yet there was one thing…’
‘Yes?’ asked Chaloner, when the taverner trailed off.
‘He hissed between his teeth once or twice. I think he was nervous. And who can blame him? I would not have been easy in company with such a pair either.’
‘Hissed?’ pressed Chaloner, recalling Landlord Grey’s testimony: that DuPont’s mysterious visitor had made a similar sound in Long Acre, shortly before the curber had made his final, fateful journey to Bearbinder Alley.
But Hanson could add no more, so Chaloner went to talk to Milbourn. The printer glanced up in alarm when the spy sat on the bench next to him.
‘Your neighbours think you are dead,’ said Chaloner, after he had assured the man that he meant him no harm. ‘Incinerated in the fire that destroyed your workshop.’
‘I wish I were,’ said Milbourn miserably. ‘It would be better for everyone, including poor Hanson, who will never be paid for keeping me here. Randal promised to settle the bill, but he prefers to spend his money on himself.’
‘Randal.’ Chaloner pounced on the opening. ‘I want a word with him.’
‘You and a hundred others. Half to kill him, the rest to shake his hand. Which are you?’
Chaloner thought it best not to say until he knew the printer’s views on the matter. ‘Why did you agree to publish such a contentious work? Surely you could see it would bring you trouble?’
‘Because Randal offered to eliminate half my debt to his father in return. But I should have refused, because how shall I pay the rest now that I have no printing presses? I cannot even sell the building, because it is a burned-out shell. I am ruined!’
‘You cannot find work elsewhere?’
‘Not as long as there are angry Roundheads itching to trounce me. I shall be trapped here for the rest of my life.’
Hanson would not be pleased to hear that, thought Chaloner. ‘I understand that you printed advertisements for Baron instead of paying the Protection Tax. But he did not protect you, so he must be liable for the damage. Have you asked him about it?’
‘Of course. Yet even though it was an obvious case of arson, he maintains that it was an Act of God, and he refuses to compensate me.’
‘If I were you, I would leave London. Go to another city, take a new name and start afresh. Taylor probably charged you too much interest on your debt anyway, so it would serve him right to lose the rest.’
Milbourn gave a sickly grin. ‘Perhaps I will. And perhaps I will come back in a year with a scurrilous pamphlet about Randal. I hate him for destroying my life.’
‘Do you know what possessed him to write such a poisonous tirade?’
‘I do.’ Milbourn’s expression turned spiteful. ‘He told me in confidence, but I do not see why I should keep his secrets now. His dearest ambition was to be a cook, much to the chagrin of his father, who thinks it a lowly profession compared to banking. It was Randal’s proudest day when he was hired as a patissier in White Hall.’
‘When was this?’ But Chaloner already knew the answer. ‘During the Commonwealth?’
Milbourn nodded. ‘He served under Philip Starkey, but he had no talent, so Starkey refused to let him loose on the desserts. And Mrs Cromwell took one bite of a cake he had made, and decreed that he should never be allowed near an oven again. The pamphlet was Randal’s revenge on them both.’
‘Starkey did not tell me that Randal worked under him,’ said Chaloner a little irritably.
‘Randal enrolled under a false name – John Smith. He could not use Taylor, as they were a Royalist family, and his application would have been rejected.’
‘So Starkey does not know that John Smith is really Randal Taylor?’
‘Not a clue, although I am surprised he has not guessed. “John Smith” was livid when he was relegated to peeling vegetables, and made all manner of threats.’
‘I really do need to talk to Randal,’ said Chaloner. ‘And while it will not help your troubles, I can promise to make our discussion very uncomfortable for him. It will be revenge of a sort.’
Milbourn brightened. ‘Very well. But only if you break his legs.’
‘Will you settle for me telling Spymaster Williamson where he is hiding instead?’
Milbourn considered, then nodded. ‘Although you will have to swear to keep my name out of the matter – with Randal and Williamson.’
‘You have my word.’
‘He has a mistress w
ho lodges on Bread Street. He is staying with her.’
‘A mistress? He has only been married a few weeks.’
Milbourn smirked. ‘Yes, and Joan will be outraged when she finds out. Perhaps you could mention his infidelity to her – you refused to break his legs, but she will not.’
Chaloner passed Oxley’s house on his way to Bread Street, but the door and lower windows had been boarded up, and one of Williamson’s watchers and two trainband men were stationed outside. An upper window was open, and a rope dangled out, ready to be tied to the next basket of food, but there was no sign of the occupants.
‘All three have it now,’ said the watcher when Chaloner asked for a report.
‘Three?’ asked Chaloner. ‘There should be four.’
The watcher grimaced. ‘The girl escaped, and I hope to God she is not carrying the disease or all our efforts will have been for nothing. Oxley tried to tell us that his wife was just sick from too much ale, but it was a lie. Misick saw buboes when he opened the door.’
The bell began to toll at that moment, and he and Chaloner automatically began to count, to learn whether the victim was man, woman or child, but the ringer was only announcing the start of the next Sunday service.
It told Chaloner that it was later than he thought, so he postponed his interview with Randal, and hurried to Fleet Street, where he found Swaddell waiting. The assassin was in his usual black, his pristine falling band so bright that it almost hurt the eyes. Chaloner pulled him away from the Rainbow quickly, lest any of the regulars should happen to notice who he was meeting. Luckily, Farr rarely cleaned his windows, so they were coated in a greasy brown sheen that made it all but impossible to see through them from the inside.
‘I contacted some of my informants after we parted yesterday,’ said Swaddell, then added glumly, ‘But they told me nothing we do not know already.’
‘Mine did,’ said Chaloner, a little smugly. ‘We are going to visit Nicholas Kelke, who is staying with his fiancée near the Bear Garden, across the river in Southwark.’
‘Why?’
‘He was one of Fatherton’s tenants in Bearbinder Lane. Perhaps he will know who shot his landlord – and tried to have me incinerated. If he implicates Baron, Williamson may have enough evidence for an arrest.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 29
