The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Well, they did cost three thousand pounds,’ sighed Brodrick. ‘I would not have been happy destroying them either, and I do not blame him for wanting time to reflect.’

  ‘Neve was vexed,’ said Kipps. ‘And sharp words were exchanged.’

  Chaloner had no doubt that Neve had intended to take the drapery for himself, and cut his losses by selling it to someone else. Or perhaps by returning it to Baron. He could have retired on such a princely sum, so would naturally have been eager for the Earl to agree to their ‘destruction’. Of course he had been irked when the Earl had demurred.

  ‘It was then that Neve told the Earl he was going to leave,’ said Brodrick. ‘My cousin was piqued, and ordered him to stay.’

  ‘His precise words were: if you abandon me, I will make sure that you never work for a wealthy household again,’ elaborated Kipps. ‘Afterwards, Neve told me that he was not sure what to do, but that he wanted to discuss the matter with you before making his final decision. God knows why – unless he wanted to see if you would be prepared to forge him a testimonial from Clarendon House.’

  Chaloner winced. It had not occurred to him that the Earl would refuse to let Neve go.

  ‘Then the Earl ordered Neve to hang his new Lely, and disappeared into My Lord’s Lobby for something to eat,’ continued Brodrick. ‘The excitement over, the rest of us went to dine as well, but later than usual, which put us at the table the same time as the servants. As a consequence, certain duties appear to have been neglected…’

  ‘Such as guarding the door.’ Chaloner was disgusted. ‘I cannot believe you were so remiss. You know the Earl is unpopular, and there are many who itch to do him harm. What if it had been him who was shot?’

  ‘We all thought Kipps was minding the entrance,’ said Brodrick defensively. ‘How were we to know that he actually went to the Great Parlour to gossip with Neve?’

  ‘I assumed the servants would realise that the staff had been delayed by the quarrel, and would adjust their own mealtime accordingly,’ snapped Kipps. ‘And I did not go to gossip – I went to help with the picture. Neve was on a chair holding it, while I was telling him if it was straight. But suddenly, there was a tremendous crack, and his blood and brains spurted all over the Bishop of Winchester.’

  Chaloner blinked. ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘His portrait,’ explained Kipps. ‘I whipped around, and saw one man with a gun and another fellow behind him, so I dropped to the floor and covered my head with my hands. I heard their footsteps rattling away, but by the time I felt it was safe to look up, Neve was dead.’

  ‘But you gave chase,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘If not to lay hold of them, then to memorise details that will allow us to track them down.’

  Kipps regarded him coolly. ‘I am a Seal Bearer, not a hunter of felons. Of course I did not hare about like some common ruffian! I had my dignity to consider. Besides, others had arrived by the time I had scrambled to my feet.’

  ‘When we heard the bang, we had no idea it was gunfire,’ added Brodrick. ‘I thought it was the sound of the Lely being dropped, to be frank – Neve’s revenge on the Earl for his harsh words. But then we arrived at the Great Parlour and saw him dead – and Kipps on the floor with his arms over his head.’

  ‘I have sent for the palace guard,’ said Kipps, while Chaloner reflected on the distances involved, and concluded that the Seal Bearer must have spent a very long time cowering. ‘They should be here soon, and then we shall all feel a lot safer.’

  ‘But you must have seen something to identify the culprits,’ said Chaloner, although not with much hope.

  ‘Their hats shaded their faces and their clothes were dark,’ said Kipps defensively. ‘That is all I remember.’

  ‘Did they speak at all – to you or each other?’

  ‘One hissed something to his crony on the way out, but too low for me to catch his words.’

  ‘Then can you describe the pistol?’

  Kipps scowled. ‘Yes! It had a nasty big muzzle and bullets came out of it.’

  ‘Can you be more specific? This is important, Kipps. The Earl’s enemies will make much of a murder committed in his home, and we need to find the culprit as soon as possible. You seem to be the only witness.’

  Kipps stared at him. ‘I suppose I am. I wonder if that is why…’

  ‘Why what?’

  Kipps swallowed hard. ‘Why the gunman waved the dag under my nose as I lay on the floor, almost as if he wanted me to see it. I probably should have grabbed it, but…’

  Chaloner refrained from remarking that he should, especially if it was spent and so posed no danger, but Kipps was clearly suffering pangs of conscience for his less than manly response and criticism would serve no useful purpose. However, Kipps had lied – the killers had not dashed in, shot Neve and raced off again, but had lingered long enough to make sure the sole witness to the crime had seen the weapon. Just as they had when Coo had been shot.

  ‘So what did it look like?’

  ‘It had an ivory butt and the barrel was etched.’

  Chaloner’s mind teemed with questions as he walked towards My Lord’s Lobby. The most obvious suspect for the crime was Baron – Neve could not bleat the story of the stolen curtains in a court of law if he was dead. Yet Chaloner could not help feeling that Baron would have been more subtle, and it seemed uncharacteristically reckless to shoot the upholder in Clarendon House in broad daylight.

  And what about the murder weapon, which the killers had taken time to brandish at the terrified Kipps? Chaloner had no doubt it was the same one that had dispatched Coo – and perhaps Fatherton, too. Had it just been an act of intimidation, a silent warning for the Seal Bearer to stay down until they had gone? Or had the intention been for him to see the pistol, and be able to describe it afterwards? In which case, its owner was unlikely to be the culprit, but someone who wanted him blamed.

  Still mulling over the possibilities, Chaloner knocked on the Earl’s door. He could hear his employer moving about within, but there was no invitation to enter, so he rapped again, harder.

  ‘Go away,’ came the Earl’s trembling voice. ‘Unless you are here to tell me that Neve’s assailant has been caught, and is thus not in a position to shoot me.’

  ‘It is Chaloner, sir. I have come to—’

  He jumped when the door was whipped open. The Earl reached out, grabbed his arm and hauled him inside before slamming it closed behind them.

  ‘Thank God!’ he whispered, pale with fright. ‘A man who will protect me! My other staff do not care – not one has come to ask after my well-being. Poor Neve! How long will it be before the culprits realise their mistake and come back to kill me – their real target?’

  ‘You were not their intended victim, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking the staff might be more conscientious if the Earl did not treat them like dirt. ‘First, I doubt any assassin would expect you to be hanging paintings, and second, you look nothing like Neve. He is slender, while you…’

  The Earl regarded him frostily. ‘I am what?’

  ‘Usually wearing your robes of office,’ finished Chaloner tactfully. He began to ask his questions before he could get himself into trouble. ‘What did you see or hear?’

  ‘I heard a crack, but I assumed something had fallen down. It did not occur to me that someone would be discharging firearms in my home. I hurried out, to see whether anything had been damaged, and saw…’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Chaloner.

  ‘Neve, lying dead on the floor,’ finished the Earl in a whisper. ‘And blood all over the Bishop of Winchester. It is a pity, as I had only just bought that painting. The Bishop sold it to repay some of his debts, and I had intended to give it back to him one day, as a gift.’

  ‘You saw nothing of the killers?’

  ‘They had gone by the time I arrived. What do you think happened? Could Neve have promised his services to someone else, who was then vexed when I refused to release him?’

  ‘No, sir – Ne
ve did not have time to tell anyone about your decision. After the argument, he went straight to hang your new Lely, and he was in company with Kipps until he was shot.’

  ‘He had no business trying to end our contract,’ said the Earl, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘He is the finest upholder in the city, and Clarendon House deserves the best.’

  ‘It was my fault, sir,’ said Chaloner, supposing he could be open now that the truth could no longer hurt Neve. He outlined the dishonest arrangement the upholder had made with Baron, and the Earl listened in silence until he had finished.

  ‘You should have told me,’ he said accusingly. ‘Then I would have dismissed him, and he would not now be dead. No wonder he was so good at securing bargain prices – he traded with thieves! And to add insult to injury, the rogue arranged for me to be palmed off with curtains that were stolen from a brothel! My enemies will crucify me!’

  ‘They cannot, sir, not when they have been dealing with Baron themselves.’

  ‘You managed to persuade them?’ The Earl closed his eyes and breathed a heartfelt prayer of relief. ‘So you think it was Baron who killed Neve?’

  ‘It makes sense. Dead men cannot tell tales or stand witness in courts of law.’

  ‘Yet you sound uncertain,’ observed the Earl.

  ‘I am. Baron is a ruthless and very successful criminal, and I strongly suspect that he has killed to further his ambitions. Yet I cannot shake the conviction that this is what we are meant to believe. I have no evidence to support my doubts, just a feeling…’

  ‘Well, your feeling is wrong,’ stated the Earl. ‘It was me ending my association with him that sealed Neve’s fate. I know about these professional felons. They grow nasty when crossed.’

  ‘But Neve might have gone on to work for other wealthy households, whose masters are less scrupulous. And why be so brazen about it, when Neve could have been dispatched quietly and his body buried with no one the wiser? His murder by Baron makes no sense.’

  The Earl had no answer, so Chaloner took his leave and went to speak to the staff and servants, although it did not take him long to learn that no one had seen anything useful. Then he visited the Great Parlour, where the doors had been closed and a nervous guard stationed outside.

  ‘I ordered it shut off,’ said Brodrick, coming to talk to him again. ‘I am not sure why, but it seemed the right thing to do. Neve is still inside, and nothing has been touched.’

  Chaloner opened the door and went to examine the body. Neve lay where he had fallen, and the Bishop of Winchester would probably never be the same again. The wound in the upholder’s skull was identical to the ones in Coo and Fatherton, and Chaloner regarded it thoughtfully. It was unusual for gunmen to opt for headshots – most chose the body, on the grounds that pistols were notoriously inaccurate, and torsos provided a larger target. Moreover, Neve had been standing on a chair, which would have made such a shot even more difficult to take. So what did that tell him about the gunman? That he was confident of his weapon? That he was an experienced marksman?

  Brodrick had followed Chaloner inside and was standing by the window. The carpets were so thick that he had crossed the room without a sound, which told Chaloner how the killers had managed to come so close to their target without being detected – along with the fact that Kipps and Neve had been engrossed in a good gripe about their employer, and their voices had doubtless been loudly indignant.

  ‘Will you arrange for Neve to be carried to the Westminster Charnel House?’ he asked. ‘And see about hiring additional guards? I doubt the culprits will return, but we cannot be too careful.’

  Restless and uncertain, Chaloner returned to Cheapside, where he hid opposite Baron’s house, hoping to see some indication that the man had just ordered an audacious murder. He was not surprised when his vigil transpired to be fruitless. All he saw was the children bursting into tears when a horse similar to Caesar trotted past, and a vicious scowl from Baron that suggested Joan should probably watch herself.

  He stared at the King of Cheapside, then started in surprise when Baron suddenly looked into the shadows, straight at him. He knew for a fact that he could not be seen, yet it was clear that the felon knew he was there. Disconcerted – especially as something similar had happened at Silas’s soirée – he slipped away shortly afterwards, deciding to see what could be done about finding Randal instead.

  Cheapside was more uneasy than ever, with angry voices discussing Coo’s murder, the threatened invasion by the Dutch, the dishonesty of the bankers, and the rumour that old Parliamentarians were about to suffer heavier taxes. Backwell’s handsome coach and four hurtled past, travelling quickly in an attempt to avoid some of the mud and stones that were lobbed at it. The financier’s anxious face could be glimpsed within, and Chaloner thought him a fool for flaunting his wealth when it would have been safer to travel incognito in a hackney carriage.

  ‘I hate that man,’ Chaloner heard a grocer growl. ‘He is a leech, bloating himself with riches on the backs of the poor. He should never have sold my debt to Taylor.’

  ‘No,’ agreed a crony. ‘Last year, I deposited fifty guineas in his vault – it seemed safer than hiding them under my bed. Then I heard that all goldsmiths are thieves, so I went to get them back, but do you know what he told me? That I could not have them until next week at the earliest. He refused to give me my money!’

  Further on, there were angry crowds outside Everard’s home, which was being closed up with the plague. However, Chaloner saw a distinctive purple nose poking from under one hat, and watched the ex-banker slink away with a bundle tossed over one shoulder, doubtless aiming for the refuge offered by his mother in the country. An elderly couple leaned cheerfully out of an upstairs window, calling out that they were ready for the parish provisions now; Chaloner could only surmise that Everard had bribed the searcher to give a verdict of plague in order to secure faithful old retainers forty days of free food. A few doors down, the same thing was happening to Widow Porteous, but she was far from pleased.

  ‘It is a sweating fever,’ she howled. Perspiration shone on her face. ‘Not the pestilence.’

  ‘You are being punished because of Wheler,’ shouted Brewer Farrow, who always seemed to be to hand whenever there was trouble. ‘Those greedy bankers think a debtor killed him, and this is their revenge. They aim to destroy us house by house.’

  Chaloner continued to Bread Street, only to find it blocked by an enormous bonfire, which burned so wildly that the street had been closed in the interests of public safety. Reluctantly, he saw he would have to leave Randal until he could visit without fear of being incinerated.

  The bell in St Mary le Bow began to toll as he returned to Cheapside, and a dreary procession made its way through the cemetery in the gathering gloom of dusk. The mourners wore scarves over their faces, and the coffin was interred with unseemly speed, the sexton shovelling soil into the hole long before the vicar had finished his prayers.

  ‘That was Banker Vyner’s gardener,’ whispered a tallow-maker. ‘But look at his house! Is he shut inside it, like the Oxleys? No! He is allowed a verdict of falling sickness, and goes about his business unfettered.’

  Chaloner glanced across the road to the Oxley house, where the watcher was allowing Shaw to load food into a basket. No one was waiting at the window to haul it up though, and he wondered if everyone inside was already dead. Lettice was watching from the door of her shop.

  ‘Oxley keeps asking for ale,’ she remarked when Chaloner approached. ‘No matter how much we supply, he still wants more. He will ruin us before the forty days are over.’ She giggled, but it was a nervous sound, devoid of amusement.

  ‘Perhaps fever gives him a thirst,’ suggested Chaloner.

  ‘Perhaps, but they are robust folk, and if any family can survive, it is them. We have sent up some of Dr Misick’s Plague Elixir, which is excellent stuff and will soon put them right.’

  Eventually, Chaloner turned for home. The last snippet of conversation
he heard before he left Cheapside was between two beggars huddled in the porch of St Michael’s Church.

  ‘…will be settled on Tuesday,’ one was saying with savage delight. ‘Because blood will flow more thickly than in all the wars put together, and London will never be the same again.’

  Chaloner arrived at Tothill Street to find his house completely empty, ready for the new tenants. Gram was in the kitchen, looking disconsolate, although he brightened when Chaloner walked in. They shared an apple and a salted herring, which was all that was left in the pantry.

  ‘If you could learn who killed Wheler and Coo, Cheapside would be an easier place,’ Gram declared, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, although Chaloner was still hungry. ‘It is suspicion and rumour that are causing all the trouble. Have you tried asking Joan whether she stabbed her first husband? She is certainly a woman to kill, and Wheler was no great shakes as a lover.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Gram made a dismissive sound. ‘Everyone knows – it is common knowledge. Still, I am told she was fond of him, so perhaps you should leave her be.’

  ‘What else have you been told?’ Chaloner was desperate enough for answers that he was willing to listen to any old rubbish.

  Gram shrugged. ‘Nothing you will not have already heard – the bankers could be ousted from Goldsmiths’ Row on Tuesday, because the poor do not like them. Which will please Baron, of course, as it will make him more powerful – word is that his authority is slipping, so he will want to regain it any way he can.’

  ‘How will they be ousted?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Exactly?’

  ‘No one knows, but everyone is looking forward to it, so I imagine it will be spectacular. Of course, there are those who think it is Baron who will suffer on Tuesday, leaving the bankers stronger and richer. Or perhaps it has nothing to do with any of them, and we shall see King Jesus installed in White Hall instead. It is high time He came to finish what He started.’