The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner slept rolled in his coat that night, with a boot for a pillow, just as he had when he had been on campaign with the New Model Army. He dozed off immediately, and when he woke the following morning, he felt better rested and fitter than he had done in days. He was still hoarse, and there was the occasional cough and sneeze, but his head was clear and he could breathe. The cold was on its way out at last.

  He had arranged to meet Swaddell at the Turk’s Head Coffee House on Chancery Lane at eight o’clock, so he walked there briskly. The streets had been washed again, and smelled of damp earth and diluted manure, with the occasional sweeter waft of spring blossom from the open countryside to the west.

  He reached the Turk’s Head, paid for a brew with his last token, and sat alone at a table, earning disapproving glances from the other patrons who had hoped a stranger would provide them with new and interesting gossip. He ignored them, and studied his surroundings covertly, wondering what could be learned about Swaddell from the place, given that the assassin claimed it as his regular haunt.

  It was much like any other such establishment – a single room with smoke-stained walls, seats polished from constant use, and an acrid fug. As it was near the handsome mansions in Hatton Garden, it was full of people with loud views and good opinions of themselves. Will Chiffinch was there, relaxing after a heavy night of entertainment with His Majesty. In his self-important bray, he informed his fellow imbibers that all goldsmiths should be rounded up and thrown off London Bridge for the trouble they were causing at Court. The reason for his vitriol soon became apparent: Taylor had confiscated a fine brooch in lieu of payment on his debt.

  ‘And he took my jewelled scent bottle on Friday,’ he whined. ‘I shall have nothing left if he persists. Damn him to hell!’

  He was not the only one with complaints. Sir George Carteret was there, too, and related the tale of how he had been stripped of his buttons, valued at forty shillings each, in broad daylight on the Strand. The grumbles lasted until Chiffinch changed the subject to the plague, at which point there was a general consensus that the disease would never infect anyone of quality, but would confine itself to paupers.

  It was unpleasant talk, and Chaloner flicked through The Intelligencer, hot off the presses that morning, so he would not have to listen to it. When he had finished and Swaddell had still not arrived, he borrowed pen and paper, and sketched all he could remember about the gun that had killed Coo.

  ‘You are good at that,’ remarked Swaddell, making him jump by speaking close behind him. The assassin had a very stealthy tread, because not many could sneak up behind Chaloner undetected, especially now his ears were functioning normally. ‘It must be a useful talent. In counterfeiting, for example.’

  ‘I would not know,’ replied Chaloner, not about to admit to that sort of skill. ‘However, if I lose my post with the Earl, I could always become an artist.’

  It was meant as a joke, but Swaddell nodded earnestly, and Chaloner supposed he did not have a sense of humour. It was something to bear in mind, lest flip comments were reported as facts to the Spymaster.

  ‘It is always good to have another career option,’ the assassin said gravely. ‘If ever I decide to abandon my own line of work, I shall become a perukier.’

  Chaloner regarded him uncertainly. ‘Really?’

  ‘I have never made a wig, but how hard can it be? And everyone is wearing them these days, so it must be a very lucrative trade.’ Swaddell nodded towards the drawing. ‘Is this the weapon that killed Coo?’

  ‘And Neve and Fatherton. Probably.’

  ‘Then let us visit the gunsmiths and see if they know who owns it.’

  It was a pretty morning, and Chaloner might have enjoyed the walk to St Martin’s Lane had he not been in company with a dangerous assassin. The sun shone gently, birds sang and an early butterfly danced across the long, waving grass in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Then they reached Long Acre, which was being fumigated by two enormous bonfires that belched out choking white smoke, and all signs of spring were obliterated. With a pang, Chaloner noticed that two more houses had red crosses on their doors, including the one in which he had recently rented rooms. His heart went out to Landlord Lamb.

  ‘It is not plague,’ said an old woman, seeing him looking at it. ‘It is dropsy. Unfortunately, Mr Lamb’s lodgers left, which means he does not have enough money to bribe the searchers.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chaloner guiltily.

  ‘But perhaps he will be freed early,’ she went on. ‘Cheapside folk are talking about storming their shut-up houses and letting the inmates out. If it works, we might do the same here.’

  ‘That would be reckless,’ said Swaddell in alarm. ‘The disease will spread for certain, and hundreds may die. Thousands, even.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ declared the woman. ‘These measures are just an excuse for the government to stamp on the poor. The idea probably came from the bankers, who resent us because we see them for what they are: greedy, unscrupulous scoundrels!’

  Troubled, Chaloner and Swaddell walked to the end of Long Acre and turned down St Martin’s Lane, where the premises of William, George and Edmund Trulocke, gunsmiths, was a seedy affair about halfway along. It was guarded by a fierce dog, which repelled all but the most determined patrons. But Chaloner had bribed it with bones in the past, and it remembered; it wagged its tail and licked his hand, allowing him and Swaddell to enter unmolested.

  Inside, the shop smelled of hot metal and gunpowder, and displays of muskets and pistols adorned the walls, all secured with chains to prevent pilfering. It was full of shady customers, most of whom took care to keep their faces concealed, and who were almost certainly not the kind of people who should be in possession of firearms.

  ‘Mr Swaddell,’ said the largest of the Trulocke brothers. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised that the assassin was known to men who sold weapons. Swaddell was doubtless a regular and much-valued client.

  ‘Tell me who owns this gun.’ Swaddell handed him Chaloner’s drawing.

  ‘James Baron,’ replied Trulocke promptly. ‘We made him a pair of them about a year ago.’

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ said Chaloner, following Swaddell outside, and stunned by the speed with which they had gained their answer. He was used to prising information from the Trulockes piece by piece, using money or force. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Swaddell. ‘He knows the consequences of lying to me, because he has done it before. His information will be accurate, you can be sure of that.’ He shot Chaloner an admonishing glance. ‘We should have followed this lead sooner – we could have had Baron in our cells days ago.’

  Yet doubt niggled at the back of Chaloner’s mind. ‘I cannot escape the sense that someone is manipulating us, pushing us to draw these conclusions. Coo’s killer waggled the gun at me, and Neve’s killer did the same to Kipps, as if they wanted the weapon identified.’

  ‘Well, I am happy with the solution, and Williamson will be, too. Once Baron is arrested and his operation crushed, you and I can concentrate on tomorrow’s mischief.’

  At that moment, a contingent of soldiers trotted past, wearing the distinctive buff jerkins and stripy sleeves of Williamson’s troops. Their captain saw Swaddell and hurried over.

  ‘We are summoned to King Street,’ he panted. ‘Randal Taylor made a speech to a lot of appreciative courtiers. Unfortunately, his words annoyed the local traders, who have Parliamentarian leanings, and the two sides are squaring up for a brawl. Williamson wants it stopped before the trouble spreads.’

  ‘We had better come with you and arrest the villain,’ said Swaddell. ‘Damn him! Why choose now to make a nuisance of himself?’

  ‘I doubt he will be there now,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘He is not the sort to linger when danger threatens. We should look for him in Bread Street, where he keeps his mistress.’

  Swaddell glared at him, and the captain promptly slunk away to r
ejoin his unit, unwilling to remain while the assassin looked so deadly.

  ‘And when were you going to share this information with me?’ demanded Swaddell, acid in his voice. ‘Christ God, Chaloner! We are supposed to be working together. How many more vital facts will you keep to yourself? Anyone would think you do not trust me.’

  He turned away before Chaloner could respond and flagged down a hackney by leaping in front of it; Chaloner had no idea how the driver managed to miss him. Seething, Swindell ripped open the door.

  ‘Government business,’ he hissed with such icy menace that the passenger within could not relinquish his ride fast enough.

  He climbed in, gesturing for Chaloner to follow. The hackneyman sensed it would be wise to obey the order for speed, and set off at a tremendous pace, Chaloner clinging on grimly as he was flung from side to side. Swaddell scowled out of the window, and Chaloner, not sure how to make amends, did not try. They made the journey in a tense silence.

  They alighted in Cheapside, and Chaloner was about to lead the way down Bread Street when he happened to glance towards the music shop. There was a red cross on its door and a watcher stationed outside.

  All that remained of the great bonfire that had caused such concern the day before was a great pile of charred logs and a lot of ash; other than these, the road had returned to normal. While Swaddell began to question passers-by about Randal’s lady, Chaloner went to the music shop. The watcher tensed and fingered his musket, so Chaloner raised his hands to show that he was not about to do anything rash.

  ‘The wages of kindness,’ the watcher whispered, patently glad to talk to someone who had not come to rail at him. He nodded to the Oxley house next door. ‘She went to tend the youngster in there, as his parents were dead and he was frightened. She nursed him through his last hours.’

  ‘They have all gone, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Oxley, Emma and the boy?’

  The man nodded. ‘The girl, too. Me and the other watchers think she died of the sickness last night, and was buried secretly by family friends. And it really was the plague. No one can claim it was spotted fever, dropsy or drunkenness this time, as they do not carry off entire households in a day.’

  Absently, Chaloner reached out to touch the cross on the Shaws’ door. It was brighter than the others, perhaps because it was new. Or maybe it just seemed that way because the victims were people he knew. Then the window above it opened and Lettice leaned out. Shaw was behind her, his face even more gloomy than usual – and with good reason.

  ‘Robin thinks me a fool,’ she said with a hollow laugh. ‘But the lad was afraid, and I could not leave him to die alone. It would not have been right.’

  ‘I shall be on my way, then,’ said the watcher, squinting up at them. ‘My colleague down the road is having trouble and he needs help.’

  He hurried away, leaving Chaloner staring after him in astonishment.

  ‘We are responsible people,’ explained Shaw bitterly. ‘We can be trusted not to make a bid for escape, unlike the other folk who have been shut away.’

  ‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’ asked Chaloner. He would have to steal it if there were, as he had no money to make purchases.

  ‘No,’ replied Shaw, a little ungraciously. ‘Misick has left us a flask of his Plague Elixir, which he says will keep us healthy.’

  ‘He put extra alum in it,’ added Lettice. ‘I wonder if it came from your family’s mines. I should like to think so, because it would be a good omen.’

  ‘Those who owe us money will be pleased when they hear of our predicament,’ said Shaw, while Chaloner decided to overlook Lettice’s peculiar obsession with the mineral in the interests of compassion. ‘They will not have to pay us if we die.’

  On that note, he withdrew and Lettice followed. Chaloner hurried back to Bread Street, where Swaddell was having no luck locating Randal’s woman. The assassin was angry, his restless black eyes burning with bad temper. As he was usually in icy control of his emotions, this was an unsettling development.

  ‘What is wrong?’ asked Chaloner warily, wondering if he was the sole cause of Swaddell’s ire, or whether someone else had done something to annoy him.

  Swaddell shot him a sour look and began to list his gripes on long, bony fingers. ‘We are at war; the plague is spreading because people are too stupid to accept our measures; Baron’s murder of Coo has outraged all Cheapside—’

  ‘Baron’s possible murder of Coo,’ cautioned Chaloner. ‘Yet I feel—’

  ‘—the banks have generated so much ill feeling that they threaten the stability of the whole country; something terrible will happen tomorrow; Randal is stoking bad feeling between Royalists and Parliamentarians; and you withhold vital information. That is what is wrong.’

  ‘It did not seem important to—’ began Chaloner defensively.

  ‘We took a vow,’ hissed Swaddell, and something very nasty flared in his eyes. ‘We are partners. We do not deceive each other.’

  ‘I did not deceive you,’ hedged Chaloner, hoping to heal the rift before Swaddell decided to renounce their pact. ‘It was—’

  ‘You take the east side of the road, and I will cover the west. Call me if you find her.’

  Swaddell stalked away, colliding with a baker as he went, causing the man to scatter his wares all over the road. The man drew breath to remonstrate, but Swaddell whipped around with a glare of such malice that the words died in his throat. Swaddell strode on, and the baker quickly bent to gather up what he had dropped, evidently of the opinion that a little manure and ash never hurt anyone, before racing away as fast as his legs would carry him.

  As knocking on doors and asking if Randal’s mistress lived there seemed a poor strategy, Chaloner went to the lane that ran along the back of the road, and began to climb over garden walls, to see what could be learned from peering through windows.

  Toys strewn around the first three suggested they belonged to families with children, and he doubted Randal’s lady would have brats in tow, but the fourth was more promising. Discarded clothes lay on the floor, including petticoats and breeches. Had Randal received a passionate welcome after his rabble-rousing speech in King Street? Chaloner opened a window and climbed through: if Randal was within, he would fetch Swaddell and they would confront him together.

  He found himself in a pantry that screamed of slovenly living. Vegetable parings sat in a festering pile on the table, and what was in the pot suspended over the ashes in the hearth did not look as though it had been very appetising before it had gone mouldy. The place reeked of decaying cheese, old fat and dirt. Then he heard voices.

  They were coming from the floor above, so he aimed for the stairs, treading carefully so as not to make them creak. A shriek had him freezing in alarm, but it was followed by laughter, so he resumed his journey. He reached a bedroom, and peered around the door to see Randal and a woman lying in bed together.

  The mistress could not have been more different from the wife – she was pretty, even slathered in cheap face-paints, and everything about her was sensual, brash and a little indecent.

  Something pungent was burning in a brazier, so a smoky haze hung inside the room, accentuating its general air of seaminess. Unfortunately, the fumes irritated Chaloner’s still-sensitive nose. He backed away, trying to stifle the irritating tickle, but it was no use. He sneezed.

  The couple started in alarm, while he cursed under his breath. There was no time to fetch Swaddell now – he would have to tackle Randal alone. He flung open the door and strode in, sword in his hand. The woman screamed, hauling the bedclothes to her throat as if she imagined they might protect her. Randal dived for the gun that lay on the bedside table, but Chaloner reached it first. He grabbed it, then stared in shock. It had an ivory butt and an engraved barrel.

  ‘Oh, it is you,’ said Randal. He lay back and put his arms behind his head to show he was unconcerned. ‘You will not shoot me. Our mutual friend would not approve.’

  ‘Temperance?’ Ch
aloner sneezed again. ‘She will never find out.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she will,’ countered Randal. ‘And she will be livid. She likes me because I pay my bills on time, unlike most of her customers. Now go away. You do not frighten me.’

  Chaloner supposed a sneezing invader was more ridiculous than intimidating. ‘I will go as soon as you have answered some questions. Where is the second gun?’

  ‘What second gun?’ asked Randal warily.

  Chaloner waved the weapon. ‘This is one of a pair. Where is the other?’

  ‘I have only ever had the one. It was a gift, but do not ask me who from, as I cannot recall.’ Randal settled himself more comfortably. ‘A great many people shower me with presents for writing The Court & Kitchin, and they tend to blend together in my mind.’

  ‘Then do you remember when you were given it?’

  Randal gazed at the ceiling as he pondered. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘Last week! I went to a grand reception hosted by my brother Silas, and when I got home, that gun was one of several trinkets in my pockets. I imagine its giver made some pretty speech about what a fine token it is – they all do – but I was drunk and I cannot bring it to mind now.’

  ‘When was this party exactly?’ Chaloner sneezed a third time, wondering what foul concoction was being incinerated in the brazier.

  ‘Sunday perhaps. Or Monday.’

  ‘Dr Coo was murdered on Monday – with this gun or its partner. Am I to assume that you did it? And that you killed Neve in Clarendon House yesterday?’

  Randal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I have not killed anyone! Tell him, Polly.’

  The woman nodded. ‘He rarely leaves my side, and he was here all day yesterday.’

  Chaloner looked at the weak-chinned, dissipated character in the dirty bed, and was inclined to suspect that Randal would be incapable of committing two bold murders in broad daylight.

  ‘Was James Baron at this soirée?’ he asked, struggling not to sneeze again.

  Randal blinked. ‘No, of course not! Silas’s guests were merchants and courtiers. And bankers, of course. He knows lots of those, and they are always trying to curry favour with me in the hope that I will praise them to my father.’