The Cheapside Corpse

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner doubted Taylor would pay much attention to Randal’s opinions. He shoved the gun in his pocket, sheathed his sword – he did not need either for Randal – and changed the subject, although he intended to return to the dag and its giver later.

  ‘We did not finish the conversation we started in the brothel,’ he began. ‘You—’

  ‘What brothel?’ interrupted Polly angrily.

  ‘It is not a brothel,’ replied Randal irritably. ‘It is a gentlemen’s club – a respectable place, where men go to smoke and read newsbooks. Ignore him, Poll. He does not want me to publish my next book, and aims to stop me by causing trouble in my personal life.’

  ‘I will stop you,’ vowed Chaloner. ‘For your own good as much as London’s.’

  ‘You mean for the good of the people I shall denounce,’ jeered Randal. ‘Well, they deserve it. I could have been master of my trade by now, but Starkey and Mrs Cromwell ruined me.’

  Chaloner sneezed a fourth time. Exasperated, he emptied a jug of water on to the brazier to put an end to its nasty reek. It hissed and sizzled, and Polly screeched her outrage.

  ‘That is to prevent the plague! Do you want us to catch it?’

  ‘He is a Parliamentarian so he probably does,’ said Randal sulkily. ‘Like all those who object to The Court & Kitchin, he considers himself Mrs Cromwell’s champion.’

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ said Chaloner tartly. ‘Because she is not corrupt or miserly, she never stole heirlooms from White Hall, and she certainly did not keep cows in St James’s Park for making butter. Everything you wrote was a lie.’

  ‘It serves her right,’ said Randal, unrepentant. ‘She and Starkey should not have told everyone that I cannot cook.’

  ‘She left White Hall five years ago.’ Chaloner went to open a window, because the stench from the wet brazier was worse than when it had been dry. ‘Why wait until now to make a fuss?’

  Randal shrugged. ‘I needed to get my grievances into the open, to stop them gnawing away at me. It worked – I am much happier now.’

  ‘You are,’ agreed Polly. ‘And best of all, neither Starkey nor Mrs Cromwell know why Randal Taylor should have taken against him. They still think you are John Smith.’

  ‘Get dressed,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking that Williamson could decide what was to be done with the petty Randal. He himself had more important matters to attend.

  ‘No,’ said Randal, folding his arms. ‘You aim to take me to my wife and tell her about Poll. Well, I am not going and you cannot make me.’

  Chaloner was sure he could.

  ‘Your what?’ demanded Polly.

  ‘His wife,’ supplied Chaloner, as Randal blanched at the inadvertent slip. ‘Surely you knew? They were married a few weeks ago.’

  Polly gaped at her lover. ‘You bastard! You told me that once the sales of your book had made you rich, you would make me your lawful wedded spouse.’

  Randal grabbed the hand that was flying forward to slap him. ‘I will, Poll, I swear! I want you, not Joan. Just say the word, and we shall run away to Dorking together.’

  ‘Dorking?’ squeaked Polly, appalled. ‘I do not want to go to Dorking! I want to stay here and be part of your family – to attend goldsmiths’ feasts and be presented at Court masques. Like you promised.’

  ‘You will,’ Randal assured her. ‘I will escape the contract, never fear.’

  Chaloner drew breath to tell him again to dress, but the smoke was still irritating his nose, and he sneezed yet again. Unfortunately, it meant that he did not hear the person creeping up behind him, and by the time he did, it was too late. He whipped around to find himself facing a gun – the partner of the one that was in his pocket.

  Chapter 13

  Chaloner reacted instinctively when he saw the weapon. He lashed out with his fist, and although it did not connect, it was enough to spoil the gunman’s aim. The dag went off with a crack that made his ears ring, but the bullet missed him. The attacker hissed his annoyance and Polly began to scream. A second assailant was on the heels of the first, pulling a knife from his belt. Both wore plague masks to conceal their faces.

  The gunman hauled out a second pistol, older and less elegant than the first. Chaloner grabbed it and tried to wrest it away, but the accomplice began jabbing at him with the dagger. Using every ounce of his strength, Chaloner twisted the gunman around and used him as a shield. The gunman released a howl of pain as his friend’s blade struck home, and the dag went off, showering all three with plaster from the ceiling.

  Polly’s screeches intensified, and there was a blur of movement as she hurtled forward to leap on to the gunman’s back, where she battered his head with her fists. Leaving her to it, Chaloner whipped around to deal with the accomplice, only to find the fellow preparing to lob his dagger. At such close range, he could not miss, but a third shot rang out and he crumpled. Polly howled again as the gunman prised her off himself and flung her at Chaloner before racing away down the stairs. His hammering footsteps were punctuated by the bang of a fourth firearm discharging, followed by the sound of the front door being slammed shut.

  By the time Chaloner had disentangled himself from Polly, the knifeman was dead, the gunman had escaped, and Swaddell was standing in the doorway holding two smoking pistols.

  ‘I dislike firearms,’ the assassin said, blowing on the weapons and stowing them in his belt. His sour mood had lifted, and Chaloner wondered if the act of killing had restored his equanimity. ‘They make too much noise. However, they did alert me to the fact that you were in trouble, so I was able to speed to your rescue. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to help him.’

  Chaloner glanced to where he pointed, and saw what had put Polly in such a frenzy. Randal lay on the bed amid a spreading stain of red; his eyes were open and already beginning to glaze. Chaloner sagged, thinking of all the information that had died with him.

  But it was no time to assess what could have been done differently. He knelt by the knifeman and pulled off his mask. The face beneath was unfamiliar, and he knew he had never seen it before. He raised questioning eyes to Swaddell, who shook his head.

  ‘I tried to lay hold of the gunman,’ the assassin said, ‘but the mask he wore … well, it unsettled me, to be frank. It spoiled my aim, and I failed to wing him as he fled past.’

  ‘You only tried to wing him?’ asked Chaloner, whose experience with the assassin had taught him that Swaddell preferred such encounters to be fatal ones.

  ‘He would have been no use to us dead.’ Swaddell’s expression hardened. ‘However, none of this would have happened if you had waited for me, as we agreed.’

  He had a point, and Chaloner acknowledged it with an apologetic nod. ‘I am not sure if he and his friend came to protect or kill Randal. Regardless, the bullet intended for me hit him.’

  ‘It did – so it is your fault he is dead,’ snapped Polly. Her hair was in disarray, and angry tears had made a mess of her face-paints.

  Chaloner ignored the accusation. ‘Do you recognise him?’ he asked her, beginning to search the knifeman’s clothes for something that might reveal his identity.

  ‘I have never seen him before in my life.’ Polly glowered furiously. ‘Now what will become of me? Randal was my future – I was going to be rich.’

  ‘True love then, was it?’ asked Swaddell acidly, then cocked his head at a rising clamour of voices in the street. ‘We should go, Chaloner. People are coming to investigate, and we are too busy for lengthy explanations. Williamson will extricate us, but it will take time and we have more important matters to attend.’

  ‘Williamson?’ gulped Polly. ‘The Spymaster? God help me! I shall never find a replacement for Randal if men think I entertain his creatures in my house! Get out before anyone sees—’

  ‘Who gave Randal the gun?’ Chaloner cut across her urgently.

  Polly folded her arms defiantly. ‘I will never help agents of Spymaster Williamson. It would be like colluding with Satan. Now leave.’

&
nbsp; ‘Answer the question,’ ordered Swaddell with icy menace. ‘Or I shall tell everyone that you are one of his most valuable spies.’

  Polly regarded him in dismay. ‘But that would be a lie! And how would I make a living again afterwards? I should starve!’

  ‘Then tell us what we want to know.’ Swaddell moved towards the stairs and glanced down them. ‘It would be inconvenient for us to be caught here, but that will be nothing compared to the trouble I shall cause you if you refuse to cooperate.’

  ‘Randal was very drunk at Silas’s party, and came home with no idea who gave him what.’ Polly’s voice was high with tension. ‘He barely recalled being there, in fact. Now go.’

  Chaloner pulled the weapon from his pocket, and a brief examination revealed that it was unloaded, so would have been scant use to Randal anyway.

  ‘That gun?’ blurted Swaddell. ‘Randal murdered Coo?’

  He glared at Randal’s body, and Chaloner was sure that had there been a spark of life in it, Swaddell would have stamped it out. Clearly, the assassin had been telling the truth when he had expressed a desire to see the saintly physician’s killer caught.

  ‘Coo?’ gulped Polly, shocked. ‘What black business is this?’

  There was no time to explain, and the shouting in the street was growing louder. People would be in the house soon, clamouring to know what was happening.

  ‘Where is Randal’s next book?’ demanded Chaloner.

  Polly went to a drawer and pulled out a ream of paper. ‘Another copy is already with a printer, although I do not know which one. However, I can tell you that the first editions will go on sale tomorrow. Now please leave before—’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Chaloner glanced at Swaddell. ‘That is Tuesday.’

  Someone began to pound on the front door.

  ‘Randal said it was timed to coincide with something important.’ Polly spoke in a gabble as the hammering grew more insistent. ‘But he did not know what. Now go, for God’s sake!’

  There was a crash from downstairs as the door was kicked open. Chaloner shoved Randal’s book in his coat and hurried to the window, which overlooked a dismal yard. A quick glance revealed a series of conveniently placed sills – a burglar’s dream – so he scrambled out and started to climb down them. Swaddell regarded him askance, unused to making undignified exits.

  ‘Are you coming?’ asked Chaloner.

  Swaddell grimaced his distaste as he prepared to follow, then shot Polly a dangerous look when she tried to hurry him up by shoving at his back. She shrank away in alarm.

  The ledges were slick with slime and the descent was not easy, although Chaloner swarmed down with an agility born of long experience. Swaddell climbed more cautiously, spider-like with his skittering movements and black-clad limbs. They reached the yard, opened the gate and made their way to the bustle of Cheapside, where they disappeared into the crowds.

  The gunshots had done nothing to ease the tense atmosphere, and rumours were rife as to what had caused them – watchers shooting people escaping plague houses, a banker dispatching a hapless debtor, Coo’s killer striking again.

  ‘You should have waited for me before tackling Randal,’ said Swaddell accusingly, giving vent to his annoyance once they were alone. ‘You have made matters worse.’

  Chaloner knew it and was sorry. ‘You must have a list of city printers. Send soldiers to each one and seize Randal’s book before it can be distributed.’

  ‘And what if he has hired an underground press? Which is likely, because I cannot see a respectable one obliging him after what happened to Milbourn.’

  ‘Then I imagine you have a list of those, too.’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that Thurloe certainly would have done.

  Swaddell shot him a sour glance. ‘We do not have the resources to track them all down at such short notice. However, if you had stuck to the plan we agreed, Randal would be alive to answer our questions.’

  Chaloner started to explain what had happened, but it sounded lame to his own ears, so he did not insult Swaddell by finishing. The assassin stalked to a nearby coffee house, where he demanded pen and paper. The owner produced them with alacrity, unsettled by the malevolent glare. Chaloner leaned over Swaddell’s shoulder, and watched him jot a short message in cipher.

  ‘Is that to Williamson? What are you telling him?’

  Swaddell made an irritable sound and switched to English, although he made no attempt to translate what had already been written. He scrawled a brief outline of their discoveries, then listed his conclusions, chief among which was that they now had enough evidence to arrest Baron.

  ‘Trulocke’s testimony proves that Baron owns the murder weapons,’ he said when Chaloner started to argue. ‘And yours proves that he used them to kill Coo, Neve, Randal and Fatherton.’

  ‘It does not! Whoever shot Coo was smaller than Baron. So was the gunman in Randal’s—’

  ‘He sends minions to do his dirty work,’ interrupted Swaddell irritably. ‘Which is why we do not recognise the one I dispatched.’

  ‘Then how did Randal come to have this dag? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Of course it does. It was a gift from an “admirer” – Baron, who has encouraged Randal in his deluded scribbling for one purpose only: to foment unrest.’

  ‘Why would Baron do that? He has nothing to gain from his domain exploding.’

  ‘We shall ask him when he is in our cells. Hopefully, the situation here will ease once he is under lock and key. And arresting Coo’s killer will certainly calm turbulent waters.’

  ‘Or stir them up, if Baron transpires to be innocent.’

  Swaddell made a dismissive gesture. ‘He is not innocent and you know it. But his reign of terror is almost over, thank God.’

  He took the gun and Randal’s manuscript, wrapped them in a cloth, then went outside, where he snagged a passing soldier and ordered him to deliver them to the Spymaster with all possible haste. Then he leaned towards the man and whispered something Chaloner did not catch, accompanied by a clink as coins changed hands. The man grinned his delight and set off at a run.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Chaloner, wishing he was not saddled with such a moody and unpredictable partner.

  ‘We wait for orders.’ Swaddell favoured him with a wry glance. ‘Preferably without doing anything else to aggravate the situation.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chaloner stiffly, although he hated the notion of inactivity while the Spymaster decided what should be done.

  ‘We shall continue to monitor the situation, of course – see what can be learned by watching and listening.’

  Suspecting it would not take much for Swaddell’s temper to erupt again, Chaloner maintained a wary silence as they walked along Cheapside, feeling the less said the better. Then the assassin nodded to where Taylor’s coach was rattling past, although the banker was not in it.

  ‘With luck, the Goldsmiths’ Company will elect a new Master soon. Taylor is patently unsuited to the task – he refused to listen to government advice even when he was sane. Evan would be my choice of successor. He is much more malleable.’

  ‘Evan could never manage such a post.’ Chaloner was surprised that Swaddell should think he might. ‘Backwell says London needs a strong Master at the moment and Evan is weak.’

  ‘Silas, then,’ shrugged Swaddell. ‘He is energetic and decisive, and Taylor is a fool for favouring Evan over him. Still, Silas is one step closer to the family throne now that Randal is dead.’

  Chaloner felt a cold tendril of unease course through his innards. Swaddell was right, of course, and Silas had always been ambitious – and bitter that he had been packed off to the wars while his older siblings had been allowed to stay safely at home. Was it possible that Silas had arranged for Randal to be visited by masked gunmen? He shook himself impatiently – Silas was no fratricide.

  As they passed the White Goat Inn, a number of bankers emerged from a meeting – the Taylor coach was one of several that had come to transport
them home. Liveried guards hurried forward to form a protective cordon around them, shielding them from the immediate hostile attentions of passers-by. The goldsmiths ignored the anger and resentment they attracted, and continued to chat.

  ‘Fools,’ muttered Swaddell. ‘Flaunting themselves is asking for trouble.’

  ‘It is Joan,’ said Chaloner, glimpsing her mean little face in the financiers’ midst. ‘If she stopped talking, the rest would leave.’

  ‘She must be very knowledgeable to keep them hanging on her every word,’ remarked Swaddell. ‘I am told that even Taylor regards her as a fiscal oracle.’

  ‘Then he has missed out on her wisdom today, because he does not seem to be here.’

  ‘By all accounts, he regrets his decision to wed her to Randal,’ Swaddell went on, ‘and wishes he had taken her for himself. Perhaps he decided to rectify the matter, and hired assassins to bring it about. Lord knows, he is mad enough to think he could get away with it.’

  But Chaloner had already considered this possibility and discounted it. ‘Even insane, I do not think he would harm his own son. Besides, he already has Joan at his side for financial consultations, which is all he really wants.’

  Swaddell did not reply, and only watched the goldsmiths with silent disapproval.

  At that moment, a groom appeared, holding the reins of Caesar. The horse stood docilely while they waited for Joan to finish pontificating, but suddenly its head went up, its ears pricked forward and it began to toss its head, so that the groom was hard-pressed to control it. The cause soon became clear: it had spotted Baron, who was walking along the other side of the road. It jerked forward in an effort to reach him, and Joan released a cry as she was knocked from her feet.

  There was a brief kerfuffle, after which Caesar was whisked away and Joan was helped into her carriage by solicitous colleagues. Chaloner wondered how long the horse would survive the mishap, and Baron obviously did, too, as his face was a mask of open dismay.