‘No!’ begged Chaloner. ‘You cannot—’
‘And when the bankers are dead or ruined, we shall rise from the ashes,’ finished Shaw. ‘We shall begin to reclaim our fortune with the Chaloner alum mines.’
‘Our alum mines now,’ corrected Lettice, smiling triumphantly at the spy. ‘Mr Howard forged a will in your name before the plague took him, one that leaves your interest in them to us, in lieu of Hannah’s debt.’
‘Then you will remain destitute,’ warned Chaloner, ‘because I do not—’
‘Do not lie,’ said Shaw coldly. ‘We had the truth from Hannah and your uncle, and we believe them over you.’
‘The soul of London!’ sang Taylor suddenly, lurching to his feet. ‘Pretty, bright things.’
‘Open the box!’ called Lettice, her voice full of malice. ‘Bring out your worms, and give some to Mr Chaloner. Do you remember him? His wife owes you a fortune, but he aims to cheat you of it.’
Taylor walked towards Chaloner, who tried to back away, but Lettice made a sharp sound with her tongue, warning him to stay put. The mad banker came closer, and Chaloner watched in horror as he began to lift the lid. He flinched as the goldsmith held it out for him to see.
‘Pretty, bright things,’ Taylor chanted again. ‘The soul of London.’
The box contained nothing but treasure.
Chaloner stared into Taylor’s box, while Lettice’s mocking laughter echoed around him. There was Bab May’s hatpin, Brodrick’s watch, Chiffinch’s scent bottle, Carteret’s buttons and Hannah’s pearls. He rubbed his head tiredly. Of course it contained jewels – Joan had been angry with Misick for letting Taylor wander off before she had had the chance to raid it. He tore his eyes away from the gaudy glitter and glanced upwards.
‘There is no plague in it,’ said Shaw scornfully. ‘How could there be? The theory about worms is a nonsense – it is carried in a miasma. But Taylor will take the disease into the city today – on his person.’
‘But he may not have it. You should know – it was you who encouraged Misick to dose him with a deadly mixture of medicines. That is what ails him, not the pestilence.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lettice. ‘But you are beginning to annoy me. It is time to end this pointless chatter and be about our real business.’
She took aim and fired, but the gun flashed in the pan, causing her to jerk back with a squeak of surprise. Chaloner lunged at Shaw, aiming to grab the pitchfork, but Shaw stabbed so hard that the spy almost toppled backwards into the pit. Chaloner thought fast. Hoping Lettice did not have a second dag, he wrenched the box from Taylor’s hands, opened it up and seized a handful of buttons.
He lobbed them into the mud. They lay on the surface for a moment, then sank. Taylor gave a wail of distress. The Genovese watch went next.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Lettice in horror. ‘Stop!’
‘Then come and get them,’ taunted Chaloner, holding Bab May’s hatpin aloft so that they all could see it, then letting it drop. He dipped into the chest again and pulled out a crystal salt cellar. Was it the one Starkey had left as a pledge? Regardless, into the muck it went.
Taylor released a great bellow of dismay and leapt into the pit after it, sending up a fountain of thick brown sludge. He vanished beneath the surface and did not reappear. Chaloner gaped in disbelief, imagining the terrified struggle that would be taking place beneath. He had not intended that to happen!
‘Enough!’ roared Shaw, running down the steps and raising the pitchfork threateningly. ‘I will kill you if you do it again.’
Defiantly, Chaloner tossed a cameo of Good Queen Bess over his shoulder, although he could not bring himself to do the same with Hannah’s pearls – those went in his pocket. Shaw howled his anger, and aimed a wild jab that came nowhere near its intended target, while Lettice hurried down the steps after her husband and knelt on the walkway. The salt cellar lay tantalisingly close, and stretching out, the tips of her fingers could just brush it.
But it was a fraction too far. She lost her balance and toppled in. The mortar was thicker around the edges than the middle, so she sank more slowly than Taylor had done.
With a howl of rage, Shaw raced towards Chaloner, jabbing furiously with the tines. Chaloner backed around the scaffolding and in desperation tossed the box and all its remaining jewels into the pit, hoping Shaw would abandon him in the hope of salvaging something. But Shaw came at him again and again, driving him back, step by step.
‘Stop!’ Chaloner shouted. ‘Save Lettice!’
His foot slipped on mud that had slopped up when Taylor had jumped, and he only just avoided the savage lunge aimed at his chest. He scrambled upright, then struggled to retreat fast enough as Shaw surged after him again.
‘Lettice is drowning,’ he yelled. ‘She will…’
He faltered when he realised that Shaw had been driving him on for a reason – to reach the lever that would release the next batch of mortar. He made a spectacular leap that saw him just clear when it gushed out, narrowly avoiding being washed off the walkway and driven to the bottom of the pit.
Furious that his plan had failed, Shaw resumed his advance. Chaloner turned to run – they had travelled three sides of the cellar and one more would see him at the stairs again. He reached the steps but had no more than set his foot on the first when a hand fastened around his ankle. It was Lettice, using him to pull herself upwards. Shaw jabbed with the pitchfork at the same time, and Chaloner fell.
Seeing his quarry trapped, Shaw lifted the deadly tines. Chaloner twisted away, and the pitchfork bit into the wood so deeply that Shaw could not tug it free. Cursing vilely, he heaved with all his might. As it came loose, Chaloner punched his knee.
Shaw toppled into the sludge. He tried to spread his weight, but he had landed badly – his legs were already caught and he began to sink fast. He clawed frantically, but to no avail.
Chaloner had problems of his own. No matter how hard he fought, Lettice would not let go of his foot. He glanced behind him but could see nothing of her except an arm. Was he going to be towed to the bottom by a corpse? He flailed wildly for a handhold but his hands were foul with mud and he could not gain purchase.
‘You will die with us,’ came a weak voice.
Chaloner twisted around to see mud ooze up Shaw’s neck, then reach his mouth and nose, until only the top of his head remained. He recoiled at the hatred in the music-seller’s eyes before they finally slid from view.
He returned to his own plight. Was Lettice still gripping his leg? He could not tell, but it did not matter because he was going down regardless. Then he felt powerful hands fasten around his shoulders, and he began to rise. It was Wiseman, bellowing with the effort of pulling him free.
‘How did you…’ Chaloner could manage no more, and lay gasping on the walkway.
‘Baron sent me to tell you that we were too late,’ whispered the surgeon hoarsely, and Chaloner saw his face was deathly white. ‘The fools freed Widow Porteous, who staggered out shaking hands and breathing into faces. Then she fell down in a faint, and was discovered to be filthy with plague tokens.’
Chaloner glanced at the pit. The surface was ruffled, but gravity was already working, and he imagined it would soon be perfectly smooth, with no evidence of the terrible fate that had befallen three misguided people and jewels belonging to half of London. Then what might have been a hand broke it, and twitched slightly before slipping out of sight.
‘Who was that?’ asked Wiseman hoarsely. ‘Which of them?’
‘I do not know,’ said Chaloner with a shudder. ‘And nor do I want to.’
Epilogue
Three days later, Cheapside
Chaloner stood with Wiseman on the steps to the music shop’s cellar, watching Yaile smooth the surface with a long-handled tool. The builder was still angry that a mischievous rioter had released the lever on his leather bucket, because the resulting finish on the new floor was inferior, but it would be impossible to dig out so many tons of
material, so it had to stay as it was.
‘Mind your clothes,’ he instructed. ‘Your wives and sweethearts will not be pleased if you go home covered in muck.’
‘I imagine Hannah will have other things on her mind,’ muttered Wiseman to Chaloner. ‘Such as how to pay her debts.’
Chaloner smiled, the first time he had done so since the terrible events on Tuesday morning. ‘That particular problem is resolved. I do not know if Williamson kept his word or the record of her loan was lost in the fire. Regardless, our slate is clear.’
‘The other bankers profess themselves to be appalled by what happened – not just Joan’s selfish ambitions and the bitter revenge wreaked by Shaw and Lettice, but the craven greed of Taylor himself. They have established rules regarding interest rates, and honourable men now regulate them. Trouble like this will never happen again.’
‘Their good intentions will erode over time,’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Others will see there is money to be made from borrowing and lending at high rates, and the whole cycle will start all over again.’
‘Yes, but not in our lifetimes,’ said Wiseman comfortably.
‘Are you sure about Taylor, Lettice and Shaw?’ asked Chaloner, glancing uneasily into the pit. ‘That their bodies will dissolve?’
Wiseman nodded. ‘Quite sure. There is quicklime in Yaile’s mixture. Of course, it will take time. If someone comes with a spade in the next year or so, there will be questions to answer.’
‘Taylor did not deserve to die so horribly.’ Chaloner was still appalled by what had happened, and the fate of all three haunted his dreams. ‘It was hardly his fault that Misick poisoned him.’
‘He had been gouging his customers for weeks before Misick came along, taking over where Wheler left off. He was not a good man, Chaloner, and I doubt there are many who will miss him.’
‘Not miss in the sense that they want him back, but they are certainly interested in his whereabouts. Silas and Backwell have both paid for searches to be made.’
Wiseman smiled. ‘Williamson has started a rumour that he fled to France, so that should satisfy them for a while. They will give up when they find no clues at the ports.’
Chaloner stared into the pit. ‘And what about the plague?’
‘There were seventeen new cases along Cheapside this morning, with twenty more in St Giles and in the Fleet rookery. The worms are out of the bag, and they will not be easily encouraged back in again.’
Both fell silent when the bell of St Mary le Bow announced the death of another parishioner. The number of chimes indicated a dead woman, and it was followed by two children. In the distance, there were more.
‘There was a fortune in Taylor’s box,’ said Chaloner, turning his attention back to the cellar. ‘There are many who would dig up this pit with their fingernails to lay hold of it.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Wiseman. ‘But we are the only ones who know it is down there, and I will not be telling anyone. However, the situation must be galling for you.’
‘Must it?’
‘A donation from Taylor’s Plague Box would have soothed the Earl’s ire with you for not preventing a run on the banks and an outbreak of plague – and for proving Baron innocent of Wheler’s murder, which means the Earl himself is still vulnerable to a scandal involving stolen curtains.’
‘He will just have to trust Temperance to keep that tale to herself. She promised she would.’
‘He is fortunate she is your friend,’ said Wiseman. ‘But regardless, you must resist the temptation to come here one night with a spade.’
‘You need not worry about that,’ said Chaloner fervently. ‘And if the hoard ever does come to light … well, its discoverers will just have to wonder how it came to be here.’
Wiseman smirked. ‘No one will ever guess the truth!’ Then the grin faded. ‘But it was a nasty affair and I feel soiled by it. Doe was the worst – he killed Wheler so he could be King of Cheapside; he shot Coo, Fatherton and Neve to turn people against Baron—’
‘In revenge for Baron seizing control of Cheapside before he could grab it himself,’ put in Chaloner. ‘Although he need not have bothered: Baron had planned to retire when Wheler died of lung-rot, and the chances were that he would have named Doe as his successor anyway.’
‘He killed Randal with a stray ball during the struggle in Friday Street,’ Wiseman went on, ‘and he planned to murder Baron and Poachin during the riots. Perhaps we should have let him. They are not men we want in our fair city.’
‘I like Baron,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is a thief, a liar and a bullying extortionist, but there is a certain charm about him. And he did risk his life to save London.’
‘True. Will Williamson arrest him? I am told there were more stolen goods in his cellar than there are curtains in the whole of White Hall.’
‘Who knows what Williamson will do?’ Chaloner had had scant contact with the Spymaster since he and Swaddell had made their report three days ago. He supposed the truce was over, and they could return to their usual state of mutual antipathy.
‘Well, Baron is certainly happy for now,’ said Wiseman. ‘Silas gave him his horse back.’
Chaloner was glad. ‘I thought Silas – and Backwell – were the villains at one point, but they met only to discuss the looming crisis and devise ways to handle it. Silas will make an excellent head of the family bank. Better than Taylor, Joan or Evan.’
‘Evan! Silas certainly avenged himself on him for that dead-end post in Harwich – he is sailing to New York as we speak, fearful that he will be blamed for the disaster surrounding his father. But Silas deserves his triumph. It was due to him that the city escaped financial ruin – there was a run on the banks, but he managed to stall it. So the King will have his war money, and there will be funds to fight the plague – as far as we can.’
‘I still cannot believe the lengths to which Shaw’s hatred drove him,’ said Chaloner. ‘He used any opportunity that arose to spread fear and unrest – Doe’s murderous spree, the bankers’ greed, the unpopular plague measures, Randal’s book. He was like a leech, latching on to anything and everything, and turning it to his own ends. And he used Joan, Misick, Oxley, Farrow…’
‘They did not have to do what he suggested – it was their own decision to follow dark paths. And Misick, for one, should have resisted. He was a medicus, for God’s sake – a higher being than other mere mortals.’
‘Maude is not very pleased that I gave away the cabochon she lent me,’ said Chaloner gloomily, segueing to another subject. ‘I have no idea how to replace it.’
Wiseman waved an airy hand. ‘Oh, do not worry about that. I told her that those particular gems are attractive to plague worms, so she is grateful to you for ridding her of it. In fact, she is so glad that she has arranged for you to receive a certain gift.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘When the truth comes out—’
‘What truth? Can you prove that my considered medical opinion is wrong? No? Then keep your amateur opinions to yourself. Besides, it is high time that Maude and Temperance put their money towards something more worthwhile than fripperies like curtains.’
‘Curtains,’ said Chaloner disgustedly. ‘The Earl has forgotten that his upholder cheated him, and blames me for the fact that Neve’s replacement is not as talented. My next assignment is with the fleet that is about to fight the Dutch – a case of missing funds from the navy coffers. I am sure he wants me drowned or blown up.’
‘We need every penny we can muster if we are to defeat the enemy,’ said Wiseman sternly, ‘so he is right to send his best man to root out the thieves. But you will like Maude’s gift, I promise. It involves the redemption of certain items from a shop on Foster Lane…’
‘My viols?’ asked Chaloner, his heart quickening.
‘They are waiting at the club. Shall we go there now?’
It was a pretty day when Williamson and Baron met in the Smithfield Meat Market. Both had promised to go alone, but each kne
w the other had henchmen in the vicinity. Baron attended the meeting openly, but the Spymaster wore a disguise. It was not a very good one, and Baron smothered a grin.
‘To business,’ said Williamson briskly, not bothering with pleasantries. ‘I am a busy man, and cannot afford to squander time.’
‘No,’ agreed Baron mildly. ‘Although you could do worse than delegate to your henchmen. Swaddell and Chaloner are able men.’
‘Chaloner is not my henchman. He has a fine array of talents, but he is too honest for my line of work. It is an annoying trait, especially as it seems to have rubbed off on Swaddell.’
‘Swaddell is honest?’ asked Baron doubtfully.
Williamson grimaced. ‘He recorded every one of the bribes you paid him, and has used them to buy information for the Dutch war. It is good of him, but it makes me very uneasy.’
Baron nodded understanding. ‘A minion’s integrity can be a nuisance if it makes one’s own conscience prick. But you did not come here to discuss the ethics of our chosen trades. How may I be of assistance? Do you have a house that requires some drapery, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Williamson irritably. ‘I came to discuss your operation along Cheapside. It is illegal to demand a Protection Tax from residents and shopkeepers. It is also illegal to operate gambling dens that play for such high stakes – high enough to ruin Colburn and half the Court.’
‘The laws that restrict what a man may bet are foolish,’ declared Baron, a little dangerously. ‘We are all adults, and should be allowed to decide for ourselves how we spend our money. It is none of the government’s affair.’
‘It is when it bankrupts a goodly number of its ministers,’ Williamson shot back.
‘Would twenty per cent of my takings change your mind?’
‘No, it would not,’ declared Williamson indignantly.
‘Thirty per cent?’
‘Done.’
Historical Note
On 18 June 1912, workmen made one of the most remarkable discoveries in the history of London archaeology: a mass of jewellery and other precious objects, which had lain undisturbed beneath 30–32 Cheapside for at least two hundred and fifty years. No one knows who put it there or why, but it is one of the best collections of Elizabethan and Jacobean treasure ever found – a fabulous jumble of necklaces, cameos, jewels, rings, cabochons, scent bottles, salt cellars and brooches. There were also twenty-four diamond and ruby buttons, a hatpin in the shape of a ship, pearls and a Genovese watch. Known as the Cheapside Hoard, they are held in the London Museum.
The Cheapside Corpse Page 40
