The Cheapside Corpse (49 page)

‘
Taylor
should have married me,’ declared Joan. ‘Then we could have ruled my first husband’s empire together. But he gave me his least appealing son, then refused to take back what Baron had stolen from me. He and Evan will not survive today.’

Outside, Farrow was yelling, and although Chaloner could not make out the words, he could tell the mob was loving them. Through the broken pane, pitch torches illuminated upturned faces – at least two hundred, probably more. He sawed harder, trying not to wince when the pen slipped and cut his hand. There was a wet cascade over his fingers as the ink drained out of the reservoir.

‘Enough,’ he said urgently. ‘Or do you want to die? Cut us loose and—’

‘It is you who will die,’ snapped Joan. ‘You are Swaddell’s creature, whereas I am just a helpless woman. Who do you think the mob will kill?’

‘All of us,’ said Chaloner desperately. The pen was slippery now, and difficult to manipulate. ‘And even if by some miracle you do survive, you will have nothing left – this building will be razed to the ground, and every coin and scrap of gold will be gone.’

‘Yes, this house will burn, but we will sue the city for a new one. And looters will not find a penny – I emptied the vault and hid the treasure days ago. But they will find something else.’

‘Pamphlets to cause a rumpus, and the plague,’ put in Misick with a chilling smile.

‘You
want
people to die of the disease?’ asked Wiseman, shocked. ‘But you are a
medicus
!’

‘Nothing will happen to those who stay outside,’ said Joan icily. ‘But those who break in to loot will suffer a fate that serves them right.’

‘And what happens when these “robbers” return to their wives and children?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Are innocent babes to be punished with death as well?’ He pressed on before they could reply. ‘But I doubt all this is your idea. You have not had time, what with managing the bank, gambling at the Feathers and poisoning Taylor.’

They declined to answer, but he was right, of course. Chaloner knew he should concentrate on escaping, but he could not leave the question alone. So who
was
directing their actions? Was Silas at the heart of the mischief after all? Or Backwell?

Out in the street, Farrow was still yelling, and Chaloner saw Joan smirk her satisfaction.

‘He is in your pay,’ he said in understanding. ‘Your personal rabble-rouser.’

‘He is so desperate to avenge himself on the trade that ruined him that I did not even have to give him any money,’ she gloated. ‘Just whisper in his ear and point him in the right direction.’

‘But it was your first husband who destroyed him. Why would he listen to you?’

‘I do not treat with such people myself,’ she said disdainfully. ‘I delegate to minions.’

‘Minions like your husband, I suppose,’ said Wiseman in distaste. ‘A weak man, who obligingly wrote inflammatory tracts.’

Chaloner recalled Randal’s claim. ‘It was Joan who told him that he would feel better once his grievances were out in the open.’

‘He did feel better,’ smirked Joan. ‘He has thoroughly enjoyed the stir his stupid pamphlet has caused.’ She jumped at a sudden clatter of stones on the windows.

‘We should ready ourselves,’ said Misick uneasily. ‘I am not sure the guards can hold them back much longer.’

‘Staying here flies in the face of all reason,’ said Chaloner, desperately looking from one to the other. ‘Which means you are under orders from someone else – someone who does not care about your safety. You are being used, as you have used others! How can you not see it?’

‘Shut up!’ shouted Joan, although uncertainty flared in her eyes. ‘Of course we shall survive. I am needed to lead London’s
only
bank.’

At that moment, there was a cheer from outside: the guards’ line was disintegrating. Scenting victory, the mob surged forwards.

‘There are more people here than I expected,’ gulped Misick. ‘Are you sure we have to—’

‘Yes!’ hissed Joan urgently. ‘Or all our work will have been for nothing. Now hurry!’

Chaloner’s pen was so slick with sweat, blood and ink that he was afraid of dropping it. It meant he was forced to rub slowly and patiently at the cords that bound him, which was difficult when every instinct screamed at him to hack as hard as he could. Joan and Misick were mad, he thought, to think they would be spared when the horde reached the office.

He tried to think rationally, to guess what they planned to do, but it was hopeless, so he concentrated on moving his makeshift blade instead. Were his efforts paying off or was he wasting his time? He could not tell, but it was the only chance he had, so he persisted. Meanwhile, Misick busied himself at the table. Chaloner could not see what the physician was doing, although it was something that involved foul smells.

Joan grabbed a coat from a bench and began to tug it on. It was an ancient thing, which covered her finery and would render her indistinguishable from the invaders. It was also flecked with silvery grey hairs.

‘Slasher!’ exclaimed Chaloner, recalling the dog’s unusual pelt. ‘That is Oxley’s coat. You say you never dealt with Farrow yourself, so someone did it for you – Oxley, a lout who would do anything for money. I saw him here when Taylor hurt his toe. Now I know why: to receive orders from you.’

Joan did not affirm or deny the charge, but the knowledge allowed the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place, leaving Chaloner so stunned that, for vital seconds, he neglected to saw at the cord.

‘But Oxley is dead,’ Wiseman pointed out. ‘
He
has not been prompting Farrow today.’

‘He and his family were murdered.’ Chaloner started working on the rope again when the protesters began to pound on the door; it was sturdy, but it would not withstand such an onslaught for long. ‘Which means that Lettice could not have nursed the boy in his final illness. Shaw was lying – and
there
is the real mastermind behind the madness! Not Taylor, but someone pretending to be him, and who told the gullible Doe that he “manages everything with a song”. Shaw! A talented singer.’

‘Shaw?’ asked Wiseman doubtfully. ‘Really?’

Chaloner recalled the paint on the music shop door, different to that on the other houses. And why? Because Shaw had put it there himself! Then he had persuaded the watcher that he and Lettice were responsible folk who would not leave their house. But Shaw
had
left it, of course. For a start, he had been wearing a coat when he had been called to his window, and who wore coats indoors?

‘He killed two birds with one stone,’ he said, answers coming thick and fast. ‘First, he silenced a family who knew the truth about him. There were no buboes on Emma—’

Misick turned to smirk at him. ‘But everyone believed me when I said there were.’

‘And second, if everyone thinks that Shaw is locked up with the plague, then he is free to wander about as he pleases, to stir up trouble among people with grievances.’

Chaloner tried a second time to see what Misick was doing, but the movement caused the pen to skid out of his fingers and drop to the floor. Joan looked sharply at him, so he began talking to distract her while he frantically twisted his hands this way and that in the hope that he had sliced through enough of the cord to allow him to snap it.

‘Shaw speculated in tulips—’

‘He did,’ said Misick, turning to nod. ‘And lost everything, poor soul.’

‘Which he would not have done had his fellow bankers stood by him. He claims to be happy selling music, but how can it be true when he and Lettice have to endure the condescending patronage of men like Backwell?’

‘Backwell means well,’ said Joan. ‘But he is insensitive.’

There was a loud crash, followed by a triumphant cheer. The door had fallen in.

‘They lost a child.’ Chaloner looked at Misick. ‘Because they could not pay for a physician.’

‘I would not have charged them.’ Misick held up a glass flask and inspected its contents. ‘But they did not know me then. Now Lettice has suffered a similar fate.’

Downstairs, the looters’ excited cries turned to disappointment when they discovered the shop devoid of riches. How long would it be before they broke into the locked pantries?

‘Misick!’ barked Joan, her voice cracking with tension. ‘Hurry!’

‘I am going as fast as I can,’ the physician snapped back.

‘You will be too late,’ warned Chaloner. ‘The rioters will be here at any moment, and you will be torn to pieces.’

‘They do sound angry,’ said Misick nervously. ‘Shaw cannot expect us to die on his account, so perhaps we should leave while we can.’

Chaloner was too fraught to be satisfied by the confirmation of his suspicions. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, along with an increasing cacophony of frustrated yells, and his wrists burned from his frenzied struggles to free them.

‘All will be for naught if we do not carry out his commands,’ snapped Joan. ‘You heard him: we follow his orders to the letter or not at all.’

‘He is tying up loose ends – he wants you dead so that you cannot betray him.’ Desperately, Chaloner turned to Misick, hoping to appeal to the weaker of the two. ‘Whatever you are doing will not work, so stop before—’

‘Yes, it will,’ interrupted the physician. ‘My Plague Elixir explodes when mixed with spirit of turpentine, so all I have to do is insert fuses of cloth, which can be set alight…’

‘And then what?’ demanded Chaloner, when hammering footsteps indicated that the invaders were scattering through the offices. ‘Throw them at people while they just stand there? You must see this is madness!’

‘Farrow will lead the looters in here, but he has outlived his usefulness, so the first bottle will be for him,’ replied the physician. His voice was unsteady and he scowled at Chaloner. ‘The second will be for you. The fight will go out of the rest once they see you burn, and we shall escape down the back stairs during the ensuing confusion.’

‘What happened to turn you so bitter?’ asked Wiseman pityingly, while Chaloner was so stunned by the ludicrous nature of the plan that he was momentarily lost for words. ‘Joan?’

‘I have more talent than all the other bankers put together,’ she snarled. ‘But will I ever be Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company? No. However, things will be different tomorrow. Shaw has a powerful sponsor who will reward me for all I have done these last few weeks.’

‘There is no powerful sponsor!’ cried Chaloner, astonished that she should believe such a wild claim. ‘If there were, Shaw would not be selling music from a shop that reeks of sewage.’

Joan addressed Misick urgently as the rioters entered the room next door. ‘Is that the last one?’

Misick nodded, but at that moment a stone flew through the window and sheer chance saw it knock the flask from his hand. It fell to the floor, where it smashed. He dabbed at the droplets on his wig and reached for another, but anxiety made him careless and he inadvertently bumped against the lamp. His hair ignited with a dull whump.

He issued a horrified shriek and tried to pull it off, but it was fastened too securely. Then the flames caught his coat and within seconds he was a human torch. He howled in pain and terror, while Joan surged forward in an effort to rescue the remaining flasks.

Panic gave Chaloner strength, and he twisted his hands with all his might. Suddenly he was free. He grabbed the quill sharpener from the desk and slashed through the cord that held Wiseman. Rage blazed in Joan’s eyes as she prepared to lob the missiles she had grabbed, but Misick knocked into her. Plague Elixir and turpentine slopped out, and the inferno that was Misick did the rest. There was another dull whump, and then there were two burning people in the room. Chaloner started towards them, appalled.

‘No – it is too late,’ shouted Wiseman.

At that moment the door flung open to reveal Farrow, whose savagely vengeful expression suggested he was not about to listen to reason. Chaloner put his head down and charged, sending the brewer sprawling back into his cronies. Yelling for Wiseman to follow, Chaloner clambered over the chaos of arms and legs, and turned left, hoping the back stairs were where he expected them to be, or he and Wiseman were doomed. They were, and he took them three at a time, Wiseman lumbering at his heels.

The stairs led to the kitchen, where a dozen men were laying siege to the locked pantries, clearly in the belief that gold was stockpiled within.

‘We must stop them,’ breathed Wiseman, aghast. ‘But how?’

Chaloner put a hand to his head, which ached with tension, and saw that his fingers were a mess of blood and ink. It gave him an idea. He smeared it on his neck, hoping the light would be too dim to expose the ruse. Wiseman grasped the plan immediately, and flung himself into action.

‘Plague!’ he bellowed, while Chaloner reeled into the kitchen. ‘He has the plague!’

There was a concerted dash for the back door, but other would-be looters had just succeeded in battering it down. There was a collision, followed by a frenzied skirmish as each group tried to force its way past the other. Smoke billowed into the kitchen, while the crackle of approaching flames and the screams of those trapped on the upper floors did nothing to calm the situation.

Then there was a booming yell, and every head swivelled towards it. There was silence, then suddenly everyone was running in the same direction. Baron and his trainband had arrived.

‘Need help, Chaloner?’ asked the King of Cheapside mildly.

The blaze in Taylor’s shop spread to the adjoining buildings with horrifying speed, and the beautiful façade that had inspired poets was quickly lost behind a wall of flames and smoke.

‘At least Randal’s book will be destroyed,’ wheezed Wiseman, his eyes streaming. ‘Along with that plague-dead maid.’

A figure approached, his hair a soggy mess that straggled down his back. It was Poachin. Baron clapped a comradely hand on his shoulder, so Chaloner supposed the rift precipitated by Doe had been mended.

‘The worst troublemakers are not Cheapside folk,’ Poachin reported. ‘They hail from the Fleet and St Giles rookeries, enticed here by the promise of loot by a man in a blue coat. He kept his face hidden, but Gabb and Knowles say it was Shaw. Yet I cannot believe…’