Free The Cheapside Corpse by Susanna Gregory

Guisborough.’
    ‘Then Buckingham is mistaken. My family are peaceful folk.’
    ‘Perhaps so, but they are bitter over losing their alum mines, according to the Duke,’ Williamson went on. ‘Especially now that it is in such great demand for plague remedies. But do not worry about him – he needs to travel north himself soon, to pay off his debts by selling some land, and will soon forget that he is irked with you.’
    Chaloner regarded him sombrely. ‘Do
you
think the plague will come?’
    Williamson grimaced. ‘It is already here – a dozen cases in St Giles. Unfortunately, there have been rumours about an outbreak for so long now that the terror has worn off, and the foolish think we have escaped. But I sense it is just biding its time.’
    Chaloner shuddered and changed the direction of the discussion. ‘What do you know about Georges DuPont, the French spy who was diagnosed with the disease in Long Acre, but who went to die in Bearbinder Lane?’
    Williamson regarded him in alarm. ‘What French spy?’
    ‘He offered to supply intelligence on the Dutch, apparently.’ Chaloner was careful to conceal the Earl’s involvement – Williamson would not appreciate meddling in his domain.
    ‘Well, he was not one of mine, although all manner of worms are emerging from the woodwork these days, hoping to earn a quick profit by selling information. Few know much of value. However, I am rather more concerned about people wandering around with the plague. Did the fellow set out to spread the contagion deliberately?’
    ‘I do not know, although a physician named Coo assured me that no new cases have arisen from the episode. Or he
was
assuring me, before he was shot and killed.’
    Williamson eyed him balefully. ‘You do lead an exciting life, Chaloner. You cannot have been home many days, yet you are already embroiled with spies, plague and murder.’
    ‘Hours, not days,’ said Chaloner ruefully.
    ‘Coo was a popular man on Cheapside, and people will want vengeance. May I assume that you plan to look into his death, given that he seems to be connected to your DuPont?’
    ‘I suppose so.’ Chaloner half wished he was back under a hedge in Yorkshire. It had been uncomfortable, but at least his mission had been straightforward.
    ‘Good. The Dutch war has left me very short of operatives, and I do not have a man to spare. Find out who killed Coo and what this DuPont was doing, then report to me.’
    ‘My Earl will not—’
    ‘Your Earl will be delighted with an opportunity to serve his country, and will not demur when I inform him that you are working in both our interests.’
    Chaloner stood to leave. The visit had been a waste of time: DuPont was not known to Williamson, and he had learned nothing to further his enquiries. Worse, he now had the Spymaster expecting answers from him. He sincerely hoped the Earl would not object to Williamson being briefed, too, as he had no desire to be caught in the middle of two such powerful men.
    It was late by the time Chaloner left the coffee house, and although he knew he should tackle Baron, it had been a long day and he was not in the mood. He started to walk home, but then thought of something he would far rather do – visit John Thurloe in Lincoln’s Inn. Feeling his flagging spirits revive at the prospect of seeing an old friend, he set off at a jaunty clip, and was just passing the Poultry Market when a coach drew up beside him.
    It was the aspiration of every ambitious Londoner to own a private carriage – an expensive commodity that required not only purchasing the vehicle itself, but also horses, stabling and staff to care for them. This one was new and shiny, and its horses had been chosen for their matching colours. There was a coat of arms on its side, but not one Chaloner recognised, although he was relieved to note that it did not belong to Buckingham. He peered at it in the light from a nearby tavern, then recoiled in astonishment when he saw what the bear