The Cheapside Corpse by Susanna Gregory Read Free Book Online

keep the animals from bolting.
    ‘Serves them right,’ muttered a butcher to a companion as he watched. ‘I hate bankers.’
    ‘So do I,’ agreed the friend. ‘They have far too much money, which is an affront to the poor; and they lend it out at shamefully high rates of interest, which is an affront to us. They—’
    He stopped speaking when the carriage door was flung open and a man climbed out to stand glowering with his hands on his hips. He was fashionably dressed with deep-set, dark eyes in a haughtily handsome face, and although he was not very large, there was something about him that commanded attention. The apprentices promptly dropped their stones and slunk away, while the two butchers, evidently afraid that he might have heard their remarks, were not long in following. Chaloner marvelled that a simple scowl should have such a dramatic effect.
    As the man was a banker, a trade he was going to have to investigate if he was to learn what happened to Wheler, Chaloner ducked into a doorway to observe unseen. He watched the fellow turn to help a woman alight from the coach. She was considerably younger, and jewels glittered in her hair, and on her earlobes, neck, fingers and wrists. Her skirts were so richly embroidered that he suspected they cost more than he earned in a year, and her shoes were tiny and ridiculously impractical. Yet not even all her finery could make her pretty, and her small, sharp-eyed face immediately put him in mind of a ferret. Moreover, there was an arrogance in her demeanour that was distinctly unattractive.
    Once she was out, the third and final occupant of the coach clambered down: a man remarkable only in that he wore no wig – his long yellow hair, which was as fine as a baby’s, lay greasily across the top of his head. He was portly, and like virtually everyone else in the city, he had a narrow moustache of the kind currently in vogue at Court.
    Unfortunately, Chaloner was not the only one who aimed to stay out of sight, and he started in surprise when a man and a woman joined him in his hiding place. The man had one of the surliest faces Chaloner had ever seen, while the woman was giggling like a schoolgirl, even though she and her companion were in their fifties.
    ‘Forgive us,’ she chortled, while Chaloner struggled to extricate his foot from under the man’s boot. ‘We do not want to be spotted by Mr Backwell either.’
    ‘Backwell?’ queried Chaloner, thinking to have stern words with the financier who had sold Hannah’s debt and put her in such an uncomfortable position. ‘Which one is he?’
    ‘You do not know?’ asked the man. ‘Then you must be the only fellow in London who does not recognise one of the richest people in the city! He is the one who stepped out last.’
    ‘He is organising an outing for tomorrow evening,’ confided the woman. ‘He will want us to join him, but we would rather stay at home. We have music planned, you see.’
    ‘Music,’ sighed Chaloner wistfully, questions temporarily forgotten. It was his greatest love, his refuge when he was confused or unhappy, and little gave him more pleasure than playing his viol. There had been scant opportunity for such pastimes in Hull, and he had missed them badly.
    ‘We aim to sing airs by Dowland and Jenkins,’ she elaborated. ‘As long as Mr Backwell does not spot us, of course, in which case we shall be obliged to stand around and make awkward conversation with others who wish they were somewhere else. He feels sorry for us, unfortunately, and thinks he is being kind by including us in his invitations.’
    ‘But we wish he would leave us alone,’ said the man sourly. ‘Taylor does not bother with us any more, so why must Backwell persist?’
    ‘Do you mean Rich Taylor?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘The Master of the Goldsmiths?’
    The man pointed at the handsome, charismatic fellow who had driven off the apprentices with a glare. ‘There he is – a man whose name suits his status, as