About the Author
Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant during seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.
She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge as well as the Thomas Chaloner books, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.
Also by Susanna Gregory
A Plague on Both Your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Killer of Pilgrims
Mystery in the Minster
Murder by the Book
The Lost Abbot
Death of a Scholar
A Poisonous Plot
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
The Westminster Poisoner
A Murder on London Bridge
The Body in the Thames
The Piccadilly Plot
Death in St James’s Park
Murder on High Holborn
The Cheapside Corpse
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
ISBN: 9781405530637
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
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Contents
About the Author
Also by Susanna Gregory
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Historical Note
For Chris and Annie Wilson,
dearest of friends.
Prologue
10 June 1665, Essex
The port of Harwich was en fête, flags flying from every house and cheering crowds hurrying towards the quayside. The English were victorious, while the Dutch fleet was slinking back to Rotterdam and Friesland with its tail between its legs. Aboard HMS Swiftsure, limping towards the shore with a gaping hole in her portside and her sails pock-marked from cannon fire, Thomas Chaloner could not share the noisy jubilation. He had spent much of his life fighting for one cause or another, both on land and at sea, and had thought he was immune to the horrors of warfare, but the scale of the carnage under that bright summer sky a week ago had shaken him to the core.
More than two hundred of his countrymen had been drowned or blown apart by the enemy’s fusillade, but the Dutch casualties were in the thousands, many hideously burned when English fire-ships had careened into their midst. Chaloner had been half-deaf from the roar of great guns as he had helped drag the survivors from the sea, but while the screams had been eerily muted, his other senses were working, and there had been no escape from the stench of charred flesh, the slippery feel of fresh blood on sea-chilled bodies, and the sight of corpses – and parts of corpses – bobbing amid burning wreckage.
‘Thank God we have made safe passage.’
Chaloner turned at the familiar voice of Captain Lester, master of Swiftsure. ‘Were we so badly damaged, then?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought you said it was mainly superficial.’
‘I mean the prisoners.’ Lester nodded towards the holds, where the Dutch had been kept since they were rescued. ‘They outnumber us five to one, and when I was not worrying about an attempt to take my ship, I was afraid that the extra weight might capsize us.’
‘They would not have tried to escape,’ said Chaloner, recalling the dull, cowed expressions of the captives as they had been herded below. ‘They know what Admiral Berkeley thought about you saving them – he would have tossed them overboard at the first sign of trouble.’
Lester grinned. ‘Of all the orders I failed to hear in the heat of battle, ignoring his instruction to let them drown was the one that gave me the most pleasure.’
‘God only knows how we managed to win with him in charge of the squadron.’
‘Luck, and an inequality of fire-power,’ explained Lester. Then his expression grew bitter. ‘We could have ended the war if we had given chase and smashed the Dutch fleet once and for all, and I still cannot understand why the command was never given. It was a tactical mistake of enormous proportion, and will cost us dear in the future.’
‘It is what happens when aristocrats are given charge of the navy, instead of professional seamen like you,’ shrugged Chaloner. ‘They think they know best, and disaster inevitably follows.’
He and Lester looked towards the quarterdeck, where the youthful Admiral Berkeley was talking to Sir Thomas Clifford, a politician who had eagerly volunteered his services when war had been declared, but who had spent the battle cowering in his cabin, pretending to study charts.
Lester grimaced. ‘It makes me sick just thinking about it, so let us discuss something else. Your assignment – did you find that thief you were hunting?’
Chaloner switched his thoughts to the task he had been set by his employer, the Earl of Clarendon, wondering whether he would have followed the culprit’s trail quite so assiduously if he had known it would pitch him into the violent, bloody encounter that was the Battle of Lowestoft.
‘I found him,’ he replied, ‘but too late to see him on the gallows. He was cut in half by a cannonball, and you buried him at sea the next day.’
Lester’s eyes widened in shock. ‘My clerk? Are you sure?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Not that it matters now.’
Lester’s expression was fierce. ‘It does matter, Tom. He stole our gunpowder and sold it for personal gain, which ranks with aiding the enemy in my book. He was a traitor.’
‘Well, he will not do it again.’
Before Lester could respond, they heard footsteps, and turned to see Clifford swaggering towards them. The politician had donned a handsome blue coat for the occasion, and his ornamental sword hung on the heavy gold sash that was draped across his shoulder. Anyone looking at him might be forgiven for thinking that he had won the engagement single-handed. Certainly, it seemed he was ready to accept
the grateful thanks of King and country.
Lester bowed, but only just deeply enough to be polite. ‘What arrangements have been made for the prisoners, Sir Thomas?’
A flicker of irritation crossed Clifford’s face; he did not want to bother with the hapless wretches in the holds while there was adulation to be had from Harwich’s waiting hordes.
‘I imagine the church here has a crypt,’ he said shortly. ‘They can lodge there until I can hire soldiers to escort them to their new home.’
‘Which is where?’ Chaloner asked.
‘The Theological College in Chelsea,’ replied Clifford. ‘Do you know it? It was once famous for its polemical priests.’
‘Chelsea?’ blurted Lester, shocked. ‘But that is less than three miles from London! Is it wise to house enemy sailors so close to the capital? What if they escape?’
‘They will not escape,’ retorted Clifford irritably. ‘If they were intent on running back to the United Provinces, they would have tried to break out while we were still at sea. But they remained below decks, as meek as mice, so there will be no danger from them.’
‘Because they are still shocked and frightened,’ argued Lester. ‘But they will not stay that way, and once on dry land, they will recover their—’
‘I am Commissioner for the Care and Treatment of Prisoners of War, not you,’ snapped Clifford, nettled. ‘So it is for me to determine where they go. And I have chosen Chelsea.’
‘Are there any other commissioners?’ asked Chaloner, in the hope that if so, one of them might prove to be more sensible.
‘Three,’ replied Clifford shortly. ‘And they all agree with me.’
‘What about the clerics you mentioned?’ pressed Lester, unwilling to concede defeat. ‘Do they not mind sharing their home with enemy sailors? Or will you employ them as guards?’
Clifford shot him an impatient glance. ‘The College was deemed a failure years ago, and all its fanatics left. The building was empty, so we commandeered it in the government’s name.’
At that point, he noticed that Admiral Berkeley was heading for the gangway, so he scurried away without another word, determined to be first ashore – and first to accept the joyous compliments of their grateful countrymen.
Chaloner and Lester leaned against the rail, watching the controlled chaos of disembarkation. The crowds continued to cheer and wave their hats, and the crew, resplendent in their best rigs, acknowledged them with proud smiles.
‘Here comes the Admiralty Proctor,’ said Lester, nodding to where a portly individual was making his way through the throng. ‘Richard Franklin. He will have fresh orders for me, letters for the officers and men, and money for repairs.’
Chaloner glanced at the gaping hole in the ship’s side, and then at the jagged wound where a great gun had been blasted off its tracks to career across the deck. ‘They will not be cheap.’
‘No,’ agreed Lester. ‘Last time, I was obliged to put to sea with half of it left undone, because he only brought me a fraction of what was needed. To be frank, I suspect he stole some, because the navy office knows how much new masts cost.’
‘Or perhaps it was the Treasury that was niggardly,’ suggested Chaloner, who knew how the government worked all too well. ‘They would rather you fought battles without taking damage, so they can spend our taxes on new clothes for the King instead.’
‘They would rather we suffered no injuries either,’ said Lester wryly. ‘The Sick and Hurt Fund will have to be tripled if all our wounded sailors are to be compensated for their sacrifices.’ He pushed away from the rail as the proctor reached the foot of the gangway. ‘Franklin will be mobbed by the crew the moment he embarks, so I had better go and protect him. There was plague in the city when we left, and my people are desperate for news of their loved ones.’
When the proctor stepped aboard, Lester bellowed orders that saw the anxious seamen draw back, and then escorted him to the quarterdeck. Once there, Franklin opened his bag of letters, and began calling out names. Chaloner was surprised to hear his own among them, and moved forward to accept a fat package. It was from the Earl, and included a note from his friend Surgeon Wiseman. He moved away from the jostling throng to open it.
Lester joined him a short time later, spitting fury because the money Franklin had brought was wholly insufficient for making Swiftsure seaworthy, but he was still expected to return to action within the week. Then he saw Chaloner’s ashen face.
‘Tom? What is the matter?’
‘My wife,’ replied Chaloner in a slow, shocked voice. ‘She is dead.’
Lester gazed at him in horror. ‘Dead? But she cannot be! How?’
‘A week ago.’ Chaloner’s fist closed around the letter. ‘Of the plague.’
16 July 1665, Chelsea
Nancy Janaway was terrified. Strange things were happening, and she no longer felt safe. She had tried to tell people about it, but no one would listen – at least, no one in a position to help. That was the trouble with Gorges House. Officially, it was an establishment that catered to ailing gentlewomen. In reality, it was an asylum – a place where the rich deposited their mad female relations – and who cared what lunatics thought?
Eventually, she had plucked up the courage to confide in Dr Parker, the senior physician, but although he had sat with every appearance of interested concern, she knew his mind had been elsewhere. He was of the earnest belief he had been put on Earth to cure insanity, so he had almost certainly been thinking about his next experiment. She doubted he had heard a word she had said, much less taken her seriously.
She grimaced when she recalled how he had ended the discussion – by telling her that she would soon be ready to go home. But she did not want to go home! She felt safe in Gorges, with its tall walls and sturdy gates. Outside was where the shadowy figures lurked, especially on the road that wound north through the marshes. She had lost count of the times that she had seen their sinister shapes from her bedroom window.
As it was stifling indoors, she decided to go and sit in the orchard. The towering walls that surrounded the house and its grounds were partly to keep the residents in, but also to provide them with privacy. Gorges was not like Bedlam, where inmates were regarded as entertainment for the general public. It was a haven of benevolence and compassion, and spectators were never allowed in to gawp. It was expensive to stay there, of course, and Nancy knew she was lucky to have been offered a place – she was not wealthy, but Dr Parker had agreed to treat her free of charge because she was local. She had made great progress under his kindly care, and might have been happy … were it not for the shadows.
Yet her fears eventually began to recede, because the orchard was lovely that evening – sweet with the scent of ripening fruit and freshly scythed grass. Bees droned among the summer flowers, and birdsong drifted in from the surrounding fields. She perched on a bench under an ancient apple tree and closed her eyes.
Suddenly, there was a rumpus from Buckingham House next door, which made her start up in alarm, but then she sank back down again, chiding herself for a fool. That particular mansion had been leased to a courtier keen to escape the plague, and wild revels took place there on a daily basis. It was said that the fellow missed the scandalously debauched atmosphere of White Hall, and aimed to recreate it in Chelsea. Sometimes, Nancy watched their antics from her bedroom window with her friend Martha Thrush. They made her laugh, and helped her forget the dark shadows that lurked in the marshes.
She leaned back, gazing up at the fruit-laden branches above her head. Then there was a sharp snap as a twig broke underfoot. She started to turn, a smile on her lips. Who was coming? Martha, perhaps, wanting to sit and chat. Or Mrs Bonney, to tell her that there were freshly baked cakes in the kitchen.
But before she could look, hands fastened around her throat – large ones, which immediately cut off the air to her lungs. She struggled, and tried to cry out, but no sound emerged other than a choking gasp. Terrified, she fought harder, but the fingers were
strong, and she could not twist free. She felt herself growing light-headed, and the sounds of the summer evening merged into a meaningless roar. Eventually, she stopped fighting and went limp.
The shadow stared at her for a moment, and seeing she was dead, slipped soundlessly away.
Chapter 1
London, Tuesday 25 July 1665
The Palace of White Hall was eerily deserted. A hot breeze blew a stray broadsheet across the empty expanse of the Great Court and played with a door that had been left ajar, setting up a forlorn echo. The rooms that had so recently been alive with the sound of the King’s merry revels were silent and still.
Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Earl of Clarendon, was unsettled by the difference. Three months ago, it had been jam-packed with people, carriages and horses, a bright bustle of lively noise, but then the plague had struck and everything changed. It had started with a few isolated cases, but had spread fast, and parish clerks were now recording nearly two thousand deaths a week, with church bells tolling almost continually for those who had fallen prey to its deadly touch.
Chaloner was unimpressed that the King should have abandoned the city. True, it would be a political disaster if he died – he had failed to produce a legitimate heir, and the next in line to the throne was his unpopular brother James – but his subjects were terrified by the unseen horror that moved among them, and His Majesty’s flight had done nothing for morale. They peered through the palace gates to see weeds sprouting between the cobbles and windows nailed shut, and whispered to each other in fear-filled voices that the Court was never coming back.
Yet there was still life in White Hall, because a few servants and officials had been left to keep an eye on the place. They pottered about lethargically, enervated by the heat, and resentful that they should have been the ones chosen to stay. Chaloner’s employer was one of them – the Earl had once been Charles II’s most valued advisor, but the two men had grown apart since the Restoration, and the King had been delighted with the chance to escape from his prim old mentor’s incessant nagging.
But not even he could keep a powerful peer in a plague-infested city for ever, and an invitation, albeit an ungraciously worded one, for the Earl to join him, had arrived the previous evening. There had been great jubilation in Clarendon’s household, and preparations to depart had begun immediately, lest the fickle monarch should change his mind.
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