The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I cannot wait to go,’ said Thomas Kipps, the Earl’s Seal Bearer, as he and Chaloner stood together in the shade of the Great Gate. ‘It is like a palace of ghosts here, and I do not mind telling you that I find it disturbing.’

  Kipps was a tall, bluff man with a friendly face, who loved the pageantry associated with his post, and always sported the Clarendon livery of blue and gold – although ‘gold’ was a misnomer as far as Chaloner was concerned, given that the Earl had chosen a rather unattractive mustardy yellow for the colours of his house. Chaloner declined to wear it, and instead favoured plain clothes – dark green hat, coat and breeches, and a white shirt with just enough lace to satisfy the current fashion. No self-respecting spy liked to draw attention to himself, and his attire had been chosen for its anonymity. Yet there were two distinctive things about him: watchful grey eyes, and a refusal to wear a wig – he preferred the convenience of his own brown hair, which did not fall off when he ran, was less prone to lice, and was a good deal cooler in hot weather.

  He winced when the bells of nearby St Margaret’s church began to toll – three, then a pause followed by sixteen: the plague had claimed a young man. Kipps saw his reaction and clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It is always difficult to lose a loved one, and I am more sorry than I can say that you have been deprived of Hannah. She was…’

  He trailed off awkwardly, and concealed his discomfort by offering Chaloner some tobacco. Smoking was a much-favoured preventative for the plague, and few Londoners risked leaving home without a pipe. Chaloner took a few strands without enthusiasm; he was still struggling to acquire the habit, and not doing very well with it.

  ‘When will our Earl join the King at Syon House?’ he asked, equally keen to talk about something else. He had never been good at analysing his feelings, and his wife’s death had left him with a bewildering gamut of them, few of which he understood.

  Kipps’ expression hardened. ‘It is an outrage that he has been left here for so long. He is Lord Chancellor, one of the most important men in the country! But he will not be going to Syon House, Tom. The King is already bored with it, and plans to move to Hampton Court instead.’

  Then that explained the invitation, thought Chaloner. Hampton Court was much larger than Syon House, which meant it would be easier for His Majesty to avoid the Earl’s company.

  ‘I was talking to my good friend Sir Philip Warwick yesterday,’ Kipps grumbled on, puffing great clouds of smoke that made a mockery of Chaloner’s paltry wisps. ‘Do you know him? He is Secretary of the Treasury, and a splendid fellow. Well, he is also disgusted that so many of us were left behind to rot.’

  ‘Is he?’ Most of Chaloner’s attention was on trying to stop his pipe from going out.

  ‘He says it is unreasonable to expect him and his staff to stay here and die. Court posts are meant to be lucrative – a reward for being good Royalists. They are not supposed to be dangerous.’

  Chaloner forgot his pipe as the implications of Kipps’ words hit him, and he turned to regard the Seal Bearer in disbelief. ‘Wait a moment! Are you telling me that the Treasury is still here in London? The King did not take it with him?’

  ‘Syon House has no secure place to put it,’ explained Kipps. ‘A coal cellar was offered, but that was hardly the thing. So, yes, it is still here – along with all its officials.’

  He nodded to the north-east corner of the Great Court, where the Treasury had been housed since the Restoration five years ago. A purpose-built chamber had been created for it, one with extra-thick walls and a door designed to withstand an assault by cannon.

  ‘Is that why the King decided to move to Hampton Court?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I imagine it has strongrooms aplenty.’

  Kipps lowered his voice, although there was no one around to hear. ‘It does, and the Treasury will be ferried there next month. Personally, I think it should go now. What if the guards catch the plague in the interim? All thieves would have to do is step over the corpses and take the lot!’

  ‘Yet it will be risky to move it.’ Chaloner’s pipe had gone out, but he could not be bothered with the rigmarole of relighting it, so he put it in his pocket, where a strand of hot tobacco burned a hole in his favourite breeches. ‘Every villain in the country will line its route.’

  ‘They will not know, because the exact date of its removal is being kept secret. It was the Earl’s idea to transfer it on the quiet, and he knows what he is doing.’

  Chaloner begged to differ. The Earl was appallingly naive about such matters, and if the Treasury’s riches were stolen, his enemies would ensure he lost his head for it. His household would be dissolved, and Chaloner, who had fought for Parliament during the wars, had spied for Cromwell’s government in the Commonwealth, and hailed from a family of infamously dedicated Roundheads, would be unlikely to find another job in Royalist London.

  ‘Of course, it would be a magnificent haul if robbers did make off with it,’ Kipps was saying brightly. ‘His Majesty’s coffers are unusually full at the moment. Positively bursting, in fact.’

  ‘Because he has not been here to raid them?’ Like all Londoners, Chaloner knew how much of the public purse was squandered on the King’s frivolous pleasures.

  Kipps shot him a baleful look. ‘No, because of all the extra money that has been raised to fight the Dutch. Battles are expensive, you know.’

  Chaloner did know, and thought the government had been stupid to declare war on the United Provinces in the first place, given that they were always complaining about a shortage of cash.

  ‘It is not just buying ships, provisions and paying seamen,’ Kipps preached on. ‘The prisoners we have taken are very costly to house. I was shown the figures in my capacity as Messenger of the Receipt for the Treasury, you see. I was aghast.’

  Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You have resigned as the Earl’s Seal Bearer?’

  Kipps shook his head. ‘I inveigled myself a second Court post, lest our employer falls from grace. I recommend you do the same, Tom. These are uncertain times, and only a fool does not take precautions against the vagaries of the future.’

  ‘I cannot see him being very pleased about that – he expects total loyalty from his staff.’

  ‘He understands expediency. Besides, being Messenger does not take much of my time. All I have to do is stand around and look important. I could put in a word for you, if you like. There is a vacancy for a Sergeant at Arms.’

  ‘You have that kind of influence?’

  ‘Warwick – who will make the appointment – is a good friend, as I said. Come with me now and I shall introduce you. Then you can decide for yourself whether you would like to apply.’

  The offices occupied by the Treasury were on either side of the specially constructed strongroom, and Kipps led the way to a small but comfortable chamber with an elaborately carved ceiling. It was cool, and a pleasure to enter after the building heat outside. Three men sat at a table, and all shrank away in alarm when Kipps walked in with a stranger.

  ‘Do not worry,’ the Seal Bearer said, raising his hands reassuringly. ‘Tom does not have the plague. Since April, he has either been at sea with the Fleet, visiting his family in Buckinghamshire, or stuck in Clarendon House translating letters into Dutch for the Earl.’

  Clarendon House was the Earl’s home, a recklessly ostentatious structure that had one redeeming feature: it was in Piccadilly, and so some distance from the city and its diseases.

  ‘Thank God,’ breathed the first, a thin, sallow man with a soulful face. When he spoke, his teeth clacked together nervously. ‘One cannot be too careful these days. And I cannot smoke, because it hurts my throat, so my only protection is London Treacle.’

  ‘An excellent prophylactic, although fearfully expensive,’ averred Kipps, then turned to Chaloner. ‘This is Sir Philip Warwick, Secretary of the Treasury. Like us, he was left to dice with Death while the rest of the Court jaunted off to Syon House.’

  ‘It is disgrac
eful,’ spat Warwick, returning Chaloner’s bow. ‘And reckless. After all, who will guard the King’s gold if we die of the plague?’

  ‘I do not mind staying,’ said the second man, a plump, oleaginous individual with food-stained clothes. ‘The Court’s departure has left a lot of broken hearts among the female servants – wounds I am more than happy to heal.’ He winked lasciviously.

  ‘This is Captain George Cocke,’ said Kipps, using the clipped, dismissive tone he reserved for people he did not like. ‘He is our accompter, which means he does fancy things with figures.’

  Cocke pouted irritably. ‘I balance the books. It is not difficult to understand, Kipps, and I fail to grasp why I am obliged to explain it to you every time we—’

  ‘And this is Francis Stephens.’ Kipps cut across him curtly to indicate the third man. ‘Our Sergeant at Arms. We should have two, but the other quit his commission when he learned he would have to stay in London.’

  Stephens was a burly fellow with a bad complexion, who immediately launched into a diatribe about the amount of work he was obliged to do now that he was alone. Cocke rolled his eyes and waddled out, and the moment he was out of earshot, Kipps interrupted Stephens’ rant.

  ‘There is the fly in the ointment, Tom. If you are appointed, it will put you in the company of that loathsome fellow. He is a desperate nuisance with women, and every lass in White Hall will be relieved when the Treasury is transferred to Hampton Court.’

  ‘Bullen Reymes claims it cannot be moved before August,’ said Warwick, fanning himself with a newsbook. ‘Although it could go tomorrow, if the truth be told. It is only a case of loading up a few carts and appointing some suitable guards.’

  Bullen Reymes was an avowed enemy of the Earl, a short, bullet-headed politician with a quick temper and a perpetually angry face. He was Prefect of the Treasury, which meant he was responsible for its security, although the post carried a very meagre salary and few perks. He had been lobbying for a better one for years, on the grounds that he had beggared himself by supporting the Crown during the civil wars. However, as many folk were in a similar position, Reymes’ case was neither unusual nor pressing as far as the King was concerned, and his pleas fell on deaf ears.

  ‘Reymes!’ sneered Kipps. ‘What does he know?’

  ‘Not much,’ acknowledged Warwick with a wry smile and a sharp click of his incisors. ‘However, the King’s gold is his responsibility, so it will move on his say-so.’

  ‘There he is now,’ hissed Stephens suddenly. ‘And Sir William Doyley with him.’

  He pointed through the open door to where Reymes, quivering with rage as was his wont, was conversing with a man who possessed unusually large eyes. The eyes opened even wider when their owner indulged in a pinch of snuff that made him sneeze. Kipps chuckled spitefully.

  ‘Our Earl arranged for both of them to be appointed Commissioners for the Care and Treatment of Prisoners of War. Reymes is livid.’

  ‘Is he?’ Chaloner was bemused. ‘Why? I thought he wanted a well-salaried post.’

  ‘He does,’ smirked Kipps, ‘which is why our Earl’s victory is so sweet. Being a commissioner will cost far more than it pays, and will entail a lot of hard work. Doyley is happy to serve his country, but Reymes is outraged.’

  ‘But he cannot refuse the “honour”,’ added Warwick, ‘so now he has two undesirable posts.’

  ‘Although being a commissioner is the worst,’ grinned Kipps, ‘as its disadvantages are threefold: it will keep him away from Court and the centre of power; it will cost him a fortune; and it will be a thankless chore – if he does it well, no one will notice, but if he fails, there will be hell to pay. I certainly should not want it.’

  ‘It is rare for Clarendon to best an enemy,’ remarked Stephens, still watching Reymes and Doyley through the door. ‘But he succeeded royally with Reymes.’

  ‘Especially as it could not have come at a worse time,’ put in Kipps, gleeful on his employer’s behalf. ‘Reymes had just rented a mansion in Chelsea, and invited lots of courtiers to join him there. It is expensive, and I doubt he would have done it, if he had known he was going to be made a commissioner.’

  ‘He was burgled recently, too,’ gossiped Warwick. ‘That cannot have helped his finances.’

  ‘So was I,’ sighed Stephens. ‘These days, thieves assume that all wealthy folk have abandoned their London homes for safer pastures, and view every respectable house as fair game. It is dangerous to be in bed at night, especially on the western side of the city.’

  ‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ agreed Kipps. ‘The plague has all but eliminated honest trade, so the poor grow desperate. I feel for them personally. Food is expensive, and so are medicines against infection.’

  ‘They can always smoke,’ said Stephens. ‘Tobacco is the best defence against the disease, after all. It says so on the packet, so it must be true.’

  ‘Then keep some close,’ advised Kipps. ‘One never knows who might carry the sickness. But it is almost eleven o’clock, Tom, and we shall be needed in Clarendon House. Shall we go?’

  Out on King Street, Chaloner and Kipps were faced with an important decision: to take a carriage to Piccadilly or walk. By the very nature of their trade, hackneymen were vulnerable to the plague, and fares were often obliged to run for their lives when drivers exhibited signs of ill health. But travelling on foot meant passing those who might be infected, and that was dangerous, too.

  ‘We shall walk,’ determined Kipps, when the driver of the coach they hailed began to cough. Chaloner suspected it was because of the dust that hung thick in the air – the result of weeks of dry weather – but the Seal Bearer lit his pipe to ward off the contagion, and indicated that Chaloner was to do the same.

  They made their way up King Street, both wilting under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and Chaloner wondered if it was the hottest summer he had ever experienced in England. Crops withered in the fields, streams and brooks ran dry, and even the mighty Thames was reduced to a fraction of its normal size. With no rain to wash away rubbish, London reeked, its ditches choked with accumulated filth. Some folk said it was the rank stench of decay that was responsible for spreading the plague, a notion Chaloner felt might well be true.

  It was far too hot for anything other than shirtsleeves, so Chaloner removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder, although Kipps stubbornly refused to follow suit.

  ‘I hate walking about half-naked,’ the Seal Bearer confided sheepishly. ‘It feels so … so ungentlemanly. My wife laughs at my fastidiousness, but I cannot help it.’

  ‘Will she travel with you to Hampton Court?’ asked Chaloner politely. As Mrs Kipps rarely visited White Hall, he tended to forget she existed.

  ‘Yes, and then she and Martin will take lodgings nearby.’ Kipps gave a sweet, loving smile. ‘Martin is my son. He was born without all his faculties, but he is a dear, kind boy – gentleness itself. Of course, I do not tell just anyone about him. Courtiers can be cruel, and I could not bear to have anyone mock his slow ways.’

  Chaloner was touched by the expression of trust. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twelve.’ Kipps continued to smile. ‘I hate spiders, and he checks my room every night to ensure that there are none lurking. How many lads would do that for a silly old sire? Franklin! How are you this fine morning?’

  The man he addressed in his hearty, ebullient manner was the portly Admiralty Proctor, who had delivered the letter telling Chaloner that he was a widower for the second time.

  ‘I should not be here,’ Franklin growled, raising a pomander to his face on an accompanying waft of sage, comfrey and garlic, herbs said to be effective at neutralising pestilential miasmas. ‘I should be in the country, safely away from this terrible pestilence.’

  ‘As should we all,’ agreed Kipps. ‘Have you been invited to Hampton Court?’

  Franklin scowled. ‘No – the Privy Council has ordered the Admiralty to stay here. God damn them for selfish rogues! If I die, I
shall haunt them for the rest of their miserable lives.’

  He stamped away, leaving Chaloner and Kipps to traverse Charing Cross, an open area that was usually full of traffic and pedestrians, but that was now disconcertingly quiet. Eventually, they reached the rural lane called Piccadilly. Not many weeks ago, it had been calf-deep in mud, but now it was bone dry and pounded flat by the feet of all those who had trudged along it to escape the city. It made for easy walking, although the two small carts they passed threw up clouds of dust that caught in their throats and stung their eyes. Chaloner knocked the tobacco from his pipe and put it away. It was hard enough to breathe without making matters worse with smoke.

  Londoners hated Clarendon House, and scathingly referred to it as ‘Dunkirk House’, because its owner had overseen the sale of that port to France at a controversially low price. Many claimed the French had bribed him, and that the Earl had used the money to build himself the palace in question. As Dunkirk was currently being used as a base by Dutch pirates to harry English shipping, it was not uncommon for Clarendon House to be pelted with rotten vegetables – or worse.

  That morning, it was a whirl of activity. A line of wagons stood outside, heaped with chests, while servants scurried in all directions, falling over each other in their haste to work as fast as possible. Their efforts were woefully disorganised, and the Earl’s wife, Lady Frances Clarendon, was tired, hot and frustrated as she struggled to impose some sort of order on them.

  ‘They have no idea how to load,’ she grumbled, as Chaloner and Kipps approached. ‘We are supposed to travel to Hampton Court tomorrow, but we shall never be ready at this rate.’

  ‘So soon, My Lady?’ asked Kipps in surprise. ‘The King will not leave Syon House until the end of next week. You will arrive at Hampton Court long before him.’