Frances smiled seraphically. She was the only member of the Earl’s family who Chaloner liked: the sons were haughty, pompous and overbearing, while the one daughter he had met was spoiled and unfriendly. ‘Quite – which means we shall have the first choice of rooms.’
Kipps laughed. ‘You are very wise. Is the Earl going tomorrow, too?’
‘Business will keep him here until Friday, but the rest of us are eager to be away from Piccadilly – not for fear of the plague, but to escape the heat.’
‘Hampton Court will be no cooler,’ warned Chaloner. His recent journey from Buckinghamshire had told him that the countryside was just as unpleasant as the city.
Frances tapped him lightly on the shoulder with her fan. ‘But it will seem cooler among all those green trees. And it will not reek of sewers.’
Chaloner could only suppose she had never been there.
‘That cart will not do,’ declared Kipps, frowning at a wagon that had been stacked with so many heavy articles that even the strongest team of horses would be unlikely to move it.
‘No,’ agreed Frances. ‘So you can oversee its reloading, while Thomas makes your apologies inside. My husband will not mind me commandeering his staff, under the circumstances.’
Chaloner left Kipps to do her bidding, and strode across Clarendon House’s ornate portico to a carved door that would not have looked out of place in a basilica. Inside, the house stank of anti-plague herbs. Being wealthy, the Earl could afford a lot of them, and no expense had been spared to protect the family he loved.
Beyond the portico was a large marble hall known as the Great Roome. It was a bleak, unwelcoming space, cold even in the height of summer, and Chaloner stood there for a moment, savouring its chill after the inferno outside. Then he aimed for My Lord’s Lobby, where his employer worked when not at White Hall. He knocked on the door, and pushed it open when he heard the call for him to enter.
The Earl of Clarendon sat at an elegant Venetian desk, gouty foot propped on a stool in front of him. He had been slender when he had followed the King into exile after the execution of Charles I, but his girth had expanded exponentially since the Restoration, when high office won him unlimited access to good food and wine. He wore a handsome blond wig with curls that tumbled luxuriously over his shoulders, and his clothes were made from the finest silk.
Chaloner was immediately suspicious when the Earl looked up and smiled. His master was rarely friendly towards him, because he deplored the fact that he was obliged to hire an intelligencer to protect him from his many enemies. Moreover, the fact that Chaloner had fought on the ‘wrong’ side in the civil wars remained a problem in the Earl’s mind, and the spy would have been dismissed without a second thought if there had been a Royalist with similar talents. Fortunately for Chaloner, there was not.
‘There you are,’ the Earl said genially. ‘As you know, we have been invited to join the King at last. My family will go tomorrow, but duty ties me here for another three days, so you can escort me to Hampton Court on Friday. Where is Kipps?’
‘Helping to reload a cart, sir.’
‘Good. I want my family away from this pestilential city as soon as possible. The King was wrong to leave us here for so long.’
Chaloner was sorry the Earl felt compelled to keep company with someone who did not like him, but it was hardly something he could say, so he did the wise thing and remained silent. After a moment, the smile returned to the Earl’s lips, although it was more strained than affable.
‘Did you enjoy visiting your brothers and sisters in Buckinghamshire? You were gone a month and only returned five days ago, so I imagine you did.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Chaloner wondered where the conversation was going. His answer to the question was sincere, though: his childhood had been a happy one, and the passing years had done nothing to diminish his affection for his siblings, or theirs for him.
The Earl continued to beam, although his eyes were now distinctly uneasy. ‘And have you recovered from your … er … experience?’
‘The Battle of Lowestoft, sir? Of course. It was nearly two months ago now.’
‘It must have been terrifying.’ The Earl shuddered. ‘We won a great victory, but at what price? Several thousand Hollanders killed, and another two thousand taken prisoner, not to mention our own dead. And all those cannonballs whizzing about! But I was not asking if you had put that behind you. I meant … you know.’
Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘Not really, sir.’
The Earl’s voice dropped to an exasperated whisper. ‘Your wife, man! Hannah. I told her it was reckless to go to the theatre while the plague grips our city, but she would not listen to me.’
‘She would not listen to anyone,’ said Chaloner bitterly. He had since been waylaid by any number of courtiers, who wanted him to know that they had advised her to find a safer way to spend her afternoons.
He stared morosely out of the window. He and Hannah had married before they really knew each other, and it had not taken them long to discover that they should have chosen other partners. Yet he had never wished her gone from his life, and it had been a nasty shock to return from sea to discover her dead and buried in a common pit. The little house they had rented together near Westminster had been shut up by the authorities, although not before the servants had absconded with everything that had been remotely portable, including his beloved viols.
Losing his musical instruments had been a terrible blow, and he was ashamed of himself for being more distressed about them than about his wife. He had tracked the culprits down, but too late – the viols were already on a ship bound for the Province of New York. Had he been a vengeful man, he might have taken comfort from the fact that the servants had paid a heavy toll for their dishonesty – they were dead of the plague themselves, probably caught when they had raided Hannah’s bedroom while her body was still in it.
‘Losing a wife to the pestilence must be especially painful for you,’ said the Earl, adopting an expression of fatherly concern. ‘Because the same thing happened to your first spouse.’
Chaloner’s first wife, Aletta, had died in Holland, twelve years ago, along with their baby. He wondered why the Earl was pursuing the subject when it was not an easy one for either of them. ‘It is a cruel disease, sir.’
‘It is,’ agreed the Earl softly. ‘And although it was not the contagion that took my son Ned last January, I do understand what it is like to lose a loved one. You have my sympathy.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner, still wary.
‘Right,’ said the Earl, rubbing his plump hands together in patent relief. ‘I can now tell Frances that I have done what she ordered, and enquired after your well-being. You are quite recovered from your misfortunes, and I am free to set you an assignment – although you need not start it until you have escorted me to Hampton Court on Friday.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ Chaloner was also glad the discussion was over, but wished Frances had not cajoled her husband into expressing a concern he did not feel. ‘Does it have anything to do with moving the Treasury from White Hall?’
The Earl looked puzzled for a moment, then waved a dismissive hand. ‘No, no. I did suggest that it should be spirited away secretly one night, but I am sure Bullen Reymes can manage that without our help. And if he fails, his head will roll, which I shall not mind at all. He is a vile beast, always intent on doing me harm.’
‘But he will say it was your idea,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘It—’
‘I shall deny it,’ interrupted the Earl, although Chaloner seriously doubted that would work. ‘Now, it is a beautiful day, so walk with me outside while I tell you what I want you to do.’
It was not a beautiful day as far as Chaloner was concerned. It sizzled as the sun reached its zenith, and there was not so much as a breath of wind. The Earl, who hated the cold, revelled in it. Like a lizard, thought Chaloner uncharitably, watching his master waddle along beside him in fashionable shoes that were painfully
tight.
‘Hark at that lovely thrush!’ the Earl exclaimed, although it was a robin whose piercing song sounded from a distant tree. ‘They are my favourite of all birds. They eat slugs, for a start – loathsome creatures that have destroyed my lettuces.’
He pointed to a sorry row of plants that might have fared better had someone bothered to water them. As it was, they sat in parched soil, and wilted. Obliged to stand in the full glare of the sun to inspect them, Chaloner appreciated how they must feel.
‘The assignment, sir,’ he prompted, keen to receive his orders so he could retreat to the shade.
‘I want you to go to Chelsea for me,’ said the Earl. ‘It is a charming village, quite close, and yet far enough to be safe from the plague. For the moment, at least.’
Chaloner was relieved that the mission did not involve returning to sea. He had had enough of bloodshed, and had no wish to endure a second Lowestoft.
‘I have ridden past Chelsea several times,’ he said. ‘It is full of mansions.’
The Earl nodded. ‘Eight or nine very fine houses. One is named Gorges, and is a lunatic asylum for gentlewomen. I want you to look into a case of theft there.’
It was a peculiar task, but that was nothing new, and Chaloner began the tortuous business of trying to find out why his employer should want him to explore such a matter. The Earl had a nasty habit of sending him into situations armed with only half a story, which was always annoying and sometimes downright dangerous.
‘What is your interest in the place?’ he asked. ‘Specifically.’
‘I am one of its benefactors. I was once obliged to lodge an elderly aunt there, and they treated her with such kindness that I feel compelled to help them in return. She was quite mad, poor soul – threw in her lot with Cromwell and declared herself a Parliamentarian. Well, we had to lock her away for her own good.’
‘I see.’ Chaloner glanced covertly at him, to assess whether he was being told that he was mad for supporting the Commonwealth, but the Earl’s expression was distant as he continued.
‘She was cured eventually, and now lives in Oxford, where she is unlikely to frolic with republicanism again.’
‘What does being a benefactor entail?’
‘Donating money, mostly. Dr Parker, the senior physician, has made significant advances in the study of lunacy, and I am proud to support such work.’
Chaloner knew he was being spun a yarn. First, the Earl had never shown any interest in curing insanity before; and second, he was notoriously mean, and did not part with cash readily. As always, he was holding something back.
‘You say there has been a theft,’ he prompted, hoping the truth would emerge as they talked.
‘Several. A number of items have been filched from the residents, who are mostly wealthy, so their possessions are valuable. But worse, someone has been pilfering the funds that I have provided. Mrs Bonney, the housekeeper, believes that a total of thirty pounds has disappeared!’
He spoke so seriously that Chaloner almost laughed. Thirty pounds should have been nothing to such a rich man. ‘Good gracious!’
The Earl narrowed his eyes. ‘It is a fortune to Gorges. However, what is worse is the fact that these nasty crimes are distracting Parker from his work – namely healing the songbirds.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Songbirds?’
‘Inmates,’ explained the Earl testily. ‘But I dislike the word, as it makes them sound like convicts. But songbirds are often caged, as are lunatics, and I consider it a kinder term. Oh, and while you are there, you must also protect these songbirds from harm.’
Chaloner’s bemusement intensified. ‘What manner of harm?’
‘Any harm. It is almost as important as catching the thief.’
The Earl loved money, so Chaloner believed he was eager to find out what was happening to his donations, but he also knew there was yet more to the story. He tried again to tease it out.
‘Can you tell me anything else, sir? It will save time, and allow me to work more efficiently.’
‘Gorges houses some twenty songbirds,’ obliged the Earl. ‘It is managed by Mrs Bonney, under a board of governors, of which I am the head. The other board members are Dr Parker and his assistant Dr Franklin, who is brother to the Admiralty Proctor; their accompter George Cocke; Andrew Kole, who advises on investment; and Robert Underhill, who claims to be a gentleman but who looks like a Roundhead.’
Chaloner was not sure what was meant by the last remark, but was sure it was nothing complimentary. ‘I met a man named George Cocke this morning – a Treasury official.’
‘A fat, oily person with an eye for the ladies?’ When Chaloner nodded, the Earl went on, ‘Then it is the same man. He is an associate of Bullen Reymes, and sometimes stays in the mansion that Reymes has rented to escape the plague. So does Kole. Scoundrels, all of them!’
Chaloner recalled what Sir Philip Warwick had said about Reymes’ houseguests: that they were courtiers. Cocke was one, by virtue of his Treasury post, but Chaloner had never met anyone at White Hall named Andrew Kole. He said so.
‘Kole is a speculator, who thinks he bought the Chelsea Theological College from the government,’ explained the Earl. ‘Unfortunately for him, he misread the deeds and only hired it from us. Thus he was annoyed when we took it away and turned it into a gaol – as you may have heard, it is where we put the prisoners we captured at the Battle of Lowestoft.’
Chaloner nodded, recalling how Captain Lester had thought it was too close to London. ‘Kole does not hold you responsible for depriving him of his property, does he?’
The Earl shook his head. ‘Personally, I thought it was rather unkind. However, Kole allowed himself to be blinded by greed – the College was ruinous, so he effected a few repairs, and aimed to make a quick profit by renting it out to aristocrats fleeing the plague. Losing it has broken him financially, which is why he is obliged to live on Reymes’ charity.’
‘And this is the man who tells Gorges how to manage its funds?’ asked Chaloner warily. ‘One who misinterpreted legal documents and lost everything he owns?’
‘He was very successful before the college fiasco, and it is hard to condemn a man for a mistake that I might have made myself – the legal wording was very sly.’
‘Does he bear the government a grudge?’
‘Oh, I imagine so. I certainly would. But you can judge him for yourself, Chaloner. There is a board meeting today, and as I did not want to travel all the way to Chelsea myself, I ordered them to hold it here instead.’
‘They do not mind?’ Chaloner was startled by his employer’s selfish attitude to the convenience of others.
The Earl’s smile was smug. ‘They defer to me as the major benefactor.’
Chaloner was still unhappy with what he had been told – or rather, what he had not been told – about the task he had been assigned, and had a lot of questions. ‘You decry Kole and Cocke as scoundrels, yet you donate money to a foundation where they have a say in how it is spent. Why—’
‘They have very little power,’ interrupted the Earl dismissively. ‘Because I make all the important decisions. Perhaps one of them resents it, and steals for revenge. You will have to find out, but do not worry about offending them – if anyone resigns in a huff, I shall replace him with someone of my own choosing, which will suit me very nicely.’
‘I see.’
The Earl was thoughtful for a moment. ‘There is something else you can do for me while in Chelsea, too: visit that prison. I am uncomfortable with the notion of a lot of hostile Hollanders so close to London, and I want you to assess whether they pose a risk to national security.’
‘Is there any reason to suppose they might?’
‘Oh, yes! It is being run by four commissioners, one of whom is the hateful Reymes. The others are Sir William Doyley, who cannot go five minutes without a pinch of snuff; John Evelyn, who lives in Deptford; and Sir Thomas Clifford, who is at sea with the navy.’
Chal
oner had seen Doyley take snuff at White Hall that morning, while he knew Clifford from Swiftsure. He had never met Evelyn, although he was familiar with the name – the family had made gunpowder for both sides during the civil wars.
‘I shall ride to Chelsea today,’ he said, thinking that concerns about the gaol were a lot more pressing than a missing thirty pounds. It seemed that Lester had been right to question the decision to use the place.
‘No, you will not,’ countered the Earl irritably. ‘I told you – I want you here until Friday. It is only three days hence anyway, which will make no difference to either matter.’
Chaloner was not so sure, but knew better than to argue. ‘Very well, sir.’
‘There is one last thing before we go inside: I want you to play some music for a gathering I am obliged to hold tomorrow. I dare not hire professionals, lest they have the plague.’
Chaloner experienced a sharp pang of grief. ‘I cannot, sir. My viols were stolen by the servants after Hannah … when she was not there to stop them.’
The Earl grimaced. ‘Dishonest staff! The bane of any decent establishment. But Kipps told me that you have already bought a replacement.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But it is not—’
‘Do not worry about disappointing my guests,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘They are mostly unimportant people, who will not mind amateurs.’
Chaloner resented the implication that amateur equalled mediocre. Indeed, he might have made music his career, if his father had not deemed it an unsuitable occupation for gentlemen. He sometimes wondered what his sire would have thought of his work with the Earl, and suspected he would have been appalled. It was not a happy notion, but much had changed since the wars, and a youngest son with no inheritance was obliged to make a living as best he could.
‘I am not ready to play it in public yet,’ he said stiffly. ‘Viols are like horses – it takes a while to get to know their—’
‘Nonsense,’ said the Earl briskly. ‘I am sure you will do splendidly. But I hear the bell striking the hour, so we must hurry or we shall be late for the meeting.’
The Chelsea Strangler Page 3