The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Well, there you are then: they were wise to take precautions. They were unlikely to find other employment, given that people are afraid to look at each other these days, let alone hire new minions.’

  Disinclined to dwell on the matter, Chaloner changed the subject. ‘The Earl wants me to investigate a series of thefts at Gorges House, and Kipps tells me that you know the place.’

  ‘I do. In fact, my wife is there now. It was hardly fair to leave her in Bedlam while its inmates die like flies, so I took her to Gorges instead.’

  Most men with incurably insane spouses would have welcomed an opportunity to be rid of them with no trouble to themselves, but Chaloner was not surprised to learn that it was a recourse the surgeon had refused to consider. The hapless Dorothy had been lost to Wiseman for many years, and although his mistress – an imposing lady named Temperance North – had succeeded her in his affections, the surgeon remained scrupulously solicitous of her welfare.

  ‘I plan to visit her on my way to Hampton Court,’ Wiseman went on. ‘Shall we go together? Dorothy mentioned these thefts in a letter she wrote to me, along with a death – a murder, in fact.’

  Chaloner sighed irritably. So he was right: the Earl had been holding something back. Would his master never trust him? But why neglect to mention such an important detail when he would learn it the moment he arrived in Chelsea anyway?

  ‘Who died?’ he asked, stifling his exasperation.

  ‘Another resident – one Nancy Janaway. Why? Will you investigate that as well?’

  ‘Yes, probably,’ grumbled Chaloner. ‘They might be connected.’

  ‘Good,’ said Wiseman. ‘I do not like the notion of her keeping company with killers. She might get ideas, and go on the rampage herself. And when Dorothy goes on the rampage … well, all I can say is that you do not want to be within slashing distance.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner.

  Chapter 2

  When he had returned from sea, Chaloner had abandoned the little cottage that he and Hannah had rented together, and taken rooms in Covent Garden instead. They were in a fine house that belonged to Wiseman, who had bought it cheap after its owners had decided to uproot and move to plague-free Suffolk. The surgeon did not live there himself, because he was currently serving as Master of the Company of Barber Surgeons, a post that brought with it free accommodation in Chyrurgeons’ Hall. Chaloner occupied the top floor, while the rest of the building was let to a family of apothecaries, who filled it with the sweet aroma of herbs. As they claimed their pomanders were effective against the plague, Chaloner supposed it was as safe a place to be as any.

  His lodgings comprised two spacious chambers, one of which commanded a fine view of the market, while the other overlooked a line of poky back yards. Wiseman had lent him furniture and other basic items until he bought his own, but as Chaloner was disinclined to go shopping when it was something he and Hannah would have done together, ‘home’ was spartan and not particularly comfortable.

  The following morning – Wednesday – he sat at his front window, wondering if London had ever been more forlorn. By dawn, the market was usually alive with activity, as traders converged with horses, carts and wares, making the air ring with shouts and the rattle of wheels on cobbles. That day, only a handful of vendors had arrived, and they kept well away from each other, wanting only to sell what they had brought and leave. Traffic was sparse, too. Those in carriages kept the curtains drawn, while pedestrians scurried along with their hats pulled low, lest they were hailed by someone they knew – someone who might carry the plague.

  It was a dismal sight, so Chaloner turned his attention to the room, although this was no more uplifting. The only items of a personal nature were a book of poetry that had belonged to his first wife – he had hidden it behind a skirting board, which had saved it from the servants’ sticky fingers – and his new viola da gamba, or bass viol, which he did not like nearly as much as the old ones. There was also a letter from Hannah, for which he had Kipps to thank: the Seal Bearer had found it tossed in the garden after the staff had fled, and had kept it safe until his friend had come home.

  It had been written while Hannah was in the grip of her final fever, and there was little in it that made sense. His relationship with her had been complicated, fraught with emotions he could not begin to comprehend, but he had believed that she had loved him. The letter made him uncertain, something he was finding unexpectedly difficult to handle. It concluded with:

  The ghost-man will leade the Peace-Maker and the Dandey to Stryke the Sicke and the Hurte. I knowe you wille understand, as I had it from the play-howse. Beware of smokey half-fisshe and Candels in Battell.

  Chaloner could not imagine why she thought he would understand such garbled words, and his failure to do so bothered him profoundly. He had tracked down as many of her acquaintances as he could find, and asked what they knew about her determination to visit the theatre in the face of all reason. None had been able to answer, although he had learned that the ‘play-howse’ was the Duke’s Theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where she had watched The Indian Queen. Yet even knowing this had not helped him fathom her behaviour, and he was eventually forced to concede that it would just have to remain a mystery.

  Even so, he took the note from the mantelpiece, and read it for at least the fiftieth time. Should he do what Wiseman recommended, and throw it away, on the grounds that she had not been in her right mind? But it was the only memento he had of her, and he was loath to part with it.

  To take his mind off his inadequacies as a husband, he sat down with his viol and bowed a series of exercises, supposing he had better practise if he was to play for the Earl that evening. Fortunately, his neighbours were tolerant of the noise, although they had asked for some more cheerful tunes. Since Hannah’s death, he had tended to favour sombre pieces, feeling jaunty airs were disrespectful.

  Music was his greatest love, and had helped him through all manner of crises. It was helping him now, and he felt the beginnings of relief from the nagging unhappiness that had gripped him ever since he had learned about Hannah’s death. He began to play a piece by Michael Praetorius, but the viol did not respond as he would have liked, and he eventually faltered to a stop. What was wrong with him? Was he losing his touch? Or would he play better on a different instrument? Somehow, he suspected it was not the viol that was the problem.

  He set it down and picked up Hannah’s letter again, thinking about the last time he had seen her. They had quarrelled, because she had spent more money than they had earned for the second week running. Or rather, he had mentioned the matter, and she had responded with a furious tirade about penny-pinching. Her reaction had irked him, because they had suffered problems with debt earlier in the year, and he had hoped she had mended her ways. Then she had aimed a kick at his best viol – an unforgivable offence, as far as he was concerned – and stormed out to carouse with her fun-loving friends at Court.

  Had he been a disappointment to her? He had never once told her that he loved her, even though he had known that it was something she had longed to hear. Would it even have been true? It was a question he had asked himself many times, and he still did not know the answer.

  Eventually, he pulled his mind away from Hannah, and turned it to work. The Gorges governors would be among the guests that evening, so he would question them about the thefts when they arrived – and about the murder, too.

  That left the prison and its commissioners. Clifford was at sea, and thus unavailable; Chaloner was disinclined to speak to Reymes, given his hostility towards the Earl, which was likely to be exacerbated when discussing duties he had not wanted in the first place; and Doyley might be similarly hostile, because the two were friends. The fourth and last was John Evelyn, whose home was in Deptford, some five or six miles distant. The Earl had declared Chelsea off limits, but he had said nothing about Deptford, and Chaloner would be back in plenty of time to play at the soirée.

  The best horses for h
ire were from the Crown on Fleet Street, so Chaloner started to walk there. The bell of St Clement Danes tolled as he passed, to mark the demise of a woman and her baby. The first of the day’s funerals was already underway, and a sombre procession emerged, aiming for a huge open pit. One mourner coughed, and found himself standing in splendid isolation. Most of the others smoked furiously, while the rest took surreptitious sips from phials. Chaloner pulled his own pipe from his pocket, and regarded it without enthusiasm before shoving it away again.

  He reached the inn, where he chose a large bay with white socks, and while it was being saddled, he became aware of a familiar but not very pleasant smell. It came from the nearby Rainbow Coffee House, and he decided that a dish of the beverage might put him in good stead for his journey, despite the obvious risks of entering such a place. As he opened the door, he recalled Parker’s contention that the bean could cure insanity, but doubted it was true. If it were, coffee houses would not be famous for the wild and foolish opinions that were regularly brayed in them.

  The Rainbow was not comfortable, did not sell good coffee, and most of its clientele was bigoted and unfriendly. Chaloner had no idea why he kept going back there, and supposed it was because it never changed – it had a feeling of permanence that was reassuring when his own life was in a constant state of flux.

  As usual, the owner, Thomas Farr, had burnt his beans, so the air was full of greasy brown smoke. It had been allowed to settle on the windows for so long that they were opaque, although this was not necessarily a bad thing. The government’s spies liked to monitor coffee houses, and the oily sheen prevented them from peering through the glass and taking note of who was inside.

  The Rainbow was notably emptier than usual, although its regulars still gathered for their pre-work tipples. Farr was serving them from a tall jug with a long spout. He had been busy with his sugar-nips – the pincer-like implement that allowed manageable pieces to be clipped from sugarloaves – and bowls of it stood on the table to disguise the taste of his brew. Chaloner never took any, as a silent but futile protest against the hellish conditions for slaves on plantations.

  ‘What news?’ called Farr, voicing the traditional coffee-house greeting. ‘Although I do not expect much from you or anyone else these days. It is nothing but plague, plague, plague.’

  ‘Perhaps it is God’s judgement on us for fighting the Dutch,’ said Joseph Thompson, the pious rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West. He shook his head sadly. ‘The pestilence walks among us, and what do we do? Make war on another Protestant nation, one that was kind to the King when he was in exile. They deserve better from us.’

  ‘God does not agree, or He would not have let us win the Battle of Lowestoft,’ declared Fabian Stedman, who spent so much time in the Rainbow that Chaloner was not sure he was telling the truth when he claimed to be a printer. He was a fervent Royalist, who thought that the King and his Court could do no wrong; he was in a dwindling minority, as people learned that His Majesty fell a long way short of what they had hoped for when the monarchy was restored.

  ‘It must have been an awesome sight,’ said Farr, regarding Chaloner enviously. ‘I should have liked to have seen it myself, although from a safe distance, naturally. I would not want cannonballs whistling over my head.’

  ‘Or through it,’ said Thompson grimly. ‘Men died in that encounter, and it is ghoulish to want to be a witness. Is that not so, Chaloner?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Stedman, sparing Chaloner the need to reply. ‘It was a glorious day – one when God smiled on our brave captains.’

  ‘It was a great victory,’ agreed Farr. ‘And it taught the Dutch a lesson they will not forget.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Thompson archly. ‘Then why are they still at sea, preparing for the next engagement? If they had been as badly trounced as you claim, they would be suing for peace.’

  ‘Because they are fools,’ replied Stedman stoutly. ‘They lost thousands of their sailors, but do not know when to concede defeat. Have you heard that the ones dragged from the sea are now housed in Chelsea? Word is that they are better fed than most of us.’

  ‘Thanks to the commissioners who were appointed to look after them,’ said Farr, shaking his head disapprovingly. ‘Men who will see that the rascals live in luxury.’

  Chaloner had been in enough prisons to know that this was unlikely to be true. However, he was glad the subject had been broached, because it gave him the chance to ask a few questions. The Rainbow was a great place for gossip, and he used it shamelessly for his investigations.

  ‘Do you know any of these commissioners?’

  ‘I know of them,’ replied Farr promptly. ‘Reymes is a vicious brute with more enemies than stars in the sky, although his friend Doyley is as gentle as a lamb. Then Evelyn is a writer, and Clifford is a politician who likes sitting on committees.’

  ‘But you have never met them,’ said Thompson disdainfully, and turned to Chaloner. ‘I have, though, so you should listen to my opinions about them, not Farr’s.’

  ‘Well, go on then,’ said Farr acidly. ‘Enlighten us with your superior knowledge.’

  Thompson obliged. ‘Clifford is ambitious, Reymes is aggressive, Doyley is intelligent, and Evelyn is a saint.’ He smiled fondly. ‘I plan to visit him at his home in Deptford next week. We were at Oxford together, and I have some seeds to give him.’

  ‘Seeds?’ queried Farr warily.

  ‘We share an interest in horticulture,’ explained Thompson.

  ‘I am going to Deptford, too,’ said Chaloner, thinking that Evelyn might be more willing to talk to him if he arrived with a mutual friend. ‘Perhaps we can ride there together. But it must be today, not next week.’

  ‘Why would you want to go there?’ asked Farr, with the rank suspicion of a man who rarely travelled. ‘I cannot imagine there will be anything to see, other than fields, woods and bogs.’

  ‘This coffee is terribly strong, Farr,’ remarked Stedman, changing the subject with a briskness that was typical at the Rainbow. ‘Is it from a different kind of bean?’

  ‘No, I used twice as many as normal,’ explained Farr, while Chaloner had one sip and decided to take no more. ‘I attended a lecture by a physician from Chelsea yesterday – a Dr Parker, who said that strong coffee will stop us from catching the plague. He is a medical man, so he must be right.’

  ‘From Gorges House?’ asked Thompson. ‘He told me that coffee can cure madness, but said nothing about the plague. Of course, that was before the disease arrived in the city…’

  ‘Coffee is a remarkable plant,’ averred Farr sagely. ‘With many health-giving properties. Take you lot, for example. The reason you are all hale and hearty is because you drink my brews.’

  ‘No, it is because we smoke,’ said Stedman, puffing out a great cloud of it. ‘That is what will keep us safe.’

  ‘Well, I put my trust in the Lord,’ said Thompson loftily. He stood and looked at Chaloner. ‘If you want to travel today, we should go – before the morning grows any hotter.’

  The journey to Deptford took two hours at a comfortable pace, most of it through the fields that provided London with its staples – wheat, barley, oats, fruit and vegetables. The sun had baked the ground so hard that most crops had withered, and the harvest looked set to be poor. The road was busy with people fleeing the city, but the villages along the way did not want anyone stopping in them, lest they carried the sickness, so would-be visitors were encouraged to keep moving.

  ‘I have known all four commissioners for years,’ Thompson said, as he and Chaloner left Rotherhithe, where they had tried to water their horses; they had prudently abandoned the attempt when three men appeared with pistols. ‘Reymes is very quarrelsome and has clashed with all manner of folk – Evelyn, your Earl, Clifford, Buckingham, the Strangeways family…’

  ‘The Strangeways family?’

  ‘A clan of Chelsea fishmongers. I cannot imagine what induced Reymes to begin a feud with them, as they are lowly folk, and sparri
ng with them is undignified. I feel sorry for Evelyn, though. He deserves better than to be thrust into Reymes’ abrasive company all the time. So does Doyley, for that matter.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Chelsea?’

  Thompson was suddenly furtive, although it had been a perfectly innocuous question. ‘I might have gone once or twice. Oh, look at that magnificent oak! I am surprised it has not been chopped down and used for building boats. We are near the royal shipyards, after all.’

  He prattled on, not giving Chaloner the chance to ask more, and by the time his monologue had run dry, they had reached Deptford. In stark contrast to London, this was a hive of activity, as its yards churned out new vessels to fight the Dutch. Its people were suspicious of strangers, too, and more than a few touched amulets, spat or glared as Chaloner and Thompson rode past.

  ‘Of course I will introduce you to Evelyn,’ said Thompson warmly, when Chaloner casually expressed a desire to meet the man. ‘You will like him very much.’

  Evelyn’s home was called Sayes Court, an undistinguished house encircled by remarkable grounds that boasted terraced walks, an arboretum, a kitchen garden with transparent bee hives, and an orchard with three hundred trees. An army of labourers was at work in them, and as water was pumped from the river, Evelyn’s little empire was a bright oasis of green in the dusty yellow-brown of the surrounding countryside.

  The man himself was thin, delicate and looked as if too much responsibility had been placed upon his narrow shoulders. He had a pale, tired face, and was comfortably clad in old breeches and a darned white shirt. His hands were ink-stained, and he had clearly been at work when Chaloner and Thompson were shown in.

  ‘I was appointed commissioner in May,’ he said, discussing an ‘honour’ that few would have been pleased to accept. ‘It is a great privilege, because I am to serve with Thomas Clifford.’