‘I tried to refuse,’ he said defensively, as he sat at the virginals, ‘but Clarendon would not listen, so now I am obliged to make an ass of myself in this ridiculously hot uniform. Still, at least none of my friends are here to witness my humiliation. Most have gone to Chelsea.’
‘Chelsea?’ queried Chaloner. ‘Not Hampton Court?’
Brodrick’s expression was bitter. ‘None of us were invited to Hampton Court – that is reserved for important people, apparently. It came as a nasty shock to learn that the King does not value me, after all I have done for him.’
‘I feel the same,’ agreed Greeting. ‘And I said as much to Bullen Reymes, who promptly asked me to join him in Chelsea instead. I leave at first light tomorrow, and I am looking forward to it. It will be excellent fun.’
‘Really?’ asked Brodrick doubtfully. ‘My friends said so, but I assumed they were just putting a brave face on the situation.’
‘We shall celebrate as never before,’ declared Greeting, and turned to Chaloner. ‘Reymes has taken the lease on Buckingham House, which is the largest mansion in Chelsea, and he has extended his hospitality to anyone left behind in White Hall. His revels are the talk of the country, so we shall have a far better time with him than in boring old Hampton Court.’
Try as he might, Chaloner could not imagine the surly Reymes presiding over the kind of rambunctious carousing that would rival that of the King’s dissolute favourites.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked sceptically.
‘My friend Hungerford has just spent a week there,’ replied Greeting. ‘And he told me that the place is one long, continuous party. Indeed, he felt compelled to come back to London for a rest, as it had all but exhausted him.’
‘Perhaps I should go, then,’ said Brodrick, brightening. ‘It was good of him to ask me really, given his antipathy towards my cousin. Yet such entertainments must be costly, and he is not a wealthy man. Why is he doing it?’
‘He says he lost a lot of friends when the plague last struck, and he wants to spirit as many of us out of town as possible,’ explained Greeting, then smirked maliciously. ‘Although I suspect his real aim is to curry favour with the King, who must have some qualms about leaving us here to die.’
‘And hosting us will salve His Majesty’s guilty conscience and put him in Reymes’ debt,’ mused Brodrick. ‘Clever.’
‘There will be at least thirty of us in Chelsea,’ Greeting went on happily, ‘so do not worry, Brodrick – you will not want for lively company. But we had better decide what to play before Anne appears and demands a solo.’ He shuddered at the prospect.
They selected some suitable pieces, tuned their instruments and began. It was a duet by Couperin with some basic keyboard accompaniment. Chaloner was aware that his playing was mechanical rather than inspired, and saw Greeting regarding him quizzically, clearly wondering what was wrong. Chaloner was tempted to ask if they could swap viols. Surely it was the instrument that was at fault? Then Anne arrived.
‘Stop,’ she commanded imperiously. ‘How dare you start without me.’
‘We had not started,’ lied Brodrick. ‘We were just practising.’
‘Well, you should have waited. James? Bring me my flute.’
A strutting child of five or six – the Earl’s youngest son – obliged, and there was some consternation when Anne tried to play, only to discover that the brat had shoved a grape inside it. Red juice dribbled down her white dress, resulting in a wail of dismay from her and a gale of malevolent laughter from the boy. Then her mother and other brothers arrived: Henry, aloof and pompous, and Lawrence, acid-tongued and ambitious. Both were in their twenties, and had already embarked on careers in politics and at Court.
‘Would you like a cup of wine before you start in earnest?’ asked Frances pleasantly. ‘You must be terribly hot, sawing away in all those thick clothes.’
‘We would, and we are,’ replied Brodrick promptly. ‘Make mine a large one.’
Frances turned to Lawrence. ‘Will you fetch it, dear?’
‘I most certainly will not,’ declared Lawrence, affronted. ‘I am no servant.’
‘I told Father that they should have nothing until they had finished performing anyway,’ said Henry, giving his kinsman a spiteful glance. ‘They may have a drop later, if there is any left.’
‘So let us begin,’ said Anne, and launched into a piece without telling anyone what she had chosen, so she played a squeaky solo until the other three could work out what they were meant to do. Accompanying her was not easy, as she had no sense of timing, and a habit of replaying the parts she liked while omitting the more difficult ones. Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face, especially when he saw Brodrick’s agonised expression.
After a while, he became aware of someone standing in the doorway. It was the oily Cocke, eyes fixed glisteningly on Anne’s low-cut bodice. The accompter wore a fine blue coat, but it was entirely devoid of lace, which looked odd in such elevated company. Even Chaloner, who deplored frills, had some on his shirt, while the other guests had deployed yards of it.
‘Exquisite,’ Cocke simpered when there was a pause – an unscheduled one, as Anne had decided she was not going to perform the next section, and was perusing the page to see where she might like to go next. As Chaloner was sure Cocke’s compliment could not pertain to the music, he could only assume he meant her bosom. ‘Pray continue. I have always loved Gibbons.’
‘That was Dowland,’ said Greeting shortly. ‘But we shall have Gibbons if you like. Ready, Chaloner? One, two, three!’
He began a piece for two viols. Anne stamped her foot in petulant fury when she realised there was no part for her, but Cocke slithered up and began muttering in her ear. Chaloner fully expected her to clout him for his impudence, and was surprised when she allowed him to take her arm and escort her away. He was even more startled when she smiled, and he supposed the greasy accompter had qualities to which he himself was blind.
‘Thank God!’ breathed Brodrick, once she was out of earshot. ‘I think I might have throttled her if she had carried on much longer. She should not be allowed near a flageolet, let alone a flute.’
Once Anne had gone, the music improved, although Chaloner still felt his own playing was well below par. He made an excuse to change viols with Greeting, and was disheartened when it made no difference. Then Anne reappeared, Cocke in tow, and announced that she was going to perform a solo. Chaloner left the antechamber abruptly when he saw she was aiming to massacre a piece by Henry Lawes, one of his favourite composers.
‘The only way I shall get through this evening is by dulling my mind with drink,’ murmured Greeting, who had followed him out. ‘I recommend you do likewise.’
He disappeared into the milling throng, leaving Chaloner to loiter in the shadows and assess who had accepted the Earl’s hospitality. They were an eclectic assortment, and stood in clusters. The Gorges folk were in one corner, a group of navy clerks and merchants was in another, while the Treasury men were by the window; Doyley was with them, but Chaloner was astonished to see that Bullen Reymes had deigned to enter the home of his sworn enemy. He wondered if there would be trouble. A noisy clot of courtiers hogged the middle of the room – a few who had been charged to mind the palace in the King’s absence, but most were the penniless hangers-on who His Majesty thought he would do without in Hampton Court.
‘Poor Anne,’ said Frances, coming to stand beside him during a particularly squawky section. ‘I do not think the King’s Private Musick need fear competition from her.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, glumly thinking that they need not fear competition from him either. Then he realised it was not the most politic of responses, but Frances was already talking about something else.
‘I understand you are to investigate these thefts at Gorges,’ she went on. ‘I am so glad. It is a good place, and I was sorry to hear that some unscrupulous villain has been at work there. I am sure the residents will be much happier knowing that you a
im to expose the culprit.’
Chaloner was tempted to point out that if the residents were dangerous lunatics, they probably would not care. ‘Have you ever visited Gorges?’
‘Once. It is a pretty place with a large orchard, although I have heard tales of a spectre that roams at night. Perhaps you would look into that, too, although please do not tell my husband. I should not like to worry him.’
So Chaloner was now under orders from the Earl to keep Nancy’s murder from the rest of his family, and under Frances’ orders to investigate phantoms without telling the Earl. Yet again, he sensed there was a lot he was not being told about the assignment in Chelsea. He was about to see if he could prise the truth from Frances, when Anne appeared in angry tears because Brodrick had said something to offend. Frances hurried away to smooth ruffled feathers, so Chaloner returned to his observations. The courtiers had grown raucous, which was just as well, as they drowned out the unpleasant sounds that began emanating from the antechamber again. Then Greeting approached.
‘Lady Clarendon asked Brodrick so prettily to accompany Anne that he could not refuse,’ he reported grimly. ‘All I can say is that I am glad it was not me. Are you drunk yet? If not, you should be, as we are likely to be ordered back in there at any moment.’
‘Do you know any of these people?’ asked Chaloner, in the hope that the gossiping violist might be able to tell him something useful.
‘The courtiers, of course, and the Treasury men. Secretary Warwick is one of the most boring fellows I have ever met, but I suppose he cannot help it, and he is a very worthy person, I am sure. I am surprised Prefect Reymes is here, though, because he hates the Earl. You should watch him, Chaloner – he might do your master harm. Hah! See? Here comes trouble now.’
There was trouble indeed, as the Earl had approached Reymes with a sly smirk. Chaloner edged closer, to hear what was being said.
‘How do you like being a commissioner, Reymes?’ the Earl asked, all airy innocence.
Reymes scowled. ‘I know I have you to thank for that particular burden.’
He spoke with such vicious rage that Chaloner would have denied it had he been the Earl, but Clarendon was not a man to resist a gloat. He inclined his head smugly.
‘I thought it would suit your talents.’
Fury and contempt vied for supremacy in Reymes’ eyes as he looked around him. ‘I never thought I would set foot in Dunkirk House. Yet here I am, a fêted guest.’
‘Hardly fêted,’ said the Earl tightly. He abhorred the nickname for his home, and hearing it never failed to rile him. ‘Just one of many petty bureaucrats I felt obliged to entertain. After all, you have so little else in your lives. And none of you have been invited to Hampton Court.’
‘Nor were you until two days ago,’ Reymes flashed back. ‘Your star is fading fast.’
But the Earl had regained his self-control. ‘So is yours, now that you have accepted the post of commissioner. It will be expensive in time and money, and the potential for disaster is great.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Reymes dangerously.
The Earl smiled sweetly. ‘The Theological College is in a very parlous state, so you will be faced with constant bills for repairs. But when we are at peace again, and it reverts to the Crown, no one will appreciate what you have done. Instead, you will be held responsible for any damage.’
Reymes’ face was so dark that Chaloner hurried forward, afraid that the prefect might whip out his sword and dispatch his tormentor there and then, but Kipps was there before him. The Seal Bearer took Clarendon’s arm, and politely but firmly steered him away to meet other guests.
‘Ignore him, Bullen,’ advised Doyley gently. ‘The buildings are not as bad as he claims, because Kole spent a fortune upgrading them.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Warwick, and clicked his teeth together. ‘And if there are any bumps or scratches, you will not need to pay workmen to put all to rights – the prisoners will do it for free.’
At that point, Stephens, the bulky Sergeant at Arms, mooted the possibility of another cup of claret, and the Treasury men moved away together. When they had gone, Kipps joined Chaloner, mopping his face with a silken handkerchief.
‘Our master is his own worst enemy sometimes,’ he remarked ruefully. ‘Why did he have to goad Reymes? I do not like the fellow, but nothing can be gained from jibing him.’
Chaloner resumed his surveillance with Kipps at his side. However, he had not been observing for long before Cocke bustled up. The accompter had exchanged Anne for Lady Savage, one of White Hall’s most flamboyant characters, a person of indeterminate age with a face that showed the ravages of high living. She was puffing a pipe, claiming in a husky voice that it was to ward off the plague, although everyone knew that she had been a devotee of tobacco for years.
‘A fine soirée, Kipps,’ Cocke declared. His hand snaked behind his companion, and did something that made her squeal and slap him playfully with her fan. ‘You can tell your master so, although you might mention that he should not introduce the cheap wine quite so early in the proceedings. We are still sober enough to tell the difference.’
‘This is not one of your drunken orgies,’ said Kipps coldly, but Cocke had already waddled away. The Seal Bearer scowled after him. ‘I cannot abide that man. He is not even wearing any lace, which is doubtless a deliberate insult to his host. Moreover, I am uncertain of his probity, so when you investigate those Gorges thefts, be sure to question him first.’
‘It would be foolish to risk a lucrative Treasury post for a few pounds from Gorges,’ said Chaloner. ‘So I doubt he is the culprit.’
‘Do not be so sure. He thinks everyone else is stupid, and that he can do what he likes without being caught. Well, I am relying on you to prove him wrong. Incidentally, he has three posts, not two – he is accompter for the prison, as well as for the Treasury and Gorges. And if he is cheating Gorges, we do not want him anywhere near the other two. Oh, God!’
Chaloner jumped in alarm, then relaxed when he realised that Kipps had only seen a spider crawling up the doorpost. He knocked it into his hand and tipped it out of the window. The Seal Bearer gave a wan smile.
‘I hate those things … their long legs and hairy bodies…’ He shuddered. ‘But let us talk of nicer things. Your playing was lovely, and I wish Martin could have heard it. He adores music. I do not suppose you would consider playing for him one day, would you?’
‘I doubt he would be impressed,’ said Chaloner gloomily. ‘I cannot settle to it at the moment.’
Kipps shot him a sympathetic glance. ‘Probably something to do with Hannah, but it will pass, and Martin will not mind a few rough notes. Come tomorrow.’
Chaloner did not want to go, but it would have been churlish to refuse Kipps, who had always treated him kindly. He nodded reluctant assent, and the Seal Bearer smiled his thanks before disappearing to talk to the navy men. Among them was the Admiralty Proctor – Richard Franklin – who was with Dr Franklin from Gorges. Chaloner immediately noted the resemblance between the two. The proctor was complaining about being left behind in plague-ridden London, while the physician was informing him that a sponge dipped in vinegar would keep him from infection. Neither was listening to the other.
‘They are brothers,’ said Samuel Pepys, a navy clerk with whom Chaloner had a passing acquaintance. He was smoking a pipe, and a bottle of London Treacle poked from his pocket; Pepys was taking no chances. ‘Peas in a pod, as you can see.’ Then he cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘I mean no disrespect, but would you like the name of a decent tailor?’
Chaloner did not feel equal to explaining why he was wearing clothes that were several sizes too big, so he asked a question of his own instead. ‘How much longer will you stay in London?’
Pepys smiled briefly and regretfully. ‘I cannot leave – we must keep the Fleet in fighting trim against the Dutch. Our sailors take their turn against the sword; I must not therefore grudge to take mine at the pestilence.’
He began to talk about the other guests at that point, showing himself to be an amusing, if spiteful, observer of human nature. One man who drew his particular attention was Rector Wilkinson of Chelsea, whom he described as ‘a man of very scandalous report’. The epithet was apposite, because Wilkinson did look like a cleric with radical opinions: he had wild hair, wilder eyes, and his movements were taut and jerky, as if he was constantly on the verge of blurting seditious remarks.
Pepys did not stay with Chaloner long, as there were more important people to impress, so the spy took the opportunity to home in on the Gorges governors.
Underhill was inspecting the Earl’s books again, looking more Parliamentarian than ever in his plain but well-cut clothes and severely shorn hair, while Kole looked around resentfully, jealous of the wealth he saw. The speculator was still wearing his flashy clothes, but the paint had chipped on his shoes, and the bright lamplight exposed the darns on his elbows.
Next to them, Mrs Bonney was patently uncomfortable in the splendour of Clarendon House, and twisted her reticule anxiously in her man-sized hands. Meanwhile, Franklin had abandoned his brother, and was arguing furiously with Parker – it seemed that Parker had doctored some of the wine as an experiment to see if it hastened the onset of drunkenness. Franklin’s disapproval could be seen in the angry set of his mouth, while Parker was indignant that his assistant should dare criticise his scientific endeavours. Chaloner thought Franklin had the right of it – it was hardly ethical to dose someone else’s guests with dubious potions. Both fell silent as he approached.
‘I understand that one of your charges was murdered recently,’ he said bluntly, aiming to provoke a reaction. He was not disappointed.
‘How did you find out?’ cried Parker, and clutched his goblet so hard that he broke the stem, while the other governors exchanged glances of dismay. All except Underhill, who looked smug.
The Chelsea Strangler Page 7