‘Knowledge about what?’
‘Everything: philosophy, plants, the Bible, animal husbandry, fashion, witchcraft, horse racing. Then he pinched some nice clothes and declared himself a gentleman. Rich people believe him, and offer hospitality on the understanding that he will reciprocate one day. Of course, he never could.’
‘So he was a cheat. Was he still a thief?’
‘He had no need to steal as long as wealthy hosts saw to his needs. And he was not a fool, to bite the hand that fed him. However, I suspect books would have been irresistible, so I am not surprised to hear you say that he tried to make off with some from Dunkirk House.’
‘Do his old rookery associates resent his success?’
‘You mean did one march out to Piccadilly and strangle him? No – they are all admiration for his audacity. I am afraid you will have to look elsewhere for your culprit.’
Chaloner was bemused. ‘But he dressed in clothes that made him look like one of Cromwell’s more fervent supporters, and his manners were surly. If he aimed to ape gentlemen, why not pretend to be a Cavalier?’
Maude laughed. ‘That was the genius of his plan. Everyone is a Royalist these days, and there are hundreds of them in London alone, all penniless and scavenging where they can. But who in their right mind would pretend to be a Roundhead? Well, Underhill did, and it meant no one ever questioned his claims. Simple, but effective.’
Chapter 4
Chaloner fell asleep in the chair after his third cup of wine at Hercules’ Pillars Alley, and woke just as dawn was stealing across the rooftops. It was Thursday, which meant he had one more day before the Earl wanted him to travel to Hampton Court and Chelsea, so he decided to make the most of it by learning about Underhill’s curious past. He also wanted to speak to Clarendon House’s staff, in the hope that one of them might have noticed something to help him solve the murder.
There was no sign of Maude, but bread, cheese and breakfast ale had been left for him on the table, along with a pouch filled with herbs that he supposed was to keep him safe from the plague. It smelled of lavender, rosemary, juniper and sage. He drank the ale, put the pouch in his pocket, wrapped the food in a cloth, and set off towards the place from which Underhill had hailed.
The Fleet Rookery was an area where crime was rife, and the forces of law and order dared not tread. It was the domain of thieves and killers, and visitors were not welcome. Chaloner was aware of unseen eyes watching him as he made his way to Turnagain Lane, but no one tried to stop him. He had been there before and they knew where he was going: to visit a woman named Mother Greene. The residents were afraid of her, believing her to be a witch.
The plague was more in evidence in the rookery, being an overcrowded, insanitary part of the city, and Chaloner was appalled by the number of doors marked with red crosses. Many houses appeared to be abandoned, and he wondered if their occupants were all dead inside. It certainly smelled as though they were – the reek of decay was powerful and all-invasive in the airless alleys.
‘Tom!’ exclaimed Mother Greene warmly, when she opened her door to his knock. She flung the fragrant contents of a small flask over him, although whether to protect him or herself was impossible to say. ‘Come in and tell me what you have been doing these last few weeks.’
Chaloner had always liked her cottage with its exotic aroma of potent plants. There were several mixing bowls on the table, and he supposed she had been making plague remedies, like everyone else with any modicum of expertise in the art of healing.
‘Sal mirabilis,’ she explained, when she saw where he was looking. ‘Or “miraculous salts” in common parlance – although not miraculous enough to save most of my customers. Still, they are cheaper than London Treacle, which is beyond the means of all but the wealthiest folk. I heard about your wife, by the way.’
Chaloner opened his mouth to speak, but then was not sure what to say. He did not want to launch into an interrogation about Underhill immediately, because Mother Greene would consider it rude, but he could not bring himself to make small talk about Hannah.
‘It is all right,’ she said kindly. ‘You do not have to tell me about it. Sit by the hearth and enjoy a pipe of tobacco instead. Unless you have brought me breakfast?’
Chaloner handed her the cloth bundle, and watched her eyes light up. The bread was fresh and soft, a far cry from the rough loaves she usually ate, while the cheese was rich and creamy. She hobbled outside, and returned a moment later with a jug of frothing milk, taken fresh from the donkey that was tethered in the yard outside.
‘You have bought one of my pouches,’ she said, sniffing suddenly, although how she had managed to detect the contents of his pocket through the reek of her other potions was beyond Chaloner. He pulled it out and she nodded her satisfaction. ‘Good. It will not keep you safe, of course, as nothing can, but it will mask unpleasant smells as you walk.’
‘Is the disease very bad here?’
She nodded soberly. ‘You were brave to come. Are you not afraid?’
‘I try not to think about it.’
‘Which makes you either very wise or very foolish. Why are you here? It must be important to risk such a journey.’
‘To ask about a man named Robert Underhill. Did you know him?’
‘Why? Is he dead?’ When Chaloner inclined his head, she continued: ‘Pity. He thought he could live happily for ever by deceiving the rich, but I warned him that it was only a matter of time before he was exposed. How did he meet his end?’
Chaloner told her about the murder and the thefts from Gorges, ending with a question. ‘Was he the kind of man to steal from an asylum?’
‘No,’ she replied with total conviction. ‘He would not have risked all he had built for thirty pounds and trinkets. He probably accepted the governorship to impress others he aimed to sponge from – your Earl, most likely – so stealing from them would have been counterproductive. He was too shrewd for that.’
‘But he did steal from Clarendon – three valuable books.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Mother Greene shook her head slowly. ‘Books. He never could resist those – not once he had tasted the knowledge they held. However, it is possible that he intended to take them back once he had finished with them – perhaps when living at Clarendon House at your Earl’s invitation and expense.’
‘That would never have happened,’ said Chaloner. ‘Clarendon cannot abide Parliamentarians, and Underhill was definitely not his kind of guest.’
‘Well, I suppose we shall never know,’ said Mother Greene.
‘When did you last see Underhill?’
‘A few weeks ago. He told me that he had befriended a medical man in Chelsea, who was delighted to host him in exchange for intelligent conversation.’
‘Did he mention arguments with anyone?’
‘None, and I was under the impression that he had found himself a pleasant niche, and intended to stay a while.’
Chaloner supposed he had better find out whether Parker had discovered that his houseguest was not all he claimed, and had killed him in a fit of indignation. He listed his other suspects, and was disappointed when Mother Greene shook her head to say she knew none of them, and that no one matching their descriptions had been in her domain. Except one.
‘Andrew Kole,’ she mused. ‘Is he the speculator who bought some big old ruin, spent all his money repairing it, and was broken when the government took it away from him?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘He came here?’
‘Once. He followed Underhill to my house. It occurred to me that he might have discovered Underhill’s game, and aimed to claw back his riches by blackmail. But he would not have won that contest: Underhill would have run circles around him.’
Her words placed Kole firmly at the top of Chaloner’s list of suspects.
Feeling the need to discuss the murders, but doubtful that Kipps would provide any useful insights, Chaloner walked to Lincoln’s Inn on Chancery Lane. He rapped on the gate, and was aware of
being scrutinised very carefully before it was opened. Voice muffled by a protective scarf, the porter informed him that Mr Thurloe, bencher of that great foundation, was in his rooms.
Chaloner walked slowly through the venerable buildings with their ancient, peaceful grounds, until he reached Dial Court, named for the astronomical instrument that graced its centre, a piece of equipment so complex that no one knew how to use it. He climbed the stairs to the first floor, aware of the comfortingly familiar scent of polished wood and old books. It was the one place in London where he felt truly at home, although that was not saying much, given that his current abode contained so little he could call his own.
He knocked softly on the door to Chamber XIII, and opened it to see John Thurloe sitting at a table, writing. Thurloe had been Oliver Cromwell’s Spymaster General and Secretary of State, although no one looking at his modest bearing and diffident manner would imagine that he had held the security of a nation in his hands for several years. He had retired from politics at the Restoration, and now lived in quiet obscurity, splitting his time between London and his Oxfordshire estates.
He had fled London when the plague had first erupted, vowing to stay away until the crisis was over. Then one of Cromwell’s sons had needed help with an urgent legal matter, so he had come back – he was devoted to the Lord Protector’s family, and refused them nothing, even if it meant risking his life. He had solved the problem with his customary efficiency, but then had agreed to stay for a few more days to deal with pressing Inn business – business that involved sitting safely in his chambers and never going out.
‘Stay back, Tom!’ he gulped in alarm. ‘Where have you been today?’
‘The Fleet Rookery,’ replied Chaloner wickedly, knowing what Thurloe’s reaction would be. He was not disappointed: the ex-Spymaster cowered away in horror. Thurloe imagined himself to be in fragile health, and was always swallowing pills and potions in an effort to regain the vigour he had experienced at twenty. The prospect of catching the plague had sent him apoplectic with terror, and Chaloner dreaded to imagine how many ‘preventatives’ he had devoured to keep the sickness at bay.
‘Are you insane?’ Thurloe scrabbled frantically for the pouch of herbs that lay next to him. ‘It has more victims than any other part of the city! And you come from there to me?’
‘Directly,’ replied Chaloner. ‘After eating breakfast with one of its inhabitants.’
‘Then stay away!’ cried Thurloe, burying his nose in the little bag. His next words were muffled. ‘I would have thought that you, of all people, would know better. Hannah tripped around imagining herself to be immune, and look what happened to her.’
It was a low blow, and Chaloner felt his impishness drain away. ‘True,’ he acknowledged.
‘Had you come an hour later, you would have missed me,’ Thurloe went on. ‘My coach leaves at eleven.’
‘There will not be anyone left in the city soon,’ said Chaloner, ignoring Thurloe’s command to remain in the hall and going to sit on a stool. ‘The Earl will travel to Hampton Court tomorrow, and his family goes today. White Hall is empty except for the Treasury men and a few unlucky servants, and weeds grow in the middle of Fleet Street, because there is so little traffic.’
‘Ask the Earl to take you with him,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘And if he refuses, come to me in Oxfordshire, although you will have to submit to tests to prove that you have not brought the contagion with you. I would never forgive myself if Ann and the children…’
‘Thank you, but he wants me to visit Chelsea. He is patron of the lunatic asylum there, which has been the victim of thefts. There have also been two murders – an inmate and a member of its board of governors. Robert Underhill.’
‘The man who hailed from the gutters, but who read a few books, and declared himself a gentleman? Is that why you went to the Fleet Rookery in the face of all common sense?’
‘You know him?’
‘He was a “person of interest” during the Commonwealth, because he appeared from nowhere and claimed to be rich. I investigated him thoroughly, but he was just a cheat who aimed to live off the generosity of others. You say he has been murdered?’
‘Strangled in Clarendon House, and I have eight suspects among his fellow guests. However, having learned his background – as a fraud and a spy for Williamson – I wonder if I should widen my search. Such a career must have earned him enemies.’
‘Not his career as an imposter – he always moved on before he was exposed, which is why he remained in business for so long. Did you say he died in Clarendon House? Why was he there?’
Chaloner gave an account of what had happened, then listed those who had had the opportunity and the motive to kill Underhill. Thurloe was one of those rare individuals who could listen without interrupting, and he sat in silence until Chaloner had finished. Then he spent some moments with his eyes closed, pondering. The pouch of herbs lay forgotten on the table.
‘You think his murder and Nancy’s are connected?’ he asked eventually.
‘Well, both were throttled.’
‘That might be coincidence. It is the method of choice where a bloodless death is required, as I am sure you know. Does one suspect stand out from the others?’
‘Andrew Kole – on the basis of his guilty manner when answering questions, the fact that he and Underhill quarrelled, and that he once followed Underhill into the Fleet Rookery. Of course, none of it is real proof…’
‘I know Kole, too. He “bought” the Theological College, because he thought he could turn it into a quick profit, but he was blinded by greed, and failed to read the contract properly. Indeed, his claim on the place is one of the matters that has kept me in London these last few days, when common sense screams at me to race home.’
‘Kole hired you to represent him?’
Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘He could not afford a lawyer from Lincoln’s Inn. However, the government can, and we were asked to ensure that its agents had acted correctly when they seized the building. They did, and my assessment will be read to Kole this afternoon. However, I imagine he will continue the fight, even though the law is against him.’
‘He did say that he intended to spend the day here, hunting down deeds to prove his case.’
‘He will not find any, because they do not exist.’ Thurloe stood abruptly. ‘I am uncomfortable with you breathing the same air as me, and I shall feel safer outside. Walk with me in the gardens.’
Lincoln’s Inn’s grounds comprised neatly gravelled paths, small hedges and carefully sculpted shrubs. Mature trees at the far end provided some shade, but the rest suffered the full brunt of the sun. Some kindly soul had filled a shallow bowl with water, and a family of sparrows were bathing in it, flinging up showers of droplets that caught the sunlight as they fell.
‘I shall miss this place,’ sighed Thurloe. ‘I wonder if I will ever see it again.’
Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘Why should you not? Oxfordshire is not the end of the world, and you have made the journey many times before.’
‘These are deadly times, Tom, and it is difficult to know what the future holds for any of us. I may not want to return if this terrible pestilence inflicts too many changes on the city I love.’
‘What does the future hold for the Theological College?’ asked Chaloner, unwilling to dwell on the plague. ‘For instance, why does Kole persist with his claim, when everyone else seems to accept that he was outmanoeuvred by the government?’
‘Desperation, I imagine. When the Dutch war is over and the prisoners have gone, the King has promised the place to the Royal Society. Kole will never have it, despite spending his entire fortune on making it habitable. Of course, he is not alone in thinking it should be his.’
‘You mean there are people who support him?’
‘No, I mean that there are two other claimants. It was built sixty-odd years ago by Dean Sutcliffe of Exeter Cathedral. He is dead now, but his nephew and chief beneficiary – John Sut
cliffe – thinks the College belongs to him.’
Chaloner recalled being told as much in Deptford. ‘I have heard that the younger Sutcliffe is a very sinister fellow.’
‘He is. I was obliged to watch him very carefully during the Commonwealth, because he is a malcontent, dissatisfied with everyone and everything around him. Before he inherited his uncle’s estate – such as it was without the College – he made a living as an assassin. He worked for both sides during the wars, and my sources told me that he thoroughly enjoyed the work.’
Rector Thompson had said the same, Chaloner recalled. ‘Does he live in Chelsea?’
‘In Greenwich. According to my contacts, he has retired from killing, and passes his time by watching plays. Of course, that is difficult now all the theatres have closed.’
‘Commissioner Evelyn mentioned his love of dramas,’ said Chaloner, and then wondered if he had walked past the man without knowing it. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Lean and hungry, with a menacing demeanour.’
Chaloner would have noticed anyone fitting that description. ‘Who is the third claimant?’
‘Rector Wilkinson, another of your suspects. He was the College’s last provost and thinks it should again be filled with polemical divines. He is a vile character – a religious bigot.’
‘Bigoted enough to kill?’
‘Quite possibly. However, I predict that Underhill’s murder will be connected to the prison, and if I were you, I would start my enquiries there.’
‘Because he was spying on it for Williamson?’
‘Yes, and because he associated with two of its three claimants – you say he had violent disagreements with Kole, while living in Chelsea will have put him in Wilkinson’s path.’
‘But being a Gorges governor put him in company with five of my suspects – Kole, Parker, Franklin, Cocke and Mrs Bonney.’
‘True, but thirty pounds and a few baubles are not in the same league as legal ownership of a large and valuable estate. One is far more likely to result in murder than the other.’
The Chelsea Strangler Page 10