‘Should I confine my enquiries to Kole and Wilkinson, then?’
‘Begin with them, but keep an open mind. And certainly do not limit yourself to those who attended the Earl’s soirée. You could have slipped past Clarendon House’s guards with ease, and so could other professional spies.’
Chaloner remained uncertain. ‘But Underhill was strangled, just like Nancy. How can she have a connection to the College? I doubt she was allowed out to form an association with it.’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘Perhaps when you solve Underhill’s murder, you will solve hers, too.’
‘What else can you tell me about the College?’
‘It was founded by King James, as a place for clerics to air controversial theological opinions, although it ceased to function as such long before I became Spymaster.’ Thurloe hesitated, but then forged on. ‘I should be honest with you, Tom. The real reason I encourage you to investigate the place is because an informant has recently expressed concerns about it.’
Thurloe had inspired great loyalty among those he had employed during the Commonwealth, and many former spies continued to send him reports and snippets of information, even though he was rarely in a position to use them.
‘What did he say, exactly?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Nothing specific, just that he senses something amiss. There have been odd comings and goings at night, and an air of secrecy surrounds it. It is locked up tight for obvious reasons, but my friend says that security there is too intense.’
‘Can security be too intense in a prison full of enemy warriors?’
‘The gaolers will not talk, even for free ale, while Warden Tooker is entirely the wrong kind of man for such a post. For a start, he was dismissed from Newgate for corruption.’
‘I have spoken to three of the four Commissioners for the Care and Treatment of Prisoners of War – Evelyn, Reymes and Doyley – and they seem content with Tooker’s rule.’
‘Probably because they do not know his history.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘I doubt Spymaster Williamson is aware of any of this. He said Underhill was a poor intelligencer, who sent him sketchy and unreliable reports.’
‘Then enlighten him. Unfortunately, I doubt he can do much to help you, as he needs to channel all his resources into the war. But I had better leave or I shall miss the Oxford coach. Farewell, Tom. God save you from all harm.’
Chaloner trudged along the hot, dusty streets to Piccadilly, lighting his pipe when someone passed him coughing. He arrived to find Clarendon House gripped by the same frenzied activity as the previous day, with loaded carts waiting in the drive, and servants racing about like madmen in an effort to make all ready for departure. Kipps was waiting for him, and so was the Earl.
‘Have you solved the murder?’ his master demanded. ‘You have had plenty of time.’
Sourly, Chaloner wished the Earl would investigate a killing himself, so he would know that it sometimes required more than a day to identify the culprit. He gave a brief report on his findings.
‘Perhaps we should leave for Chelsea now,’ suggested Kipps, clearly unimpressed with the little Chaloner had managed to glean. ‘It would be—’
‘And who will escort me to Hampton Court, pray?’ interrupted the Earl archly. ‘The roads are dangerous at the moment, because so many paupers are living in the woods to escape the plague. I should not like to be ambushed. Besides, a day will make no difference to the prison, while I sent Brodrick to Gorges this morning, to guard the songbirds and begin the process of hunting its thief.’
‘Brodrick?’ blurted Chaloner, astonished that the Earl should imagine his dissipated cousin capable of either task.
‘He will hand the enquiry to you when you arrive, never fear. Incidentally, Williamson wants copies of all your reports, so you had better oblige. I do not want him vexed with me.’
With Kipps in tow, Chaloner began the laborious task of interviewing all the staff who had been on duty the previous night. Everything went well for a while, although it was not easy to keep their attention when most were more interested in ensuring that they were not left behind when the ponderous cavalcade got underway. Then Kipps grew bored with the repetitive nature of the exercise, and began asking questions of his own. These led to gossip, none of which was pertinent to their enquiries, but that had him agog with prurient interest. Chaloner grew increasingly exasperated as he struggled to keep the discussions on track.
‘That was fun,’ Kipps declared when the last ‘witness’ had gone. They had learned nothing about Underhill, but were now conversant with the fact that Lady Savage drank more wine than any man at Court, that the Earl favoured plain calico drawers, and that Lawrence, married less than two months, was already keeping a mistress. ‘Perhaps I should help you more often.’
‘Not if I ever want to solve any crimes,’ muttered Chaloner.
Kipps beamed, unfazed by the spy’s sullen temper. ‘It is too late to do more now, so you can come to my house tonight, as planned. You had not forgotten, had you?’ He glanced around furtively, to ensure no one was listening. ‘Martin is looking forward to it.’
Chaloner had forgotten, and was sorry the prospect of playing did not please him as it should. ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he lied.
‘Good. But first, you had better visit Williamson, and tell him what you have learned so far. Our Earl is right: we do not want him annoyed with us for being uncommunicative.’
He had a point, so Chaloner trudged to Old Palace Yard, where the Spymaster had his lair. Williamson was at his desk when he arrived, windows thrown open in the hope of catching a breeze. Through them, Chaloner could see nearby Westminster Hall, where the blackened heads of traitors were impaled on specially crafted spikes. There were several bloated black flies in the office, and he flapped them away in distaste, not liking to imagine where they might have been first.
‘Thank you,’ said Williamson, after Chaloner had relayed all that Mother Greene and Thurloe had told him. ‘When will you go to Chelsea? Now? You could be there by nightfall.’
‘Tomorrow. Did you know Underhill’s background when you recruited him?’
A pained expression crossed the Spymaster’s face. ‘No, although I should have guessed. A gentleman would have provided his services free of charge, but Underhill wanted money. Keep me informed of your progress, Chaloner, but if you use cipher, please do not make your code too elaborate. I am short of cryptographers at the moment, as well as decent spies.’
These were not words to inspire, and Chaloner found himself concerned for his country as he hurried to Covent Garden to collect his viol. He shoved the instrument in a canvas bag rather more roughly than he would have done his old ones, and set off for Kipps’ home on Bow Street. While he walked, he began to invent reasons as to why he could not play that night. Sore fingers, perhaps. Or broken strings. Kipps would never know that they had been snapped on purpose.
He knocked on the door, and a maid conducted him to a parlour at the back of the house. The walls were adorned with crudely childish paintings, all of which had been framed like the works of Great Masters, while the floor was a muddled chaos of toys. Kipps was kneeling in the middle of it with a brawny, moon-faced boy and a small, pretty woman. All three were helpless with laughter. It was a touching scene, and Chaloner saw there was more to the Seal Bearer than the affable, slightly ridiculous courtier with a zealous devotion to ceremony and tradition.
‘Tom!’ Kipps cried, scrambling to his feet. ‘You must forgive the mess. We have been trying to teach Martin how to smoke, but he cannot get the hang of it.’
Olivia Kipps came to give him her hand, after which Martin affected a clumsy bow that made both parents burst into spontaneous applause. The boy grinned happily, then spoiled the effect by throwing his arms around their guest in an affectionate hug. Chaloner was taken aback, but Kipps and Olivia did not seem to find it unusual, and both started to talk at the same time, which made it difficult to hear either. It became harder st
ill when Martin joined in, speaking in a slow drawl, which suggested that words did not come easily to him.
After a simple but well-cooked meal, Martin clamoured at Chaloner to play. Chaloner obliged, but although the boy whooped his appreciation, the spy was unimpressed by his own performance. The instrument felt dull, and failed to come alive to his touch as the others had done. Martin did not care, and danced jig after jig, until he was so tired that he could barely stand.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Kipps softly, when Olivia had gone to put the exhausted boy to bed. ‘You have given him much pleasure tonight. But you see why I cannot have him at Court. People would mock him, which would break his heart. And mine. I hate to see him hurt.’
Chaloner thought Kipps was wise to keep Martin away from cruel tongues, although he sensed more good in the lad than in the whole of White Hall put together. They sat in companionable silence for a while, smoking and sipping chilled spiced wine.
‘Have you thought any more about being the Treasury’s second Sergeant at Arms?’ Kipps asked eventually. ‘You are just the man we need, and I know I could persuade Warwick to take you. The salary is a hundred pounds a year, which would cushion you nicely, were anything to happen to the Earl.’
It was a respectable sum, and Chaloner was touched that Kipps was prepared to sponsor him. He murmured his thanks, and Kipps patted his shoulder in a gruff gesture of friendship, before covering his awkwardness by beginning to talk about the murders.
‘Cocke,’ he said. ‘He is behind this nastiness – I feel it in my bones. But I am sure you will get to the bottom of it, no matter who it transpires to be. The Earl is wise to place his trust in you.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘I hardly think he has done that.’
‘Of course he has,’ said Kipps earnestly. ‘He thinks the world of your abilities, although he would sooner die than tell you so. But it is late, and we should talk about happier things than theft and murder, or we shall give ourselves bad dreams. More wine?’
Chapter 5
It was another sultry night, and Chaloner found himself thinking about Hannah, who would have insisted that the windows be closed against the night air, which she had considered injurious to health. Yet a stuffy room had not kept her safe, and it was with angry defiance that he threw the shutters open as far as they would go. Then he tossed and turned restlessly, but sleep would not come, mostly because his thoughts kept turning to his sudden inability to play the viol.
Eventually, he rose and lit a candle, intending to read until sleep claimed him, but he could not concentrate on Rushworth’s Historical Collections – a turgid tome that Wiseman had lent him – so he picked up the note that Hannah had written on her deathbed instead.
At first, he had been grateful to Kipps for salvaging it, but now he began to wonder whether he might have been happier without the thing. He stared at it for a long time before eventually dozing off slumped across the table.
When he woke the following day, he felt stiff, sluggish and not at all inclined to traipse to Hampton Court and then Chelsea. He dunked his head in a bucket of cold water, and when that did nothing to sharpen his wits, he went to the Rainbow Coffee House, in the hope that a dose of Farr’s best would do the trick – and keep the plague and madness at bay into the bargain.
‘What news?’ called Farr, flapping his hand to see through the fug that pervaded the place. There was some burned bean involved, but most came from his patrons’ tobacco.
Chaloner coughed, and everyone regarded him in alarm. ‘Smoke,’ he croaked in explanation.
‘It will do you good,’ averred Farr. ‘That and a dish of my coffee.’
‘And prayers,’ put in Thompson piously. ‘The Almighty is always ready to help the godly. Although the best way to avoid infection is to leave the city, of course.’
‘Most of my wealthy customers have already gone,’ sighed Farr. ‘But I have no country acquaintances to visit, so I am doomed to stay here, flirting with Death.’
‘I cannot go, because I am needed to ring the bells,’ declared Stedman importantly. ‘No one would know who was dead if I did not toll to mark their passing, and I consider it my patriotic duty to stay.’ He glanced at Chaloner. ‘Although I suppose you will not be here for much longer. Your master’s household departed yesterday, and he will follow today.’
‘Hampton Court is reputed to be very nice,’ said Thompson. ‘Although I am reliably informed that its sanitary arrangements leave a lot to be desired.’
‘I am not going to Hampton Court,’ said Chaloner, deftly steering the discussion towards his enquiries. ‘The Earl is sending me to Chelsea.’
‘Chelsea?’ echoed Farr in distaste. ‘Why? I doubt it is far enough away to be safe, and it will not have the city’s attractions – like coffee houses.’
‘You are wrong, Farr,’ said Thompson superiorly, ‘because there are plans afoot to open one near the church.’ He smiled at Chaloner. ‘Will you visit the Theological College while you are there? I am sure our friend Evelyn will be keen to hear what you think of his prison.’
‘Those captured Dutchmen should have been housed somewhere else,’ said Stedman severely. ‘Chelsea is too close to London.’
Farr sniggered. ‘It is worth the risk, just to annoy two very unpleasant people – namely John Sutcliffe and Rector Wilkinson. Both think that particular building belongs to them, and word is that they were furious when the government turned it into a gaol.’
‘You know them?’ probed Chaloner.
‘Oh, yes. They used to come here for coffee. Sutcliffe would insist on quoting Shakespeare, while Wilkinson always tried to drown him out with long tracts from the Bible.’
‘There is nothing wrong with long tracts from the Bible,’ put in Thompson coolly.
‘I do not suppose Andrew Kole accompanied them, did he?’ fished Chaloner hopefully. ‘He is also of the opinion that the College belongs to him.’
Thompson spoke up when Farr shook his head. ‘I met Kole once – in Chelsea, after we had both been to church. We were chatting in the porch, when a fellow named Underhill happened to walk past. Kole exploded with rage and threatened to kill him for spying. Underhill denied doing any such thing, of course.’
‘Was Kole serious about dispatching him?’ asked Chaloner keenly.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Thompson. ‘There was a look in his eye that I remember from the wars. He was in earnest all right.’
‘What were you doing in Chelsea, Thompson?’ asked Stedman curiously.
The rector promptly became flustered, and began several sentences that he did not finish. In the end, he released a gusty sigh. ‘Very well, I shall tell you the truth, given that keeping it quiet will result in speculation – which is sure to be a good deal more colourful than the sorry reality. I was obliged to place my wife in an asylum there.’
So that was why Thompson had dodged the subject on the road to Deptford, thought Chaloner, recalling the rector’s oddly furtive manner when the village had been mentioned.
‘In Gorges House?’ asked Stedman. ‘If so, she was in excellent hands. I have printed several of Dr Parker’s pamphlets on madness – the man is a genius.’
‘Well, he quite cured her of her malady,’ said Thompson. ‘Him and prodigious amounts of coffee. Of course, she was not mad exactly – just possessed of a deep and debilitating sorrow.’
‘Then you were right to send her to Parker,’ averred Stedman. ‘I can name you a dozen ladies who have benefited from his expertise.’
Chaloner could name two himself – Dorothy Wiseman and Olivia Kipps – and wondered if Gorges’ popularity explained why the Earl had offered to support it. If it became fashionable, the chances were that it would also become profitable, and make him some easy money.
‘May I speak to Mrs Thompson?’ he asked, feeling it would do no harm to find out about the foundation from a former inmate before visiting it himself.
Thompson smiled warmly. ‘Of course. Would now be convenient?’
‘Chaloner wants to know about Gorges,’ said Thompson, once their guest had been settled on a bench in the shade, and plied with cakes and fruit cordial.
Gertrude smiled fondly. ‘It is a remarkable place – home to a few genuinely disturbed minds, but most are only in need a spell of quiet contemplation. Along with coffee, of course. I take a dish every morning now, and I have never felt better.’
‘It is a pity coffee houses exclude women,’ interjected Thompson. ‘If they were open to the gentler sex, there would be far fewer deranged ladies.’
Chaloner begged to differ. The patrons of the Rainbow were hardly rational, while some men spent their entire lives in such places without ever making a sensible remark.
‘What did you think of Parker?’ he asked. ‘Did you find him … unhinged?’
Gertrude blinked her surprise. ‘No! There is not a saner man in all the world. How could he be otherwise? You cannot treat the mentally fragile if you are not wholly cogent yourself.’
‘He did not engage in staring contests with marble busts, or make peculiar remarks?’
She laughed. ‘Of course not! And nor did Dr Franklin or Mrs Bonney, before you ask. I have never met kinder, gentler people.’
‘When did you last see Parker?’
Gertrude considered carefully. ‘Before the plague, which means April. However, I assure you, Mr Chaloner, there is nothing of the lunatic about him.’
Chaloner was puzzled. What had caused Parker to change? The constant company of madwomen? ‘Did you know Nancy Janaway?’ he asked. ‘She was murdered.’
Gertrude nodded sadly. ‘My friend Martha Thrush wrote to me about it. She even begged me to take Joseph to Chelsea, to catch the killer on her behalf.’
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