Chaloner regarded Thompson in surprise. ‘Do you have talents in that direction, then?’
Thompson shook his head. ‘But Martha was desperate for help from any quarter. Well, who can blame her? It cannot be easy to live in a house where someone has been unlawfully slain.’
‘Poor Nancy,’ sighed Gertrude. ‘She had been stricken with a melancholy, but she was almost better. It is a wicked shame that her life was snatched away just as she had recovered.’
‘Who at Gorges might have killed her?’ asked Chaloner. ‘A fellow resident? A servant? One of the governors?’
‘It is an establishment for gentlewomen,’ said Gertrude reproachfully, ‘and the dangerous ones are kept under very strict supervision. Meanwhile, the servants are beyond reproach, and why would a governor take against poor Nancy?’
‘Did you meet the governors?’
‘All except the Earl of Clarendon, who gives money but does not visit himself. Mrs Bonney, Dr Parker and Dr Franklin are angels, but I did not care for the others. Mr Cocke is a lecher, Mr Kole has a nasty temper, and there is something very distasteful about Mr Underhill, as if he is pretending to be something he is not.’
She was perceptive, and Chaloner’s interest in her opinions quickened. ‘Underhill was murdered last night, and Kole and Cocke are on my list of suspects.’
‘They should be. Both are selfish, and I never did understand why they agreed to serve as governors, when it costs them time and money.’
‘Oh, I can answer that,’ put in Thompson. ‘To get themselves into Clarendon’s company. Doubtless they hope he will do them favours in the future.’
‘Gorges has a thief,’ said Chaloner. ‘Does either strike you as the kind of man to steal?’
‘Yes, but I doubt either would risk it,’ replied Gertrude. ‘Mr Cocke works at the prison and the Treasury, as well as Gorges, and any hint of dishonesty would see him dismissed from all three, leaving him penniless. And Mr Kole will never reclaim “his” college if he is branded a felon.’
‘When you were at Gorges, were you confined to your room, or did you go out?’
‘It was not a gaol, Mr Chaloner. We could leave any time we wanted. We often strolled to the market, went for walks, or attended church.’
‘Then you met Rector Wilkinson?’
Gertrude pulled a face. ‘He is more interested in squabbling about religion than in practising Christian virtues. He is not a very nice person. Yet Martha tells me that his house is always full of visitors these days, although I cannot imagine why.’
‘Personally, I suspect he is gathering like-minded fanatics with a view to reopening the College,’ said Thompson. ‘I hope he does not succeed.’
‘There is one other odd thing about Chelsea,’ said Gertrude. ‘It has a spectre, a ghost that glides around frightening people. I saw it myself when I visited Martha and Nancy a month ago – a sinister apparition in a long coat. It may have been my imagination, but I think I saw burning eyes.’
‘It was your imagination,’ said Thompson firmly. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts. Except the Holy Ghost, of course, but that is not the same thing at all.’
‘Well, this was certainly not holy,’ averred Gertrude. She turned to Chaloner. ‘You are friends with Surgeon Wiseman, are you not? His wife is at Gorges. Ask him your questions.’
It was a good idea, and Chaloner promised to act on it.
It was nearly nine o’clock when Chaloner arrived at Clarendon House – the hour when the Earl had said that he would be ready to leave for Hampton Court. Unfortunately, the Dutch ambassador appeared at the same time with urgent business, which he claimed was likely to keep the Lord Chancellor busy until mid-afternoon at the earliest. Kipps was disgusted.
‘While we kick our heels here, Cocke will be destroying the evidence that will allow us to charge him with murder and theft,’ he said crossly. ‘He may even evade justice.’
‘Cocke may not be the culprit,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Indeed, the case is stronger against Kole.’
‘Of course it is Cocke! The man is a rogue.’
Chaloner regarded Kipps thoughtfully. ‘What makes you so keen to see him in trouble?’
‘Nothing,’ replied the Seal Bearer, but in a way that made Chaloner sure he was lying.
‘I will likely find out anyway, and if it affects our investigation, you should tell me now.’
An expression of intense pain suffused Kipps’ amiable face. ‘He made me do something of which I am deeply ashamed. Even now, I can hardly bear to think of it…’
Chaloner’s interest was piqued. ‘What?’
Kipps would not meet his eyes. ‘Cocke saw me once with Martin. He asked if the boy was mine, but I was so afraid that Martin would become the object of ridicule if I introduced them that I said he was a servant’s child. He made me deny kinship to my own son!’
‘Did he believe you?’ Chaloner seriously doubted that the bluff Kipps could successfully deceive a worldly individual like Cocke.
‘He laughed slyly, and a couple of weeks later, he asked me for money. I refused, so he took to following me. I keep rooms here in Clarendon House, and you are the only one who knows about Bow Street, so I was able to avoid going home. Yet I sense he has not given up…’
It was unpleasant, and said nothing good about the accompter, but it was hardly grounds on which to accuse him of murder. As gently as he could, Chaloner said so, finishing with, ‘He will not harm Martin, though, I promise. I will speak to him, and he will not trouble you or the lad again.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kipps gratefully. ‘And in return, we can include Kole as a suspect, if you like – although only on condition that you remove that spider over there. It has been watching me since dawn, and is getting ready to make its move. It sees my wig as an excellent place for a web.’
As he had time to kill, Chaloner decided to follow Gertrude Thompson’s advice and visit Wiseman. He did not take Kipps with him, because the two men did not like each other: the Seal Bearer found Wiseman’s penchant for red clothes risible, while the surgeon had scant time for Kipps’ love of pomp and ceremony.
Chyrurgeons’ Hall was in Monkwell Street, just to the north of the old city wall. It comprised not only lecture halls, a refectory and accommodation blocks for its members, but also the peculiarly shaped Anatomy Theatre. Chaloner was relieved to find that particular building abandoned that day, dreading to imagine what a dissection would be like in the heat. As it was, he detected a whiff of something unpleasant in the air, a combination of decay and the spirits used to preserve interesting specimens for teaching purposes.
The Master’s lodgings were above the main hall, and were Wiseman’s for a year. His colleagues had not wanted to elect him, but he had been the only senior member who had not yet had a crack at the post, so they had had no choice. Unfortunately, his bombastic and insensitive reforms were earning him more enemies than ever, and Chaloner was acutely aware of unfriendly glances as he was conducted across the yard by the porter.
Chaloner climbed the stairs to find that the surgeon had only just risen, having spent much of the night with a patient. He was in the midst of his daily stone-lifting routine, which gave him the powerful muscles needed to subdue frightened clients and reset broken bones. Chaloner felt tired just watching him: the day was far too oppressive for such vigorous exertions.
‘Have some breakfast,’ the surgeon panted. ‘Raw beef and stewed lettuce, items guaranteed to aid digestion and promote good health.’
The meat had attracted flies, while the amorphous mass of greenery had been cooked to within an inch of its life, so Chaloner declined. He did not normally pass up food, given that he was invariably uncertain when his next meal would be, but Wiseman’s offerings were more than he could stomach that morning. To avoid a confrontation if the surgeon insisted, Chaloner told him about Underhill’s murder.
‘Then I must go to Chelsea at once,’ the surgeon declared, dropping the stone in a corner. The thud it made as it lande
d was testament to its great weight. ‘I cannot have Dorothy at the mercy of some lunatic strangler. It is my duty to look after her, given that she is unable to do it herself.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner, guilty thoughts of Hannah’s last illness filling his mind.
Wiseman misread him. ‘You are thinking of Temperance, and how convenient it would be for us if Dorothy died. Yet although I love Temperance, I shall never marry her. We are happy as we are, and I refuse to make the same mistake that you did with Hannah – hurling yourself into a union with scant thought for the consequences.’
‘My marriage was not a mistake,’ objected Chaloner, offended.
‘Of course not,’ said Wiseman scathingly, and changed the subject before Chaloner could argue. ‘When are you going to Chelsea? Perhaps we could ride there together.’
‘Today, as soon as I have delivered the Earl to Hampton Court.’
‘Hampton Court,’ echoed Wiseman with relish. ‘I shall definitely travel with you then, so I can bag a decent room before the rabble arrives. And then we shall go to Chelsea.’
‘Kipps will be helping me—’
‘That buffoon!’ spat Wiseman. ‘Well, all I can say is that I hope he does not hamper your investigation. I cannot have Dorothy put at risk because of his stupidity.’
There was no point defending Kipps – Wiseman tended to be intractable once he had made up his mind about someone, and Chaloner knew better than to challenge him. ‘How well do you know the Gorges governors?’ he asked instead.
‘Parker’s medical views have merit, but there is nothing remotely interesting about Mrs Bonney or Franklin. They are both worthy people, I am sure, but as dull as ditch-water. And as for Kole and Cocke … well, they are beneath my dignity to notice.’
Chaloner was beginning to remember why so many people found Wiseman objectionable. ‘You said Dorothy wrote to you about the thefts and Nancy’s murder. Do you still have the letter?’
Wiseman poked about in the chaos of paper that comprised his desk, but it was not long before he conceded defeat with an apologetic shrug. With a sigh, Chaloner saw he had wasted his time, and that he had achieved nothing from the visit except acquiring a second travelling companion who would quarrel with the first.
‘Is Parker sane?’ he asked, as Wiseman walked with him down the stairs to the yard.
Wiseman regarded him askance. ‘Of course he is sane! Do you think I would entrust Dorothy to a lunatic? Whatever prompts you to put such a question?’
‘I have met him twice, and he acted peculiarly on both occasions. Unless you consider kissing statues normal?’
‘He was probably jesting with you. He has a very wry sense of humour.’
Chaloner suspected that Wiseman would revise his opinion once he reached Chelsea and saw Parker for himself. ‘Why did you choose Gorges for Dorothy?’
‘Because it is the best place in the country. She has been mad for nigh on two decades – she exhibited the first signs just a few weeks after our marriage. Yet I have high hopes that Parker will effect a complete cure.’
Uncharitably, Chaloner wondered if it was life with the surgeon that had driven the hapless woman out of her wits. He was about to ask if Wiseman had met Nancy Janaway, when they were intercepted by two of the surgeon’s colleagues. Lawrence Loe and Ralph Foliard were portly, arrogant individuals in horsehair wigs.
‘The Company’s annual feast,’ began Loe. ‘You promised to tell us today whether you plan to cancel it or to proceed as normal.’
‘I am too busy to think about it at the moment,’ said Wiseman, dismissively enough to be offensive. ‘Chaloner is here on Court business, which is a lot more important than yet another opportunity for you two to gorge.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Foliard stiffly, ‘because this decision will affect all of London. If we gather in one place, we may catch the plague and die, thus leaving no qualified surgeons to deal with the crisis. But if we postpone it, everyone will think we are afraid, which will damage morale.’
‘But I am afraid,’ declared Wiseman. ‘Only fools are not.’
‘In other words, he wants to call it off,’ muttered Foliard to Loe. ‘Although why he could not have just said so politely is beyond me.’
‘Did I hear you discussing Parker just now?’ asked Loe. ‘You should not treat with him, Wiseman. He claims to cure madness with coffee, but everyone knows that insanity is caused by worms in the brain, and the only remedy is to open the skull and pick them out.’
‘He considers exercise beneficial, too,’ added Foliard with a scornful snigger, ‘and has hired two dancing masters to help his patients jig about.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Wiseman, belligerent because he deemed exercise beneficial as well, and he resented the sneer in the remark.
‘Because we have just bled the pair of them – bleeding is a good protection against the plague, as you know,’ replied Loe. ‘They are staying in the Greyhound tavern on Holborn, and will return to Chelsea tomorrow. They also told us there was a murder at Gorges – a strangling. I hope your wife was not responsible.’
‘Dorothy is not a strangler,’ said Wiseman. ‘She is more of a stabber.’
As neither Loe nor Foliard knew how to respond to this particular nugget of information, Wiseman swept past them and went on his way, pulling Chaloner with him. The surgeon mopped his face with a piece of cloth that was ominously smeared with blood, almost certainly not his own.
‘This heat will make the plague rage ever more fiercely,’ he said sombrely. ‘We are wise to leave the city.’
‘What about your patients?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Will you abandon them in their hour of need?’
‘The important ones have already fled, and there is nothing I can do for the rest, so they may as well save their money. Have you invested in any useless preventatives?’
Chaloner showed Wiseman his pipe.
‘Smoking will not protect you,’ the surgeon declared, snatching the offending item from Chaloner’s hand and hurling it over the wall. ‘Try eating the tobacco instead.’
Chaloner took a few strands and put them in his mouth, wincing at the bitter taste and the burning sensation that followed. Wiseman continued to dispense medical advice.
‘Of course, the only thing that will really keep you safe is staying away from plague victims altogether. And if you are careless enough to let someone cough on you, rinse out your mouth immediately with vinegar. Hah! Here is Dorothy’s letter! It was in my pocket all along.’
Chaloner took it from him. It was penned in a firm, neat cursive, but the margins were thick with peculiar symbols and random squiggles. He regarded Wiseman questioningly.
‘She is a lunatic,’ shrugged the surgeon. ‘They are not noted for their coherent communiqués. Yet she does have spells of lucidity. Unfortunately, they are usually followed by interludes of distressing violence. All sharp implements must be hidden, or she will have them in you.’
Again, Chaloner sincerely hoped he would not discover that Dorothy had made an end of Nancy in one of her savage moods. He turned his attention to the letter, suddenly and painfully reminded of the one Hannah had written with its nonsensical rambling about peacemakers and dandies. He pushed that one from his mind and concentrated on Dorothy’s.
My Fyne Richd
The Batman stalks the sorrie arbor and hee has Eyes in the Neare Gardenn. The Property of My Absentt One has been cruellie slaine and I knowe nott howe to Comforte his Sadde Soule. There are theeves in Gorgess with Goldenn Eares and Fingers, and a Tyme that Singeth, and they put great storre in my coffin. Come soone, My Beloved Onne.
Dorothy.
He looked at Wiseman in mystification. ‘How in God’s name did you deduce from this nonsensical ramble that Nancy was murdered?’
‘Because I know my wife. Her “Absent One” is a Chelsea bell-founder named Thomas Janaway, who used to visit, but who comes no longer. The explanation as to why is in the following clause: the “property” is Janaway�
�s wife Nancy, who is “cruelly slain”.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Janaway always paid his respects to Dorothy when he came to see Nancy, even when she was not in a position to appreciate it.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.
‘Some folk are just imbued with natural charity, Chaloner,’ replied Wiseman, who was not known for this himself. ‘And I think he was genuinely fond of her, although the affection could not have been reciprocated, of course. She barely knows herself, let alone anyone else.’
Chaloner tapped the letter. ‘It sounds as though she knows Janaway to me.’
The Greyhound was a large coaching inn on one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. It had been a friendly, noisy place, where patrons mingled freely and exchanged information about their journeys. That day it was silent, and its few customers sat in uneasy clusters, eyeing with suspicion anyone who went too close. Others declined to enter at all, and stood outside with masks over their faces.
Chaloner stepped into the tavern’s cool interior with relief, glad to be out of the sun, and reached for his pipe before remembering that Wiseman had thrown it away. He took a plug of tobacco from his pouch instead, and shoved it in his mouth. The taste was foul, but he persisted manfully, supposing it was better than buboes.
He knew without asking which two patrons were Gorges’ dancing masters. They sat by a window wearing outrageously foppish clothes, while French face-paints gave their cheeks an exaggerated whiteness and turned their lips into scarlet slashes. Their wigs were so thickly powdered that dust floated in the sunlight around their heads. However, a closer inspection revealed that their eye-catching attire was threadbare, and their shoes were scuffed and in need of new heels.
They were naturally nervous to be approached by a stranger, although they agreed to talk when Chaloner explained that he had been charged by the Earl of Clarendon to probe the unfortunate happenings at Gorges. They introduced themselves as Jeffrey Bannister and James Hart, and were difficult to tell apart, although Hart was the more feminine and acid-tongued of the two.
The Chelsea Strangler Page 12