‘You chew tobacco, I see,’ Hart said. ‘Good. It means you are safe from infection. The government should make it compulsory.’
‘I prefer London Treacle,’ said Bannister, waving a bottle. ‘Although it is terribly expensive.’
‘Very,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Far in excess of what dancing masters are normally able to afford.’
‘We earned good salaries in our last posts,’ explained Hart. ‘We were saving to buy a private carriage, but what use will that be if we are dead? It is better to spend it on surgeons and London Treacle. And we elected to stay here at the Greyhound, rather than a cheaper but more crowded inn.’
‘It might have been safer still to stay in Chelsea,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bannister. ‘But we are owed money for past lessons, so we thought we had better collect it before our clients either die or leave the city for good. We considered forgetting the debt, but we did the work, so we should collect our dues, lest word spreads that we are easily cheated. And where would that leave us in the future?’
Chaloner brought the discussion around to the thefts.
‘It was a great shock when Mrs Bonney announced the news,’ averred Hart. ‘I had believed Gorges to be a decent establishment, or I would not have taken a post there.’
‘Nor would I,’ agreed Bannister. ‘We have the very best references. First, we were in Paris, and then in Bath, which, as you will know, are the top places in the world for dancing.’
Chaloner knew no such thing, but was willing to believe them. ‘Were you at Gorges when Nancy Janaway was strangled?’
Hart’s hand went to his own throat. ‘Yes, and it was a terrible thing. I saw her walking towards the orchard, but I did not imagine for a moment that it would be the last thing she did.’
‘Who found her?’
‘A lunatic named Dorothy Wiseman, who is allowed out for a stroll some evenings, if she is in a mellow mood. At first, it was assumed that she did it, but her keeper assures us that she did not leave Dorothy for a moment. Thus Dorothy is innocent.’
Chaloner was relieved to hear it. ‘So who did kill Nancy?’
‘We think it was a governor,’ whispered Bannister, looking around carefully, to ensure no one was listening. ‘Andrew Kole was lurking around the orchard on that particular day. I saw him myself, but when I asked what he was doing, he refused to say.’
‘He considers himself too grand to answer questions put by the likes of us,’ added Hart. ‘But he certainly heads our list of suspects.’
‘So you have no idea what he was doing?’
‘None at all,’ replied Hart. ‘But it might have had something to do with the thefts. He strikes me as a dishonest sort of fellow. Do you not agree, Jeffrey?’
‘Oh, yes. He is dirty, too, because he likes gardening. At least, I have seen him several times in the rectory, rooting around by the compost heaps. It is hardly genteel.’
‘He is not like poor Underhill, who was a true gentleman,’ said Bannister. ‘I am deeply sorry that he is no longer with us. Strangled in Dunkirk House!’
‘Do you think Nancy and Underhill were killed by the same person?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Well, Kole was in both places when the victims died,’ replied Hart. ‘So…’
‘I have been told that a spectre lurks in Chelsea. Have you seen it?’
‘No, thank the good Lord,’ said Hart with a shudder. ‘Although there is no doubt that it exists – half of Chelsea has had one kind of encounter or another with the thing.’
‘It is the heatwave, you see,’ elaborated Bannister. ‘It drives folk out for cooling walks at the witching hour. This horrid weather has a lot to answer for – exacerbating the plague and encouraging ghosts out of their graves to frighten decent folk.’
It was noon when Chaloner left the Greyhound. The brightness was dazzling after the gloom, with the sun reflecting off the baked mud of the street in a glare that made him squint. Then the heat hit him like a blast from a furnace, and he felt sweat begin to prick his back. He crossed the road, where there were patches of shade, although most were occupied by panting dogs or irritable cats.
He had not gone far when he passed a doctor in full plague costume – mask, gloves, long canvas coat, brimmed hat, and a stick that allowed the medicus to examine patients without using his hands. The mask was made from leather, fastened to the head by straps, and comprised the familiar bird-like features – a long ‘beak’ stuffed with straw and protective herbs, and glass eye-holes. Chaloner could see nothing of the wearer’s face, but there was something familiar about his gait. When he heard ‘coffee grounds’ muttered as their paths crossed, Chaloner was left in no doubt: it was Parker.
He was loath to accost the physician directly, lest Parker had been in contact with plague victims and carried the infection with him. However, he was curious as to why the man should be undertaking such duties when he was supposed to be a specialist in ailments of the mind. He watched him for a moment. Parker continued walking until someone stepped out of a doorway to intercept him. It was Accompter Cocke, fat and sweaty in his unkempt clothes. They exchanged a few words, then went their separate ways.
At that point, Chaloner saw he was not the only one monitoring the Gorges governors. Wilkinson was slinking after Cocke, his blazing eyes fixed determinedly on his quarry. Chaloner joined the end of the procession, and trailed them to the Fleet River, where Cocke disappeared inside the Rose, a seedy tavern known for cheap ale and prostitutes. Wilkinson remained outside, so Chaloner decided to tackle him there. The rector jumped in alarm at the voice so close to his ear.
‘I am visiting kin,’ he declared furtively. ‘My father, who is a hundred and six.’
‘He lives in the Rose?’ asked Chaloner. That particular tavern catered to heavy drinkers and philanderers, and he doubted those would be high priorities for an elderly man.
‘Nearby. However, I do not see him very often, lest familiarity causes him to change his will. We do not always see eye to eye, you see, so the less I visit, the less likely he is to disinherit me.’
‘Do you see eye to eye with Cocke?’ asked Chaloner, wondering if Kipps was not the only one the oily accompter had attempted to blackmail – the rector certainly seemed like the kind of man to harbour dark secrets.
Wilkinson eyed him angrily. ‘Cocke is a rogue, and I cannot imagine how he contrived to get himself jobs in Gorges and the Treasury.’
‘And the prison,’ said Chaloner, aiming to provoke. ‘A building you think belongs to you.’
‘It does belong to me, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool. Now bugger off.’
Chaloner retreated, but not far. He watched the rector take up position behind a water butt, to wait for Cocke to reappear. But Wilkinson was far too impatient for surveillance, and the barrel was in the sun. He stayed at his post for no more than ten minutes, before leaping up and storming inside. Chaloner followed, taking care to stay in the shadows, which was not difficult in so dark and seedy a building.
‘What are you doing here, Cocke?’ Wilkinson was demanding belligerently. ‘Do you not have work to do in Chelsea?’
‘Not today,’ replied Cocke evenly, and if he was surprised by the priest’s angry appearance, he did not show it. ‘Now go away, please. I want to enjoy a quiet drink and the latest Newes.’
He picked up the government newsbook that lay on the table in front of him, and began to flick through it. Furious at the abrupt dismissal, Wilkinson slapped it down.
‘I will go when you tell me the nature of your business in London,’ he snarled.
Cocke raised laconic eyebrows. ‘Very well, if it will see me left in peace. First, I helped Mrs Bonney and Franklin purchase supplies for Gorges, then I decided to treat myself to some new lace, lest we are invited to Dunkirk House again. I felt naked last night, while the rest of you frothed and fluttered. Well, I shall not be found lacking again. Here. What do you think?’
He pulled a packet from his poc
ket and fingered its contents admiringly. The wrapping was so clean that Chaloner was sure he was telling the truth about buying it that day, and Cocke’s appreciation of its quality was obviously genuine. Of course, that did not mean it was all the accompter had done after leaving his friends, and Wilkinson obviously thought the same, because he continued to bombard him with questions. Cocke refused to say more, and the discussion ended with the rector storming out in exasperation.
‘You can come out now, Chaloner,’ Cocke called, which startled the spy, because few people were able to detect him when he wanted to stay hidden. ‘The lunatic cleric will not be back.’
Chaloner emerged from his hiding place and sat opposite him. ‘Why is he so interested in your activities?’
Cocke shrugged. ‘He is a very peculiar man, as you would know if you spent any time with him. In fact, you should ask him about the thefts and Underhill’s murder.’
‘On what grounds do you accuse him?’
‘How about his erratic behaviour and violent character? You saw the ferocity of his passions just now. Can you not see him exploding with rage and throttling someone?’
Chaloner could. However, he could also see Cocke doing it – the accompter was, after all, a man who had used a child’s misfortune in an attempt to extort money from a loving and protective father.
‘Where were you when Nancy Janaway was murdered?’ he asked, ice in his voice.
Cocke gave one of his greasy smiles. ‘It is difficult to say, given that no one can be sure exactly when she perished, but I was probably at the prison, sorting out its finances.’
Chaloner knew instinctively that questioning Cocke further would be a waste of time, because the accompter was going to have an answer to everything, and was far too slippery to be caught out in inconsistencies. He stood, and leaned forward to speak in his most intimidating manner.
‘Do not pester Kipps for money again. It would be most unwise.’
He had the satisfaction of seeing fear flicker in Cocke’s eyes, although it was momentary, and the accompter was quickly on the offensive again. ‘But he is a fellow with secrets, and he is Messenger of the Receipt to the Treasury. If he poses a risk to its security—’
‘He does not,’ said Chaloner in the same quietly menacing voice. ‘So leave him alone.’
Supposing he had better see whether the Earl was ready to travel, Chaloner hurried back to Piccadilly. He forced himself to gnaw on another plug of tobacco while he traversed Charing Cross, as virtually everyone he passed seemed to be coughing or sneezing. He arrived at Clarendon House, only to be informed by Frances that the Earl had gone to White Hall.
‘I thought you would be in Hampton Court by now,’ he said, surprised to see her.
‘The rest of the family have gone, but I decided to wait for my husband. And I wanted a word with you anyway. About Gorges.’
She was obviously upset, which told him that her concerns went deeper than the thefts or the spectre she had mentioned at the soirée.
‘How may I be of service, My Lady?’ he asked kindly.
‘I have just found out about Nancy Janaway,’ Frances blurted. ‘That she was strangled, like Mr Underhill. I want to know if both were killed by the same culprit. One who was here, in my home.’
‘It seems likely,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But the Earl will be vexed if he learns that you have found out about Nancy. He wanted to keep it quiet. Who told you?’
Her expression softened. ‘He does his best to protect us, but it does not always work, and servants gossip. You must find the culprit, Thomas. Unsolved murders, both here and in a foundation we support, will damage us at Court. Our enemies…’
‘I will do my best,’ he promised.
She smiled wanly. ‘Thank you. Your loyalty is much appreciated.’
Keen to find out if the Earl intended to delay his departure until the following day, Chaloner headed for White Hall, taking a shortcut through St James’s Park. There was not a soul in sight, and even the birds seemed to have disappeared. All was silent, and he began to feel oddly lonely. Thurloe would be on his way to Oxfordshire; Temperance, Wiseman and Kipps would soon be lodged in and around Hampton Court; and his only other friend, Captain Lester, was away on HMS Swiftsure.
He could see the roofs of Tothill Street across the dusty expanse of brown grass, which made him think of Hannah – they had lived there before her profligacy had forced them to make economies. It would have been pleasant to stop at the house they had rented for a cool drink and a few moments of her company. Then it occurred to him that their conversation would have revolved around how she had spent that week’s pay, and he was assailed with an emotion that felt suspiciously like relief that he would no longer have to worry about it. Guilt followed, and he found himself trotting very briskly, as if he could outrun his unhappy reflections.
He arrived at the palace, sweating and breathless, at the same time as a sleek carriage adorned with the crest of the Company of Goldsmiths. The vehicle was waved inside by the soldiers on the Great Gate, after which it clattered across the cobbles towards the Treasury strongroom. Chaloner walked in that direction only because it was shadier than the more direct route, and he felt he had been broiled quite long enough on his hike through the park.
A dozen men emerged to greet the coach. Prefect Reymes was in charge, barking orders at the guards, who were led by Secretary Warwick and Sergeant at Arms Stephens. Kipps stood with them, doing nothing other than look official, while Cocke, red-faced from the wine he had downed at the Rose, loitered with a ream of documents. At a nod from Reymes, two soldiers began hauling sacks from the carriage, while the remainder took up defensive stances, muskets at the ready.
‘It is all right,’ called Kipps, when several weapons swivelled around to lock on to Chaloner as he walked towards them. ‘He is a friend.’
Warwick and Stephens nodded amiable greetings, but Reymes pointedly turned his back on the spy. It was a deliberate insult, but Chaloner was too hot to care. Meanwhile, Cocke scowled, as if to say that the threats issued in the tavern earlier had not been forgotten. Chaloner gazed back, equally cool, noting with interest that the newsbook poking from the accompter’s pocket had PROPERTIE OF THE ROSE: DO NOT REMOVE inked across the top.
Reymes spat something inaudible, and stamped inside the strongroom to bark orders at the labouring men. Chaloner glanced through the door after him, and was astonished to see that the chamber was virtually empty. There were several dozen small metal chests, a pile of ingots and a modestly sized jewel box. And that was all.
‘Is that it?’ he asked of Kipps incredulously. ‘I thought you said it was unusually full at the moment.’
The Seal Bearer chuckled. ‘It is. You see, the Treasury’s wealth is stored as gold, mostly guineas, which takes up far less room than common coinage. Just one of those little boxes holds enough to buy a palace and more.’
‘Which is why we need reliable men to keep it safe,’ said Warwick, with a businesslike clack of his teeth. ‘And I understand that you are interested in being our second Sergeant at Arms. Others have applied, of course, but I want someone with military experience, and you come highly recommended by Kipps. Thus you are exactly the kind of fellow we need.’
‘You are in, Tom,’ murmured Kipps, pleased. ‘I told you I could do it. Now all you have to do is submit a formal request, and the post will be yours.’
Chaloner thanked him, although with some misgivings. He had never been very interested in money, and the thought of spending his life safeguarding the stuff did not fill him with enthusiasm. Yet a hundred pounds a year was a handsome salary, and would certainly keep the wolf from the door, should the Earl no longer need him.
‘What is happening?’ he asked, nodding towards the coach.
‘Donations for the war,’ explained Kipps. ‘From the goldsmiths. It is very kind of them.’
‘Well, they should pay,’ said Cocke sullenly. ‘This conflict was started for their benefit – so they can get richer by
wresting the best sea-routes from the Dutch.’
‘It will go to Hampton Court next month, along with the rest of the King’s gold,’ confided Warwick, ignoring him. ‘I cannot wait! Not only is it dangerous to be here, with the plague only streets away, but we are vulnerable with the palace so empty. Thank God the Earl wanted it moved, or Reymes would have kept us here until every last one of us was dead.’
‘Reymes,’ spat Kipps in disgust. ‘He is not fit to be prefect.’
‘He is not,’ agreed Warwick. ‘And when we get to Hampton Court, I am telling the King that he is patently unsuited to the task. Hopefully, someone better will be appointed in his place.’
‘Good,’ said Kipps. ‘It is difficult to work with a man who is incompetent and rude.’
Chaloner noticed that although Warwick, Kipps and Stephens were happy to chat, the eyes of all three constantly scanned the yard, alert for trouble. Cocke, on the other hand, only watched the sacks disappear inside the strongroom with greedy fascination. Then Stephens spoke.
‘I have remembered something that might help you solve Underhill’s murder, Chaloner. I meant to tell you yesterday, but business here kept me too busy. It happened at Clarendon House, when Underhill and Kole were discussing the recent spate of burglaries. Kole said he hoped he would not be the next victim, and Underhill scoffed at him, saying that no self-respecting robber would bother with paupers. Kole was livid.’
‘At the notion that thieves would be uninterested in him?’ Chaloner was puzzled.
‘At the fact that Underhill brayed that he was broke,’ explained Stephens. ‘As a speculator, Kole needs the confidence of investors. Everyone knows that his fortunes took a blow when the government seized the College, but it is not general knowledge that he is completely destitute.’
‘Perhaps you are right, Tom,’ whispered Kipps. ‘Cocke is not the killer – Kole is. After all, you heard what Parker said: that the culprit is lithe, hook-nosed and brooding with evil. It is a description that fits Kole much better than Cocke. Except the bit about evil, of course.’
The Chelsea Strangler Page 13