‘Parker also named Satan,’ recalled Chaloner. ‘So I am not sure we can trust his testimony.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Kipps, ‘but we shall bear it in mind anyway.’
Chaloner was thirsty after his trek across the park, so before going to see the Earl, he went to the Spares Gallery, an unofficial refectory for minor courtiers. It had earned its name by being a repository for unwanted pieces of art, and servants still ensured that food and drink were left there for those whose work kept them in the palace. The ale jug was empty, so Chaloner went to the adjoining pantry to fill it. As the pantry was cooler than the main room, he stayed there to drink, but he had taken no more than two or three gulps when Reymes and Doyley arrived.
‘The Treasury has not been this rich since Cromwell was in power,’ said Reymes, seeing the Spares Gallery was deserted, and recklessly assuming that the pantry was empty, too. ‘The goldsmiths have been very generous.’
‘I hope Warwick remembers to remind the King that their donation is for the war,’ said Doyley worriedly. ‘They will never forgive him if it he spends it on his next party.’
It was not an unreasonable concern, given the amount the Court was reputed to squander on its pleasures, but Reymes waved it away with a careless flick of his hand.
‘Why does Satan’s spawn still lurk in Dunkirk House?’ he asked. ‘He should leave for Hampton Court before Charles changes his mind and tells him not to come.’
‘Do not call Clarendon names,’ said Doyley irritably. ‘It is not genteel.’
‘“It is not genteel”,’ mocked Reymes, and scowled as he poured himself a large cup of claret. ‘What is not genteel is Clarendon foisting this damned Commission on us. It is costing us a fortune, and we will never see a penny of it back.’
‘It is our patriotic duty to—’
‘It is my patriotic duty to retrieve what I lost in the wars, which I cannot do as long as I am lumbered with the care of these wretched prisoners. Perhaps we should let them escape. Then we will be released from our obligations.’
‘Do not jest about such matters! There are those who might think you are in earnest.’
Chaloner strongly suspected that Reymes was in earnest, but before the prefect could reply, there was a clatter of footsteps, and Warwick and Stephens entered, both complaining about the heat. Chaloner considered emerging from the pantry to join them, purely for the delight of letting Reymes know that his intemperate words had been overheard, but then decided to continue listening instead: Reymes and Doyley were two of his suspects for killing Underhill, after all. The foursome discussed the goldsmiths’ generosity for a while, citing figures so vast that Chaloner felt his head reel. Then the conversation turned to the plague.
‘It draws closer to White Hall with every passing day,’ said Doyley grimly.
‘It does, and I wish we did not have to wait a month before moving the Treasury,’ said Stephens, casting a significant and very disapproving glance in Reymes’ direction. ‘We should whisk it away tonight. It would be far safer in Hampton Court.’
‘Rubbish!’ countered Reymes. ‘Besides, you cannot “whisk it away” like a load of onions. Appropriate security arrangements must be in place, or thieves will descend on it like locusts.’
‘Only if they knew it was coming,’ argued Warwick. ‘We could do it in secret.’
‘Fool!’ sneered Reymes. ‘Nothing is secret in White Hall – our plans would be common knowledge within the hour.’
‘How?’ asked Warwick with quiet reason. ‘The palace is deserted.’
‘It is not deserted,’ averred Reymes. ‘It is crawling with servants, who have nothing to do but eavesdrop and gossip. Ergo, the Treasury is going nowhere until August.’
‘But we might be dead by August,’ said Stephens angrily. ‘Who will guard it then?’
‘You will just have to be careful. Besides, the plague might abate in the interim, so perhaps we shall be spared the exercise altogether.’
‘Unlikely – Surgeon Wiseman believes it will rage until winter bites,’ said Warwick. ‘So Stephens is right: keeping it here is reckless.’
‘Who is prefect – you or me?’ demanded Reymes. ‘I repeat: it stays until August. If you do not like it, resign, and I shall ask the King to appoint someone who does not question my judgement.’
There followed a short, tense silence, broken only by an agitated clicking from Warwick’s teeth. It was Doyley who ended it, and Chaloner was under the impression that he had disliked being obliged to witness the Treasury men’s quarrel.
‘Chelsea is a charming village,’ he said with a bright smile. ‘I am so glad my duties as commissioner take me there on a regular basis. Its streets are nice and clean, and the river does not smell nearly so badly of sewage.’
‘I am amazed by your choice of guests, Reymes,’ said Stephens. His clipped, sullen tone indicated he was livid that his concerns had been so summarily dismissed. ‘Surely you could have found more refined companions?’
‘I selected them for their liveliness,’ replied Reymes stiffly. ‘Which makes a pleasant change from the doom and gloom around here. I said as much to Wilkinson after church last night.’
‘Church?’ queried Warwick. ‘On a Thursday? Is that some peculiar Chelsea custom?’
‘A special service for the plague,’ explained Reymes. ‘The whole village turned out, including my guests, the residents and staff of the asylum, and even Warden Tooker and a few guards from the prison. Doyley and Cocke attended, too.’
Doyley gave a short laugh. ‘Wilkinson does not often see a full building, but it was packed to the gills last night.’
‘It was wretchedly hot, though,’ grumbled Reymes. ‘If he holds another, I am not going.’
The four of them wandered out at that point, so Chaloner escaped and hurried to the Earl’s offices. These overlooked the Privy Gardens, usually a bright explosion of flowers and neatly manicured hedges, but now unkempt patches of weeds and desiccated shrubs.
‘There you are,’ said the Earl, when Chaloner knocked at the door. The window shutters had been thrown open to allow the sun to stream in, and Chaloner felt himself wilt. ‘Good. You have had ample time to discover who killed Underhill now. Who was it?’
‘I cannot be sure until I go to Chelsea, sir,’ replied Chaloner, smothering his annoyance at his employer’s unreasonable expectations. ‘But Kole is currently at the top of my list of suspects.’
‘He must have acted in revenge for the government seizing his college,’ said the Earl angrily. ‘Even though I had nothing to do with it. Damn the fellow!’
At that moment, there was an urgent pounding of feet in the hall outside, and Kipps burst in.
‘A letter has just arrived for you, sir. From Chelsea. The messenger does not know who it is from, but he says it is important, and that you should read it immediately.’
The Earl’s face was pale as he tore open the missive, and a gamut of expressions crossed his portly features: relief, disappointment and finally anger. His eyes were accusing as he looked up.
‘You are wrong to accuse Kole, Chaloner, because he is dead himself. He was found in Buckingham House this morning – strangled, just like Underhill and the woman from Gorges.’
Chapter 6
It was evening before the Earl announced that he and Frances were ready to travel to Hampton Court. Wiseman joined the cavalcade, although as Surgeon to the Person, he insisted on a place in a coach. Chaloner and Kipps were allocated two elderly nags, the best horses having been bagged by Henry, Lawrence and their retainers the day before. Chaloner was exasperated by their selfishness, which would put him and Kipps at a distinct disadvantage if robbers did attack, and an ambush was certainly possible, given that much of the journey would be in the dark.
It was a long and uncomfortable ride, fraught with false alarms from the jittery guards. The Earl complained about the pain of his gout if the cavalcade got up any speed, obliging them to move at a perilously stately pace. Chaloner spent th
e whole time on tenterhooks, knowing that most of their escort would prove next to useless in the event of trouble. The full moon in a cloudless sky was a mixed blessing: it allowed them to see where they were going, but lit them up like a beacon, showing any would-be robbers what a splendid prize they would make with their sumptuous coaches and liveried retainers.
But eventually, the lights of the great palace loomed out of the blackness, and he heaved a sigh of relief. The Earl and Frances promptly hurried away to see what quarters their offspring had managed to bag, while the gregarious Kipps went to exchange news with friends in the hall. Wiseman, cognisant of the dignity that went with his exalted post, demanded and was given a room near the royal apartments.
Naturally solitary, Chaloner found an empty stable loft and passed what was left of the night in an uneasy slumber, during which his dreams teemed with highwaymen, strangled corpses and Hannah. He awoke confused, disorientated and not in a particularly good mood. His mouth felt dry and sour from all the tobacco he had eaten the previous day, and he had a crick in his neck. He lay in the straw for a while, thinking about the letter that the Earl had received about Kole.
Mysteriously and annoyingly, the Earl had refused to say who had sent it, and nor would he let Chaloner read it for himself. Chaloner had tried to reason with him, but his employer had obstinately declined to relent. This peculiar and inexplicable behaviour told Chaloner yet again that there was more to the Earl’s interest in the asylum than making charitable donations.
So who had sent it? A member of staff or a governor, who had agreed to act as the Earl’s spy on the inside? An inmate? Chaloner knew he would find out sooner or later, which made the Earl’s determination to be secretive even more exasperating. He pushed his irritation to the back of his mind, and pondered what few facts the Earl had consented to share.
According to the informant, Kole had last been seen at midnight, and his body had been found at six the following morning. Chaloner thought about his suspects for Underhill’s murder – down from eight names to seven now that Kole had become a victim. The conversation he had overheard in the Spares Gallery told him that all had been in Chelsea the evening before the murder, attending the special service in Wilkinson’s church.
Of course, his list would almost certainly expand once he started to investigate. First, it should probably include the so-called spectre – it would not be the first time a killer had pretended to be a ghost in the expectation that no one would look too closely at his crimes. Then he should not forget the fact that Kole had been lodging with a lot of unruly courtiers; it was entirely possible that there had been a falling out, and that one had dispatched him over some petty dispute. And finally, there was Underhill’s association with Spymaster Williamson, which would certainly have made him enemies had the information leaked out.
He ate a breakfast of bread and pickled herrings, then waited impatiently until Kipps and Wiseman deigned to appear. If either noticed his bad temper as they rode through the parched countryside, they did not remark on it. Kipps was full of the gossip he had heard the night before, while Wiseman was more interested in bragging about the quality of the quarters he had been allocated. However, it was not long before the discussion turned acerbic. Kipps soon tired of Wiseman’s hubris, while the surgeon’s sharper mind yearned for more intelligent conversation.
‘Did you learn anything last night that might help with our enquiries, Kipps?’ asked Chaloner, when an initially harmless debate about peas looked set to become violent.
‘Only that everyone is amazed Cocke was appointed prison accompter, because he is so untrustworthy,’ replied the Seal Bearer. ‘And they think the Earl is rash to suggest transferring the King’s gold to Hampton Court, when a fool like Reymes is in charge of its safety.’
‘And how is that pertinent to the murders, pray?’ asked Wiseman sneeringly.
‘It is background information on two leading suspects,’ retorted Kipps crisply. ‘Which Tom tells me is an important part of any investigation.’
Wiseman was not about to admit that the Seal Bearer might have a point, so he turned to another subject. ‘What is wrong with you today, Chaloner? You look very green around the gills.’
‘From the tobacco you suggested I eat,’ said Chaloner, resisting a sudden urge to spit, as he was sure that neither of his companions would approve. ‘My tongue tingles and my throat hurts.’
‘You ate it?’ asked Wiseman. ‘That was reckless – it is poisonous.’
Chaloner regarded him in alarm. ‘Poisonous?’
‘Oh, yes. I never touch the stuff myself, and I strongly suspect that any virtues it might possess are far outweighed by its dangers.’
‘But you told me to do it!’
‘Did I? Well, I read a paper by the learned men of the Royal Society last night, which proves beyond all doubt that tobacco juices are lethal. They performed experiments and…’ He trailed off when he saw Chaloner’s dark expression. ‘But perhaps we had better not discuss those. How much longer do you think this heat will last? I am heartily sick of it.’
Irritably, Chaloner tossed the remainder of the pouch away, and vowed to have no more to do with the plant ever again. Assuming he survived his current encounter with it, of course.
It was much easier travelling by day than by night, and they made good time, so Wiseman was able to announce that it was ten o’clock exactly when they reached the outskirts of Chelsea. He waved a new-fangled invention called a ‘pocket watch’ at his companions.
‘The King gave me this for my birth-day,’ he bragged, directing his remark at Kipps, to whom such favours mattered. ‘What did he give you for yours?’
‘I have ridden past this village several times,’ said Chaloner quickly, to avert yet another sparring match. ‘But there has never been enough time to explore it.’
‘You will not have time to explore it now,’ said Kipps, looking away from Wiseman, who was dangling the watch provocatively. ‘You will arrest Cocke for killing Nancy, Underhill and Kole, and then we shall return to Hampton Court. The Earl needs us, and I have no inclination to linger here in present company.’
‘I shall not tarry either,’ declared Wiseman haughtily. ‘I shall wait just long enough to ensure that Dorothy is safe – a day or two at most – and then I will leave, too.’
‘But hopefully not with us,’ muttered Kipps.
Chelsea stood on the banks of the Thames, and comprised a collection of red-roofed houses set amid trees. At its centre was All Saints’ Church, an ancient building topped by an oddly modern cupola. The river front was punctuated by attractive piers, and the boats tethered there were fishing smacks and pleasure craft, rather than the filthy lumbering barges that plied their trade in the city.
The village boasted an inordinate number of stately homes – at least eight, with smaller mansions interspersed among them. Even the labourers’ cottages were smart, with none of the impoverished hovels that usually characterised rural settlements. It had two wide, well-maintained roads running from east to west, linked by a patchwork of lanes. To the north lay the marshes, although these had suffered from the drought, and were now reduced to patches of parched mud.
‘This is known locally as the King’s Road,’ said Wiseman, gesturing to the track along which they rode. ‘Because Charles has plans to make it his personal highway to Hampton Court. Of course, he will have to fill in some of these potholes first, because otherwise, he runs the risk of falling in one and never being seen again. Some are huge.’
The first building of substance they passed was the rectory, a structure that had been built to last. It had enormously thick walls and a stone roof, which lent it an air of stocky permanence. Its window shutters were in excellent repair, and its front door was reinforced with iron. Chaloner supposed that Wilkinson maintained its fortress-like qualities in case his radical religious views led to an attack. By contrast, its grounds were unkempt. What had once been neat vegetable plots were seas of waving grasses, while the orch
ard was choked with brambles. Flies droned in the still, sweltering air, and there was something desolate and slightly sinister about the place.
They rode along one of its boundary walls until they reached a crossroads. The centre of the village lay to the south, down a spacious street named Church Lane. They turned down it, with the rectory wall still on their left, and saw the entrance to a palace on their right. This was Buckingham House, Chelsea’s largest and most prestigious residence, which stood at the end of a sweeping, beech-lined drive. Chaloner recalled that it was currently leased to Reymes, and was where Greeting and Brodrick intended to carouse with other Court debauchees.
‘And Gorges is behind it,’ said Wiseman, pointing towards a smaller but prettier mansion that could just be seen through the trees.
But Chaloner was looking in the opposite direction. From his elevated position on the horse, he could see over the rectory wall to where Wilkinson was on all fours by a compost heap. The man might have gone undetected, were it not for the fact that he was wearing formal religious vestments, including a scarlet cope. It was such an odd sight that Chaloner reined in to stare. Kipps and Wiseman did likewise.
‘Hah! Got the bastard!’ Wilkinson leapt up, clutching something in his hand. He scowled when he saw he was the object of scrutiny. ‘Are you three spying on me?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Kipps indignantly. ‘However, you cannot grub about in the dirt in full ecclesiastical regalia and expect not to be noticed.’
‘What a man does in his garden is his own affair,’ declared Wilkinson. ‘So bugger off.’
‘We are here to investigate the murders of Nancy Janaway, Robert Underhill and Andrew Kole,’ announced Kipps importantly. ‘We shall want to talk to you at some point.’
‘I am sorry they are dead,’ said Wilkinson, his harsh features softening into a reflective expression, ‘because it means the end of them for ever. I know some fools believe in eternal life, but I cannot be doing with all that twaddle.’
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