The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner blinked his astonishment. ‘And this from an Anglican cleric?’

  Wilkinson eyed him in disdain. ‘Oh, you are one of those tedious traditionalists, are you? And people wonder why I yearn to revive the Theological College! I want to discuss religion with like-minded radicals, not dreary conformists.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Wiseman. ‘The Church does not usually let its ministers go around spouting that sort of remark. Why has he not been extruded?’

  ‘Probably because his bishop is too busy with the plague,’ said Kipps, and called a question to the scowling cleric. ‘How well did you know Underhill and Kole?’

  ‘Liars and cheats, both of them,’ snarled Wilkinson. ‘And Nancy Janaway was a whore. All women are, which is why I shall never marry.’

  Chaloner regarded him with distaste, and went on an offensive of his own. ‘Why were you following George Cocke yesterday?’

  Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you are spying on me! I should have guessed when you appeared from nowhere at the Rose, and started asking impertinent questions about my father.’

  ‘Actually, I asked about Cocke,’ corrected Chaloner, ‘who you were tailing. Why?’

  Wilkinson scowled at him. ‘If you must know, I was trying to ensure that he did not enter an area where the pestilence rages, and thus bring the sickness to Chelsea. I did it for the common good. Not that my actions are any of your business.’

  Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘But it was Parker who wore the plague costume, not Cocke. Therefore Parker was the one more likely to venture into dangerous territory.’

  ‘Wrong!’ declared Wilkinson. ‘Parker donned those clothes to protect himself, not to traipse into rookeries. Franklin and Mrs Bonney did the same, while even those ridiculous dancing masters shied away from strangers and booked themselves into a decent inn. But Cocke wandered where he pleased without so much as a pomander. I do not care if he kills himself, but I will not have him endangering me. Or my congregation,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘But you followed him into the Rose,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘A tavern frequented by rookery folk. You might have caught the plague there yourself – and brought it back to Chelsea.’

  ‘Impossible! I swallowed a whole bottle of London Treacle to protect myself. However, that stuff is expensive, so it is not something I can afford to do every day.’ Wilkinson glared at him. ‘Now go away. And if you ever spy on me again, I shall blow off your head with my pistols.’

  ‘Pistols?’ asked Chaloner, beginning to suspect the rector was out of his wits. ‘Those are unusual items for a priest to own.’

  ‘I am an unusual priest.’ Wilkinson opened his hand to reveal what he had caught – a butterfly, which he had crushed until its wings were mangled and its body a gooey mess. ‘I hate these things. They are stupid creations with their pathetic fluttering.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Wiseman a second time. ‘If he is the kind of clergyman his Theological College produced, then perhaps it is just as well it was closed down.’

  Chaloner and his companions were about to ride on when a hackney carriage turned into the lane behind them. It rolled to a standstill outside the entrance to Buckingham House, and three men alighted: Reymes, Doyley and Cocke, their faces and clothes pale with dust from the journey.

  ‘I insist, Bullen,’ Doyley was saying to Reymes. ‘I shall enjoy your hospitality here, so the least I can do is pay your share of the coach fare.’

  Reymes inclined his head in thanks, and Doyley counted the coins into the driver’s hand. They turned expectantly to Cocke, but the accompter had busied himself with the bags, and was pretending not to notice. With a resigned sigh, Doyley paid for him as well, and Chaloner saw a flash of greedy triumph in Cocke’s eyes.

  ‘I hope you do not plan to relax here too long, Reymes,’ called Kipps provocatively. ‘Your place is in White Hall with the King’s gold.’

  ‘I know it is,’ said Reymes tightly. ‘But I am compelled to be in Chelsea on prison business – which means that if anything does happen to the Treasury, it will be Clarendon’s fault for making me a commissioner.’

  ‘The Treasury is perfectly safe,’ said Doyley. He sounded tired, as if he had repeated these words rather too often. ‘Warwick and Stephens are competent fellows. Besides, you plan to visit the city most days, so do not tease poor Kipps with these implications that the gold is at risk. It is not.’

  Cocke finished fussing with the luggage, and came to speak to Reymes. ‘Shall I take my usual room in Buckingham House, or do you have somewhere else for me this time?’

  Reymes smiled vengefully: the accompter’s shabby antics over the coach fare were about to cost him dear. ‘Several more courtiers arrived yesterday, so there is only one room free – and that is for Doyley. You will have to find other lodgings.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ called Wilkinson, coming to rest his elbows on his garden wall like a gossiping fishwife. ‘Doyley can stay with me.’

  Doyley eyed the bleak rectory without enthusiasm. ‘You mean in there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Wilkinson pulled a disagreeable face. ‘If life was fair, I would be provost of a thriving Theological College, and you would have three good servants to tend your needs. But life is not fair, so you will have to make do with rather less.’

  ‘What a splendid solution,’ said Cocke quickly. ‘Thank you, Wilkinson. I am sure Doyley will be very comfortable with you while I stay in Buckingham House.’

  ‘It is settled then,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Come along, Doyley. I do not have all day.’

  He disappeared into his overgrown garden, while Reymes glowered after him, furious that his ploy to punish the accompter’s meanness should have been so neatly subverted. Meanwhile, Doyley regarded the forbidding rectory with trepidation, and Cocke smirked his triumph.

  ‘It is only for a night or two,’ the accompter said gloatingly. ‘I am sure you will manage.’

  ‘I am glad we met,’ said Chaloner, nudging his horse forward, so it was between Cocke and Reymes, who was looking decidedly dangerous. ‘We have been ordered to investigate the murder of Kole. He died in your house and—’

  ‘Ordered by Clarendon?’ demanded Reymes, bristling with new anger. ‘Well, you can piss off. No minion of his is going to set foot on my property.’

  ‘Clarendon is Lord Chancellor of England, Bullen,’ Doyley reminded him quietly. ‘He has the power to authorise such an enquiry, and you have nothing to hide. Let his men do their work.’

  Reymes glowered. ‘Very well. However, I was in bed when Kole died, and all my guests have alibis in each other, so his lackeys will have to look elsewhere for a culprit.’

  ‘Can Mrs Reymes confirm your story?’ asked Kipps sweetly.

  Reymes scowled. ‘There is no Mrs Reymes, as you know perfectly well. I sleep alone.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ drawled Kipps. ‘I had forgotten that England’s women have so far managed to resist your … charms.’

  ‘Few can resist mine,’ put in Cocke with a leer.

  ‘We shall need to speak to everyone who was in Buckingham House when Kole died,’ said Chaloner, ignoring him and continuing to address Reymes. ‘May we do it now?’

  ‘You may not. Prison matters will keep me occupied all morning, and I do not want you poking about here without me. You may come this afternoon, on condition that you treat my visitors with respect. One rude word, and I shall throw you out myself – by force if necessary.’

  ‘He did not mean that,’ said Doyley, as Reymes stamped away. ‘It has been a tiring few days, what with work for the Treasury and the Commission, and this hot weather is a trial. He will be perfectly amiable after a cup of cool wine.’

  Chaloner seriously doubted it, and Reymes’ unsteady temper had put him at the very top of the list for all three murders. He glanced at Cocke, who was haggling with two children over the paltry sum they were to be paid for carrying his luggage inside Buckingham House, and decided that the accompter’s name was second.


  As they rode on, Kipps and Wiseman began an ill-natured debate about the best place to stay, and Chaloner supposed his mind must have wandered when they had agreed to share lodgings. He would have vetoed the notion had he been paying attention, because he had no wish to keep company with two men who would constantly be at each other’s throats.

  ‘I always stay in the Goat in Boots,’ Kipps was declaring. ‘It has excellent stables.’

  ‘Yes, but I am not a horse,’ argued Wiseman. ‘We shall go to the White Hart, where the food is more palatable. The Goat always smells of fish.’

  ‘The Swan,’ said Chaloner firmly. Thurloe had recommended it as clean, quiet and run by a landlord who knew the village and its inhabitants like the back of his hand – and who was always willing to share his knowledge for a coin or two. It was also conveniently close to the prison.

  ‘Very well,’ conceded Wiseman. ‘Although it is farther from Gorges than I would like. Still, I suppose the walk will do me good.’

  ‘It will,’ said Kipps, looking pointedly at Wiseman’s bulk. ‘But it had better not be full of spiders. Lord, I am hungry! We left so early this morning that I did not have time for breakfast.’

  ‘I have some strips of meat, which I dried in the Anatomy Theatre,’ said Wiseman. ‘I could probably spare a couple, if you were desperate.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Kipps with a moue of revulsion. ‘But I think I can last a few more minutes.’

  Church Lane was named for All Saints’, which stood at its far end, and looked far too small to accommodate everyone who lived there. Moreover, its graveyard was tiny, and already crammed with memorials. If the plague came, space would be a problem.

  The lane widened outside it, forming a large square that ran down to the river. A weekly market was held there on Mondays, but something was happening that Saturday, too – a summer fair. Girls skipped around a maypole, trestle tables were loaded with cakes and garden produce, and there was a sense of happy frivolity – a marked contrast to the sombre, frightened atmosphere in London. A trio of musicians played a medley of popular songs with more enthusiasm than talent, and young people were dancing. The scent of hot baked apples was in the air, mingled with the aroma of burning wood and roasting meat.

  Chaloner and his companions were stopped by two soldiers and a crone before they reached the festivities. The men were armed with muskets, which they trained on the visitors, while the woman hobbled forward.

  ‘Have you come from London?’ she demanded sharply.

  ‘Yes, but we do not have the plague,’ stated Wiseman. ‘I am the King’s surgeon, and thus the most eminent medical man in the country. I would know if we were infected. And we are not.’

  Chaloner would have treated such arrogance with the scepticism it deserved, but the men exchanged impressed glances and lowered their weapons. The crone was more cautious, and peered at each of the three in turn, although she soon nodded to say that they had passed muster.

  ‘You would be surprised at the cheek of some folk,’ she confided. ‘They come here, direct from the city, and act as though we should be pleased to see them. Well, we are not.’

  ‘Other than the courtiers at Buckingham House,’ added one of the men. ‘We like them. They keep the entire village amused with their antics.’

  ‘They do,’ chuckled the crone. ‘And all in the front garden, too! If I did that sort of thing, I would use the back, out of sight.’

  ‘I think they like an audience,’ explained the man. ‘Although they do perform at odd times – sometimes late at night, then in the middle of the day…’

  ‘You would not catch me out late at night,’ growled the second soldier. ‘I would be afraid of meeting the spectre. I saw it once, and that was enough for me.’

  ‘The spectre?’ queried Chaloner innocently.

  The fellow glanced around, and lowered his voice. ‘The ghost that murdered Nancy and Mr Kole, and that steals from Gorges. It probably killed Mr Underhill, too, although that was in London, and we had not known that it likes to travel.’

  ‘It probably uses a headless horse,’ put in the crone sagely.

  ‘Any number of us have seen it,’ the man went on, ‘but it is like mist – here one moment and gone the next.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘It looks like a spectre,’ replied the soldier, regarding Chaloner as though he was short of wits. ‘A dark, evil figure in a long coat.’

  ‘What is its name?’ Kipps shrugged at the trio’s immediate puzzlement. ‘Even phantoms have names. How would they address each other otherwise?’

  ‘I am sure they have their ways,’ said the crone darkly. ‘But we just call it “the spectre”. Or sometimes “the stranger”, as it has not been here very long. Just since the end of June.’

  ‘That is when the College became a prison,’ remarked Chaloner.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ acknowledged the crone. ‘Although that must be coincidence, because none of the Dutchmen have died, so it is not their tortured souls who haunt our streets.’

  ‘True,’ agreed the first man. ‘My brother works in that gaol, and he would have told me if there had been a death. Besides, he says it is shut up tighter than the Tower of London at night, and that even a ghost would have trouble getting out.’

  ‘Lord, this is gloomy talk!’ exclaimed the crone. ‘Let us dwell on happier things.’ She waved a gnarled hand in an expansive gesture. ‘There is ale in the church, and you look as though you could do with some refreshment. Stop there first, and then enjoy the festivities.’

  Although Chaloner felt he should start interviewing people at once, the prospect of a drink was too tempting to ignore. He paid a boy to mind the horses, and followed Kipps and Wiseman through the porch. His head ached from squinting against the sun, and it was good to relax for a moment in the cool fustiness of the ancient building.

  His companions made a beeline for the ale, but Chaloner explored first – a habit from the wars, when only fools did not assess avenues of escape before venturing too far inside places they did not know. The church was dark and intimate, with thick walls and narrow windows that kept out the heat. It was full of tombs, commemorating such wealthy parishioners as Lord Dacre, the Duchess of Northumberland and Sir Arthur Gorges. He went to inspect them more closely, and when Kipps came to give him a flagon of ale, he was standing by one dedicated to Sir Thomas More, which was carved with a lengthy inscription composed by the martyr himself.

  ‘What beautiful Latin,’ he said, sure Kipps with his love of ceremonial precision would agree. ‘At societ tumulus, societ nos, obsecro cœlum Sic Mors, non potuit quod dare vita, dabit.’

  ‘I do not like Moors,’ said Kipps. ‘Not after what they did in Tangier last year.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Mors, not Moors. He is talking about him and his wife being united in Heaven, and death granting what life had denied.’

  ‘You have grown morose since losing Hannah,’ observed Kipps critically. ‘And it is not healthy. The best thing you can do is find yourself another woman.’

  Chaloner blinked his astonishment at the advice, but by the time he had found his tongue, Kipps was back with the ale-selling ladies, where he and Wiseman were engaged in a competition to impress – both were susceptible to a pretty face. Chaloner shook off the Seal Bearer’s remarks, and returned to the monuments.

  One was new and dedicated to the memory of a John Unckles, draper. Its inscription informed the reader that Unckles had been the beloved husband of Eleanore, and would be deeply missed by all who knew him. Chaloner stared at it, wondering if he should erect one to Hannah. She would have wanted it, he was sure, and the gaudier and more expensive the better.

  ‘Did you know John Unckles?’ came a voice at his side.

  He turned to see a woman, who was almost as tall as he, with flowing black hair and dark eyes. Her face was rosy from the sun, and large, capable hands suggested she was used to physical labour. He felt an immediate at
traction towards her, although he was not proud of it – not when he had just been pondering how to honour his dead wife.

  ‘You stared at the tablet for so long that I was sure you must be paying your respects,’ she went on. ‘John knew so many people, and they all liked him. I am Eleanore, his wife.’

  ‘He lived in Chelsea?’ asked Chaloner, more for something to say than for information.

  Eleanore nodded. ‘He died last year, and I miss him still. He was a lovely person.’

  Chaloner supposed he should be making similar remarks about Hannah, although they would not be true. She had been fun-loving and generous, but her sour morning temper and careless profligacy meant ‘lovely’ was not a word he would ever use to describe her. Idly, he wondered if her facile friends from Court would eulogise over her in a year’s time. One or two had approached him on his return from sea to express regret at her passing, but none had mentioned her since.

  ‘You seem sad,’ Eleanore said. ‘Are you thinking of someone you have loved?’

  ‘My wife. She died a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Time helps,’ said Eleanore kindly. ‘I did not think I would live when John…’

  Chaloner was far more comfortable discussing her bereavement than his own. He pointed at the memorial. ‘He was thirty-five.’ His own age, he thought. ‘It is young to die.’

  ‘He worked at the College, and accidentally cut himself with a pair of scissors. He died from poisoned blood a few days later.’

  ‘Why did the College need a draper?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

  ‘Mr Kole decided that it would be cheaper to buy curtains than repair rotting shutters, so he hired John to sew him some. But the building has been turned into a prison for Dutchmen now, so John would have lost the work anyway – the windows have bars, not drapery.’

  ‘Do the villagers mind it being put to such a use?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Most think that a mass escape will see us all slaughtered in our beds. Yet their fears are groundless, because the Hollanders are too cowed to think of breaking out.’

  ‘How do you know?’