The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I have a job in the kitchens, and I see them every day. But never mind the gaol. What do you think of our village? I hope you did not come via Church Lane. If you did, you probably saw Rector Wilkinson rooting around in his compost.’

  ‘We did. In full Eucharistic regalia.’

  Eleanore rolled her eyes. ‘He is nearly always the first thing visitors see, and it gives us a bad name. I suppose you noticed Buckingham House, too. It is quiet at the moment, but you will know when its occupants wake up.’

  ‘Are they very disruptive, then?’

  ‘Terribly – we have never seen anything like it. We had heard about the wild debaucheries at White Hall, of course, but we never expected to witness them in action.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering what Reymes thought he was doing by inflicting such unseemly spectacles on the good people of Chelsea.

  Eleanore smiled, revealing small white teeth. ‘But we do not mind. They keep us entertained for hours, and all for free.’

  Chaloner found himself warming to Eleanore Unckles, which was unusual, as he tended to be wary when making new friends. He pushed his investigation to the back of his mind, and listened to her talk just for the sheer pleasure of it, learning that her husband had left her a small cottage near Buckingham House, but very little else. She took him outside and pointed it out – a pretty place with roses around the door, a thatched roof, and herbs in the garden.

  ‘I like it here,’ she said, smiling in a way that made his stomach flutter. ‘Perhaps you will, too. How long will you be staying?’

  ‘A few days,’ he replied, surprising himself by hoping it would be longer. ‘The Earl of Clarendon wants me to investigate three deaths and explore a series of thefts.’

  She shuddered. ‘No one has ever been murdered here before, and we all want the culprit safely locked away. I hope you find him.’

  ‘Did you know any of the victims?’

  ‘Of course – this is a small village. Mr Underhill was a close friend of the Countess of Derby, a woman whom Dr Parker admires for her experiments with plague water. He arrived a few months ago, and was promptly appointed as one of Gorges’ governors.’

  Clever Underhill, thought Chaloner, to research his victims’ caprices before making his move. And the Countess had died the previous year, so was not in a position to confirm or deny an acquaintance with the man, allowing him to claim anything he liked. Eleanore chattered on.

  ‘Meanwhile, Mr Kole moved here when he bought the College. Or rather, when he thought he bought the College – the government says he only rented it. When he was made homeless, he went to live in Buckingham House instead.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because Mr Reymes let him have a room cheap. He did not have much money left once the government had made its move. Of course, nor did Mr Sutcliffe.’

  ‘Mr Sutcliffe?’ fished Chaloner.

  ‘The nephew of the cleric who built the College. He claims his uncle left it to him in his will, although the lawyers disagree. He was an assassin during the wars, which is why he loves the theatre, of course – plays allow him to forget all the blood he has spilled.’

  ‘I see. And where does he live now?’ Chaloner knew the answer to that, because Thurloe had told him, but there was no harm in having it confirmed.

  ‘Greenwich, apparently. He stormed away when the government told him he would never have the College, and I have not seen him in weeks.’

  ‘Did you know Nancy Janaway? I understand her husband is a bell-founder.’

  ‘He will know nothing useful,’ said Eleanore. ‘He is distracted by grief, and you will have no sense from him, poor man. If you want to know about Nancy, ask me.’

  ‘You were friends?’

  ‘Very close friends. However, I cannot imagine why anyone should hurt her – she was a dear, sweet, kind girl. Would you like to see Mr Kole’s body, by the way? It is over here.’

  Eleanore did not wait for an answer, but led the way to the Lady Chapel, where the speculator lay in a cheap coffin. Kole was dressed in the same clothes he had worn in London, complete with painted shoes and darned coat. Clearly, the government’s antics had brought him very low indeed.

  ‘What have we here?’ came a booming voice from behind them. It was Wiseman, who had a professional interest in corpses, and dissected a lot of them at Chyrurgeons’ Hall.

  ‘Mr Kole,’ supplied Eleanore helpfully. ‘The man who was murdered the night before last.’

  ‘Strangled,’ Wiseman announced, after an examination that had Chaloner stepping hastily in front of Eleanore, to prevent her from seeing something that might give her nightmares. ‘By a person with the same-sized hands as the rogue who throttled Underhill.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Chaloner warily. ‘You never saw Underhill’s body.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did – it was in the Westminster charnel house, so I took the liberty of a peek.’ Wiseman turned back to his subject, and continued to speak as though he was addressing a hall full of students, rather than two people in a quiet church. ‘It is clear to me that both were attacked from behind, which is unusual. Most stranglers approach from the front.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Eleanore thoughtfully. ‘His body had fallen forward, you see…’

  ‘Of course I am right,’ declared Wiseman. ‘I am never anything else. But how do you know how his body fell? Did you see it in situ?’

  Eleanore nodded. ‘When I heard the news, I ran straight to Buckingham House.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that it was a ghoulish thing to admit.

  ‘Because I knew that Mr Reymes would want Mr Underhill’s room scrubbed out as soon as possible, ready for his next guest – I clean for him, you see – but when I arrived, the body was still there. Once the servants had carried it away, I looked to see if there was anything that might identify the killer, but there was nothing.’

  ‘You should have left it alone,’ admonished Wiseman. ‘You are neither a professional investigator nor a surgeon, and you might have destroyed vital clues.’

  ‘I did not, because there was nothing to destroy,’ Eleanore assured him earnestly, and turned back to Chaloner. ‘I parcelled up Mr Kole’s belongings and sent them to his kin in Kent. Mr Reymes was very grateful, and gave me a shilling.’

  ‘You should watch her, Chaloner,’ murmured Wiseman when she had gone. ‘There is something not quite right there. Rushing to the room of a murder victim and packing up his bits and pieces is a very odd thing to do. Do you not agree?’

  Chaloner supposed he did.

  The encounter with Eleanore had bemused Chaloner. Had she really tidied out Kole’s room so it could be used for more guests? It was certainly possible – he had heard for himself that Buckingham House was full. And why had she discouraged him from speaking to Nancy’s husband? Because she knew what grief was like, and aimed to protect a man whose feelings would be raw? If so, it raised her in his estimation.

  ‘Here is the Swan,’ said Wiseman, cutting into his contemplations. ‘Good. I am ravenous.’

  The Swan was a rambling place on the riverbank. It had something of a holiday atmosphere about it, with patrons rejecting the stuffiness of indoors to spill outside, hoping to catch a cooling breeze. They had taken their ale with them, and sat or lounged under the spreading oaks at the water’s edge. Wavelets rippled lightly on a pebbly shore, and children splashed happily in the shallows.

  Chaloner, Kipps and Wiseman were allocated a large chamber on the first floor. Its windows were open, and swallows dipped in and out, stealing feathers from the mattresses for their nests. The travellers deposited their saddlebags and walked back downstairs, where Kipps went to check on the horses, and Wiseman called for ale and the best food in the house. Chaloner sat at a table and absently scanned an old newsbook.

  ‘Liver pudding or boiled eels?’ asked the landlord. His name was Smith and he, like his wife and three children, was enormously fat. All five were hard at work, strugglin
g to cope with the flurry of custom created by the fair.

  ‘Neither, thank you,’ said Chaloner, thinking he had never been offered less appealing fare, not even in France. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No,’ replied Smith shortly. ‘So take it or leave it.’

  ‘The liver is an admirable organ,’ declared Wiseman authoritatively. ‘I have several pickled in Chyrurgeons’ Hall, including one that belonged to my brother-in-law.’

  Smith regarded him warily. ‘Is he dead, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Wiseman. ‘But his liver was not nearly as interesting as his brain. Have you ever cooked brain pudding? Its propensity to liquefy will make for a most interesting texture.’

  ‘I got liver or eels,’ repeated Smith, evidently deciding to stick to what he knew. ‘And nothing else. Except for a lettuce, but I am saving that for tomorrow.’

  ‘We shall have the liver then,’ determined Wiseman. ‘Assuming it is of suitable quality?’

  ‘Oh, it will be,’ vowed Smith. It sounded like a threat.

  He bustled away, and appeared moments later with an overly generous lump that reclined imposingly on a pewter tray. The garnish was a sprig of parsley that looked lost on it.

  ‘Crikey,’ murmured Chaloner, regarding it askance.

  ‘My mother makes these,’ said Wiseman, taking one of his surgical knives and slashing at it rather wildly. ‘Lamb guts stuffed with grated offal, suet, bread, cream, raisins and rose water.’

  ‘Are they edible?’ Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised to learn that the surgeon had a mother, although he could not imagine what she might be like. Alarming visions of a scarlet-clad woman of similar proportions to her son filled his mind.

  ‘Generally, although she has a tendency to over-boil them. This, however, has barely seen hot water, because it is still pink inside. Landlord! I am not in the habit of devouring raw entrails. Bring us the eels instead.’

  ‘You eat that or go without,’ retorted Smith. ‘I got better things to do than run after patrons.’

  While Wiseman blinked his astonishment at their host’s uncivil rejoinder, Chaloner wondered what had possessed Thurloe to recommend the place. ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.

  ‘Six weeks,’ came the belligerent reply. ‘Why?’

  Chaloner supposed he would have to inform the ex-Spymaster that the new management was rather less accommodating than the old, and that Thurloe should avoid the Swan if he ever needed a berth in Chelsea. Meanwhile, Wiseman was glaring at Smith.

  ‘We should have gone to the White Hart. The food there is not served raw.’

  ‘Go, then,’ shrugged Smith. ‘See if I care.’

  He strutted away, leaving Wiseman gaping in shock a second time. Chaloner laughed – it was not often that anyone confounded the surgeon. Seeing the pudding was all they were going to get, he took a tentative bite, but all he could taste was nutmeg. He pared the cooked bits from the outside, and ate enough to blunt his hunger, hoping there would be something better for supper.

  Kipps arrived from the stables, and showed himself to be an indifferent judge of victuals by devouring a sizeable slice of the pudding and declaring it food fit for a king. When he had finished, Chaloner suggested that they begin their enquiries, but the landlord returned with a dish of shredded lettuce, which he slapped on the table.

  ‘Here,’ he said grudgingly. ‘You may have this.’

  ‘May we indeed?’ murmured Wiseman. ‘And what has prompted this change of heart, pray?’

  ‘Ellie Unckles,’ explained Smith. ‘She just told me that you are here to catch Nancy’s killer. You should have said, because then I would have given you this straight away. Nancy was a good lass, and I would like to see her murderer caught.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Well enough to know that she did not deserve to be slaughtered.’

  ‘Few people do,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘So why do you think she was killed?’

  Smith shrugged. ‘She was a sweet girl – not like Kole and Underhill, who were rogues. Between you and me, I thought Kole was the strangler, but now he is a victim himself. I believed he was the spectre, see – hiding his mean face under a long coat with a hood.’

  ‘The spectre is a person?’ probed Kipps. ‘I thought it was a ghost.’

  ‘There are fools who will tell you so, but I saw it with my own eyes, and it looked earthly enough to me. But as the villain is not Kole, I got other suspects. The first is Sutcliffe.’

  ‘The dead Dean of Exeter Cathedral?’ asked Kipps in a hushed voice.

  Smith regarded him contemptuously. ‘His nephew, who is alive and vexed that the government seized the Theological College. He is a sinister devil, and certainly the kind to wander about at night, frightening the gullible.’

  ‘I was told that he had moved away from Chelsea,’ fished Chaloner.

  ‘He did – to Greenwich – but I can still see him thinking that it is amusing to terrify stupid people. He is that kind of man. Of course, I have never actually met him…’

  ‘And your other suspects?’ Chaloner was not sure why he asked, given that Smith’s theories were based solely on hearsay and prejudice.

  ‘The prisoners.’ Smith spat, narrowly missing the liver pudding. ‘They are foreigners, and I do not hold with those. One might have sneaked out to kill and steal.’

  ‘I understood that security is tight at the College,’ said Chaloner.

  Smith sniffed. ‘Some of the rogues will have money, and anything is possible for a price.’

  ‘I hope he is wrong,’ said Kipps worriedly, when Smith had gone. ‘There are two thousand prisoners in that place, and it will not be easy to identify which one escaped to go a-strangling.’

  When they had finished eating, Chaloner stood, aiming to visit the College before any more of the day was lost, but before he could reach the door, three men walked in: an elderly one with bandy legs, a burly fellow in his forties and a youth of twenty. All had unusually long chins and short noses, and it was clear that they were three generations of the same line.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the oldest. ‘Spymaster Williamson and his sprats?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ declared Wiseman indignantly. ‘I am Surgeon to the Person, while Chaloner and Kipps are the Lord Chancellor’s emissaries.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the old man, clearly unimpressed. ‘I expected Williamson. Here we are with a shoal of Dutchmen on our doorstep, and we have three Chelsea residents slaughtered. Clearly, the Hollanders are to blame, so Williamson should be here, making sure it does not happen again.’

  ‘What makes you so sure that a Dutchman is responsible?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘Who else would it be?’ demanded the oldster truculently. ‘I do not care about Underhill and Kole, but Nancy was a nice lass. Although not very good at gutting cod.’

  ‘Perhaps Williamson is busy devising ways to win the Dutch war,’ suggested the son. ‘Which is important, because I am sick of the villains raiding our fishing grounds.’

  ‘True,’ agreed his sire. He fixed Chaloner, Kipps and Wiseman with a beady eye. ‘And do not say the Battle of Lowestoft will make them think twice about trespassing in our waters again. The scum will be after our herring before you can say “eel pie and oysters”.’

  The youth released a bored sigh. ‘Then perhaps you should be at sea stopping them, Grandfather. You will do a better job than those admirals, most of whom have never set foot on a ship before. Then I could compose an ode about your courage and daring.’

  ‘I would rather you wrote about fish,’ said the old man. ‘What is the use of having a poet in the family, if he does not extol things that matter?’

  ‘And what can be more important than fish?’ agreed his son.

  The young man assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘I have written about fish – endless ditties about turbot, pike and halibut. The problem is that no one other than you two wants to read them, and I need to broa
den my horizons if I am to become famous. Do you think we should introduce ourselves to these fellows, by the way? They may not know who we are.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said the old man. ‘Everyone knows that I am John Strangeways, and I am eighty.’

  ‘And that I am his son Giles,’ added the middle-aged man. ‘While Wadham here is the heir to our fishmongery, and a poet fit to challenge the best wits at Court.’

  Strangeways addressed the visitors. ‘We have been in the fish business for seven generations, which is impressive when you consider how far Chelsea is from the sea. And if you want to know why we do not move to Wapping, well, then I shall tell you: it is because of Bullen Reymes.’

  ‘I do not follow,’ said Chaloner, although Rector Thompson had mentioned Reymes’ feud with a family named Strangeways.

  ‘Bullen Reymes,’ repeated the old man loudly, as if the lack of understanding lay with Chaloner’s hearing. ‘He is a shark – a dangerous predator, no use to man nor beast.’

  ‘Our mortal enemy,’ elaborated Giles. ‘He should never have been made a commissioner or Treasury prefect, because he is mean, vicious and sly. And he looks like a monkfish.’

  ‘A monkfish?’ Chaloner was beginning to be overwhelmed by the piscine references.

  ‘The ugliest of marine creatures,’ explained Strangeways. ‘In fact, we are here to suggest that if the murderer is not a Dutchman, then you should charge Reymes with the crime. He will commit any sin or vice in an effort to make himself rich. He is a terrible man. A shark, as I said.’

  ‘Or a monkfish,’ added Giles.

  All the while, Wadham had been eyeing Wiseman with open interest. ‘You say you are a surgeon, so will you give me your professional opinion on something? My father believes that smoking and drinking will protect me from the plague, and urges me to do both. I enjoy neither, but I will persist if they will keep me safe. What do you think?’

  ‘He thinks I am right,’ said Giles, pulling out a pipe with the biggest bowl Chaloner had ever seen. ‘How could he not, when it is obvious that smoke and wine keep a man healthy?’

  ‘Raw mackerel,’ countered Strangeways. ‘Rubbed on the chest every morning. That has kept me safe from innumerable sicknesses, and it will do the same with the plague. However, it has not helped the pains in my knee. Do you have a cure for that, Surgeon?’