The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘So who killed him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  Reymes scowled. ‘I thought that was what you were here to find out.’

  ‘It is,’ replied Chaloner evenly. ‘But if you have suspicions, now is the time to air them.’

  ‘I do not. As I told you earlier, all my guests have alibis in each other.’

  ‘It is not looking good for you, Reymes,’ said Kipps, uncharacteristically belligerent. ‘A man dies in your garden, and you are the only one who cannot account for his whereabouts.’

  There was a moment when Chaloner thought the Seal Bearer was going to be punched, but Reymes managed to rein in his temper and even attempt a smile, which did not sit well on his perpetually angry features and served to make him look devious.

  ‘I suppose the culprit might be among the courtiers,’ he conceded, obviously unwilling to shoulder the role of sole suspect. ‘I do not know them well enough to say whether they are the kind of folk to slaughter each other.’

  ‘Then why did you invite them into your home?’ pounced Chaloner.

  ‘Because they all hate Clarendon,’ flared Reymes, anger rising again. ‘With the exception of Brodrick, whom I asked because he is a lively soul who will entertain the others.’

  Chaloner did not believe him. Even the embittered commissioner would not squander a fortune on people with whom he shared nothing but a common dislike of one man.

  ‘How did Kole seem before you retired?’ he asked. ‘Did you notice anything unusual?’

  ‘No. I went to my room before the festivities began, so I did not notice Kole or anyone else.’

  ‘You did not wait to join in? Not even for a little while?’

  ‘I am not in a position to frolic into the small hours,’ replied Reymes sourly. ‘The prison generates a lot of work, and I am obliged to be at my desk at first light. Which is why Clarendon foisted it on me, of course.’

  ‘Where is Kole’s room? Upstairs?’

  ‘Yes, but a woman from the village has already cleaned it and sent all his belongings to Kent. There is nothing there to help you now. And Cocke has moved in anyway.’

  ‘You could not have kept it vacant for a few hours?’ asked Kipps in distaste. ‘To show some respect for the dead?’

  Reymes shrugged. ‘She had finished before I realised what she was doing. It was presumptuous of her, I suppose, but it saved me the bother of thinking about it, so I did not complain. Indeed, I gave her a shilling for using her initiative.’

  Chaloner insisted on seeing the room anyway, so Reymes led the way up the stairs, albeit with ill grace. Kole had been allocated a small but pleasant chamber on the second floor, and Reymes opened the door to an unholy mess. Cocke’s greasy clothes were strewn everywhere, and the place smelled of sweat and dirty feet.

  Chaloner explored it carefully anyway, ignoring Reymes’ gusty sighs of impatience, but Eleanore had been thorough. The only thing of interest was a faint sooty footprint in the hearth, which was too small to have been made by either her or Cocke, and told Chaloner that someone else – Kole, perhaps – had been doing something up the chimney.

  He peered up the shaft, and saw a ledge on which a little package rested. Aware that Reymes was watching, and unwilling to have his find confiscated before he could examine it, Chaloner dislodged the desiccated corpse of a pigeon, which was caught higher up. When Reymes and Kipps recoiled in disgust, he slipped the bundle inside his shirt unnoticed.

  When they returned to the garden, Chaloner’s spirits sank. Even in the short time he had been in the house, the courtiers had grown more drunk and less inhibited. The villagers at the gates stood in a fascinated semicircle, and he wondered why Reymes should want them to witness White Hall at play. Did he aim to expose its failings to the world, and lead a revolt against the government?

  ‘A word, Ned,’ called Kipps, as Sir Edward Hungerford reeled past. Hungerford was an especially hedonistic courtier, who was in the process of squandering what had once been a princely inheritance. ‘Were you here when Kole was murdered?’

  Hungerford peered at him through bloodshot eyes. ‘Kipps? I thought you had followed Clarendon to Hampton Court – although you will have a better time here, I warrant. I have never known such rambunctious entertainment.’

  ‘Kole,’ prompted Kipps. ‘Did you see anything that might let us catch his killer?’

  ‘Do not bother about him,’ slurred Hungerford. ‘All he ever did was moan about Parliament seizing his assets. Well, if he wanted to live in a country with an honest government, he should have moved abroad. I am told he was murdered, but I knew nothing of it until Lady Castlemaine told me at noon today. I was rather the worse for wear, I am afraid.’

  He lurched away before he could be asked anything else.

  ‘I have a bad feeling that everyone else will say much the same,’ said Chaloner, disgusted and disheartened. ‘But we shall have to speak to them anyway, just to be sure. What a waste of time!’

  ‘I will do it,’ offered Kipps, gazing longingly at the Lady, who was reclining on a bench surrounded by drooling men. ‘While you visit Gorges. Call it a division of labour.’

  It was not a very fair one, and when Kipps went to collect a cup of wine before entering the fray, Chaloner knew who would be doing the lion’s share of the work in Chelsea.

  Once away from Buckingham House, Chaloner opened the bundle from the chimney. It contained sketches of women, all engaged in activities they would never have pursued in front of an audience – Kole had spied on them, and had been so gloatingly proud of his ‘artwork’ that he had signed each piece with his name. Chaloner felt soiled just looking at them, and dumped the lot in the nearest midden, feeling it was the best place for such nastiness. There was one item of interest among them, however: a short message in cipher. The writer had used the simplest of numerical codes, one with which Chaloner was so familiar that he could translate it in his head:

  Sir,

  I have nothinge to Reporte other than that you shoulde sende your own Spyes to the College. The matter is beyond me. A Spectre roames Chelsey, but no one knows its name, altho there are those who saye it is John Sutcliffe, nephew of the olde Deane. Yett I saw it once, and it trodd light, like a Womann. Reymes spends a Fortune on his Gests, and begrudges them nought, altho they are an Ungratefull hord. Koale the Spekulator is bitter with Rage about his Losses, but he is a feeble Mann with more Talke than Action. If anyone tells you that I stole Mrs Bonny’s plate and solde it in the Fleet Rookerie, they are lyinge.

  Your Most Humble Servant,

  R U

  Chaloner regarded it thoughtfully. Clearly, it was one of Robert Underhill’s reports to Spymaster Williamson, so why was it in Kole’s room? Kole had known that Underhill was a spy, because Rector Thompson had heard them arguing about it, and Mother Green had watched him trail Underhill in the Fleet Rookery, clearly in the hope of proving that there was something untoward about his quarry. Had he intercepted the message because he feared he had been mentioned in it, and if so, had he managed to decode what was written? It was absurdly easy for Chaloner, but he was a professional intelligencer: Kole might have been stumped. And what was this about the spectre being a woman? Could it be true?

  Chaloner was still pondering when he reached the gates of Gorges House, a pretty building with mullioned windows and a wealth of Elizabethan chimneys. It was charmingly asymmetrical, and the flowers in its garden gave it a welcoming appearance. A number of ‘songbirds’ were out, some reading under a tree, others busy with hoes among the vegetable plots, while a few sang. It was a peaceful scene, despite the racket from its less restrained neighbours – until a gale of wild laughter reminded him that not all its occupants were sane.

  He was about to ring the bell when a figure emerged from the house. It was Parker in his plague costume. His movements were jerky and agitated as he approached a woman from behind. She gave a shrill cry of fright when she turned to see him there. Most residents looked on with amusement, but a
few panicked and began running every which way, colliding with each other as they went. Parker promptly joined in.

  Then Franklin appeared and tried to lay hold of him, but Parker was too quick for his slower, fatter colleague, and they careered around the garden in increasingly frantic circles. The chase ended when Mrs Bonney brought Parker down with an impressive flying tackle. The two effete dancing masters, Bannister and Hart, watched the ensuing struggle with troubled faces, and Chaloner knew how they felt: like his, their livelihoods depended on the ability of another person to carry out his duties.

  Chaloner shouted to attract attention, but it was Wiseman who came to speak to him – the staff were occupied with bundling Parker out of sight and calming those inmates who had been unsettled by the sight of a plague doctor dashing about.

  ‘You will not be allowed in today, Chaloner, so do not bother asking. Gorges is closed.’

  ‘Then why are you in there?’ asked Chaloner archly.

  ‘First, because I am a medicus; and second, because my wife lives here. You, however, will be told to return tomorrow. They are having trouble with Parker, you see.’

  ‘So I noticed. What is wrong with him?’

  ‘Mrs Bonney says it is nothing, but he seems deranged to me.’

  ‘How is Dorothy?’

  ‘I think she has improved, but I shall know more when I discuss her case with the nurses tomorrow. Do not waste your time here, Chaloner. Go and catch your murderer instead.’

  Chaloner now had two choices: return to Buckingham House and help Kipps to interview the drunken courtiers, or examine the prison. Neither option appealed, and he wondered if he could visit Eleanore instead, on the pretext of learning more about Nancy Janaway. But conscience prevailed, and he set off reluctantly towards the gaol.

  Unlike Chelsea’s other mansions, which faced the river, the Theological College had been built towards the road, allowing the Thames to form a pretty backdrop to it. It was enormous, comprising buildings set around two quadrangles. The first boasted a gatehouse at the front, turrets on all four corners, and its cobbled yard was so vast that the buildings in its middle – kitchens, stables, pantries and even a brewery – barely took up any space at all. The second was tiny, but was concealed behind high, featureless walls, and nothing of it was visible from the outside.

  As Chaloner approached, he saw that all the windows had been fitted with bars, while the gatehouse had been fortified. He wondered if the Royal Society would still want the place when the war was over and the prisoners had been sent home. Pushing away the desire to leave his inspection for another day, he took a deep breath and jangled the bell that was hanging outside. After what felt like an age, a grille snapped open and eyes peered out.

  ‘I come on behalf of the Earl of Clarendon and Spymaster Williamson,’ he announced with as much authority as he could muster. ‘They want me to assess the situation here.’

  He was aware of being studied, and wished he had thought to dress for the occasion. Shirtsleeves, riding breeches and an old felt hat might be comfortable for wandering about in the sun, but they were hardly garments to impress. Fortunately, the Earl had provided him with a writ of authority before he had left – a gloriously impressive document, embossed with the Clarendon seal, and trailing blue and gold ribbons. He pulled it out and held it up for inspection.

  There was a muttered conversation, after which the wicket gate opened to reveal two men. One was small, thin and wore an old-fashioned cloak and a tall hat that reminded Chaloner of a woodcut he had once seen of Guy Fawkes – as did the decidedly villainous expression on the fellow’s face. The second was a hulking brute with scarred knuckles and ears that had received too many punches.

  ‘I am Warden Tooker,’ said the small man. ‘And this is Chief Gaoler Samm, who has forty men under his command, so you can tell your masters that they need not fear trouble. A sparrow could not escape without our permission.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chaloner, thinking that here was the person who Thurloe claimed had been dismissed from Newgate for corrupt practices. ‘But I need to see for myself.’

  ‘Do you?’ Tooker exchanged a glance with his henchman. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner, lest the intention was to shove him in a cell in the hope that he and his visit would be forgotten by those who had sent him.

  ‘Then who is with you?’ demanded Samm, looking around as if he imagined helpmeets might materialise from the bushes.

  ‘Associates,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘Who are waiting for me to report back to them.’

  Tooker made an expansive gesture with his hand. ‘Then you had better come in.’

  Chaloner stepped through the door with considerable reluctance, shuddering when it boomed shut behind him. It set up echoes that reverberated across the yard, and his stomach lurched painfully. How much longer would his experiences in France haunt him? And given that he reacted the same way every time he set foot in a place with cells, should he look for a different occupation? The post of Sergeant at Arms for the Treasury suddenly seemed very attractive.

  Beyond the mighty gatehouse was the main yard, where several hundred prisoners trudged in a shuffling circle. They were well enough clad for the height of summer, but Chaloner wondered what would happen when winter bit. Most were cowed, dejected and frightened, exactly as they had been immediately after the Battle of Lowestoft, when they had been fished from the sea.

  ‘We let them out for an hour each day,’ Tooker explained. ‘They enjoy the sunshine and a stroll does them good. We do not want them dying on us, after all. However, this only applies to the obedient ones. We keep the trouble-makers in the Garden Court, and those never leave their cells.’

  At that point, Chaloner’s eye lit on a knot of a score or so men who lounged in a shady corner, apparently exempt from tramping about in the blazing sun. They were better dressed and sleeker than their fellows, and their leader was a squat, barrel-shaped lout with missing teeth. At a gesture from Tooker, the fellow slouched forward. A second prisoner followed, one who wore the garb of a Dutch sea-captain, although his coat and breeches were shabby.

  Tooker indicated the bulky man first. ‘This is John Spring, the Hollanders’ spokesman.’ Then he nodded to the second. ‘And Jacob Oudart, their highest-ranking officer.’

  ‘Are you from the government?’ asked Spring in English that revealed him to be from Newcastle or thereabouts. ‘Come to see how we are kept? Well, we are very comfortable, thank you. We want for nothing, and our gaolers are stern but fair.’

  Bemused, Chaloner addressed him in Dutch. ‘Surely the prisoners would rather have a spokesman from their own country? It seems inappropriate for an Englishman to represent their interests.’

  ‘I Holland,’ declared Spring in the same language, although his thick accent belied the claim. ‘They happy with me.’ He reverted to the vernacular. ‘Now bugger off.’

  ‘That is a curious response towards someone who has come to enquire after your welfare,’ remarked Chaloner coolly. ‘Why are you so keen to have me gone?’

  Tooker was standing behind Chaloner, but the spy knew he was making frantic gestures, warning Spring to watch his tongue. Oudart stepped forward quickly.

  ‘We do not want you gone,’ he said in aristocratic Dutch; his smile was strained, and he had a sallow, sickly look about him. ‘Our manners are brittle only because we so desperately want to go home. You have no idea what it is like to be gaoled on foreign soil.’

  Chaloner knew only too well. ‘Which ship are you from?’

  ‘Stad Utrecht,’ replied Oudart. ‘I was captured when Royal Charles sent a fire-ship against me at the Battle of Lowestoft. Which was rather ungentlemanly, if you want the truth.’

  Chaloner recalled that part of the action vividly. In the chaos and panic at the end of the engagement, four Dutch ships had collided with each other and become hopelessly entangled. The Duke of York had ordered a fire-ship set loose among them, after which one had exploded, two ha
d sunk and one had managed to escape. Fewer than a hundred survivors had been plucked from the wreckage-strewn water afterwards, and Chaloner was not surprised that Oudart was bitter.

  He abandoned the pair, and went to waylay some of the exercising masses, much to Tooker’s obvious annoyance, but learned little other than that none spoke much English, which was why Spring had managed to get himself appointed their leader – along with the fact that he had twenty beefy shipmates to back his bid for power. Technically, the honour should have gone to Oudart, but there was some suggestion that poor seamanship had contributed to the disaster with Stad Utrecht, and the captain was thus unpopular.

  ‘Spring keeps good order among the inmates,’ said Tooker, coming to take Chaloner’s arm and direct him away from the shuffling mariners, ‘whereas Oudart was a liability with his ineffectual orders and unpredictable moods. In return for Spring’s help, we afford him and his friends a little more freedom than the rest.’

  ‘What kind of freedom?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are they allowed outside the prison walls?’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous! But they are permitted to sit while the others walk, and they are given better rations. It is working very well. Watch.’

  He nodded to Samm, who rang a gong. Immediately, Spring and his minions began to direct the other prisoners back to their cells; most went willingly, glad to be out of the heat. Spring looked as though he would reclaim his spot in the shady corner, but Samm signalled urgently, and the spokesman slouched indoors after the others.

  With Tooker at his side, directing a stream of information into his ear that was both irrelevant and annoying, Chaloner was given a guided tour of the College, although there were too many locked doors for him to see much. He was shown two rooms where inmates sat demurely on folded blankets. Both cells were clean, with water provided for washing. Then he was taken to the refectory, where a few Dutchmen were weaving reed baskets. Afterwards, he was presented with the sales ledgers from the work, Tooker boasting that every penny of profit was reinvested in prisoner welfare.