The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  To see if he was telling the truth, Chaloner sat at a table and began to check the figures for himself. The warden was visibly alarmed, although in the reflection of the window Chaloner saw Samm give his employer a reassuring nod.

  Chaloner took his time over the books, refusing to be influenced by the increasingly restless shuffles and sighs from behind him. Eventually, Tooker could stand it no more. He summoned another guard, and ordered him to mind Chaloner, while he and Samm went to do something more useful. When they had gone, Chaloner took the opportunity to question the guard, who was a middle-aged fellow with a blunt, weather-burnt face. His name was Curtis Akers, and he almost fell over himself in his eagerness to cooperate.

  ‘I was a farmer, but it has been so hot and dry this summer that all my crops failed, so I was forced to apply for a post here. I cannot say I like it, though.’

  ‘Does it pay well?’

  ‘Adequately.’ Akers lowered his voice. ‘Clarendon and Williamson are wise to be concerned, because something here is amiss, although I am not experienced enough at gaoling to know what. But I do not like Spring – the way he lords it over the others. Then there is the Garden Court…’

  ‘You mean the smaller yard behind this one?’ It had not featured in the guided tour, because Tooker claimed it would be reckless to open it up without good reason.

  Akers nodded. ‘Only Samm and a few of his favourites are allowed inside, on the grounds that its prisoners are too dangerous for the rest of us to manage. But if that were true, then surely we would all be needed to keep them in line?’

  ‘That is a good point. So you have never been in?’

  ‘Not once.’ Akers glanced uneasily over his shoulder before continuing. ‘But it does contain prisoners, because supplies are regularly delivered to them. Perhaps they are Dutch admirals, who need to be kept apart from the others for their own safety – it was partly officers’ incompetence that allowed us to win the Battle of Lowestoft, after all. However, they never come out for walks.’

  ‘How big is the Garden Court?’

  ‘Not very. My wife tells me it is pretty, though, with flower beds and trees. She was a cook-maid when it was full of angry divines, but she does not approve of me working here now.’

  ‘Why not?’ Chaloner was pleased that Akers was answering his questions, although there was something suspicious about the man’s eagerness to betray his employers’ secrets. He decided to treat everything Akers told him with caution.

  ‘She is afraid that the cramped conditions will breed the plague, which will then kill us gaolers as well as prisoners – and infect our families as well. Such an eventuality will not bother Samm and Tooker, though. They never married, because no woman would have them.’

  ‘What are you saying, Akers?’ growled a voice from behind them. It was Samm.

  ‘He is complaining that his crops were poor this year,’ supplied Chaloner, when Akers only stared at the gaoler like a frightened rabbit. ‘My family are farmers, and they tell me the same.’

  Samm did not look convinced, and dismissed Akers with a scowl. Then he turned to Chaloner. ‘Have you finished now? If so, Mr Tooker will see you in his office.’

  Chaloner shut the ledger. Someone with a good head for figures might be able to spot irregularities, but the matter was beyond him. However, he was sure about one thing: that everything he had been shown that day had been carefully prepared in advance, ready to present to nuisance callers. He stood, deciding it was time he explored on his own terms.

  ‘I will talk to Tooker as soon as I have seen the Garden Court.’

  ‘No,’ said Samm shortly. ‘It contains dangerous prisoners, and we do not even let most of the gaolers in there. The only way we will open those doors is if you produce an official warrant.’

  Chaloner brandished the Lord Chancellor’s writ. ‘I have one here.’

  ‘One that names the Garden Court specifically,’ countered Samm, refusing to look at it. ‘Now follow me, if you please.’

  As making a fuss would serve no useful purpose, Chaloner trailed across the now-deserted yard to the gatehouse, where Tooker occupied a pleasant suite on the first floor – rooms with wood-panelled walls, silk rugs and leaded-glass windows. The warden sat at a desk that was piled importantly high with papers, although Chaloner, adept at reading upside-down, saw that one was a receipt for lavender water, while another was a draft letter to a tailor. Eyeing Tooker’s peculiar attire, Chaloner thought it was time he transferred his custom elsewhere.

  ‘Spring did not show himself in a good light today,’ said Tooker with an oily smile. ‘He appeared bullying and insolent. He is neither, and our system works very well. I hope your report will reflect that.’

  ‘He is a curious choice for spokesman,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is not even Dutch.’

  ‘Yes and no. He was master of a British merchant ship, which was captured by Hollandish pirates. He was then offered a choice: join the Dutch navy or execution. He and his shipmates chose to serve on Stad Utrecht.’

  ‘So he is here from misfortune, not treachery,’ put in Samm. ‘And he is proving himself loyal to the country of his birth by agreeing to interpret for us. He is so conscientious and reliable that Warden Tooker has promised to recommend him for our navy when he is released.’

  ‘The Garden Court,’ said Chaloner, not pointing out that it still did not make Spring a better candidate for the post than a Dutchman – and he was sure that there would be one among the two thousand who knew enough English for the task. ‘Do you really want me to apply for a warrant to inspect it? I doubt Clarendon or Williamson will approve of their time being wasted. Indeed, they may even recommend your dismissal. As might I, in my report.’

  The pair exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.

  ‘But there is nothing to see, other than more of what you have already examined,’ objected Tooker. ‘Men locked in cells. The only difference is that these are dangerous, and I am unwilling to take needless risks with them. Not without a specific warrant.’

  His expression was determined, and Chaloner knew there was no point pressing the issue. Instead, he asked about numbers and security protocols. The glib replies did more to raise his concerns than quell them, and he decided that Akers was right: there was something odd going on. But what? Clearly, he needed to explore alone, to open the doors that had been closed to him, and see what lay behind them for himself.

  While prisons were usually difficult to leave, they tended to be fairly easy to enter, on the premise that no one in his right mind would want to do it. Therefore, it did not take Chaloner long to devise a plan that would allow him to sneak back inside. There was a risk that if he was caught he might not be allowed out again, but it was one he felt obliged to take.

  Strangeways had mentioned a delivery of fish to the College that afternoon, so Chaloner walked to the riverbank. Two boats were moored there. The old man and Giles were supervising the transfer of their wares to three waiting carts, while Wadham perched on a bollard, pen in hand as he stared contemplatively across the water. Every so often, his father and grandfather stole proud glances in his direction.

  Eventually, the holds were empty and the heavily laden carts trundled off towards the prison. Chaloner followed, pleased when he saw that a combination of locals and visiting fishermen had been hired to offload the goods at the other end. They did not know each other, so it would be simplicity itself to infiltrate them.

  He hid his hat and sword behind a hedge, and turned his shirt inside out to hide the lace. He had no face-paints for a disguise, but there was plenty of dust around, and a few judiciously applied smudges completed his transition from clean-cut official to grubby ruffian. No one took any notice as he strode forward and grabbed a crate. Samm was overseeing operations at the gate, but Chaloner kept the box between his face and the chief gaoler, and strolled through it unchallenged.

  Once inside, he followed the labourer in front of him to the kitchen, and deposited his crate. Then, when no one was look
ing, he ducked through a door he had noticed earlier, which led to a yard that was used for storing rubbish. The place hummed with flies, and the stench was enough to make him gag.

  He settled down to wait for nightfall, although it was not long before he wished he had chosen somewhere else to do it. The refuse festered in the heat, and every one of the countless flies that lived there seemed determined to walk on his face. He watched the shadows lengthen, then the sun set in a glorious blaze of red. The sounds of dusk began – guards talking in a desultory manner as food was distributed, the clatter of plates, someone singing a hymn before bed.

  Only when silence reigned did he make his move. He opened the door, and his mission almost came to a premature end when he ran into a gaoler. The fellow opened his mouth to shout, but Chaloner knocked him senseless with a punch, bound and gagged him with strips torn from the man’s own shirt, and hid him under a mound of vegetable parings in the yard.

  He went to the Garden Court first, keeping to the deepest shadows. A guard stood sentry outside, but it was not difficult to distract him with a stone lobbed into some nearby bushes. Unfortunately, the door was barred from the inside, and try as he might, Chaloner could not open it. Frustrated, he hunted for another way in, but all the windows overlooking the Garden Court had not only been fitted with bars, but had been boarded over to prevent anyone from looking through them.

  Eventually, he was forced to concede defeat, and supposed he would have to apply for a warrant after all. Then he explored the rest of the College, where he was disgusted, but not surprised, to discover that conditions for the prisoners were wretched – the two clean chambers he had been shown earlier were indeed a deliberate deception. He also learned that their dinner had comprised root vegetables and an inadequate amount of fish, but as fuel was deemed an expensive luxury, the inmates had been obliged to eat them raw.

  There was a different story in the rooms allocated to Spring, Oudart and their cronies, however. These were spacious, freshly painted and each occupant had a proper bed. They also had lamps, which allowed them to spend their evenings drinking, dicing and playing cards. Fish had not featured in their evening meal – they had enjoyed roasted meat and fresh bread. Moreover, the doors to their cells had been left open, so they could come and go as they pleased.

  A spell eavesdropping in the corridor outside allowed Chaloner to deduce that everyone was English with the exception of Oudart, who had a chamber to himself and was clearly not part of their coterie. He sat alone, staring at the wall with haunted eyes. Chaloner felt a surge of pity for the man. First, he had lost his ship and most of his crew, then he had suffered the humiliation of capture, and now he was Tooker’s puppet – the tame Dutch officer trotted out to persuade inquisitive visitors that all was well.

  Suddenly, there was a clatter of footsteps, and Chaloner had only just ducked into the shadows when Tooker and Samm arrived. As it was hardly normal for wardens to visit their charges after dark, he eased forward to listen to what was being said. Unfortunately, he had only just reached a good vantage point when two things happened at once. First, there were more footsteps as a guard approached from his right; and second, two of Spring’s men emerged from the cell to his left. Chaloner was trapped in between them, and was going to be caught.

  There was only one thing he could do. He strode briskly towards the guard, keeping his head down and relying on the fact that the corridor was very dimly illuminated.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked the gaoler, as Chaloner marched past him.

  ‘Errand for Tooker,’ replied Chaloner, not stopping.

  There was a moment when he thought the bluff had worked, but their voices had alerted Samm, who came to see what was happening.

  ‘Stop!’ he commanded. ‘You are not—’

  Chaloner raced for the yard. Behind him, Samm bellowed for his men, who appeared with inconvenient speed. Chaloner knocked one down with a punch, and slashed at two more with his dagger, but he was running out of options. He tore towards the kitchen, with the wild notion of barricading himself inside until Kipps could be summoned to negotiate his release.

  He faltered in confusion when he flung open the door to see someone standing at the table in the middle. It was Eleanore. She wore an old leather apron, and was holding a paring knife. Her face was wet with tears, and the whole room reeked of onions. He sagged. There was not enough time to subdue her and secure doors and windows. It was over.

  ‘In here,’ she hissed, moving away from the table and indicating an adjoining pantry. ‘Quick!’

  Every fibre of his being thrumming with tension, Chaloner watched her open a trapdoor that led to a cellar. He baulked at climbing through it, but his pursuers’ footsteps were hammering closer, so he took a tentative step forward. Exasperated, she shoved him hard. He staggered down several stairs, and then was plunged into darkness as the door was dropped back into place.

  Chapter 8

  The cellar was pitch-black at first, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, Chaloner saw a faint rectangle where the door did not quite fit. He eased towards it and peered through the crack, relieved when he felt a slight breeze waft against his cheek. At least he would not suffocate. However, he suspected he would not be there for long: Eleanore would tell Samm where she had so cleverly trapped him, and he would be dragged out for questioning.

  The gap allowed him to see the table where she stood – and where she was quickly joined by two other women and a man, who entered the kitchen at a run, and promptly contrived to look industrious. One was rubbing sleep from her eyes, while the other two were unsteady on their feet from ale. The older woman elbowed Eleanore away from her diced onions, so that when Samm burst in seconds later, it appeared as though she, not Eleanore, had done all the work.

  ‘Did a man just come in here?’ demanded Samm. He looked dangerous, shadows accentuating his pugilistic features.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Eleanore. Chaloner braced himself, but she pointed to the fellow who stood next to her at the table. ‘Jem Collier did.’

  ‘Coming back from the latrine,’ explained Jem in a West Country drawl so strong that it was barely comprehensible. He was a bulky individual with close-cropped hair and a rascally grin. ‘I just come in. Before that, I was in here, working. You can see how many onions I chopped – more than enough for tomorrow. Ask my wife.’

  ‘It’s true,’ agreed the older woman. She also spoke with the distinctive burr of the west. ‘And Una and me ain’t been nowhere neither. We’ve been in here, slaving away.’

  She was short, fat and entirely bereft of teeth, so it was difficult to judge her age. Her clothes were of good quality but filthy, and she had not bothered to mend the hole in her sleeve or her unravelling hem. Her skin was pasty, and her hair had been subject to a careless application of dye, so was a peculiar shade of orange.

  Una, clearly their daughter, was a younger, slimmer version of her dam, but with more teeth, albeit ones that were already spotted with decay. A bulge under her apron suggested there would soon be a third generation of Colliers. She had been pouting when she had entered the kitchen, and her expression had not changed since.

  ‘We work our fingers to the bone here,’ she told Samm sulkily. ‘From dawn to dusk.’

  ‘We do,’ nodded her mother. ‘We’ve been here all afternoon, chopping and slicing, without so much as a minute to slip off for a pipe.’

  Even if Chaloner had not seen them arrive, he would have known they were lying. The single onion they had managed to process between them was in ugly lumps, a marked contrast to the neat mound prepared by Eleanore. Moreover, their eyes were dry, whereas Eleanore was still blinking tears. Like many of their ilk, they assumed a stupidity equal to their own in their dealings with others, which led them to imagine that lies would be believed if delivered with sufficient verve.

  ‘Did a stranger come in here or not?’ demanded Samm impatiently.

  ‘Not that we saw,’ replied the woman. ‘Why? Has one of the pris
oners escaped?’

  Samm ignored the question and began to search, looking under benches and peering behind sacks of grain. Chaloner tensed when the gaoler poked his head into the pantry, and looked behind him, trying to see if there was anywhere to hide, but it was too dark to tell. He started to ease down the stairs anyway, groping his way in the pitch-black. The door rattled as Samm grabbed the handle.

  ‘I assure you, no one is down there.’ Eleanore’s voice held a hint of mockery. ‘How could there be? It is barred from the outside.’

  ‘So?’ asked Jem, puzzled. Then he released a hoot of understanding. ‘Hah! It means the cellar must be empty, as no one can lock a door from the outside when they are inside.’

  He laughed loudly, clearly delighted with his incisive analysis, while his wife clapped her hands in appreciation.

  Samm slipped the bolt, grasped the handle and pulled. Light flooded into the cellar, and Chaloner tried to move more quickly down steps that were uneven and slick with moisture.

  ‘No one came in,’ said Eleanore, so crossly that Samm turned to look at her, giving Chaloner vital moments to cloak himself in darkness. ‘I would have seen. But what has happened? I hope none of the prisoners has escaped. I should not like to think that you are poking around in empty cellars, while some unprincipled Hollander rampages about.’

  ‘It was an intruder,’ said Samm shortly, slamming the trapdoor and returning to the kitchen. Heart still thumping, Chaloner clambered back up the stairs, and put his eye to the crack again.

  ‘An intruder?’ echoed Eleanore. ‘Is it anything to do with—’

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ snapped Samm. ‘And you will desist if you know what is good for you. This is a gaol for dangerous foreigners, and the less you know, the safer you will be.’

  It was peculiar logic, and Eleanore obviously thought so, too. ‘Why can knowing about the prisoners be—’

  ‘Enough!’ barked Samm. ‘Why do you come here anyway? Reymes pays you handsomely to clean Buckingham House, so you cannot need the money.’ He glanced at the Colliers, who were still persisting in their attempts to look busy. ‘And I doubt it is for the company.’