The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  The last four comprised two infamous rabble-rousers and a pair of controversial clerics. The newsbooks had carried stories about them the previous year; all were said to have sailed to New England, where the laws against radical religion and politics were less rigid.

  Chaloner stared at the paper in his hand. Were these men being held secretly, so their supporters would not storm the prison to set them free? It would certainly explain why security was so intense, and claiming that they were unruly Dutchmen was an excellent ruse.

  So what was going to happen to them? More public executions would create martyrs, so that was unlikely. Would they be locked up quietly for the rest of their lives? Slyly murdered, so that no one would ever know their fate? Or was the list an invention – a collection of names intended to frighten away the curious? After all, how could so many formidable dissidents have been arrested without the tale leaking out?

  Still, he was sure about one thing: Spymaster Williamson did not know what was happening, because if he had, he would not have asked Chaloner to pry there – he would have ordered him to stay well away and mind his own business. So who did know? Members of the government? The King? One of the country’s many power-hungry barons?

  Suddenly, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Chaloner shoved all the papers and the ledger inside his shirt, closed the secret drawer, and retreated to the pantry. Moments later, the door clanked and Tooker bustled in. The warden removed his Guy Fawkes hat and cloak, flopped into a chair and began to tamp his pipe. His hands were filthy, and Chaloner cringed at the notion that documents Tooker had touched were now nestled against his own bare skin.

  Tooker leaned back in his chair, gave a weary sigh and closed his eyes. He was alone, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up, so Chaloner slipped out of his hiding place, sneaked up behind him and grabbed him around the neck. Tooker struggled in alarm, although he desisted when he felt the prick of steel against his throat.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he croaked in terror. ‘It is an inmate, come to murder me.’

  Chaloner saw no reason to disabuse him. It would be a lot more convenient if Tooker never found out that the Lord Chancellor’s spy was the invader his men were so feverishly seeking. He whispered, to prevent the warden from recognising his voice, and effected a strong Dutch accent for good measure.

  ‘The prisoners in the Garden Court are not my fellow countrymen. What are they—’

  ‘Do not ask me about them!’ gulped Tooker. ‘They are dangerous, and I fear for my life on a daily basis. But I can tell you no more – the government does not confide in me. I am just under orders to house them until further notice.’

  ‘So they are guests of your government?’

  ‘Of course! Who else would want people locked up? Please let me go. I am a—’

  ‘Something odd is happening in this prison. Certain comings and goings…’

  ‘You mean the whores?’ bleated Tooker. ‘Yes, I let a few in every so often. It is irregular, I know, but better that than dealing with lust-crazed inmates. I did the same in Newgate, and we never had any trouble. Tell me your name, and I shall arrange for one to visit you as well.’

  Chaloner was sure he would – along with Samm and a sharp knife. ‘Do you supply them to the occupants of the Garden Court?’

  Tooker managed to shake his head. ‘It would be too risky. I told you: they are dangerous.’

  ‘You do know who they are,’ stated Chaloner, pressing his blade harder against Tooker’s throat. ‘So I want their names and why they—’

  ‘I do not!’ objected Tooker. ‘The government has always recommended that I remain in ignorance, and who am I to question the advice of powerful men?’

  ‘I think I shall kill you,’ whispered Chaloner, as menacingly as he could. ‘You are corrupt and devious, and you make yourself rich at our expense.’

  ‘No!’ squeaked Tooker, struggling frantically. ‘Please! I am an honest man.’

  Chaloner pulled the ledger from his shirt with one hand, while keeping a firm grip on his captive with the other. ‘This says otherwise.’

  ‘I have never seen that before,’ squawked Tooker. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Evidence that you accept bribes from us in exchange for favours. And that you pay your men to keep their mouths shut and ask no questions.’

  ‘Oh, bribes.’ Tooker sounded relieved. ‘All wardens take those, so it is expected of us. Samm keeps a record, does he? I did not know. And of course I pay my gaolers not to babble. We cannot have them blathering about our security arrangements to all and sundry. But tell me what you want, and I will give it to you, no questions asked. Just list your demands.’

  At that moment, Chaloner heard the guards through the open window, asking each other where the warden had gone. Unless he wanted to be caught with a dagger pressed to Tooker’s throat, it was time to leave. He hauled Tooker to the pantry, bundled him inside and locked the door.

  ‘Stay there and keep quiet,’ he ordered. ‘One squeak, and you will never be safe again.’

  There was silence from within. Suspecting it would not last long, Chaloner donned Tooker’s hat and cloak, and ran down the stairs. Outside, the search was still underway, although it was less urgent, as the gaolers began to suspect that their quarry was no longer there.

  Chaloner strode towards the gate, keeping his head down to conceal his face. The gaoler on duty snapped to attention, then politely ushered ‘Warden Tooker’ through the wicket door, wishing him goodnight as he did so.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning dawned hot and clear. Chaloner rose as soon as light began to streak the eastern sky, leaving Kipps and Wiseman snoring fit to raise the dead, and went downstairs, where Smith was serving breakfast ale and sweet buns dappled with currants. Chaloner refused the buns – they were obscenely sticky, as several wasps had discovered to their cost – and was brought a slab of old bread and runny cheese instead. These were slapped down so irritably that he wondered why Smith had opted to pursue a career in the hospitality business.

  While he ate, he dashed off letters to the Earl and Williamson, outlining his findings and asking each for a warrant to explore the Garden Court. He paid Smith’s eldest son a shilling to deliver them with all possible haste, but Williamson received piles of urgent correspondence every day, while the Earl had an annoying habit of ignoring messages from his staff, so Chaloner had no great expectation of a speedy response from either.

  Then he sat back and reviewed all he had learned to date, aware that he still had far more questions than answers. However, he was sure about one thing: Eleanore was right – everything did revolve around the four locations she had mentioned.

  First, the College. Were there dissidents in the Garden Court, and was Tooker telling the truth when he said that the government was involved? Was it significant that three suspects for the murders – Commissioners Reymes and Doyley, and its accompter Cocke – had connections to the place? Chaloner drummed his fingers on the table, recalling that Thurloe, whose opinion he trusted, had told him to concentrate his enquiries there. Moreover, Underhill had begged Williamson to send his own spies to the prison, because he sensed that something was amiss. Unfortunately, there was nothing Chaloner could do until he had his warrant, so the gaol would have to wait.

  Second, Buckingham House. Kole had been murdered in it, and two suspects – Reymes and Cocke – lodged there. Why had Reymes invited so many debauchees to stay with him? Chaloner did not believe for a moment that it was to keep them safe from the plague, as the commissioner was alleged to have claimed; or that it was to curry favour with the King, as Greeting had suggested. After all, why would His Majesty care about the welfare of courtiers he had so readily abandoned? However, Reymes was holding a soirée that evening, so Chaloner decided to join it, and see what might be learned by watching the guests at play.

  Third, the rectory. Wilkinson was not a pleasant man, yet several witnesses had mentioned an unusual number of visitors. Was Kipps right, and they were just
folk fleeing the plague? But if their presence was innocent, why had they ducked out of sight when he had seen them at the window? He made a mental note to ask Doyley when he next saw him – if there was anything odd going on, the commissioner would know, because he was staying there.

  And last, Gorges. Nancy had been strangled in its orchard, Underhill and Kole had been on its board of governors, and four suspects – Parker, Franklin, Mrs Bonney and Cocke – continued to serve in that capacity. Dorothy had written to Wiseman about peculiar happenings there, but could her testimony be trusted? And who was the thief? Had he – or she – killed Nancy, Underhill and Kole, perhaps to protect himself from exposure? Chaloner decided to visit the asylum that morning, to see what more he could find out about it and its occupants.

  He looked up as Kipps and Wiseman approached his table. Kipps was immaculate in lacy livery, spotless shoes and smart coat, but Wiseman had decided that it was too hot for formal clothes, so he had donned a flowing red robe that made him look like the proprietor of a Turkish brothel.

  ‘Eleanore Unckles was asking after you yesterday,’ said the surgeon disapprovingly. ‘She wanted to know if you were telling the truth when you claimed to be in Clarendon’s employ. I told her to mind her own business.’

  ‘Did you?’ Chaloner was surprised – Wiseman was not usually rude to pretty ladies, although less attractive ones could expect to be treated with the same rank disdain as most men.

  Wiseman shrugged. ‘Her questions made me suspicious. Why did she want to know?’

  ‘I talked to her,’ said Kipps, which Chaloner suspected had been solely because Wiseman had given her short shrift. ‘She is a handsome lass, although I doubt her thighs can compete with Lady Castlemaine’s. But whose could?’

  ‘Temperance’s,’ declared Wiseman loyally. ‘And Dorothy’s were not bad when she was in a position to keep them trim.’

  ‘You mean Temperance North?’ blurted Kipps in astonishment.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wiseman shortly. ‘She is an angel beneath all those face-paints.’

  Sensibly, Kipps chose not to comment, and turned back to Chaloner instead. ‘Eleanore is a comely woman, Tom. You should make a move on her – she likes you.’

  ‘She is pretending,’ said Wiseman harshly, dashing Chaloner’s brief surge of pleasure. ‘In the hope that you will tell her your business here. Do not fall for it, Chaloner. She is a very dangerous woman.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ scoffed Kipps. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  Wiseman regarded him pityingly. ‘She set out to charm us in the hope of gleaning information about our business here. Well, all I can say is that I hope you did not tell her anything that puts Chaloner in danger. You, I do not care about.’ He turned his back on the startled Seal Bearer. ‘Stay away from her, Chaloner. She is not what she appears.’

  ‘And this from the man who courts Temperance North,’ muttered Kipps, although he had the sense to speak too softly for the surgeon to hear. He smiled at Chaloner. ‘Take her, Tom. You will not be disappointed.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to have Kipps or Wiseman breathing down his neck if he did, and so aiming to throw them off the scent. ‘I am still in mourning.’

  Kipps winked. ‘I will not tell. Of course, I cannot speak for Wiseman…’

  ‘I do not gossip about other men’s stupid indiscretions,’ declared Wiseman. ‘However, while it is good to get back on a horse after a fall, I strongly advise you to choose another mare.’

  Chaloner did not want to discuss it any longer. ‘Did you learn anything about Nancy when you were at Gorges yesterday?’ he asked the surgeon.

  Wiseman eyed him lugubriously. ‘I am here to protect my wife, not to act as your assistant. That is Kipps’ prerogative, although he returned very late last night, reeking of wine, so I cannot imagine he did much that was useful.’

  ‘Then you imagine wrong,’ snapped Kipps, even his amiable disposition beginning to sour under the surgeon’s abrasive assault. ‘Because I gathered a great deal of interesting intelligence.’

  ‘Such as what?’ asked Wiseman sceptically.

  ‘Well, for a start, someone visited Kole in his room on the night of his death. The person was wearing a long hooded coat, which was remembered because the weather is too hot for such a garment. It was probably the spectre – inside Buckingham House.’

  ‘The spectre!’ spat Wiseman. ‘It will be a person under that ghostly attire.’

  ‘Who saw it?’ Chaloner asked Kipps.

  ‘Lady Castlemaine. It took a while to wheedle it out of her, but I succeeded in the end.’

  Wiseman snorted derisively. ‘I hardly think she is a reliable witness. Moreover, she hates Clarendon, so is unlikely to help his minion. She was aiming to lead you astray, and will be laughing at the ease with which she has succeeded. You should have let me interrogate her.’

  ‘She likes me,’ said Kipps coolly. ‘Indeed, she has offered me a post in her household, should the Earl’s fortunes continue to wane. I might accept.’

  ‘You would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire,’ scoffed Wiseman. ‘Clarendon does teeter on the edge of oblivion, but she is not far behind. Why do you think she is here, not with the royal favourites at Hampton Court?’

  ‘That will change when she presents the King with another bastard in December.’ Kipps addressed Chaloner again. ‘We can believe her, Tom – she has no reason to lie. And you should be grateful for my labours, because she would not have confided in you.’

  That was true: the Lady had scant time for Chaloner. ‘Did you learn anything else?’

  ‘No, because everyone was drunk. But I shall try again today, and if there is anything to discover from the residents of Buckingham House, I shall have it out of them, never fear.’

  ‘Do not hold your breath, Chaloner,’ muttered Wiseman disparagingly.

  As it was Sunday, everyone was obliged to go to church – those who refused were likely to be accused of nonconformism. Usually, most villagers walked to nearby Kensington, the rector of which was more congenial than their own, but a rumour that the plague was there meant no one was willing to risk the journey that day. As a consequence, All Saints’ was bursting at the seams, and as it was not big enough to accommodate the locals, let alone visitors, there was a good deal of bad-tempered jostling, muttering and shuffling when interlopers inadvertently sat in regulars’ pews.

  Chaloner stood at the back, which allowed him to observe his suspects. Reymes and Doyley were in the south aisle, Reymes dozing and Doyley trying to take a pinch of snuff without anyone noticing. They sat next to Cocke, who was ogling a young woman with a baby, his lust so flagrant that Chaloner wondered if there was something wrong with him.

  The staff from Gorges were opposite, accompanying those residents who were deemed fit enough to go out. Dorothy was not among them, and Parker was also absent. Franklin and Mrs Bonney seemed tired, nervous and ill at ease, and it was clear that neither had slept well.

  The Strangeways clan were in the pew behind Reymes, grandfather and son glowering at the back of his head, although the drowsing commissioner remained blissfully unaware of their simmering hatred. He jerked awake when Wadham poked a prayer book into his nape, which made the youth grin and do it again. He was preparing for a third prod when Reymes whipped around and tore the tome from him with such fury that Wadham blanched and did not move again until the service was over.

  The Buckingham House contingent had claimed the best seats at the front, yawning, sighing and clearly resentful of the early rise. Brodrick, Greeting and Hungerford looked seedy, as did Ladies Castlemaine and Savage, although pretty Betty Becke had taken pains with her appearance, and was the recipient of many admiring glances, much to the dismay of Chelsea wives and sweethearts.

  ‘Beloved in Christ,’ came an almighty bellow from the narthex, which had everyone leaping in alarm. It was Wilkinson, clad in an elaborate cope that was usually reserved for Feast Days. He wielded an enormous thurible that b
elched clouds of pungent smoke, an unusual sight in a country that was violently adverse to any hint of popery. ‘We are gathered here in the sight of God, so wake yourselves up, you idle buggers.’

  He began to stride down the aisle, swinging the thurible around with such reckless abandon that the people he passed were obliged to duck or risk being brained. Incense billowed so thickly that several congregants began to gasp for breath. The visitors watched in open-mouthed astonishment, scarcely able to believe their eyes, although the flat expressions of the regulars suggested that this was nothing out of the ordinary. A ragtag choir followed him in, massacring a processional anthem by Gibbons. Chaloner cast a longing glance towards the door.

  Wilkinson reached the altar, and curtly ordered his singers to ‘stop caterwauling’. Then he raced through the sacred words at a bewildering lick, omitting large sections and informing his bemused congregation that if they wanted to hear the readings for that week, they would have to look them up for themselves.

  ‘You cannot have Communion either,’ he announced belligerently. ‘I forgot to bring the bread, and there is only a tiny dribble of wine left – and I am having that.’

  He downed it, gave an insincere blessing, and was off back down the aisle so fast that his choir did not realise he had left until it was too late to follow. Some tried, running full pelt, but most did not bother, and stayed to chat with each other in the chancel. Then Wilkinson stood in the porch and demanded donations ‘for the poor’ as his parishioners filed past him.

  ‘Good God!’ breathed Wiseman, stunned by the performance. ‘I am no great believer in an overabundance of ceremony, but even I like a bit more than that.’