The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘It is said that odd things happen in his rectory,’ muttered Kipps. ‘But with a man like him living there, how could it be otherwise? The fellow is a lunatic!’

  Chaloner managed to escape without parting with any money – he did not usually dodge the collection plate, but he was damned if he was going to give his hard-earned pay to the maverick Rector of Chelsea – and stood under a graveyard yew to watch his suspects emerge. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a conspiracy to distract him, as first he was joined by Wiseman and Kipps, then Akers from the gaol, and finally the landlord of the Swan.

  ‘I heard there was trouble at the College last night,’ Smith reported, looking hopefully at Akers for more information. ‘The spectre broke in.’

  ‘Really?’ drawled Wiseman, while Chaloner supposed that was one way for Tooker to avoid telling anyone that he had been held at knife-point by one of his prisoners. ‘I thought gaols tended to suffer from the opposite problem – people breaking out.’

  ‘He went there to prowl,’ elaborated Smith. ‘Then he escaped by impersonating the warden. Tooker is badly shaken by the incident, and will apply for additional pay to alleviate the stress he has suffered.’

  ‘Was it you, Mr Chaloner?’ asked Akers, when the landlord had gone to gossip to someone else. ‘If so, you are lucky to be alive. Samm is not a gentle man, and if you had been caught—’

  ‘Of course it was not him,’ said Kipps impatiently. ‘He was asleep all night, as both Wiseman and I can attest. Besides, why would he invade the prison? We have a writ from the Lord Chancellor that allows us to enter legally.’

  Akers nodded, but his eyes did not leave Chaloner’s face. ‘Security has doubled, so the culprit will not succeed again.’ He looked away, then recoiled in alarm. ‘Lord! Tooker is looking right at me, wondering why I am talking to you. I should have kept my distance, fool that I am.’

  He scuttled away, head down and contriving to look so suspicious that anyone watching might have been forgiven for assuming that no prison secret had been left unrevealed. However, no one was, and Chaloner was fairly sure that Tooker was not even aware that Akers had been there. The warden seemed to sense that he was the object of scrutiny now, though, because he turned suddenly, and stalked towards Chaloner, Samm in tow.

  ‘Did you hear what happened last night?’ he asked. ‘My prison was raided by the spectre. It assaulted me in my office, purporting to be a Dutch captive, and damn nearly killed me before making its escape.’

  ‘That is worrisome,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because it means your security is seriously flawed. You had better show us the Garden Court before—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Tooker sharply. ‘We have our orders – the Garden Court is out of bounds to visitors, no matter who they are. As Samm told you yesterday, you must apply for a special warrant before we can let you in. I am sorry, but those are the rules, and they are for the safety of us all.’

  ‘But we will not be found lacking again,’ said Samm tightly. ‘The next villain who tries to invade us will be shot on sight.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the spectre?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘Not an inmate who is dissatisfied with your rule? Spring, perhaps, aiming to win himself even more freedoms?’

  ‘It was the spectre,’ said Tooker firmly, although his eyes were furtive. ‘It was—’

  Suddenly, there was a screech of furious indignation, and everyone turned to see Betty Becke, the Earl of Sandwich’s vivacious mistress, glaring angrily at Cocke.

  ‘My hand was hanging by my side when her posterior backed into it,’ the accompter explained with a shrug. ‘It is crowded here, and she was jostled. Chelsea needs a bigger church.’

  ‘It does, so tell the government to give me back my Theological College,’ called Wilkinson from the porch. ‘Then we can hold services in its hall.’

  ‘It is more useful as a prison,’ countered Cocke. He turned back to Betty before the cleric could take issue. ‘But come, my dear. We cannot allow a little misunderstanding to sour our friendship. We were getting along so well together.’

  ‘We were,’ she acknowledged stiffly. ‘But I do not approve of lewd antics on holy ground. I have standards, you know.’

  If she did, Chaloner thought, they must be very low ones.

  ‘Then come to my room and tell me about them,’ coaxed Cocke. ‘I keep my London Treacle there, and I shall give you a jar if you do. It is blessed in St Paul’s Cathedral by the canons themselves, so is the most effective anti-plague potion ever created.’

  Betty made no objection when he ushered her away, although there was another squeal the moment they were through the lychgate. Chaloner turned to Kipps.

  ‘We should visit Janaway again.’

  ‘He is probably here,’ said Kipps, looking around hopefully. ‘Although as neither of us knows what he looks like … Hah! There is Eleanore – we shall ask her. I would sooner not traipse all the way out to the bell-foundry again, if it can be avoided.’

  Chaloner was pleased when Eleanore murmured that she was glad he was safe. He smiled, but then a sudden image of Hannah flooded his mind – except it was not Hannah, because he could not remember the exact colour of her eyes. The realisation troubled him profoundly, and he decided he had better sketch her as soon as he had a free moment, as Janaway had done with his Nancy.

  ‘We need to speak to your brother-in-law,’ said Kipps affably. ‘Which one is he?’

  Eleanore regarded them reproachfully. ‘I thought we had agreed to leave him be. Poor grieving man! He knows nothing, as I have told you already.’

  ‘But he is a witness,’ explained Kipps. ‘We have to interview him, I am afraid.’

  ‘I do not see why,’ persisted Eleanore. ‘He knows nothing, and talking to you will only upset him – even hearing Nancy’s name reduces him to tears. Besides, he was not in church and he will not be in his cottage, so you are unlikely to find him today.’

  She smiled prettily at Chaloner before moving away. His eyes were drawn to her hips as she went, but he was not too distracted to note that she continued past her own house and turned right at the top of Church Lane.

  ‘She is going to warn him again,’ said Wiseman, narrowing his eyes. ‘Sly beggar!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ argued Kipps. ‘She is just going for a walk.’

  ‘In this heat?’ drawled Wiseman. ‘What an ass you are.’

  ‘You are the ass,’ flared Kipps. ‘Look – she has just met another lady, and they are strolling along arm in arm, chatting together. There is nothing suspicious about her not going straight home.’

  ‘So you say,’ growled Wiseman. ‘But I beg to differ.’

  ‘I cannot abide Kipps,’ declared Wiseman, as he and Chaloner strode along Church Lane towards Gorges. The Seal Bearer had gone to resume his interviews in Buckingham House. ‘I wish you had not brought him with you.’

  ‘It was the Earl’s idea,’ said Chaloner, hoping this would be enough to stem the surgeon’s tirade. For some unaccountable reason, Wiseman respected Clarendon.

  The ploy did not work. ‘Kipps is a numb-witted fool, and you should disregard any intelligence he provides. Moreover, he carries a sword, but I have never seen him use it, although he says he fought in the wars. I, however, am rather good in a skirmish.’

  Chaloner was startled by the claim. ‘Are you?’

  The surgeon flexed the muscles in his arm. ‘Any adversary will know about my punches, believe me. And I have plenty of experience with knives.’

  ‘Yes, but on patients and corpses. It is not the same as someone who wants to stab you back.’

  Wiseman shot him a disdainful glance. ‘Of course it is. A good many of my clients try to fend me off, while there have been several instances where a cadaver has—’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner hastily. ‘Save that sort of tale for tonight’s soirée in Buckingham House. I am sure Reymes’ prurient courtiers will provide an eager audience.’

  Wiseman sniffed, offended to have been interrupted, and
they walked on in silence. Chaloner breathed in deeply of air that was scented with hot earth and the scorched crops in the surrounding fields. Then a bird sang from a distant tree, and he suddenly understood why Chelsea was so oddly quiet – there were no funeral bells.

  They reached the junction of Church Lane and the King’s Road, where Chaloner paused for a moment to look towards the Bloody Bridge, but there was no smoke coming from Janaway’s forge, and he was disinclined to walk there if the bell-founder was out. He was about to turn towards Gorges when he saw Strangeways and his kin inspecting the house opposite.

  ‘What do you think?’ called the old man. ‘Would a coffee house fare well here? The garden backs on to Buckingham House, which will be convenient.’

  ‘Convenient for what?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Reymes’ guests to avail themselves of your wares?’

  ‘For tossing our coffee grounds into his garden,’ explained Strangeways gleefully. ‘And if he does not complain of the reek, we shall deploy fish entrails and tobacco ash as well.’

  ‘Tobacco is a very healthy substance,’ averred Giles. He was puffing on his enormous pipe, producing such great clouds of smoke that Chaloner wondered if London should hire him to stand on street corners and fumigate the air. ‘Anyone who does not use it is a fool.’

  ‘It will not save you from the plague,’ warned Wiseman. ‘The only way to avoid infection is to find an underground cave and hide in it until all danger is past.’

  ‘Yes, but that is not very practical,’ said Strangeways. ‘And what about our fish? They do not leap into boats and sell themselves, you know. Moreover, empty houses attract burglars.’

  ‘As dozens of Londoners are learning,’ agreed Giles. ‘The plague is a boon for thieves, when so many homes lie empty because their occupants either are dead or fled.’

  ‘Dead or fled,’ mused Wadham. ‘That is a fine rhyme. Perhaps I shall use it in a scurrilous ditty about Bullen Reymes.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Strangeways eagerly. ‘And what a wealth of apt words are at your disposal for him – maims, stains, drains, no brains, pains.’

  ‘There he is,’ said Wadham, pointing. ‘Inflicting his nasty opinions on poor Doyley again.’

  ‘He is coming towards us,’ hissed Strangeways. ‘Do you have your sword, Giles?’

  ‘I hope you do not intend to stab him,’ cautioned Wiseman. ‘He is a servant of the Crown – a commissioner and the Treasury’s prefect. You cannot go about dispatching royal officials just because they are ignorant scoundrels.’

  Strangeways was still cackling his delight at the surgeon’s opinion of his enemy when Reymes arrived, all stormy indignation. Doyley was frantically plucking at his sleeve in an effort to divert him, but the commissioner shrugged him off angrily.

  ‘If you lot turn this cottage into a coffee house, I shall burn it down,’ he declared hotly. ‘You cannot put it here. The villagers do not want it.’

  ‘Actually, they do, Bullen,’ murmured Doyley. ‘Your guests have shown them what life is like in the city, and they want to be fashionable, too.’

  ‘Then they are fools!’ snarled Reymes. ‘Empty-headed sheep!’

  ‘I hear your prison was invaded last night,’ said Chaloner, grabbing the opportunity to ask its commissioners more questions about the place. ‘Did you—’

  ‘We will find the culprit,’ vowed Reymes, looking hard at Chaloner before treating the Strangeways men to a similarly accusing glare. ‘And he will not do it again.’

  ‘It was the spectre,’ said Doyley worriedly. ‘Or so Tooker claims.’

  ‘I heard a troubling rumour about the Garden Court yesterday,’ Chaloner forged on. ‘One that says its inmates are not Dutchmen, but dangerous radicals – regicides, no less.’

  ‘Who in God’s name told you that?’ demanded Reymes irritably. ‘Give me the gossip’s name and I shall cut out his tongue. What a recklessly foolish thing to say!’

  ‘So it is not true?’

  ‘Of course it is not true!’ snapped Reymes. ‘Chelsea is a prison for Dutchmen: radicals are in the Tower, where they belong. Christ! How could anyone be so stupid as to start such a tale? The last thing we need is a lot of insurgents coming to demand the release of cronies who are not here.’

  ‘It would be a waste of our resources,’ agreed Doyley.

  ‘You are not competent to oversee that gaol, Reymes,’ Strangeways sneered. ‘You should resign and let Doyley do it all. He is much better at it than you.’

  ‘No, I am not,’ objected Doyley in alarm, no doubt imagining the additional expense that would fall on three commissioners rather than four. ‘Reymes is essential.’

  ‘More is the pity,’ growled Reymes sourly.

  Chaloner remembered what else he needed to ask, and turned to Doyley. ‘You must find the rectory very crowded, filled as it is with Wilkinson’s other guests.’

  Doyley frowned. ‘There are no other guests – just me.’

  ‘I saw faces at his attic window,’ pressed Chaloner.

  ‘His servants,’ explained Doyley. ‘He has more than a single man with no family usually requires, but he is not a fellow who conforms to expectations, as you may have noticed.’

  Chaloner had, but was about to ask more about the rector anyway, when raised voices stopped him: Reymes and Strangeways were engaged in a furious quarrel about the proposed coffee house. Doyley hastened to quell the burgeoning spat by begging Reymes to accompany him to the prison. However, when Reymes eventually allowed himself to be tugged away, it was not to the gaol that they went – Wilkinson was calling to them from his garden.

  ‘Come and try this,’ he was saying, brandishing a decanter. ‘It is grass wine. My maid tells me it tastes foul, but I want a second opinion before I pour it down the drain.’

  ‘I am glad I am not a commissioner,’ said Wiseman fervently, watching the pair walk reluctantly through the gate. ‘It is a post that carries rather too many undesirable duties.’

  A short while later, Wiseman hammered on Gorges’ gate until someone came to unlock it, then sailed towards the front door, which he opened without knocking, bawling for Mrs Bonney as he did so. Chaloner followed, immediately impressed by the house’s bright, cheerful atmosphere. The walls were painted yellow or pink, the windows were thrown open to let in the light, and the artwork had been chosen for its uplifting colours and subjects.

  Music emanated from one room, which drew him towards it, and he entered to see Hart playing a viol, while Bannister danced with a girl. Hart was surprisingly good, and when Chaloner saw a second instrument by the window, he was tempted to join in. Then it occurred to him that his performance might be indifferent, and he had no wish to embarrass himself in front of strangers, so he just stood and watched instead.

  The dancing masters were clad in the same shabby attire that they had worn in London, although Hart had added a small gold earring to his ensemble, and Bannister wore a discreet diamond ring. Their shoes were scuffed, though, and Chaloner thought they should have invested their pay on more practical items.

  ‘You see us at work,’ said Hart with a smile, as the last note had faded and the dancers stepped apart. ‘What do you make of her?’

  ‘I think she is a fine instrument,’ said Chaloner approvingly. ‘Venetian?’

  ‘Actually, I meant young Martha Thrush,’ said Hart, wagging a mock-admonishing finger at him. ‘Is she not very light on her feet, and the most elegant mover you ever saw?’

  Martha was a plump girl of fourteen or so, who had not been elegant at all. There was something about her eyes that was familiar, although Chaloner was sure he had never met her.

  ‘This is Mr Chaloner, who works for the Earl of Clarendon,’ Bannister informed her. ‘We met him in London a few days ago.’

  The girl curtseyed politely. ‘Are you here to find who strangled Nancy?’

  ‘Martha is recovering from the shock of losing a brother,’ explained Hart, before Chaloner could reply. ‘She is making very good progress, and will soon
leave us, alas. We shall miss her.’

  ‘Nancy’s room was next to mine.’ All Martha’s attention was on Chaloner. ‘We were friends, and I can answer any questions you might have about her. She was as gentle a soul as you could ever hope to meet, and I cannot imagine why anyone would harm her.’

  ‘Tell me about the thefts,’ said Chaloner, deciding to accept her offer. ‘Was she a victim?’

  Martha nodded. ‘She lost a pendant, although it was only made of tin, so was of no great value. I was deprived of a ring, but the villain ignored my jewelled reticule, which is worth six times as much. He took a watch from Dr Franklin, too, which near broke the poor man’s heart, as it had belonged to his father. And Mrs Bonney was relieved of a nice plate.’

  Chaloner thought about Underhill’s report to Williamson, in which he had vigorously denied stealing the plate, although he plainly thought he was going to be accused. Had he been the culprit? He asked Martha the question.

  ‘No,’ she replied with utter conviction. ‘Because there has been another theft since Mr Underhill died – Mrs Young’s silver thimble. Personally, I would have taken her silk shawl, which cost a fortune, but the culprit is stupid.’

  ‘So who are your suspects?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Another resident?’

  ‘I do not have any suspects,’ said Martha helplessly. ‘No one here would steal – not the staff, and not the patients either. Unless it is the spectre. The villagers say that it killed Nancy…’

  ‘Well, it has been out and about of late,’ said Hart with a shudder. ‘It has been spotted by any number of people, although not by me, thank God. Parker says it is Satan.’

  ‘I saw it once,’ said Martha unhappily. ‘It seemed to be floating, and explains why Dorothy always calls it the batman.’

  ‘Perhaps it floated in here then,’ suggested Bannister, looking around uneasily. ‘It is a very clever rogue, because it only ever steals when we are busy. Yesterday, for example: Mrs Young’s thimble disappeared when Hart and I were hosting a singing competition. And Martha lost her ring during an afternoon of musical entertainment.’