Doyley’s lips pursed in distaste. ‘You are a Treasury accompter, Cocke. Such low behaviour is hardly commensurate with your post in society.’
‘Bugger society,’ slurred Cocke. He peered at Chaloner through bloodshot eyes, then wagged a dirty finger. ‘Clarendon’s spy, here to catch thieves and killers. Well, you will fail, and your fall will be as hard and painful as your master’s.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Chaloner, dropping one hand to the hilt of his sword, but Cocke was already staggering away, and did not reply.
Chaloner forced himself to stay at Buckingham House all evening, asking questions about the prison, the murders, the spectre and the Gorges thefts, but he did not expect useful answers and nor did he get them. Eventually, he conceded defeat and went in search of the Colliers. Lil and Jem had passed out behind the rose beds, both clutching empty wine jugs, while Una had been snared by the insatiable Cocke. Chaloner collected Kipps, walked to the almshouse, and searched it from top to bottom while the Seal Bearer stood guard outside.
The cottage was filthy and reeked of unwashed clothes, spilled food and rancid fat. Unfortunately, the unpleasant business of rifling through the Colliers’ belongings revealed nothing pertinent to his enquiries – no hidden stashes of money, stolen property or evidence that they had forged their character references. The only thing of interest was a note in a tobacco pouch, which was in Latin and dappled with the same dirty fingerprints as on the documents in Tooker’s office. Chaloner translated it quickly: the elephants will arrive at dawn on Wednesday, 2nd day of Aug.
He regarded it in puzzlement. He seriously doubted if a consignment of large mammals would appear in two and a half days’ time, so ‘elephants’ was plainly a euphemism for something else. But what? Cannon? There had been a bill of sale for guns in Tooker’s office, although for small arms, not artillery. But what was the message doing in the Colliers’ possession? All Chaloner could think was that it was the item Jem had found in the orchard, and that the man had indeed been lying when he had denied it. Unfortunately, he doubted the family knew Latin, so quizzing them about its meaning was not going to get him very far.
‘Was it very terrible?’ asked Kipps sympathetically, watching him rinse his hands in a bucket of rainwater outside. ‘I am not sure I could have brought myself to go in. The life of a spy is not for me, Tom, so you can rest assured that I shall not be competing for your position. I would rather live on my pay from the Treasury, and never see the Lady’s thighs again.’
‘All I found was this,’ said Chaloner, handing him the note. ‘Which is a pity, as it would have been a tidy solution for that rabble to be the thieves.’
‘How can they be the culprits?’ asked Kipps, handing the message back with a shrug to say he had no insights to offer. ‘They have alibis for at least two of the crimes. Yet I cannot say I like them, innocent or not. Lil grew bold with drink earlier, and called the Lady a fat whore. The Lady gave her a piece of her mind that made her ears turn red.’
Chaloner laughed, then led the way to the King’s Road. There, in the moonlight, they met Wiseman, who told them that he had spent a pleasant and interesting evening with Franklin, discussing surgery and madness. As it was late, and even Kipps conceded that he had had enough courtly revels for one day, they decided to return to the Swan together.
They were about to turn down Church Lane when low voices made Chaloner pause and indicate with an urgent flap of his hand that Wiseman and Kipps should keep quiet. The sound was coming from the rectory, so he crept along the King’s Road, his friends at his heels, and peered down its drive. Wilkinson was there, standing next to a heavily loaded cart and holding a lantern that illuminated several men removing wooden boxes from the back of it. He issued a warning hiss when he realised they were being watched, and his companions melted away so abruptly that Chaloner wondered if they had been there at all. Kipps hailed him amiably.
‘Would you like us to fetch some lads from the village to help you with that, Rector? There is a cluster of them outside Buckingham House, watching the courtiers at play. I am sure they will not object to a little honest labour in return for a few pennies.’
‘Bugger off,’ snapped Wilkinson. ‘Mind your own business.’
‘It is all right, Wilkinson,’ came a soft voice, and Doyley stepped out of the shadows. His eyes were bigger than ever in the moonlight, like a nocturnal animal’s. ‘We have nothing to fear from these gentlemen.’
Wilkinson glared at him. ‘But you said to trust no one.’
‘And I was right.’ Doyley indicated that Kipps, Chaloner and Wiseman should approach. ‘But these three will understand. Cocke, you can come out now, too.’
The accompter lurched from behind a bush. He was unsteady on his feet, and one cheek was smeared with Una’s face-paints. Doyley murmured more orders, and others also emerged to resume their labours. They had the look of old soldiers about them, and wore a uniform that comprised brown coats and breeches. They worked in silence, their movements brisk and efficient.
‘We are stockpiling food,’ explained Doyley, patting one box as it was toted past him. ‘In case the plague comes. Flour, salted fish, peas and beans.’
‘You will not cure it with those,’ said Kipps, frowning his bemusement.
Doyley smiled. ‘No, but houses will be shut up for forty days, just as they are in London, which means the parish must supply the needs of those inside – the sick will not stay put if they are hungry. Yet no one will trade with a village that has the pestilence, so we are laying in emergency rations. Reymes and I are doing the same thing at the prison.’
‘That is wise and laudable,’ said Wiseman. ‘But why the secrecy?’
‘To avoid panic,’ explained Doyley. ‘People are already uneasy, and seeing such precautions will exacerbate their fears.’
‘Which means that you three must keep your mouths shut,’ put in Wilkinson unpleasantly. ‘I have better things to do than provide comfort to frightened rustics.’
‘Why are you involved, Doyley?’ asked Kipps. ‘I understand you working for the prison – you are one of its commissioners – but why help the village?’
‘Because our gaolers live here,’ replied Doyley. ‘And they will not remain at their posts if their loved ones are locked up with nothing to eat. Ergo, it is in our interests to ensure that Chelsea is prepared. Would you like to see the result of our efforts so far?’
‘No!’ snarled Wilkinson. ‘I do not want them in my house, thank you very much.’
Doyley was crestfallen. ‘But I should like them to see. I would show them the Garden Court, but Tooker would not approve. Why not let me boast a little here?’
‘The Garden Court?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Is that why it is locked up so tight?’
Doyley smiled enigmatically. ‘I am afraid I cannot possibly comment.’
‘We thought it was full of dangerous radicals,’ laughed Kipps. ‘Regicides and the like. Are you saying it is actually stuffed with food?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Doyley, although one eyelid dropped in a conspiratorial wink. He turned to Wilkinson. ‘Are you sure you will not reconsider? It will only take a moment.’
‘Oh, all right, if you must, but do not take all night. I am tired and I want my bed.’
Chaloner had no desire to inspect mounds of provisions, but Wiseman and Kipps were already following Doyley into the house, so he trailed after them. Wilkinson stamped along at his heels, rather closer than was comfortable, while Cocke tottered at the rear.
The rectory was huge, far in excess of what an unmarried country priest might need. There was a dancing hall, a library, and a maze of parlours, pantries and sitting rooms. The food was piled in its private chapel, although the current incumbent evidently spent very little time there, because it was thick with cobwebs, and the hinges on its door were rusty with disuse.
‘This will not keep you going for long,’ remarked Wiseman, when Doyley proudly indicated his sacks of flour. ‘A week at
most, if there is a serious outbreak.’
‘Give us a chance,’ said Doyley, stung. ‘We have only been working for a few days. The prison, on the other hand, is much further forward.’
‘Why use this house?’ asked Kipps, looking around in distaste. ‘It is not very clean.’
‘For several reasons,’ replied Doyley, ignoring Wilkinson’s immediate growl of indignation. ‘First, because it has thick stone walls, a good roof and window shutters that lock – which may be important if there is a shortage of food, and we need to defend it. Second, because there is plenty of space. And third, because it is cool, unlike the other houses in Chelsea, which are sweltering.’
‘Which means our perishables will last longer,’ added Wilkinson, lest they had not understood. ‘Have you seen enough now? If so, perhaps you would leave.’
Doyley tutted chidingly at him, then began to list all the foodstuffs they intended to store. Bored, Chaloner tried to slip away, aiming to explore with a view to answering questions about the murders, but Wilkinson was having none of it. Chaloner had taken no more than two or three steps when the rector materialised in front of him, daring him to take another.
‘The men we saw outside,’ Kipps was saying. ‘Who are they?’
Doyley smiled. ‘I call them our “brown-coats”, on account of the clothes we give them to wear. They hail from Bullen’s country estate, which is safer than hiring Chelsea men, who might gossip to their friends and families. They will lodge in the attics for as long as we need them, then go home.’
‘The villagers believe I entertain lots of secret visitors,’ sniggered Wilkinson, while Chaloner supposed it had been the ‘brown-coats’ he had seen in the upstairs window, ducking away when they realised they had been spotted. ‘But they are only Reymes’ minions.’
‘I am sorry I lied to you about them earlier, Chaloner,’ said Doyley. ‘But you broached the subject in front of the Strangeways clan, and Bullen tells me that they cannot be trusted.’
‘I applaud your efforts, Doyley,’ said Wiseman, turning to leave, ‘but do not rest on your laurels just yet. You have a long way to go before you are in a position to help the village in any meaningful way.’
‘I know,’ said Doyley, a little defensively. ‘But at least we have made a start.’
Chaloner tried once more to escape and explore the rectory on his own, but Wilkinson stuck to him like glue until he and his companions were outside, at which point the door was slammed closed and locked. Cocke left at the same time, carrying a lantern to light their way. He walked with them to Church Lane, but when they reached the entrance to Buckingham House he stopped and began to speak in an urgent whisper, glancing around furtively as he did so.
‘Parker,’ he hissed, and Chaloner recoiled at the stench of wine on his breath. ‘I have never liked him, and he has been acting very oddly of late.’
‘He has,’ agreed Wiseman. ‘As a result of swallowing too much coffee. I shall advise him against such foolery when I next see him. I would have said something today, but—’
‘It is more than that,’ breathed Cocke. ‘I think he is the Chelsea Strangler. After all, who better than a physician to know how to kill? He dons the coat from his plague costume, and wanders about the village, frightening people. They call him the spectre.’
‘Why would he do such a thing?’ asked Kipps, regarding Cocke with open dislike.
The accompter leaned towards him, and lowered his voice even further. ‘He murdered Underhill for being a spy – I heard them arguing about it. And he dispatched Kole for ogling his patients…’
‘And I suppose he murdered Nancy, too,’ said Kipps, his voice thick with disbelief.
Cocke shrugged. ‘Well, she lived in his asylum. If you do not believe me, search his house for incriminating documents. He wrote everything down.’
‘We shall consider it,’ said Kipps, still eyeing him with distaste. ‘Of course, we have also been told that the spectre is an assassin named John Sutcliffe.’
‘Sutcliffe is not the spectre,’ said Cocke dismissively. ‘He left Chelsea when the government seized the College. He does not even visit London any more, not after what happened during the last performance of The Indian Queen.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Chaloner, recalling with a pang that Hannah had gone to watch that particular drama.
‘One of the actors fell down stone-dead of the plague. Right on the stage.’
‘Actually, that is true,’ said Wiseman. ‘It was the incident that convinced the City Fathers to close the theatres. Of course, I had been telling them for weeks that encouraging folk to gather in confined spaces was a stupid risk, but they did not listen.’
‘Sutcliffe was there?’ asked Chaloner of Cocke. ‘How do you know? Did he tell you so? Or were you in the audience as well?’
‘I hold three important posts – I do not have time to waste in play-houses,’ replied Cocke haughtily. ‘And I barely know Sutcliffe. But Franklin does, and I had the tale from him.’
‘Lying swine,’ muttered Kipps, after the accompter had tottered inside Buckingham House. ‘He is the culprit, as I have told you before, and he accuses Parker to protect himself. Well, I am not waking an eminent physician up at this hour of the night on his say-so.’
‘For once you are right,’ said Wiseman. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough to explore these nasty allegations. Parker is a colleague, so I shall come with you, but the claims will be false. He is a medicus, and we do not go around strangling people.’
Chaloner was not so sure, given Parker’s coffee-induced eccentricity, but he had no objection to leaving the matter until morning. He was tired after several nights of interrupted sleep, and had no wish to initiate what would certainly be a trying confrontation there and then.
‘It will give me great pleasure to arrest Cocke,’ Kipps was saying gleefully. ‘That will teach him to try to blackmail me about Mart—’
‘About what?’ asked Wiseman keenly, when the Seal Bearer stopped mid-word.
Chaloner watched a battle rage within Kipps. Would he deny his son a second time, or declare Martin’s existence at the risk of ridicule?
‘A person very dear to me,’ he replied eventually. ‘Whom Cocke aims to hurt.’
‘Some folk have no decency,’ said Wiseman, making Kipps glance sharply at him for the unexpected compassion in his voice. ‘As I have learned with Dorothy. The best thing you can do is treat them with the contempt they deserve by ignoring them. I, of course, can enjoy a more satisfying form of vengeance – by inventing painful, inconvenient and embarrassing remedies.’
‘Cocke is the guilty party.’ Kipps returned to his accusations to mask his confusion at the surgeon’s kindly advice. ‘His post at Gorges allowed him to murder Nancy and to steal; he was in Clarendon House when Underhill died; and his friendship with Reymes let him strangle Kole in Buckingham House. There. It is simple. Our fat accompter has connections everywhere.’
When they reached the Swan, a shadow flitted across the road, wearing a long coat with a hood. Chaloner was after it in a trice, but although he ran hard, the apparition had too great a start, and the night was very dark. It was not long before he was forced to concede defeat. However, he had learned one thing from the encounter: this ghost panted when it ran, so it was definitely not supernatural.
Chapter 10
It was far too hot to sleep properly that night, and Chaloner did not like to imagine what conditions would be like in London, particularly for those shut inside their houses with the plague. Eventually he rose, uncomfortably assailed by the sense that some plot was rushing towards its conclusion, and that unless he found answers soon, more people would die. The note he had found in the Colliers’ house had mentioned elephants arriving the day after tomorrow, so was that what everything was spiralling towards? Was it something he should try to prevent? But how, when he did not know what it entailed?
He left the Swan and padded stealthily through the village, hoping the spectre would make
another appearance, when he might have better luck catching him – or her – but the streets were empty, and not so much as a mouse disturbed their stillness.
As he passed Parker’s home, he pondered Cocke’s allegations. Kipps and Wiseman had dismissed them as nonsense, but could the accompter actually be right? The house was dark, and he considered waking the physician up and demanding answers at once, but then thought better of it. It would be daybreak soon, so he might as well wait and do it with Kipps and Wiseman – the physician might be more willing to cooperate if a fellow medicus was present.
After a while, he went to the prison, and assessed the walls that surrounded the Garden Court. He could not climb them without a rope and grappling hook, and even then, he suspected that the overjetting coping with its array of vicious spikes would defeat him. So what was really inside? Food supplies or dangerous dissidents?
He retraced his steps to see that lights still burned in the rectory, and two brown-coats were visible at an attic window. Then he saw someone else out and about: a boy delivering the latest government newsbook to subscribers. Copies were taken to Gorges, Wilkinson and Parker, but Reymes and his guests evidently had no interest in current affairs, because the lad bypassed Buckingham House, and the last copy went to the Strangeways’ fledgling coffee house.
Shortly after, a whole host of folk emerged to sidle through the pre-dawn gloom. First, Cocke slunk along in a very suspicious manner, and Chaloner would have followed him, had he not spotted Eleanore. He pursued her instead, all the way to the College. She knocked on the gate and was admitted, presumably to prepare the prisoners’ breakfast. Then he spied Akers, who shot into some bushes all of a sudden, although not because he had seen Chaloner – moments later, Reymes scuttled in from the east, a direction that meant he had been out by the bell-foundry. Perhaps he had friends that way, thought Chaloner, although four in the morning was an odd time for visiting.
The Chelsea Strangler Page 25