The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  It was market day, so carts were beginning to arrive from the surrounding countryside, too, converging on the open space at the end of Church Lane. Most vendors arranged their wares on tables or blankets on the ground, but the Strangeways had a purpose-built stall with specially fitted slabs, which allowed them to display their fish in neat rows. Father, son and grandson were there, hot and breathless, which was odd, given that their apprentices were doing all the work. All three wore the same clothes that they had donned for Buckingham House the previous night, and Wadham was yawning. Clearly, none had been to bed.

  When he reached the Swan, Chaloner woke Kipps and Wiseman. It was only just light, but the sense that something bad was in the offing persisted, and he was keen to speak to Parker as soon as possible.

  ‘You are not going anywhere without breakfast,’ said Wiseman, as he donned his scarlet breeches. ‘No, do not glower at me. You are unhealthily pale this morning, so I recommend six raw eggs with chopped liver, and a plate of lightly steamed rhubarb.’

  Fortunately for Chaloner, such fare was not on offer, and Smith slapped down a dish of cold oatmeal and three pears. It did not take them long to eat, and Chaloner aimed for the door while the other two were still chewing.

  Wiseman muttered venomously that the rush had deprived him of his morning stone-lifting routine, but Kipps hummed happily, declaring that his dreams had been most pleasant. They had been of Martin, his lucrative post as Messenger of the Receipt, his many good friends like Warwick, Stephens, Betty Becke, Hungerford and Chaloner – a remark intended to wound Wiseman, whose list was considerably shorter – and Lady Castlemaine’s thighs.

  He was still waxing lyrical about the latter when they arrived at Parker’s house. There was no answer to Wiseman’s knock, so the surgeon rapped again, then gave the handle a good shake, only to find the door was open.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ he said, frowning. ‘What affluent medicus leaves his house unlocked when there are thieves about?’

  ‘Wait!’ hissed Kipps, as Wiseman began to enter. ‘What if he is using his privy stool? I should not like anyone bursting in on me at an hour when a man tends to be at personal business.’

  Wiseman ignored him, but had only taken two or three steps inside before faltering to a stop. Chaloner followed and saw someone lying on the kitchen floor. The window shutters were closed, so it was dim inside, but he could still see that the person was wearing a plague costume.

  He lit a lamp and Wiseman removed the mask to reveal Parker’s thin, long-nosed face. The physician’s eyes were closed in death.

  While Wiseman examined the body, Chaloner explored the house, noting a dish of coffee grounds on the table, along with a spoon. Marks showed where some had been scooped out and eaten, indicating that he had chosen to ignore any warnings about its dangers.

  ‘Strangled,’ reported Wiseman eventually. ‘Someone crept up from behind, and grabbed him around the neck.’

  ‘Just like Underhill and Kole,’ mused Kipps soberly. ‘And Nancy, probably, although we shall never know for certain, given that she is in her grave. And do not suggest exhuming her, Wiseman. Not in this heat. It would be injurious to our health.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ declared Wiseman. ‘I have dissected corpses in far less desirable conditions than these, and shall look upon the exercise as a challenge.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ said Chaloner hastily. ‘I think we can safely assume that there is only one strangler. Nancy, Underhill, Kole and now Parker were murdered by the same person, of that I am sure. Is there anything on the body to identify the culprit?’

  ‘The bruises suggest a man, rather than a woman – unless she has unusually large hands.’

  There were several ladies in Chelsea who did, thought Chaloner – Mrs Bonney, Martha Thrush and Eleanore, to name but three. Yet he could not see any of them as vicious killers who slunk up slyly behind their victims to choke the life out of them.

  While Kipps and Wiseman waited in the garden, he embarked on a painstaking survey of the scene of the crime. A bowl lay broken on the floor, while a chair stood at an odd angle, proof that Parker had struggled when he had been attacked. A torn fingernail showed where he had clawed at his throat in his effort to breathe, and Chaloner shuddered at the notion of being throttled while wearing a mask that must have been suffocating anyway.

  He frowned, wondering why the physician had chosen to dress so elaborately – and unnecessarily – on such a hot night. Did it mean that Parker was the spectre as Cocke had claimed? He thought of his own encounter with the figure, and supposed it might have been the physician he had chased. But why would Parker engage in such antics? He glanced at the coffee grounds on the table. Were those the answer – Parker’s reckless experiments had caused him to lose his reason?

  Pen and ink sat next to the dish, suggesting that Parker had been writing when he had been attacked – and Cocke had mentioned that the physician noted everything down – but there was no paper. Had the killer made off with it? If so, what had been written? An explanation of what was happening in Chelsea? An elucidation of what was meant by elephants? A record of his experiments? Or just some lunatic tirade that would make no sense to anyone?

  As Chaloner stared at the table, he realised there was a small drawer at one end, inserted so neatly that it was all but invisible to the casual observer. He opened it, and smiled his satisfaction when he saw it was full of documents, with the latest copy of The Newes lying on top. The newsbook had been delivered before dawn, and as Chaloner doubted the killer had bothered to put it away, he had to assume that Parker had done it, which meant the physician had still been alive two hours ago.

  He sat at the table to study what he had found. There were several documents outlining more of Parker’s medical theories, and Chaloner was unimpressed to learn that the physician had taken some serious risks with the patients under his care. He had treated an elderly couple from the almshouse – the Colliers’ predecessors – for ‘excessive gloom’, but a miscalculation in the medicines he had prescribed had killed them. There was no hint of remorse in the notes, just the detached observation that he should have chosen younger subjects. Chaloner showed them to Wiseman.

  ‘All medici experiment,’ shrugged the surgeon. ‘How else will we know if our cures work? However, he should not have used folk who were frail. That was irresponsible.’

  Chaloner pawed through the remainder of the pile. Near the top was a letter to the Earl, informing him that Cocke was stealing Gorges’ money.

  ‘I told you so!’ crowed Kipps, coming to peer over his shoulder. ‘Cocke must have strangled Parker to prevent him from telling anyone else. His hands are certainly big enough.’

  ‘But first, he accused Parker of the crimes that he himself committed,’ said Wiseman. ‘What a rogue!’

  ‘Then why did Cocke tell us to come here?’ asked Chaloner, unconvinced. ‘Parker was almost certainly alive when he suggested we visit – he would have told us that it was Cocke who was guilty.’

  ‘Because Cocke knew we would not act until today,’ replied Kipps. ‘Indeed, I imagine we are here far earlier than he expected, and he is lucky he had time to carry out his evil work. I suggest we visit Buckingham House immediately, and arrest him before he throttles anyone else.’

  Chaloner was not sure what to think, but agreed that another word with Cocke was certainly in order. However, before they tackled him, he wanted to study Parker’s papers more carefully. They carried Parker’s body to the church, then returned to the Swan, where Landlord Smith was plying his other guests with more of his eccentric fare. This time it was pea pottage, which was hot, stodgy and wholly unsuitable for a sweltering summer’s day.

  ‘You say you were up and about before we visited Parker, Tom,’ said Kipps, poking at the green sludge without enthusiasm. ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘Lots of people.’ Chaloner spoke absently because he was reading a report on Nancy, which revealed that she would have recovered far more qu
ickly at home than in Gorges, but Parker had wanted to observe her progress without the trouble of traipsing all the way out to the bell-foundry every time she drank her coffee. ‘First, the boy who delivered The Newes, who was—’

  ‘He should not have wasted his time,’ interrupted Wiseman, who was perusing the Swan’s copy in some disgust. ‘Because the only news is that the Countess of Ossory is safely delivered of a son, and that God has preserved Guildford in a happy condition of health.’

  ‘Then I saw Cocke.’ Chaloner could have added that he had seen Eleanore, too, but was disinclined to explain his decision to follow her, rather than the man who was a suspect for murder. Guilt gnawed at him. Would Parker still be alive if he had?

  ‘Hah!’ exclaimed Kipps. ‘There is the final nail in his coffin – a reliable witness who saw him slinking to the scene of his crime. Or was he creeping away from it?’

  ‘Then Reymes appeared from somewhere east of the village,’ Chaloner went on. ‘The Strangeways men were oddly out of breath when they arrived at the market. Akers was also sneaking around, and I confess I am wary of his willingness to betray his employers’ secrets.’

  ‘And do not forget the spectre,’ put in Kipps, abandoning the pottage and coming to help Chaloner with the documents. ‘We saw him ourselves last night, and I thought then that it was unlikely to be Parker.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Wiseman doubtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there was something wrong with Parker’s limbs – he always moved jerkily, and he could never have outrun Tom. The culprit is Cocke, as I told you from the start. And if I am wrong, then my name is Oliver Cromwell.’

  ‘I would not claim that if I were you,’ said Wiseman snidely. ‘Someone might behead you.’

  ‘I am sure you could sew it back on again,’ Kipps flashed back. ‘You are always telling us that there is little beyond your medical skills.’

  ‘We had better go to Buckingham House,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. Parker’s papers had told him little of relevance, and he had wasted valuable time by studying them. ‘I want to search Cocke’s room before questioning him. If we find whatever Parker was writing before he was killed, it might be enough to force a confession.’

  ‘This should be enough,’ said Kipps, waving the letter that Parker had intended to send to the Earl about the accompter. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘Cocke will claim that Parker was not in his right mind when he wrote that,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Which will be difficult to deny. We need something better.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ conceded Kipps reluctantly. ‘But Reymes will not want Cocke accused, lest it reflects badly on him – Cocke is a guest in his house and serves with him at the Treasury and the prison. He may refuse to let us paw through Cocke’s things.’

  ‘And I am disinclined to fight with him over it,’ said Chaloner. ‘So how do you feel about creating a diversion while I sneak up there alone?’

  ‘I can do that,’ declared Wiseman. ‘I shall offer to bleed all his guests.’

  ‘Yes, that will certainly clear the place, said Kipps acidly.

  Wiseman glared at him. ‘I shall say it will protect them against the plague, and they will all be eager to accept. Courtiers love watching me work, especially if I produce the occasional spray of blood. They consider it fine entertainment. Which it is, of course.’

  The air was hot and still as the three men walked to Buckingham House, and even the wildlife seemed enervated. Chaloner, who liked birds, was sorry to see a dead swallow in the dust of the road, while the sparrows in the churchyard were dull-eyed and lethargic. The ones in Eleanore’s garden were different, however. She had put out bowls of water, and they were busy with birds of many different species, drinking and bathing.

  Chaloner stopped to talk to her, blithely oblivious of Kipps’ knowing grin or Wiseman’s scowl of disapproval. She wore a simple dress of blue linen with an embroidered apron over the top, and Chaloner suddenly had a vision of coming home to her pretty cottage of an evening, to be greeted with home-cooked stews and fresh bread. The image startled him. What was he thinking? He barely knew the woman, yet here he was contemplating a cosy future with her!

  ‘I saw you out very early this morning.’ He spoke brusquely, because he did not understand the conflicting emotions that raged inside him.

  ‘Going to the prison, probably,’ she replied. ‘Preparing food is a never-ending grind.’ Then she shot him a smile that did nothing to calm his agitated passions. ‘Would you like to dine with me later? We could take bread and cheese to the riverbank, and I know a shady spot where we will not be disturbed.’

  Chaloner knew he should decline. He could not afford to be distracted by a dalliance, and it was too soon after Hannah, anyway. On the other hand, he had been working hard on the Earl’s behalf, and relaxing for an hour or two would do him good – make him more ready to confront the trouble he sensed was brewing. He found himself nodding acceptance. ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. Where are you going now? To the rectory?’

  ‘To Buckingham House. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because there was a lot of activity in Wilkinson’s home last night, and I thought you would be going there to investigate.’

  ‘Have you been watching him?’ he asked uneasily, disliking the notion of any villager doing something to antagonise the unpredictable cleric.

  She nodded. ‘From eight o’clock until the small hours. Then I had to leave to prepare my herbs for the market. After that, I went to the prison. It was a busy night.’

  ‘If you did not sleep, you must be tired.’

  ‘Yes, but Nancy was my beloved sister. Catching her killer is important to me.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Chaloner, ‘but please do not spy on the rectory again. You are right to suspect that something odd is unfolding there, and it is dangerous to—’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ Eleanore interrupted, with a flash of determination that made him admire her all the more. ‘I know Chelsea, but you do not. It is you who needs to be careful.’

  ‘I am always careful.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Then why were you almost caught when you broke into the prison?’ She waved away the response he started to make, although the truth was that he had no good answer to give her. ‘Incidentally, I saw the spectre on my way home from the rectory. The last time we discussed him, you told me that it might be John Sutcliffe. Well, you are right – it is.’

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked warily. ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No, because it was hidden under his hood, but what better candidate to be a ruthless killer? After all, he was an assassin during the wars.’

  ‘Was this apparition light on its feet?’

  She stared at him in confusion for a moment, then gave a light laugh. ‘You still think it is a woman! Well, you are wrong. It is Sutcliffe, as you will learn when you catch him.’

  Chaloner would not have wanted to be jabbed with Wiseman’s dirty old fleams, but the courtiers at Buckingham House were delighted by the dual prospect of protection from the plague and the opportunity to watch their fellows undergo a grisly procedure. Ever flamboyant, Wiseman put on a show that had them clustering around with ghoulish fascination, and when he felt his audience losing attention, he had a number of tricks designed to bring them back into his thrall.

  ‘Where is Cocke?’ asked Kipps, when the accompter failed to appear with the others.

  ‘I have not seen him since last night,’ replied Brodrick, ‘when he tried to teach Lady Savage how to play the viol, an exercise that had anyone with ears running for cover.’

  ‘He was very patient,’ said the person in question, smiling enigmatically. ‘I might entertain you with some airs later today.’

  ‘Christ!’ groaned Brodrick, hand to his head.

  ‘I have not seen him today either,’ said Reymes, scowling as usual. ‘But Doyley tells me that he was in the rectory until two o’clock this morning, so I imagine he is still
in bed.’

  ‘You know?’ asked Kipps, lowering his voice to address the commissioner without being overheard. ‘About the stockpiled food?’

  ‘Of course I know,’ snapped Reymes irritably. ‘It was my idea to amass supplies for the prison, and Doyley suggested that we do the same for the village. He is right: we will be in trouble if our gaolers refuse to come to work because they need to hunt down victuals for kin who are shut inside their houses with suspicious fevers.’

  ‘You were out very early this morning,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘I saw you by the—’

  ‘I had a headache, so I went for a walk,’ interrupted Reymes curtly. ‘Not that it is any of your concern. And what were you doing, wandering about in the dark anyway?’

  Wiseman chose that moment to produce a spurt of blood from Hungerford that had everyone darting for cover, so Chaloner slipped away during the ensuing commotion, supposing he would have to search the room with Cocke in situ if the accompter was still asleep.

  The house was virtually deserted as he tiptoed through it, with only the occasional servant moving about his chores. Chaloner listened outside Cocke’s door for a moment, and when he heard nothing but silence, he opened it and stepped inside.

  The room was empty, so he closed the door, and conducted a brisk but thorough inspection. It did not take long, as the accompter had brought very little with him other than clothes, which were strewn around in a very slovenly fashion, and explained why he always looked so seedy. There was also a box of jewellery, although none of it matched what had been reported stolen from Gorges.

  As Cocke was an unimaginative man, Chaloner soon found the bundle of papers that was ‘hidden’ under the mattress. He unwrapped it to discover a number of interesting items.

  First, there were chits signed by Mrs Bonney for Gorges’ expenses, which had been entered into a ledger at a slightly higher rate; the difference between the two figures was recorded in a column on the right, under the bald heading of ‘personal profit’. No single entry amounted to much, but they combined to make for a tidy sum. Wryly, Chaloner saw he owed Kipps an apology for not listening to his suspicions.