‘Is he really dead?’ asked Bannister in a whisper, eyeing Cocke’s corpse warily. ‘He looks as though he is asleep.’
‘He is dead,’ averred Kipps. ‘And you were seen here with him yesterday.’
‘About an increase in our salaries,’ explained Hart. He shot an apologetic glance towards Mrs Bonney and Franklin. ‘We like working here, but the pay is derisory. Cocke agreed to look at the figures, to see if Gorges could stand a small rise, which he would then recommend to the board.’
‘His death is a serious blow to our expectations,’ said Bannister bitterly. ‘So we did not kill him – we wanted him alive.’
‘Did you drop anything while you were here yesterday?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I saw Jem pick something up from the ground after you left.’
The pair immediately began checking the contents of their pockets, but it was not long before they shook their heads. Hart still had his pot of wig powder, while Bannister had the handkerchief that had been embroidered by his mother, which they claimed were all they ever carried. Which meant it was Cocke who had dropped whatever Jem had stooped to retrieve – almost certainly the note about elephants. Unfortunately, the deduction did not help now that Cocke was unavailable to answer questions.
‘So what shall we do next?’ asked Kipps, when the Gorges people had carried Cocke’s body away, the powerful Mrs Bonney toting the bulk of the load.
‘First, we need to question Janaway about the chisel,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Then we had better visit the prison, to determine once and for all if the Garden Court houses rebels or food.’
And if neither of those yielded answers, he would try to decode the message he had found under Cocke’s mattress, and then re-interview Jem – perhaps a knife at the throat would encourage the man to reveal why he had tried to eavesdrop on the accompter.
‘If it holds inmates as dangerous as Tooker claims,’ said Kipps, ‘then perhaps one escaped to go a-strangling, and he is this mysterious spectre – as Landlord Smith suggested.’
‘I suspect that even Tooker would draw the line at letting his charges come and go at will,’ said Wiseman archly. ‘Personally, I think that Underhill and Lil are right: the spectre is a woman, one who is tall, strong, skilled at strangling, and fit enough to outrun Chaloner. Eleanore claims it is Sutcliffe, but perhaps that is a lie – a ruse to divert attention away from herself.’
‘Yet Sutcliffe was an assassin…’ Kipps was thoughtful. ‘I think I shall write to Warwick and Stephens in White Hall today, and ask if they know anything about the man.’
‘Why would they?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Or are your cronies the type to take pleasure in the company of professional killers?’
‘They are Treasury officials, and so beyond reproach,’ flashed Kipps. ‘But they might have come across him on a visit to the theatre, and it is worth a shot. Or do you have a better idea?’
‘I could probably think of plenty,’ retorted Wiseman, ‘were I to try.’
‘Then please do,’ said Chaloner curtly. ‘This is important. No one wandering about at night in disguise can be innocent, so the sooner we question this spectre, the better.’
‘I do not have time to do your job for you,’ said Wiseman indignantly, although Chaloner suspected that the surgeon had quickly racked his brains and realised that ingenious schemes to save the day were not as easy to contrive as he had thought. ‘Franklin is clearly unequal to dealing with Gorges now that Parker is dead, so my duties lie here.’
‘So we shall not have your company today?’ said Kipps. ‘What a pity.’
Unlike the previous time they had visited, the foundry was noisy, as several apprentices and a master laboured over cauldrons of molten metal. However, it was not bells that were being cast, but cannon – four of them in various stages of completion.
‘I hope those are not for the prison,’ said Chaloner to the man in charge.
The master jumped at the voice so close behind him. He was a large, thickset fellow with a flowing yellow beard, which was a reckless fashion for someone who worked with hot materials.
‘Of course not,’ he snapped. ‘These are for the Dutch war.’
‘Thomas Janaway?’ asked Kipps, and when the man nodded warily, added, ‘We are the Earl of Clarendon’s envoys, here to ask you about George Cocke.’
‘I barely know him,’ replied the bell-founder. ‘He is a governor, so I used to nod to him when I visited Nancy in Gorges.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘I put her there, because Parker said he could make her better, but I should have looked after her myself. Then she would still be with me.’
‘Does this belong to you?’ Chaloner showed him the chisel.
Janaway snatched it from him and cradled it to his bosom. ‘It is one I gave her, because she wanted to carve my initials in a tree in Gorges’ orchard. Where did you find it? I thought it was lost for ever.’
Chaloner did not try to take it back, instinctively sensing that the bell-founder was telling the truth, and that the thing had been lost long before Cocke had died.
‘What did Nancy think of Cocke?’ asked Kipps.
‘She probably liked him,’ replied Janaway miserably. ‘She liked everyone. Can we talk about something else? Remembering her is painful, especially as her killer still walks free.’
‘He does not,’ said Kipps grandly. ‘It was Cocke, but now he is strangled, too.’
Janaway gaped at him, while Chaloner surreptitiously studied the bell-founder’s hands, quickly concluding that he had not killed Cocke because they were too big. However, they were not too big to fit the marks on the throats of Underhill, Parker, Kole and perhaps Nancy. And he, unlike Kipps, did not believe Cocke was the killer, and was inclined to suspect that the culprit was still at large.
‘I loved Nancy,’ whispered Janaway brokenly, when Chaloner asked him to tell them about her. ‘She was the light of my life, and I made her stay at home as much as I could, to keep her safe.’
Chaloner frowned. Such devotion was stifling, so perhaps Wilkinson was right, and Nancy – pretty, kind, friendly and loved by all – had sought comfort in the arms of other men.
‘There are rumours that she strayed from her marital vows,’ he began. ‘And—’
Although he had anticipated an angry response, Chaloner was unprepared for the speed of Janaway’s. There was a blur of movement, and fingers fastened around his neck.
‘She had no lover,’ the bell-founder howled. ‘And I will kill anyone who suggests otherwise.’
Chaloner was in no real danger – the dagger in his sleeve was already in his hand – but Kipps did not know it, and surged to his rescue, charging forward with his head down and butting into Janaway so hard that the bell-founder was sent flying. Janaway started to clamber to his feet to resume the assault, screeching his fury all the while, but his apprentices were there to restrain him.
‘He is grieving,’ shouted one defensively. ‘And your questions are offensive.’
‘Besides,’ added another, ‘what decent man would not react with rage at the suggestion that his dead wife was a harlot?’
‘We are only trying to get at the truth,’ said Kipps coolly, brushing himself down.
‘You think that because Cocke had an eye for ladies, he seduced Mrs Janaway,’ shouted the first. ‘But she would not have had him, and he was not a man for rape, so do not look here for her killer. Our master is innocent.’
‘However, Chelsea is currently home to a lot of powerful men,’ said the second. ‘All of whom have dark secrets – secrets they would kill to protect. Investigate them, not him.’
Chaloner left the bell-foundry not sure what to believe. Janaway was obviously unstable, and might well have throttled his wife in a fit of jealous pique. Yet Eleanore did not believe him guilty, or she would not have tried to shield him from painful interviews. Or did she know that Janaway was violent, and it was the Lord Chancellor’s emissaries she was trying to protect? That possibility pleased Chaloner more than he would have imagined.
‘I have sent requests to the Earl and Williamson, but these things take time.’
‘They do – if you go through official channels. However, I always carry a blank page stamped with the Earl’s seal and a fair approximation of his signature. All we have to do is fill in the details, and we shall have our “warrant” today.’
Chaloner gaped at him. ‘You possess the wherewithal to issue writs in our employer’s name? Without his knowledge?’
‘You never know when one might come in useful, and I am always cognisant of his interests.’
Chaloner was stunned. ‘How do you get his seal? He keeps it on a chain around his neck.’
Kipps smiled complacently. ‘And I am his Seal Bearer – he gives it to me all the time. Shall we return to the Swan now, and set about forging what we need?’
They passed the market on their way back, which was now a busy jumble of animal pens, carts and people. None of the cattle or poultry wanted to be there, and voiced their objections in a cacophony of irritable grunts, honks, clucks and bleats, competing against the cries of traders with things to sell. The heat was causing tempers to fray, and Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a more fractious gathering.
Eleanore was there, presiding over a table bearing herbs from her garden. She nodded at Chaloner when he waved, but did not smile, and he wondered if she already knew that he had ignored her injunction to leave Janaway in peace.
The Strangeways’ fish were by far the most popular items on sale, and their apprentices served a long and restless queue. The old man oversaw the operation with a critical eye, while Giles stood behind him smoking. Wadham sat on a trough, struggling to affect an artistic pose, although his Muse did not seem to be cooperating, and the paper on his knees was blank. He was yawning hugely, and his eyes were bloodshot.
‘Herring,’ declared Strangeways, when he saw Chaloner and Kipps. ‘The finest in the world, and only available from me. How many will you have?’
‘Six,’ replied Kipps genially. ‘I have always liked herring.’
‘You did not sleep in your own beds last night,’ said Chaloner, more interested in the investigation than in his stomach. He raised his hand when the old man drew breath to deny it. ‘You are still wearing the finery you donned for Reymes’ party, while Wadham is half asleep. What were you doing that necessitated being up all night?’
Strangeways regarded him coolly. ‘We were attending to business.’
‘What business?’ Chaloner scowled when the fishmonger exchanged a sly glance with Giles, and lies were clearly in the offing. ‘It is treason to interfere with an official investigation – which is what you will be doing if you refuse to cooperate.’
It was untrue, but he doubted the fishmongers would guess he was bluffing.
Strangeways sighed irritably. ‘If you must know, we were trying to get our coffee-roaster going, because the breeze would have taken the stench directly through Reymes’ bedroom window. But there is more to preparing beans than meets the eye, and by the time we had worked out what to do, the wind had changed. So we decided not to bother.’
‘It would have blown the reek towards the rectory instead,’ explained Giles. ‘And we have nothing against Wilkinson. He is an odd sort, but he cannot help that.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Wadham, abandoning his poetry as he stood to stretch. ‘Is it true that Cocke is the latest victim of the Chelsea Strangler?’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Chaloner cagily. ‘Why?’
‘Because I saw Cocke hurrying past the rectory while we were trying to get our fire lit, and Wilkinson was in his garden – which was a peculiar place to be in the dark. Cocke stopped, and the two of them exchanged words, ones that did not sound very friendly.’
‘Do not tell tales, Wadham,’ said his father sharply. ‘There is no need to make an enemy of Wilkinson – not when we already have our hands full with Reymes.’
‘I am not telling tales, I am reporting the truth,’ countered Wadham. ‘Besides, I have never liked Wilkinson. He spends his whole life aiming to cause trouble by voicing opinions that will offend. It would not surprise me if he was the strangler.’
‘Enough,’ snapped his grandfather sharply. He turned back to Kipps. ‘Now, how many fish was it? Ten or a dozen?’
The affable Kipps was putty in his hands, and left the stall with fifteen herring and six mackerel in a parcel under his arm. Chaloner used the bartering time to think about Wilkinson. The rector had followed Cocke in London, and now it seemed that the two of them had exchanged unfriendly words shortly before Cocke’s murder. He decided to speak to Wilkinson when he and Kipps had finished at the prison. Perhaps the rector’s fingers would be a match for the marks on Cocke’s throat.
‘What were those rogues saying about me?’ came a growl from behind him. It was Reymes, with Doyley at his heels. ‘Regardless, it is not true.’
‘They told us that you are as honest as the day is long,’ replied Kipps wickedly. ‘So if it is a falsehood, it means you are just another corrupt official, and Clarendon is right to tell folk that you should not be trusted with a lucrative post in government.’
Reymes glowered. ‘Strangeways would never compliment me, so do not play the fool, Kipps. Was he telling you about his filthy coffee house? If it opens, I shall burn it down.’
‘He does not mean it,’ said Doyley tiredly, as his fellow commissioner stalked away. He put a pinch of snuff on the back of his hand, but was jostled by a scampering child before he could inhale it, so it flew all over Kipps instead. ‘He is just overwrought because of the heat. I cannot believe the news about Cocke, by the way.’
‘What news?’ asked Kipps. ‘That he was murdered, or that he was a thief?’
‘Both,’ replied Doyley unhappily. ‘But especially the dishonesty. He was the Commission’s accompter, and I am terrified of what we might uncover when we begin to delve into his ledgers.’
‘You should be,’ said Kipps, brushing the snuff from his coat. ‘He was cheating Gorges, so I imagine he was cheating you, too. That selfish rogue – defrauding prisoners and lunatics! Not to mention his efforts to extort money from me over Mart—over something personal.’
‘Parker’s death will also affect us adversely,’ said Doyley dolefully. ‘Franklin cannot manage alone, so we shall have to recruit a second medicus from elsewhere, which is sure to cost a fortune. Perhaps Reymes is right: this Commission is a wretched way to serve our country.’
He walked away, shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Back at the Swan, Kipps produced a sheet of parchment that bore nothing but a disconcertingly authentic likeness of the Earl’s signature and an imprint of his seal. Chaloner began to write, hoping his master would never learn what they had done. Seals were sacrosanct, and while he had abused many during his long career in espionage, he had never taken such liberties with an employer’s.
Using the elaborately cursive script he always employed when forging official documents, he drafted an order giving him and Kipps the authority to explore the Garden Court. Refusal to comply would be considered an act of treason, and anyone opposing the warrant could expect a sojourn in the Tower. While Kipps got busy with some decorative ribbons, Chaloner locked the papers he had removed from Cocke’s mattress in a chest, along with the ones from Parker’s house. He would tackle the cipher as soon as they had finished at the prison.
‘There,’ said Kipps in satisfaction, holding out his handiwork for Chaloner to inspect.
The seal and its fluttering appendages were impressive, although Chaloner would have been suspicious of the fact that the signature and text were in different inks. However, Tooker was not an intelligencer, so hopefully, he would not notice the discrepancy. He nodded his approval, and Kipps suggested donning clothes more suitable for an official invasion. It was a good idea, even t
hough the day was far too hot for formal long-coats, wigs and frilly shirts.
Finally, resplendent in their courtly finery, the two of them set off towards the College, each alone with his thoughts. Chaloner was still pondering whether Janaway was the large-handed killer, while Kipps fretted over a stain on his best breeches, which he felt marred his otherwise pristine appearance.
Akers was on gate duty, and ushered them inside almost eagerly. As they were conducted towards Tooker’s office, Chaloner saw Spring watching from the shady corner of the courtyard, his cronies ranged around him. All oozed sullen defiance.
Akers opened the gatehouse door, and began to lead the way up the stairs. However, when they reached the landing, he stopped and glanced around furtively, to make sure they were alone.
‘You are right to come with your warrant,’ he whispered, ‘because something bad will happen here soon. There have been several deliveries of goods to the Garden Court, but we have not been permitted to inspect them. And there is an atmosphere.’
‘What kind of atmosphere?’ asked Chaloner.
‘One that the Dutchmen sense, because they are suddenly very rebellious, and we had trouble encouraging them back into their cells after their exercise today. Tooker, Samm and their favourites know what is afoot, of course, but the rest of us gaolers are in woeful ignorance.’
‘The deliveries you mentioned are only supplies of food,’ explained Kipps. ‘Some is being stockpiled here, lest the plague comes. The commissioners told us.’
‘We have laid in emergency rations for such an eventuality, but those are in the cellars under the kitchen. These went to the Garden Court – and they were the wrong size and shape to be edibles anyway. I wondered if they might be weapons. Muskets perhaps.’
‘Why would Tooker allow that?’ asked Kipps doubtfully, while Chaloner acknowledged that the gaoler was telling the truth about the kitchen, because he had seen food stacked in its basement himself. ‘The warden is usually the first to be shot when things turn sour, as I am sure he knows.’
The Chelsea Strangler Page 28