The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  Akers shrugged. ‘Well, something dark and nasty is unfolding here, and I am worried. As I told you before, there have been odd comings and goings.’

  ‘Prostitutes,’ said Chaloner, recalling what Tooker had claimed. ‘Sneaked in for those inmates who can afford them.’

  Akers snorted his disgust. ‘You mean for Spring and his fellows – the rest would never be granted such favours. But I do not refer to the whores, I mean other goings-on. Moreover, the spectre roamed again last night, and I know she is up to no good.’

  ‘She?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I heard her talking – she was muttering something about dawn on Wednesday. She has a light voice and is very nimble. Although I suppose the same can be said of some men…’

  Chaloner’s interest quickened. ‘Muttering to whom?’

  ‘I tried to eavesdrop, but she and her companion heard me coming, and I was hard-pressed to escape. For God’s sake do not tell anyone it was me they chased. If you do, I am a dead man. After all, I voiced my concerns to Underhill, Cocke and Parker, and look what happened to them.’

  ‘Why pick those three for your confidences?’ asked Kipps suspiciously.

  ‘Because Cocke was our accompter, Parker our physician, and Underhill was always asking questions and so was interested. Something nasty is bubbling here, and it will boil over in less than two days. You do not have much time if you aim to stop it.’

  ‘This spectre,’ said Chaloner. ‘If she is a woman, then who is she? One of the guests at Buckingham House? A local?’

  ‘Someone who is more ruthless than any man. She must be, if she has throttled four people. Strong, too. Unless it is her companion who does the strangling while she looks on…’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I assume it was a man, not another lady?’

  ‘He was larger and heavier, so yes, although it was difficult to be sure in the dark. And I did not hear him speak, only her.’

  ‘Do you have any theories or suspects?’ pressed Kipps.

  ‘One: Rector Wilkinson held grudges against all the victims – he considered Nancy a whore, Underhill a spy, Kole a voyeur, Cocke a thief, while Parker was the man who brought lunatics to his village. You should speak to him as soon as you can.’

  Having had his say, Akers turned abruptly, and began climbing the stairs again. Chaloner and Kipps followed in silence, mulling over what he had said. They reached Tooker’s office to find the warden at his desk. He wore his trademark cloak and tall hat, despite the heat of the day, and Chaloner supposed he had been glad to get them back. Rather wickedly, Chaloner had hung them on the village maypole when he had finished with them – a public statement that it had been the warden’s own clothes that had let the intruder escape from the prison with such ease.

  ‘What, again?’ Tooker sighed with exaggerated weariness. ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘To see the Garden Court,’ replied Chaloner promptly.

  Tooker grimaced. ‘How many more times must I repeat myself? It would be a reckless breach of security to venture in there without good cause.’

  At that moment Samm arrived, pistols in his belt and a rapier at his side. The firearms made Chaloner uncomfortable, not only because it was unwise to sport them in a place where they might be grabbed by inmates, but also because his own blades were no match for bullets. He moved his coat slightly, so the butt of Mrs Bonney’s dag was visible, aiming to let Samm know that he was not the only one with a gun. It was unloaded, but the chief gaoler was not to know that.

  ‘We have reason to believe that the Garden Court holds English rebels,’ Chaloner said baldly, watching both for a reaction. ‘Regicides, rabble-rousers and men with wild religious opinions.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ cried Tooker angrily. ‘Whoever told you such a foolish thing?’

  ‘It is common knowledge,’ lied Chaloner. ‘People gossip in the taverns.’

  ‘That intruder,’ muttered Samm venomously, treating Chaloner to a cold and angry glare. ‘He failed to unearth anything untoward when he broke in, so he is resorting to invention instead. Does he not understand that spreading reckless falsehoods might do a lot of harm?’

  Chaloner pressed on. ‘You have the care of Will Say, Andrew Broughton, Ned Dendy—’

  ‘No!’ snapped Tooker. ‘There are no prisoners here by those names. We only have Dutchmen.’

  ‘Other than Spring and his crew,’ put in Samm. ‘But you have already met them.’

  ‘Then prove it.’ Chaloner nodded to Kipps, who slapped the warrant on Tooker’s desk. ‘This document gives us the right to go wherever we please. Refuse to comply, and you will spend the rest of your short lives as traitors in the Tower.’

  Tooker eyed it warily, then spent several minutes inspecting the seal. Chaloner held his breath, readying himself to answer the accusation that the writ was a forgery, although Kipps remained nonchalant, clearly confident that their handiwork would pass muster. The warden opened it eventually, and spread it out on his table, even going as far as to use a magnifying glass to examine it in more detail. At that point, Chaloner noticed that Samm had disappeared.

  ‘Enough,’ he snapped, unwilling to stand by stupidly while Tooker gave his chief gaoler time to prepare. ‘Take us there immediately.’

  Tooker stood slowly. ‘Very well. Follow me.’

  Chaloner was aware of being watched as he and Kipps followed Tooker across the baking yellow expanse of the yard. He glanced around and saw faces at almost every window. Why? Because the prisoners were bored, and official visitations were a departure from their dull routine? Because they sensed that something was about to happen, as Akers had claimed, and intended to be part of it – a mass escape, perhaps? Or because other men had gone into the Garden Court, and had not come out again?

  He was glad of the stalwart presence of Kipps at his side. The Seal Bearer marched with military precision, his bearing regal, and no one who saw him could fail to believe anything other than that he was there with the full support of the King, the government and the law. Chaloner supposed the ability to strike a pose was why Kipps had won two lucrative ceremonial posts.

  Tooker bought Samm yet more time by stopping to talk every so often, and adopting a very measured pace. Two burly soldiers were on duty at the Garden Court gate, and conspired to take an age to find the right key. The moment they did, Chaloner shoved past them to enter a short tunnel, which opened into the College’s second yard.

  It was a pretty square with buildings on all four sides and a garden in the middle. The buildings were crafted from honey-coloured stone with ivy climbing picturesquely up them. The windows were glazed, and Chaloner saw faces at several on the upper floors, although all pulled back when they saw him looking at them. The delicious aroma of cooking issued from the far corner – of baked fish, and of cakes containing nutmeg and cinnamon.

  ‘Your dangerous Dutchmen must love this,’ remarked Kipps, as he looked around with his hands on his hips. ‘Indeed, I could live here myself.’

  Tooker scowled at him. ‘Before you go any further, I have rules. Touch nothing and talk to no one. And keep a firm hand on your weapons. Everyone is locked in cells, of course, but one cannot be too careful.’

  When Chaloner and Kipps nodded acquiescence, he walked to the nearest door. It led to a hallway, which had stairs leading to the upper floor, and a corridor running in both directions with more doors leading off it. The building smelled pleasantly of wax and wood, and Chaloner knew immediately that it was no prison.

  ‘Stand well back,’ instructed Tooker, as Samm produced a key. ‘These rogues are not in here for nothing. They are villains to a man, who would slit your throat without a second thought.’

  Samm unlocked the door to reveal six men. There was no furniture of any description, not even a bucket for sanitation, and it was improbably clean. The prisoners were bewildered, and Chaloner could tell that they had just been herded in to play a role in a game they
did not understand. Samm unfastened a second door ‘at random’ to reveal more bemused inmates.

  ‘When were you brought here?’ asked Chaloner in Dutch.

  One prisoner started to reply, but Samm slammed the door closed before the man could speak more than two or three words, although they were enough for Chaloner to hear the beginning of a demand to know what was going on.

  ‘I told you,’ said Tooker sharply. ‘No talking to the inmates. Especially in their own tongue.’

  ‘Open that door,’ ordered Chaloner, pointing to one at the far end. The corner of a rug protruded from underneath it, and he was sure it was crammed with all the items that had been hastily removed from the two ‘show’ cells. Samm had done wonders in the short time he had been allotted, but mistakes had been made even so.

  ‘No,’ snapped Tooker. ‘I have cooperated, but now you try my patience.’

  ‘And you mine.’ Chaloner started to walk towards it, but found his way barred by Samm and a henchman. The hands of both rested on the butts of their guns, ready to draw if there was trouble.

  ‘What was delivered here recently?’ demanded Kipps, frustration loud in his voice. ‘In carts that you would not allow your other gaolers to inspect?’

  Chaloner winced, and hoped the blunt question would not endanger Akers. Samm’s eyes narrowed, and the gun started to come out of his belt.

  ‘Food,’ replied Tooker promptly. ‘Lest the plague comes, and we find ourselves short. You clearly have an informant here, so tell him that the wagons contained victuals. And if you do not believe me, ask Commissioners Doyley and Reymes. It was their idea – as was keeping it secret. I said it would be better to do it openly, but they disagreed.’

  ‘We shall show you the latrine now,’ said Samm tightly. ‘Then you cannot accuse us of being obstructive.’

  ‘But you are being obstructive,’ argued Kipps. ‘And our report will—’

  ‘What else is in the Garden Wing?’ interrupted Chaloner, unwilling to challenge men with guns, even if Kipps thought he could face them down. ‘Other than cells, kitchens and a latrine?’

  ‘A hall,’ replied Tooker, and led them to the building directly opposite the gate, where he opened the door to a large, airy chamber that was being cleaned by more Dutch prisoners. Again, the inmates were baffled and frightened, and Chaloner could tell it was nothing they had been told to do before.

  ‘We use it for theological instruction,’ said Tooker. Chaloner glanced at him sharply: the warden thought he had won the encounter, and so was amusing himself at his visitors’ expense. ‘After all, we cannot deprive our charges of religion, enemies or no.’

  ‘You mean you hold services?’ queried Kipps. ‘Holy Communion and the like?’

  ‘Not exactly. Wilkinson declines to bring the sacraments here, because he does not want to minister to men who mean his country harm, so we reached a compromise: he provides pamphlets, and our prisoners are encouraged to read them.’

  He gestured to a pile of leaflets – all in English – but when Chaloner saw their titles, he was sure no inmate should be allowed anywhere near them. All were inflammatory, and would do nothing to promote peace. Had Wilkinson done it on purpose, aiming to incite a riot, so that the prison would be forced to close and revert to its original purpose, with himself at its head?

  He nodded that he had seen enough of the hall, so Tooker led them back to the garden, where Chaloner noticed that the faces at the windows were back again. He pointed up at them.

  ‘I want to inspect their quarters.’

  Tooker grimaced. ‘Well, you cannot. You have seen two, and that should be plenty.’

  ‘We will tell Clarendon that you flouted his warrant,’ threatened Kipps.

  ‘And I shall tell him that you put the security of a nation at risk with gratuitous demands,’ flared Tooker. ‘Why must you pry, anyway? No one has escaped, and no one has complained about the conditions. Considering the pittance we receive from the Treasury, we have worked miracles.’

  ‘That is for us to decide,’ argued Kipps. ‘Which we cannot do as long as you refuse to cooperate.’

  ‘I am cooperating,’ Tooker snapped back. ‘Besides, I know why you are really here – because your master wants to use the prison to strike a blow at Reymes. Well, he should be ashamed of himself. All our commissioners are dedicated and generous, and they deserve better than to be used as pawns in his political machinations.’

  ‘Yet you lie to these “dedicated and generous” men,’ said Chaloner. ‘They are under the impression that the Garden Court holds food and nothing else, but it contains prisoners who—’

  ‘It holds both,’ interrupted Tooker sharply. ‘We have stored victuals all over the College – anywhere with cellars to keep them cool and safe. And of course the commissioners know about the dangerous inmates. If they claim otherwise, then I am afraid they are fibbing.’

  ‘A likely story!’ exclaimed Kipps. ‘Do you take us for fools?’

  While Kipps and Tooker sparred, Chaloner inched away. Then before anyone could stop him, he tore up the stairs to the top floor. He bent to pick the lock on one of the rooms that had had faces at the window, and was startled when the door swung open before he could insert his probes. Two men were inside, watching the altercation in the yard below. Both whipped around in alarm when they heard him behind them.

  The chamber was beautifully furnished, and the remains of a substantial meal lay on the table, but before Chaloner could register more, Samm hurtled into the room after him, pistol in his hand. Chaloner braced himself for the shot, but the gaoler’s eyes flicked to the inmates, and the weapon was lowered. Chaloner turned quickly to look at them, but there was no indication that either had cautioned Samm not to fire.

  ‘The door was open,’ Chaloner said, when Tooker and Kipps arrived seconds later. The warden was breathing hard, and his face was white with anger. ‘How remiss for a place where security is said to be so tight.’

  ‘It is remiss,’ said Samm through gritted teeth. ‘I shall have words with the guards, and it will not happen again. We are fortunate that this pair of butter-eaters did not notice, or they might have escaped to terrorise the people of Chelsea – and perhaps even London.’

  The ‘prisoners’ were well-fed and middle-aged, more like merchants than sailors. Neither wore the kind of clothes currently favoured by Hollanders, and there was a hardness in their faces that suggested both were individuals who believed in the power of their own convictions.

  ‘From where in the United Provinces do you hail?’ asked Chaloner in Dutch.

  They regarded him blankly, revealing that they did not know the language.

  ‘I told you – no talking to the inmates,’ snapped Tooker, jabbing him sharply in the back. ‘And it is no use babbling in Hollandish anyway, because these two are French. Not everyone in the Dutch navy hails from the United Provinces, and these are Breton mercenaries.’

  Chaloner promptly switched to French. ‘How long have you been in the Dutch navy?’

  He was gratified when he saw the irritation on Tooker’s face, but again, he sensed the prisoners sending their minders a silent signal, warning them against doing anything rash. The older of the two gave a brief smile, and answered in the same tongue.

  ‘A few months – since war broke out, and we saw an opportunity to make some money.’

  There was something odd about his accent, which Chaloner supposed might result from his first language being Breton, but that also might mean he was English. He stared at the fellow, taking in his fine clothes and haughty bearing, then addressed the second, still in French.

  ‘On which ship did you serve?’

  The first replied on his crony’s behalf. ‘Stad Utrecht, under Captain Oudart. We were taken together.’

  ‘Does he not speak for himself?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting the ‘Breton’ did not understand a word that was being said.

  ‘He has been mute since the battle,’ came the glib explanation. ‘Shock can do odd t
hings to a man. You have the look of the warrior about you, so you must be aware of this phenomenon.’

  ‘Does religion help?’ Chaloner wondered if these two men were on the lists of names he had found. He had met some of his uncle’s fellow regicides, but not all, so the only way to tell whether they held revolutionary opinions was by needling one into an incautious response. ‘Particularly that of a controversial nature?’

  The first prisoner smiled again. ‘Religion always helps, and I do not know where we would be without it. Now, is there anything else, or may we return to our chess?’

  The pieces sat on the table, and although the two men had been nowhere near them when Chaloner had entered their cell, they made a show of settling to them now. He watched them for a moment, but could tell they would be persuaded to say no more. He allowed Samm to usher him out.

  ‘Well?’ asked Kipps in an undertone, once they were out on the road again. ‘Did you learn anything useful? I did not, although I can tell you that prisoner was not Breton. My old nurse was Breton, and they have a distinctive accent. I would recognise it anywhere – and he did not have it.’

  ‘You are doubtless right,’ said Chaloner, ‘and their clothes were English-made.’

  ‘Regicides, then,’ said Kipps in distaste. ‘No offence to your uncle, Tom, but king-killers are a vile breed, and should be locked in the Tower, not playing chess in Chelsea.’

  ‘I will write to Spymaster Williamson today, and ask for reinforcements. If there really are a dozen dangerous dissidents in there, we cannot tackle them alone.’

  ‘Are you sure that is wise?’ asked Kipps uneasily. ‘Tooker did say that these men are guests of the government, and Williamson is a dangerous man himself.’

  ‘He is,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But he cannot know what is happening here. If he did, he would have warned me to stay away, not urged me to investigate.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Kipps, unconvinced. ‘But I shall write for help, too – from our Earl, who I trust far more than Williamson.’