The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  Chaloner inclined his head. ‘And while we wait for their replies, we will visit Wilkinson.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Kipps genially, then frowned. ‘Why, exactly?’

  ‘Because I saw him trailing Cocke in London; he was spotted arguing with Cocke last night; and now we hear that he gives polemical pamphlets to prisoners. He has been a suspicious character from the start, and it is time we interviewed him properly.’

  Chapter 12

  Chaloner and Kipps hurried to the Swan, where the spy composed a letter to Williamson, and the Seal Bearer wrote to the Earl. Then Chaloner gave two of Landlord Smith’s fat sons a shilling each, and ordered them to deliver both messages as quickly as they could.

  ‘My money is on Clarendon responding first,’ said Kipps, watching the boys waddle off in opposite directions. ‘If Williamson was going to help, he would have done it by now.’

  It was an interesting point, but Chaloner was sure the Spymaster would be as eager to thwart a plot involving rebels as he was, and it was just a case of the earlier missive going astray before it was read. Hopefully, the second one would have better luck.

  ‘We should tackle Rector Wilkinson now,’ he said. ‘We may not have time later, if we are embroiled in armed confrontations with rebels, and the Earl will be vexed if we lose the man who committed murder in his house.’

  The market was still busy as he and Kipps trudged towards the rectory, but the atmosphere was testier than ever. The animals and birds were uncomfortable in the heat, and their objections were unsettling their owners, who felt pressure to sell. Foodstuffs wilted, and arguments broke out about their quality, while even those selling non-perishables were irritable and short with their customers. The Strangeways were the only ones to have done well: all their fish had been sold, and their apprentices were sluicing out the stall, ready for next time.

  Chaloner chose a route that would take him past Eleanore’s table, although his casual change of direction did not fool Kipps, who smirked knowingly. Eleanore was selling Mrs Bonney some parsley, but she abandoned the sale to an assistant – a gawky lass of fifteen or sixteen – when she saw Chaloner. The spy felt his stomach give a peculiar flip as she came towards him, something it had not done since he had fancied himself in love with his first wife. It had certainly never happened with Hannah. Eleanore, however, was angry, and Kipps backed away, unsettled by the flashing eyes and tight-lipped mouth.

  ‘I shall leave you to it,’ he gulped. ‘Collect me from the White Hart when you are ready.’

  ‘You upset my brother-in-law,’ said Eleanore accusingly. ‘After you agreed to let him be.’

  ‘I did not agree,’ corrected Chaloner. ‘You issued an order. And I delayed the interview for as long as I could, but we needed answers.’

  She regarded him frostily. ‘And did he provide them?’

  ‘He certainly made me wonder whether Nancy baulked under his suffocating care,’ Chaloner shot back. He might find Eleanore attractive, but that did not mean he was prepared to let her ride roughshod over him or his investigation.

  She sighed crossly. ‘I knew you would think that, which is why I tried to prevent you from speaking to him. However, he would never have hurt Nancy, while she liked having a protective husband. It would have stifled me, but she always said it made her feel safe.’

  ‘Are you sure? And please think very carefully before you reply, because we will never catch her killer if you lie.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure,’ she said, meeting his eyes with a level gaze. ‘They were devoted to each other, and neither would have looked elsewhere for affection. Some people are happy with their spouses, so you should not judge everyone by your own unsatisfactory experiences. And I can prove it, although I had hoped it would not be necessary. Come.’

  She began to walk away, so Chaloner followed her to a small, unassuming house overlooking the market. The door was open and she walked inside without knocking, calling for ‘Father O’Shea’.

  O’Shea was a diminutive, gentle-faced man who scrambled up from his knees in alarm when Eleanore burst into his kitchen with Chaloner in tow. It took the spy no more than a glance to surmise that here was a Catholic priest, not illegal in Restoration England, but nothing to advertise either.

  ‘Tell him, Father,’ said Eleanore, nodding towards Chaloner. ‘Tell him that Nancy loved her husband, and would never have contemplated violating her marriage vows.’

  ‘It is true,’ replied the priest softly. ‘I break no sacred trust by assuring you that there was nothing of that nature in their confessions. She loved him, and he loved her. He would never have done her harm. Or anyone else harm, for that matter.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘He tried to strangle me today.’

  O’Shea smiled. ‘But I wager anything you like that there is not a mark on you. It is always the same with him – he surges forward in fighting fury, but there is never a serious desire to hurt.’

  Chaloner wanted to argue, but the old man was right: Janaway’s attack had been fierce and sudden, but the big hands had done no damage. Moreover, he sensed an inner goodness in O’Shea that was sadly lacking in most of the people he met, so he was inclined to believe that the priest was telling the truth about the affection that Nancy and Janaway had shared. He grimaced. It gave him no pleasure to eliminate Janaway as a suspect, because he had not taken to the bell-founder at all.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ asked Eleanore, once they were outside again. ‘Poor Father O’Shea! I had hoped to spare him that ordeal. He is old, and has enough to worry about without being grilled by agents of the government.’

  ‘I was happy before,’ lied Chaloner, aiming to regain her good graces, and feeling anyway that the brief time he had spent in the priest’s kitchen hardly constituted an ‘ordeal’.

  She stared at him. ‘There is a rumour in the village that Mr Cocke killed Nancy. Is it true?’

  ‘It is a possibility, but there is no evidence to prove it, and I am inclined to keep looking for the culprit.’

  Eleanore continued to gaze at him. ‘Yet it would be a tidy solution – Mr Cocke is dead, and so not in a position to object. You could declare your investigation a success, and ride off to Hampton Court to accept your Earl’s thanks for a job well done.’

  ‘I could,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But unlike Kipps, I do not think Cocke was the killer. I cannot explain why. Call it a hunch.’

  Eleanore smiled. ‘Good, because I do not think it was him either – he was more interested in seducing women than killing them. And now, as we are being honest with each other, I shall tell you what I learned from spying on the rectory last night.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Chaloner warily.

  ‘There is definitely something odd going on in that place, but it is nothing to do with stockpiling food, which is what you were told. Those chests were too small and heavy to have been victuals, which you would have known if you had watched them for as long as I did.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘You heard us talking to Doyley?’

  ‘Yes – I was in the bushes by the gate.’

  ‘So Doyley lied to us?’

  ‘Probably not – I suspect that he just repeated in all innocence the tale he had been spun. However, Rector Wilkinson knows the truth, so you should go straight to him and demand it.’

  ‘Kipps and I are on our way to do exactly that now.’

  ‘Good. But not on an empty stomach. Will you eat bread and cheese with me first?’

  She looked very pretty in her cornflower-blue dress, and Chaloner thought it would be churlish to refuse; besides which, he was hungry. She retrieved a basket from under the table, ordered her assistant to mind her stall, and led the way to a secluded spot on the riverbank. It was a lovely place, and peaceful after the cantankerous hubbub of the market. He watched her set out the food, admiring the curves of her body as she moved. There was something about her strong chin that reminded him of Hannah, although the two could not have been more differ
ent.

  While they ate, she talked about life in the village, and how her neighbours had helped her after the death of her husband. Her voice was lilting and melodious, and he felt himself relax for the first time in days.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said eventually. ‘Or better yet, your investigation.’

  Feeling a need to talk anyway, to clarify his findings in his own mind, Chaloner recounted all he had learned since arriving in Chelsea, revealing far more than he would have done to anyone else. Like a moonstruck schoolboy, he thought wryly, although he was pleased when she hung on his every word. Hannah had always been more interested in talking.

  The sun was low in the sky when Chaloner eventually bade farewell to Eleanore. He had enjoyed the respite, and found himself thinking that Chelsea was a charming place, and not too far from Clarendon House. He could see himself living there, travelling to London only when necessary for his duties to the Earl.

  Kipps was in the White Hart’s garden, throwing scraps of bread to a flock of ducks. ‘I hope Hampton Court will be cooler than this,’ the Seal Bearer grumbled, as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘Because if not, I might be tempted to go to Russia. You said it was full of nice cool snow.’

  ‘Yes, but only in the winter.’

  Chaloner began to walk back to the road, and smiled grimly when he saw Wilkinson coming towards them, an incongruously feminine basket over his arm. They would interrogate the rector there, where he might be less comfortable than on the familiar territory of home.

  ‘What do you want?’ Wilkinson demanded, trying to push past them.

  ‘Cocke is dead,’ began Chaloner. ‘And you followed him very slyly in London—’

  ‘I have already explained that,’ snapped Wilkinson. ‘I was afraid he would visit plague-infested areas, and bring the disease to Chelsea. However, I did not kill him.’

  ‘Yet you quarrelled with him shortly before he died,’ pressed Chaloner, although a glance at the rector’s hands told him that they had not killed the accompter, as they were too big. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was a loathsome worm – lecherous and sly – and I disliked having him in my house last night. When I ran across him later, I told him so, and he took exception to my honesty.’ Wilkinson’s expression grew vengeful. ‘He will be burning in Hell as we speak. Assuming there is an afterlife, of course, and it is not something cooked up by the bishops, to keep us in line.’

  ‘Speaking of radical beliefs, why do you give incendiary pamphlets to Tooker’s prisoners?’

  Wilkinson glared at him. ‘Because it is a theological college. Ergo, its residents should read theology. And if the government disagrees, they can damn well find somewhere else to house their dangerous foreigners. How dare they snatch it away from me!’

  So Wilkinson was a spiteful, petty man who did not care what the consequences of his actions might be, thought Chaloner, eyeing him in distaste. He returned to the murders.

  ‘I am told that you disliked everyone who has been strangled: Nancy, Underhill, Kole, Cocke and Parker. They are—’

  ‘Yes, I disliked them!’ snarled Wilkinson. ‘However, if I dispatched everyone who does not deserve to live, then I would be the only man left on Earth. Besides, I have better things to do than soil my hands with blood, so you can take your nasty insinuations somewhere else.’

  And with that, he shoved past them, and stamped away. Chaloner watched him for a moment, then turned to Kipps.

  ‘Do you have a gun?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Tom,’ replied the Seal Bearer. ‘I cannot abide firearms. Their bangs and pops always frighten the life out of me, regardless of who is pulling the trigger. Why? Do you want to shoot Wilkinson? I do not blame you – he is an irritating little man.’

  Chaloner loaded the one he had confiscated from Mrs Bonney, glad he had thought to avail himself of her powder and shot, as well as the weapon itself. ‘Take this. I need you to create a diversion while I break into the rectory. I know Doyley showed us around last night, but I want to explore it on my own.’

  Kipps refused to touch the dag. ‘Why can I not use my sword?’

  ‘Because the idea is for you to shoot towards the marshes, and yell that you have spotted a robber. A loud report is essential, or you will not attract sufficient attention.’

  Kipps accepted the piece and the wherewithal to reload it, and went to stand at the crossroads. Chaloner had only just reached a good hiding place, when the shot rang out, rather sooner than he had expected. People immediately hurried towards the sound, and he heard Kipps babbling excitedly. Several brown-coats emerged from the rectory and joined those who flowed towards the commotion.

  ‘Robbers,’ growled one angrily. ‘We do not want them around here.’

  Chaloner had already noted that Wilkinson’s home was unusually secure, which was why it had been chosen to stockpile the food, of course. However, it was not until he had scaled the garden wall and was examining the outside of the house that he appreciated quite how resistant it was to invasion. The locks on its doors were exceptionally sturdy, and the window shutters were new and fastened from the inside.

  In the end, he discovered a rusty grating, which he prised from its moorings. He slithered through it, and found himself in an enormous cellar, one that comprised a veritable maze of rooms and corridors. He turned left, and saw one of the brown-coats standing outside a door at the far end, vigilant and armed with a musket. A murmur of voices and the click of dice told him that others were in a guardroom nearby.

  He retraced his steps, and found a flight of stairs that led to the kitchen above. The kitchen was empty, so he padded through it to the hall. Doyley had already shown him some of the rooms on the ground floor, but now he explored the rest, hurrying, as he was sure that Kipps’ commotion must be subsiding by now. He discovered nothing of value, so he aimed for the main stairs.

  The first floor boasted a number of gracious bedrooms with fine, if somewhat shabby, furnishings. One was obviously Wilkinson’s, as it contained clerical vestments, although a quick rummage through them revealed nothing of import. Finally, Chaloner ascended to the attics, where he discovered that each room there contained three or four mattresses with blankets – barracks for the brown-coats. He rubbed his chin. Was it really necessary for Reymes to bring an army from his country estate to stockpile the food, or was something else going on?

  He glanced out of the window. The sun had set and the villagers were beginning to trickle back, although Kipps continued to shriek and jabber like a madman. Then a second shot rang out: the Seal Bearer had reloaded, and had fired again at his imaginary felon. The excitement regained momentum, especially when Strangeways howled that he could see the villain, too. From his elevated vantage point, Chaloner saw the ‘culprit’ was actually Wadham, who had wandered away for some peace and quiet, and who had been sufficiently alarmed by the shots to take to his heels.

  By this time, Wilkinson had returned to his domain, although he did not enter the house and loitered instead by his compost heaps, a place that seemed to hold some fascination for him. He was not the only one: Chaloner recalled Hart and Bannister confiding that Kole had lurked there, too.

  He ducked into a cupboard when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Two brown-coats marched past, one with a handgun tucked into his belt, the other with a cudgel. They seemed so comfortable with their weapons that Chaloner could only assume that they had fought with Reymes during the wars, when farmers had been forced to turn themselves into warriors.

  ‘I am glad Doyley has moved to Buckingham House,’ the one with the gun was muttering. ‘He was a nuisance around here, to be frank – always poking his nose into everything.’

  ‘Reymes gave him Cocke’s room,’ said the other. ‘Well, why not? Cocke does not need it.’

  They disappeared into one of the attics. The moment they were out of sight, Chaloner hurried back down to the cellar, and it was not long before he found what he had predicted would be there: a trapdoor in one wall. He s
lipped the bolts and pulled it open, but the tunnel beyond was pitch-black and narrow, and there was no time that day to see where it went. He replaced the panel, although he left the bolts undone, to give himself the option of coming in from the other end, should he have the opportunity to explore it later.

  He groped his way through the darkness to where the brown-coat still stood outside his designated chamber, illuminated by the lantern that hung above his head. The door to the chamber he was guarding was unusually sturdy, and Chaloner was under the distinct impression that it was a strongroom. More light spilled from the door opposite, along with the low voices of additional guards.

  He knew he had to look inside the strongroom, but how? He ducked deeper into the shadows when he heard footsteps approaching, then peered out to see a familiar figure: Reymes.

  ‘Come quickly,’ the commissioner called urgently to his men. ‘There is a robber in the marshes, and it is imperative that you lay hold of him. Hurry!’

  Half a dozen brown-coats obeyed at once, although Reymes did not join them and the sentry stayed at his post. The commissioner entered the guardroom, where he began a low-voiced conversation with someone inside. Chaloner rubbed his chin. The odds were unlikely to get any better – just the sentry, Reymes and what sounded to be one other man – and if he wanted to know what was being so carefully guarded, he had to act now.

  He emerged from the shadows, and walked confidently towards the sentry. The man regarded him uncertainly, but by the time it occurred to him that there was a problem, Chaloner had felled him with a sharp blow to the head. Chaloner let him down quietly, then tiptoed towards the guardroom. Reymes was sitting at a table with a pile of papers, while another brown-coat peered over his shoulder.

  ‘You see, Vincent?’ Reymes tapped a document with his finger. ‘Spring and his friends were not captured at the Battle of Lowestoft, but were taken a week later.’

  ‘Because they had been drifting.’ Vincent was a shaven-headed person with peculiarly feminine features. ‘Huddled in a boat for days before our navy picked them up and brought them here.’