The Chelsea Strangler

by Susanna GREGORY

  The brazen lie was more than Kipps could stomach, and he lurched to another contentious subject, stubbornly ignoring Chaloner’s second warning kick.

  ‘Hungerford said that you pay him to make as much noise as he can during your parties at Buckingham House,’ he announced accusingly. ‘Why? It is an odd thing to do.’

  ‘I know he told you – he confessed to betraying my confidence last night,’ said Reymes coolly. ‘However, there is a perfectly innocent explanation: I am not a man for frivolity, but I should hate my guests to be bored, so I asked him and Greeting to guarantee a lively atmosphere. Does that satisfy your prurient curiosity in my domestic arrangements?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Kipps stiffly, while Doyley regarded his fellow commissioner askance, and Chaloner aimed a third kick at the Seal Bearer’s ankles. ‘I repeat: it is an odd thing to do.’

  Reymes gave a harsh, braying laugh. ‘And this from a man who has lived in White Hall! You know perfectly well that far stranger things happen at Court.’

  ‘Perhaps they do.’ Kipps shifted positions, so Chaloner’s boot could not reach him. ‘But—’

  ‘When are you leaving Chelsea?’ Reymes cut across him. ‘You have identified Cocke as the Gorges thief, so your work here is done. Clarendon will be delighted with your efforts. Not only have you exposed the culprit, but he is spared the expense of a trial.’

  Chaloner looked at Reymes’ hands, noting that they were considerably smaller than his own. Had he strangled Cocke, so that the Gorges investigation would end and the Earl’s men would leave? It was an extreme solution, yet it would certainly suit Reymes for them to be gone.

  Doyley shook his head sadly. ‘Cocke the culprit! I still cannot believe it. I am ploughing through the prison accounts, to see if he stole from us as well.’ He gave Reymes a sympathetic smile. ‘You must be concerned about the Treasury for the same reason.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Reymes coolly. ‘We do not allow accompters access to the gold itself, so the King’s hoard is perfectly safe.’

  ‘What kind of food was in the boxes we saw last night?’ asked Kipps, returning to the original subject like a dog with a bone, safe in the knowledge that his ankles could no longer suffer the consequences. ‘Because they were too small for beans, peas and the like. Indeed, it occurred to me that they might hold coins – perhaps ones that you will use to buy more victuals.’

  ‘If only they did,’ sighed Doyley, while Reymes’ face was suddenly impossible to read. ‘Then we should have funds to spare. Unfortunately, we are obliged to rely on my personal reserves at the moment, because the other commissioners are temporarily strapped for cash. They will reimburse me as soon they can, of course.’

  Reymes gave an uneasy smile that made Chaloner suspect that Doyley might be waiting for some time. ‘The chests contained eggs,’ he told Kipps shortly, ‘which we transport in boxes to prevent them from cracking. But this interrogation has quite spoiled my appetite, and I no longer wish to eat here. Good day to you.’

  ‘We heard that something terrible will happen here tomorrow,’ said Kipps quickly, as the commissioner turned to leave. He sounded desperate, unwilling for the conversation to end before he had shaken something loose. ‘It involves the rectory.’

  ‘The plague food,’ gulped Doyley, and glanced worriedly at Reymes. ‘I told you we should have stored it in the College with the supplies for our prisoners. The rectory might be secure, but I do not trust Wilkinson. He must have gossiped, and now some villain aims to steal it.’

  ‘No one will touch it,’ vowed Reymes, and glared at Chaloner and Kipps. ‘And if I learn that you have been blabbing our secret, I will string you up.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong, Kipps,’ said Doyley unhappily, watching his friend stalk out. ‘I cannot afford to buy more food if this lot is stolen. At least, not until the other commissioners pay their share. Unfortunately, they have grown alarmingly slow at obliging of late, probably because there have been more bills than any of us anticipated.’

  ‘When did you last visit the Garden Court?’ asked Chaloner.

  Doyley rubbed his chin. ‘It must be several weeks ago now, because Tooker is loath to open it up any more than absolutely necessary, lest the prisoners see the delights stacked inside and try to storm it. Why? Are you still concerned by that silly tale about it being full of radicals?’

  ‘Can you be sure it is not?’ demanded Kipps.

  Doyley smiled complacently. ‘I think I would notice if the institution under my care was home to a lot of rebels! But I had better go, or Reymes will assume I am plotting with you. He has grown fearful and uneasy these last few days – his lively guests must be tiring him out.’

  ‘Why did you not tell him, Tom?’ whispered Kipps, as Doyley hurried away. ‘He deserves to know about the men we saw in the Garden Court – no Dutch sailors, but regicides and the like.’

  ‘Because if I had, he might run straight to Reymes and start demanding explanations, which is something I am keen to avoid until we have a clearer understanding of what is happening.’

  ‘We know enough,’ argued Kipps. ‘It is obvious that Reymes is at the centre of something sinister. Him and Wilkinson.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But there is no need to warn them just yet. Surprise may be the only weapon we have – unless Williamson and the Earl send help.’

  He went to the window, and saw Reymes regaling Doyley with a barrage of hissed opinions. Doyley was nodding without enthusiasm, his attention on treating himself to a large pinch of snuff. Chaloner pushed the window open a little further, and was able to catch some of the words.

  ‘Clarendon will be blamed,’ Reymes was whispering triumphantly. ‘And it serves him right. My plan will bring us all we hope for – old grievances settled and ancient enemies repaid.’

  ‘But I do not have any enemies,’ protested Doyley, alarmed. ‘Ancient or otherwise.’

  ‘You will soon,’ chuckled Reymes viciously.

  Although there were several routes to Gorges from the Swan, Chaloner chose the one that took him past Eleanore’s house, and was rewarded by the sight of her in her garden. She was sitting on the doorstep shelling peas. He stopped to talk to her, while Kipps loitered at a tactful distance.

  ‘I shall be working at the College alone today,’ she said. ‘Lil and Jem have been arrested, and Una has run away. They were caught burgling Wilkinson’s house.’

  Chaloner held up the strand of blue thread he had found in the trees outside that particular abode the previous night. ‘This matches your dress.’

  ‘So it does.’ Eleanore smiled thinly. ‘I am always catching it on things.’

  ‘I found it outside the rectory, near where I saw a shadow lurking. I thought I had warned you to keep your distance from the place.’

  Eleanore grimaced. ‘You did, but I am not Mr Kipps, bound by your orders, and I wanted to find out what is planned for tomorrow.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Chaloner, aware that if she had, it was more than he had managed.

  Her expression turned earnest. ‘Well, I heard Wilkinson talking about it to a man he addressed as Vincent, and I would waylay them and put a knife to their throats, if I thought it would make them talk. Unfortunately, I doubt they would break.’

  Chaloner doubted it, too, especially if the weapon was in the hands of someone like Eleanore, who would not know the first thing about intimidation. He advised her again to stay away from matters she did not understand, but although she nodded acquiescence, he could tell from the gleam in her eye that she was unlikely to comply. He left her and returned to Kipps.

  ‘You should continue to court her, Tom,’ advised the Seal Bearer brightly. ‘She likes you.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Chaloner had always considered himself fairly adept at reading people, but he had detected nothing to make him think his growing affection was reciprocated. He had enjoyed the previous afternoon, but the coldly rational part of his mind knew that her real aim had been to qu
iz him about his enquiry into her sister’s murder. He wished it had been otherwise, but self-delusion had never been one of his failings.

  Kipps gave a long, slow wink. ‘Experience, lad. Just trust me.’

  The party in Buckingham House was still audible as Chaloner and Kipps neared Gorges, although it was quieter than it had been. There were still plenty of whoops and cries, though, along with a lot of laughter, and Chaloner was impressed by the courtiers’ staying power.

  By contrast, the atmosphere at Gorges was sombre, and there were tear-stained faces among residents and staff alike. There was also a good deal of unease. Franklin was doing his best to quell fears by summoning everyone to the ballroom for comforting speeches, but the names Nancy, Underhill, Kole, Parker and Cocke were on everyone’s lips anyway. The dancing masters stood at the back, tense and watchful.

  ‘Dorothy had a bad night,’ Mrs Bonney told Chaloner and Kipps unhappily. ‘Perhaps she saw the Colliers brought here under arrest. She never did like them.’

  ‘She was right to be wary,’ averred Kipps. ‘They are nasty folk, and I am glad for Chelsea’s sake that they are safely behind bars.’

  ‘She has been asking for her husband,’ the housekeeper went on. ‘We have sent for Mr Wiseman, but will one of you call on her in the interim? A visitor may comfort her.’

  ‘I will come with you,’ offered Martha, who had been listening. ‘She is always calmer with me to hand.’

  ‘You go, Tom,’ said Kipps hastily. ‘I shall wait down here.’

  Chaloner did not have time to play nursemaid to lunatics, but Mrs Bonney looked tired, drawn and anxious, while Franklin was clearly buckling under the strain of performing Parker’s duties as well as his own – Wiseman had offered to help, but there was little a surgeon could do in a place where all the residents suffered from ailments of the mind and his brusque personality meant he was unsuited for the task anyway. Reluctantly, Chaloner handed all his visible weapons to Kipps, and followed Martha and Mrs Bonney upstairs.

  The housekeeper tapped on Dorothy’s door, which was opened by the nurse. The room was the same – bed, chairs, table and heavy chest – but Wiseman’s garish mural had been covered with sketches of the garden. Chaloner suspected the kind-hearted Martha had obliged. Dorothy herself was in the process of climbing into bed, apparently convinced that it was night time.

  ‘The batman,’ she whispered drowsily. ‘He stalks this sorry arbour, and he has eyes in the near garden. He prowls in the night.’

  ‘You will go mad yourself if you try to understand her,’ warned Mrs Bonney, seeing Chaloner’s puzzled frown. ‘She is incurably insane, and her words rarely make sense.’

  But the glimmer of a solution was beginning to glow in Chaloner’s mind. ‘Do you think she could write these things down?’

  Mrs Bonney blinked. ‘She has not put pen to paper in years. And we would not be so foolish as to give her one – she could do a lot of damage with a nib. Oh, Lord! Mrs Young is sobbing again. I must go to her. The nurse will be outside, should there be trouble.’

  She had gone in a flash, but Chaloner barely noticed. He tapped one of the drawings, which had a legend beneath that was printed in bold, confident letters, and addressed Martha.

  ‘This is the same writing as on Dorothy’s letter to Wiseman, begging him to come. You penned it. You added symbols and wild scrawls in the margins, to make it look as though a madwoman had produced it, and you used Dorothy’s own words. But it was actually from you.’

  Martha held his gaze steadily. ‘I had never met Surgeon Wiseman before last week, so why would I send a message to him?’

  ‘You wrote to a number of people,’ Chaloner pressed on. ‘For instance, I know you contacted Mrs Thompson, urging her to bring her husband.’

  ‘I did contact Gertrude,’ acknowledged Martha. She indicated the picture. ‘But I did not write on that. Dorothy must have done it in a lucid moment, when it was deemed safe to give her a pen.’

  ‘Then why is it signed with your name?’

  Martha flushed, caught out, and glanced towards the bed, where Dorothy was fast asleep. ‘But she can write! Mrs Bonney is mistaken. Everyone can write.’

  ‘Not everyone,’ Chaloner said gently. ‘Although probably everyone you know.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You hail from a noble household, which is why you struggle with menial tasks, like making and serving chocolate. Martha Thrush is not your real name.’

  The blush deepened. ‘Yes, it is. My father is a tanner in Southwark.’

  ‘You told Wiseman that you are unrelated to that particular clan.’ Chaloner lowered his voice. ‘We have never met, but I know who you are. Your eyes give you away – they are identical to Lady Clarendon’s. Wiseman saw it, too, because he said you looked familiar.’

  Martha regarded him in alarm. ‘I know no ladies! I am a simple girl—’

  ‘There is a walnut cabinet in your room. At first, I assumed it was similar to the one in Clarendon House, but it is actually the same piece. The Earl or Frances lent it to you, to make you feel at home here. You are their daughter. I guessed he was holding something important back when he ordered me to investigate the thefts, and I was right.’

  ‘No! I have never met Clarendon.’

  ‘Thrushes are his favourite bird,’ Chaloner went on, recalling the Earl say so as they had strolled in his garden. ‘And his kinship to you explains his curious insistence on referring to Gorges’ inmates as songbirds. When he ordered me to protect them from harm, he was thinking of you.’

  ‘Oh,’ gulped Martha. ‘But I—’

  ‘You are here to recover from the recent death of a brother – Edward. The Earl lost a son named Ned in January, to smallpox.’

  Tears began to fall. ‘Poor Edward…’

  ‘You did not write to your family for help when Nancy was killed, because you did not want to worry them. So you appealed to virtually everyone else you knew instead.’

  Martha sniffed miserably. ‘But no one came.’

  ‘Eventually, you were reduced to telling your father about the thefts, hoping that those might prompt him into sending an investigator.’

  ‘You, Mr Chaloner,’ said Martha softly. ‘I hoped he would send you. He thinks you are clever, and capable of solving anything.’

  Chaloner doubted his employer thought any such thing. ‘But then Kole was murdered, and you were frightened into begging for his help directly. He refused to tell us who had sent the letter he received that Friday – to protect you.’

  He recalled the Earl’s reaction when it had been delivered: relief that his daughter was well, followed by anger and fear that she might be in danger.

  ‘It is shameful to have a child in an asylum, you see,’ mumbled Martha, staring at her feet. ‘And his enemies would use it to harm him. Moreover, I will never find a suitable husband if word gets out…’

  ‘You must be Frances,’ said Chaloner, running through a list of the Earl’s children in his mind. He smiled kindly. ‘You look like your mother.’

  Which was not entirely true, as Lady Clarendon was delicately built, whereas poor Frances had taken after her father, and was inclined to portliness.

  Frances rubbed the back of her hand across her nose, a gesture which reminded him that she was still very young. ‘Yes, people say we are similar.’ Then she looked at him, her face full of misery. ‘I miss her, and I want to go home.’

  ‘Kipps will take you to Hampton Court today. But before you go, do you know anything that might help me catch the killer?’

  ‘No, but I think Dorothy does. She can see the orchard and Buckingham House from here, and she spends a lot of time standing at the window, looking at them. That is why I kept urging you to talk to her. The culprit is almost certainly the spectre, which she calls the batman, because she thinks it can fly.’

  Chaloner took down the drawing that covered the crudely depicted face – paintbrushes were evidently deemed less deadly than pens – and s
tudied it thoughtfully.

  ‘You wrote the letter to Wiseman, but you used Dorothy’s own words,’ he began. ‘Words she repeated verbatim just now – that the batman stalks the sorrie arbor. I think she was referring to the orchard where Nancy died.’

  Frances nodded eagerly. ‘Yes. And hee has Eyes in the Neare Gardenn probably means the grounds of Buckingham House, where the courtiers play. She must have seen him lurking there, spying on them.’ Fear turned her voice unsteady. ‘I hope he is not someone from Gorges.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘There is something nasty going on here, but it does not involve murder.’

  ‘It is nothing to do with Hart and Bannister, is it? They often come up here to give Dorothy her dancing lessons, but they always do it without music, which is rather odd.’

  And with that, answers snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind, and he knew exactly what Dorothy had meant by theeves in Gorgess with Goldenn Eares and Fingers, and a Tyme that Singeth, and they put great storre in my coffin. She had not said coffin, but coffer – Frances had misheard.

  He picked the lock on the iron chest and flung open the lid. Beneath a blanket lay a pile of treasure – a silver plate, several watches, a selection of jewellery, and any number of purses. Frances gave a cry of delight as she pounced on a ring.

  ‘Edward gave me this before he … I thought it had gone for ever!’

  ‘Go and pack,’ instructed Chaloner, eager to have her away from Chelsea as soon as possible, for his sake as much as hers. The Earl would likely execute him if any harm befell one of his beloved children. ‘You leave as soon as we can commandeer a coach.’

  ‘Sir Alan Brodrick,’ said Frances. ‘My father’s cousin. He will find us one.’

  Chapter 14

  Before he returned to Kipps, Chaloner stood in Nancy’s chamber with the Dutch telescope, and made a careful note of exactly what she had been able to see. Like Dorothy and Frances, her room overlooked the rectory and Buckingham House, but being on the corner, it also had an uninterrupted view to the north, where a break in the trees showed the track that wound through the marshes towards Knightsbridge. He walked down the stairs, tying together strands of information that had seemed unrelated at first, but that now made sense. He met Mrs Bonney at the bottom.