The Chelsea Strangler

Book 11: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In the sapping summer heat of 1665 there is little celebration in London of the naval victory at the Battle of Lowestoft. The King, his retinue and anyone with sufficient means has fled the plague-ridden city, its half-deserted streets echoing to the sound of bells tolling the mounting number of deaths. Those who remain clutch doubtful potions to ward off the relentless disease and dart nervously past shuttered buildings, watchful for the thieves who risk their lives to plunder what has been left behind.

At Chelsea, a rural backwater by the river, with fine mansions leased to minor members of the Court avoiding the capital, there are more immediate concerns: the government has commandeered the theological college to house Dutch prisoners of war and there are daily rumours that those sailors are on the brink of escaping. Moreover, a vicious strangler is stalking the neighbourhood.

Thomas Chaloner is sent to investigate the murder of the first victim, an inmate of a private sanatorium known as Gorges. There have been thefts there as well, but the few facts he gleans from inmates and staff are contradictory and elusive. He realises, though, that Gorges has stronger links to the prison than just proximity, and that the influx of strangers offers plenty of camouflage for a killer - a killer who has no compunction about turning on those determined to stop his murderous rampage.

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 496

Sample

The port of Harwich was en fête, flags flying from every house and cheering crowds hurrying towards the quayside. The English were victorious, while the Dutch fleet was slinking back to Rotterdam and Friesland with its tail between its legs. Aboard HMS Swiftsure, limping towards the shore with a gaping hole in her portside and her sails pock-marked from cannon fire, Thomas Chaloner could not share the noisy jubilation. He had spent much of his life fighting for one cause or another, both on land and at sea, and had thought he was immune to the horrors of warfare, but the scale of the carnage under that bright summer sky a week ago had shaken him to the core.

More than two hundred of his countrymen had been drowned or blown apart by the enemy’s fusillade, but the Dutch casualties were in the thousands, many hideously burned when English fire-ships had careened into their midst. Chaloner had been half-deaf from the roar of great guns as he had helped drag the survivors from the sea, but while the screams had been eerily muted, his other senses were working, and there had been no escape from the stench of charred flesh, the slippery feel of fresh blood on sea-chilled bodies, and the sight of corpses – and parts of corpses – bobbing amid burning wreckage.

‘Thank God we have made safe passage.’

Chaloner turned at the familiar voice of Captain Lester, master of Swiftsure. ‘Were we so badly damaged, then?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought you said it was mainly superficial.’

‘I mean the prisoners.’ Lester nodded towards the holds, where the Dutch had been kept since they were rescued. ‘They outnumber us five to one, and when I was not worrying about an attempt to take my ship, I was afraid that the extra weight might capsize us.’

‘They would not have tried to escape,’ said Chaloner, recalling the dull, cowed expressions of the captives as they had been herded below. ‘They know what Admiral Berkeley thought about you saving them – he would have tossed them overboard at the first sign of trouble.’

Lester grinned. ‘Of all the orders I failed to hear in the heat of battle, ignoring his instruction to let them drown was the one that gave me the most pleasure.’

‘God only knows how we managed to win with him in charge of the squadron.’

‘Luck, and an inequality of fire-power,’ explained Lester. Then his expression grew bitter. ‘We could have ended the war if we had given chase and smashed the Dutch fleet once and for all, and I still cannot understand why the command was never given. It was a tactical mistake of enormous proportion, and will cost us dear in the future.’

‘It is what happens when aristocrats are given charge of the navy, instead of professional seamen like you,’ shrugged Chaloner. ‘They think they know best, and disaster inevitably follows.’

He and Lester looked towards the quarterdeck, where the youthful Admiral Berkeley was talking to Sir Thomas Clifford, a politician who had eagerly volunteered his services when war had been declared, but who had spent the battle cowering in his cabin, pretending to study charts.

Lester grimaced. ‘It makes me sick just thinking about it, so let us discuss something else. Your assignment – did you find that thief you were hunting?’

Chaloner switched his thoughts to the task he had been set by his employer, the Earl of Clarendon, wondering whether he would have followed the culprit’s trail quite so assiduously if he had known it would pitch him into the violent, bloody encounter that was the Battle of Lowestoft.

‘I found him,’ he replied, ‘but too late to see him on the gallows. He was cut in half by a cannonball, and you buried him at sea the next day.’

Lester’s eyes widened in shock. ‘My clerk? Are you sure?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Not that it matters now.’

Lester’s expression was fierce. ‘It does matter, Tom. He stole our gunpowder and sold it for personal gain, which ranks with aiding the enemy in my book. He was a traitor.’

‘Well, he will not do it again.’

Before Lester could respond, they heard footsteps, and turned to see Clifford swaggering towards them. The politician had donned a handsome blue coat for the occasion, and his ornamental sword hung on the heavy gold sash that was draped across his shoulder. Anyone looking at him might be forgiven for thinking that he had won the engagement single-handed. Certainly, it seemed he was ready to accept the grateful thanks of King and country.

Lester bowed, but only just deeply enough to be polite. ‘What arrangements have been made for the prisoners, Sir Thomas?’

A flicker of irritation crossed Clifford’s face; he did not want to bother with the hapless wretches in the holds while there was adulation to be had from Harwich’s waiting hordes.

‘I imagine the church here has a crypt,’ he said shortly. ‘They can lodge there until I can hire soldiers to escort them to their new home.’

‘Which is where?’ Chaloner asked.

‘The Theological College in Chelsea,’ replied Clifford. ‘Do you know it? It was once famous for its polemical priests.’

‘Chelsea?’ blurted Lester, shocked. ‘But that is less than three miles from London! Is it wise to house enemy sailors so close to the capital? What if they escape?’

‘They will not escape,’ retorted Clifford irritably. ‘If they were intent on running back to the United Provinces, they would have tried to break out while we were still at sea. But they remained below decks, as meek as mice, so there will be no danger from them.’

‘Because they are still shocked and frightened,’ argued Lester. ‘But they will not stay that way, and once on dry land, they will recover their—’

‘I am Commissioner for the Care and Treatment of Prisoners of War, not you,’ snapped Clifford, nettled. ‘So it is for me to determine where they go. And I have chosen Chelsea.’

‘Are there any other commissioners?’ asked Chaloner, in the hope that if so, one of them might prove to be more sensible.

‘Three,’ replied Clifford shortly. ‘And they all agree with me.’

‘What about the clerics you mentioned?’ pressed Lester, unwilling to concede defeat. ‘Do they not mind sharing their home with enemy sailors? Or will you employ them as guards?’

Clifford shot him an impatient glance. ‘The College was deemed a failure years ago, and all its fanatics left. The building was empty, so we commandeered it in the government’s name.’

At that point, he noticed that Admiral Berkeley was heading for the gangway, so he scurried away without another word, determined to be first ashore – and first to accept the joyous compliments of their grateful countrymen.

Chaloner and Lester leaned against the rail, watching the controlled chaos of disembarkation. The crowds continued to cheer and wave their hats, and the crew, resplendent in their best rigs, acknowledged them with proud smiles.

‘Here comes the Admiralty Proctor,’ said Lester, nodding to where a portly individual was making his way through the throng. ‘Richard Franklin. He will have fresh orders for me, letters for the officers and men, and money for repairs.’

Chaloner glanced at the gaping hole in the ship’s side, and then at the jagged wound where a great gun had been blasted off its tracks to career across the deck. ‘They will not be cheap.’

‘No,’ agreed Lester. ‘Last time, I was obliged to put to sea with half of it left undone, because he only brought me a fraction of what was needed. To be frank, I suspect he stole some, because the navy office knows how much new masts cost.’

‘Or perhaps it was the Treasury that was niggardly,’ suggested Chaloner, who knew how the government worked all too well. ‘They would rather you fought battles without taking damage, so they can spend our taxes on new clothes for the King instead.’

‘They would rather we suffered no injuries either,’ said Lester wryly. ‘The Sick and Hurt Fund will have to be tripled if all our wounded sailors are to be compensated for their sacrifices.’ He pushed away from the rail as the proctor reached the foot of the gangway. ‘Franklin will be mobbed by the crew the moment he embarks, so I had better go and protect him. There was plague in the city when we left, and my people are desperate for news of their loved ones.’

When the proctor stepped aboard, Lester bellowed orders that saw the anxious seamen draw back, and then escorted him to the quarterdeck. Once there, Franklin opened his bag of letters, and began calling out names. Chaloner was surprised to hear his own among them, and moved forward to accept a fat package. It was from the Earl, and included a note from his friend Surgeon Wiseman. He moved away from the jostling throng to open it.

Lester joined him a short time later, spitting fury because the money Franklin had brought was wholly insufficient for making Swiftsure seaworthy, but he was still expected to return to action within the week. Then he saw Chaloner’s ashen face.

‘Tom? What is the matter?’

‘My wife,’ replied Chaloner in a slow, shocked voice. ‘She is dead.’

Lester gazed at him in horror. ‘Dead? But she cannot be! How?’

‘A week ago.’ Chaloner’s fist closed around the letter. ‘Of the plague.’

16 July 1665, Chelsea

Nancy Janaway was terrified. Strange things were happening, and she no longer felt safe. She had tried to tell people about it, but no one would listen – at least, no one in a position to help. That was the trouble with Gorges House. Officially, it was an establishment that catered to ailing gentlewomen. In reality, it was an asylum – a place where the rich deposited their mad female relations – and who cared what lunatics thought?

Eventually, she had plucked up the courage to confide in Dr Parker, the senior physician, but although he had sat with every appearance of interested concern, she knew his mind had been elsewhere. He was of the earnest belief he had been put on Earth to cure insanity, so he had almost certainly been thinking about his next experiment. She doubted he had heard a word she had said, much less taken her seriously.

She grimaced when she recalled how he had ended the discussion – by telling her that she would soon be ready to go home. But she did not want to go home! She felt safe in Gorges, with its tall walls and sturdy gates. Outside was where the shadowy figures lurked, especially on the road that wound north through the marshes. She had lost count of the times that she had seen their sinister shapes from her bedroom window.

As it was stifling indoors, she decided to go and sit in the orchard. The towering walls that surrounded the house and its grounds were partly to keep the residents in, but also to provide them with privacy. Gorges was not like Bedlam, where inmates were regarded as entertainment for the general public. It was a haven of benevolence and compassion, and spectators were never allowed in to gawp. It was expensive to stay there, of course, and Nancy knew she was lucky to have been offered a place – she was not wealthy, but Dr Parker had agreed to treat her free of charge because she was local. She had made great progress under his kindly care, and might have been happy … were it not for the shadows.

Yet her fears eventually began to recede, because the orchard was lovely that evening – sweet with the scent of ripening fruit and freshly scythed grass. Bees droned among the summer flowers, and birdsong drifted in from the surrounding fields. She perched on a bench under an ancient apple tree and closed her eyes.

Suddenly, there was a rumpus from Buckingham House next door, which made her start up in alarm, but then she sank back down again, chiding herself for a fool. That particular mansion had been leased to a courtier keen to escape the plague, and wild revels took place there on a daily basis. It was said that the fellow missed the scandalously debauched atmosphere of White Hall, and aimed to recreate it in Chelsea. Sometimes, Nancy watched their antics from her bedroom window with her friend Martha Thrush. They made her laugh, and helped her forget the dark shadows that lurked in the marshes.

She leaned back, gazing up at the fruit-laden branches above her head. Then there was a sharp snap as a twig broke underfoot. She started to turn, a smile on her lips. Who was coming? Martha, perhaps, wanting to sit and chat. Or Mrs Bonney, to tell her that there were freshly baked cakes in the kitchen.

But before she could look, hands fastened around her throat – large ones, which immediately cut off the air to her lungs. She struggled, and tried to cry out, but no sound emerged other than a choking gasp. Terrified, she fought harder, but the fingers were strong, and she could not twist free. She felt herself growing light-headed, and the sounds of the summer evening merged into a meaningless roar. Eventually, she stopped fighting and went limp.

The shadow stared at her for a moment, and seeing she was dead, slipped soundlessly away.

The Palace of White Hall was eerily deserted. A hot breeze blew a stray broadsheet across the empty expanse of the Great Court and played with a door that had been left ajar, setting up a forlorn echo. The rooms that had so recently been alive with the sound of the King’s merry revels were silent and still.

Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Earl of Clarendon, was unsettled by the difference. Three months ago, it had been jam-packed with people, carriages and horses, a bright bustle of lively noise, but then the plague had struck and everything changed. It had started with a few isolated cases, but had spread fast, and parish clerks were now recording nearly two thousand deaths a week, with church bells tolling almost continually for those who had fallen prey to its deadly touch.

Chaloner was unimpressed that the King should have abandoned the city. True, it would be a political disaster if he died – he had failed to produce a legitimate heir, and the next in line to the throne was his unpopular brother James – but his subjects were terrified by the unseen horror that moved among them, and His Majesty’s flight had done nothing for morale. They peered through the palace gates to see weeds sprouting between the cobbles and windows nailed shut, and whispered to each other in fear-filled voices that the Court was never coming back.

Yet there was still life in White Hall, because a few servants and officials had been left to keep an eye on the place. They pottered about lethargically, enervated by the heat, and resentful that they should have been the ones chosen to stay. Chaloner’s employer was one of them – the Earl had once been Charles II’s most valued advisor, but the two men had grown apart since the Restoration, and the King had been delighted with the chance to escape from his prim old mentor’s incessant nagging.

But not even he could keep a powerful peer in a plague-infested city for ever, and an invitation, albeit an ungraciously worded one, for the Earl to join him, had arrived the previous evening. There had been great jubilation in Clarendon’s household, and preparations to depart had begun immediately, lest the fickle monarch should change his mind.

‘I cannot wait to go,’ said Thomas Kipps, the Earl’s Seal Bearer, as he and Chaloner stood together in the shade of the Great Gate. ‘It is like a palace of ghosts here, and I do not mind telling you that I find it disturbing.’

Kipps was a tall, bluff man with a friendly face, who loved the pageantry associated with his post, and always sported the Clarendon livery of blue and gold – although ‘gold’ was a misnomer as far as Chaloner was concerned, given that the Earl had chosen a rather unattractive mustardy yellow for the colours of his house. Chaloner declined to wear it, and instead favoured plain clothes – dark green hat, coat and breeches, and a white shirt with just enough lace to satisfy the current fashion. No self-respecting spy liked to draw attention to himself, and his attire had been chosen for its anonymity. Yet there were two distinctive things about him: watchful grey eyes, and a refusal to wear a wig – he preferred the convenience of his own brown hair, which did not fall off when he ran, was less prone to lice, and was a good deal cooler in hot weather.

He winced when the bells of nearby St Margaret’s church began to toll – three, then a pause followed by sixteen: the plague had claimed a young man. Kipps saw his reaction and clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

‘It is always difficult to lose a loved one, and I am more sorry than I can say that you have been deprived of Hannah. She was…’

He trailed off awkwardly, and concealed his discomfort by offering Chaloner some tobacco. Smoking was a much-favoured preventative for the plague, and few Londoners risked leaving home without a pipe. Chaloner took a few strands without enthusiasm; he was still struggling to acquire the habit, and not doing very well with it.

‘When will our Earl join the King at Syon House?’ he asked, equally keen to talk about something else. He had never been good at analysing his feelings, and his wife’s death had left him with a bewildering gamut of them, few of which he understood.

Kipps’ expression hardened. ‘It is an outrage that he has been left here for so long. He is Lord Chancellor, one of the most important men in the country! But he will not be going to Syon House, Tom. The King is already bored with it, and plans to move to Hampton Court instead.’

Then that explained the invitation, thought Chaloner. Hampton Court was much larger than Syon House, which meant it would be easier for His Majesty to avoid the Earl’s company.

‘I was talking to my good friend Sir Philip Warwick yesterday,’ Kipps grumbled on, puffing great clouds of smoke that made a mockery of Chaloner’s paltry wisps. ‘Do you know him? He is Secretary of the Treasury, and a splendid fellow. Well, he is also disgusted that so many of us were left behind to rot.’

‘Is he?’ Most of Chaloner’s attention was on trying to stop his pipe from going out.

‘He says it is unreasonable to expect him and his staff to stay here and die. Court posts are meant to be lucrative – a reward for being good Royalists. They are not supposed to be dangerous.’

Chaloner forgot his pipe as the implications of Kipps’ words hit him, and he turned to regard the Seal Bearer in disbelief. ‘Wait a moment! Are you telling me that the Treasury is still here in London? The King did not take it with him?’

‘Syon House has no secure place to put it,’ explained Kipps. ‘A coal cellar was offered, but that was hardly the thing. So, yes, it is still here – along with all its officials.’

He nodded to the north-east corner of the Great Court, where the Treasury had been housed since the Restoration five years ago. A purpose-built chamber had been created for it, one with extra-thick walls and a door designed to withstand an assault by cannon.

‘Is that why the King decided to move to Hampton Court?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I imagine it has strongrooms aplenty.’

Kipps lowered his voice, although there was no one around to hear. ‘It does, and the Treasury will be ferried there next month. Personally, I think it should go now. What if the guards catch the plague in the interim? All thieves would have to do is step over the corpses and take the lot!’

‘Yet it will be risky to move it.’ Chaloner’s pipe had gone out, but he could not be bothered with the rigmarole of relighting it, so he put it in his pocket, where a strand of hot tobacco burned a hole in his favourite breeches. ‘Every villain in the country will line its route.’

‘They will not know, because the exact date of its removal is being kept secret. It was the Earl’s idea to transfer it on the quiet, and he knows what he is doing.’

Chaloner begged to differ. The Earl was appallingly naive about such matters, and if the Treasury’s riches were stolen, his enemies would ensure he lost his head for it. His household would be dissolved, and Chaloner, who had fought for Parliament during the wars, had spied for Cromwell’s government in the Commonwealth, and hailed from a family of infamously dedicated Roundheads, would be unlikely to find another job in Royalist London.

‘Of course, it would be a magnificent haul if robbers did make off with it,’ Kipps was saying brightly. ‘His Majesty’s coffers are unusually full at the moment. Positively bursting, in fact.’

‘Because he has not been here to raid them?’ Like all Londoners, Chaloner knew how much of the public purse was squandered on the King’s frivolous pleasures.

Kipps shot him a baleful look. ‘No, because of all the extra money that has been raised to fight the Dutch. Battles are expensive, you know.’

Chaloner did know, and thought the government had been stupid to declare war on the United Provinces in the first place, given that they were always complaining about a shortage of cash.

‘It is not just buying ships, provisions and paying seamen,’ Kipps preached on. ‘The prisoners we have taken are very costly to house. I was shown the figures in my capacity as Messenger of the Receipt for the Treasury, you see. I was aghast.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You have resigned as the Earl’s Seal Bearer?’

Kipps shook his head. ‘I inveigled myself a second Court post, lest our employer falls from grace. I recommend you do the same, Tom. These are uncertain times, and only a fool does not take precautions against the vagaries of the future.’

‘I cannot see him being very pleased about that – he expects total loyalty from his staff.’

‘He understands expediency. Besides, being Messenger does not take much of my time. All I have to do is stand around and look important. I could put in a word for you, if you like. There is a vacancy for a Sergeant at Arms.’

‘You have that kind of influence?’

‘Warwick – who will make the appointment – is a good friend, as I said. Come with me now and I shall introduce you. Then you can decide for yourself whether you would like to apply.’

The offices occupied by the Treasury were on either side of the specially constructed strongroom, and Kipps led the way to a small but comfortable chamber with an elaborately carved ceiling. It was cool, and a pleasure to enter after the building heat outside. Three men sat at a table, and all shrank away in alarm when Kipps walked in with a stranger.

‘Do not worry,’ the Seal Bearer said, raising his hands reassuringly. ‘Tom does not have the plague. Since April, he has either been at sea with the Fleet, visiting his family in Buckinghamshire, or stuck in Clarendon House translating letters into Dutch for the Earl.’

Clarendon House was the Earl’s home, a recklessly ostentatious structure that had one redeeming feature: it was in Piccadilly, and so some distance from the city and its diseases.

‘Thank God,’ breathed the first, a thin, sallow man with a soulful face. When he spoke, his teeth clacked together nervously. ‘One cannot be too careful these days. And I cannot smoke, because it hurts my throat, so my only protection is London Treacle.’

‘An excellent prophylactic, although fearfully expensive,’ averred Kipps, then turned to Chaloner. ‘This is Sir Philip Warwick, Secretary of the Treasury. Like us, he was left to dice with Death while the rest of the Court jaunted off to Syon House.’

‘It is disgraceful,’ spat Warwick, returning Chaloner’s bow. ‘And reckless. After all, who will guard the King’s gold if we die of the plague?’

‘I do not mind staying,’ said the second man, a plump, oleaginous individual with food-stained clothes. ‘The Court’s departure has left a lot of broken hearts among the female servants – wounds I am more than happy to heal.’ He winked lasciviously.

‘This is Captain George Cocke,’ said Kipps, using the clipped, dismissive tone he reserved for people he did not like. ‘He is our accompter, which means he does fancy things with figures.’

Cocke pouted irritably. ‘I balance the books. It is not difficult to understand, Kipps, and I fail to grasp why I am obliged to explain it to you every time we—’

‘And this is Francis Stephens.’ Kipps cut across him curtly to indicate the third man. ‘Our Sergeant at Arms. We should have two, but the other quit his commission when he learned he would have to stay in London.’

Stephens was a burly fellow with a bad complexion, who immediately launched into a diatribe about the amount of work he was obliged to do now that he was alone. Cocke rolled his eyes and waddled out, and the moment he was out of earshot, Kipps interrupted Stephens’ rant.

‘There is the fly in the ointment, Tom. If you are appointed, it will put you in the company of that loathsome fellow. He is a desperate nuisance with women, and every lass in White Hall will be relieved when the Treasury is transferred to Hampton Court.’

‘Bullen Reymes claims it cannot be moved before August,’ said Warwick, fanning himself with a newsbook. ‘Although it could go tomorrow, if the truth be told. It is only a case of loading up a few carts and appointing some suitable guards.’

Bullen Reymes was an avowed enemy of the Earl, a short, bullet-headed politician with a quick temper and a perpetually angry face. He was Prefect of the Treasury, which meant he was responsible for its security, although the post carried a very meagre salary and few perks. He had been lobbying for a better one for years, on the grounds that he had beggared himself by supporting the Crown during the civil wars. However, as many folk were in a similar position, Reymes’ case was neither unusual nor pressing as far as the King was concerned, and his pleas fell on deaf ears.

‘Reymes!’ sneered Kipps. ‘What does he know?’

‘Not much,’ acknowledged Warwick with a wry smile and a sharp click of his incisors. ‘However, the King’s gold is his responsibility, so it will move on his say-so.’

‘There he is now,’ hissed Stephens suddenly. ‘And Sir William Doyley with him.’

He pointed through the open door to where Reymes, quivering with rage as was his wont, was conversing with a man who possessed unusually large eyes. The eyes opened even wider when their owner indulged in a pinch of snuff that made him sneeze. Kipps chuckled spitefully.

‘Our Earl arranged for both of them to be appointed Commissioners for the Care and Treatment of Prisoners of War. Reymes is livid.’

‘Is he?’ Chaloner was bemused. ‘Why? I thought he wanted a well-salaried post.’

‘He does,’ smirked Kipps, ‘which is why our Earl’s victory is so sweet. Being a commissioner will cost far more than it pays, and will entail a lot of hard work. Doyley is happy to serve his country, but Reymes is outraged.’

‘But he cannot refuse the “honour”,’ added Warwick, ‘so now he has two undesirable posts.’

‘Although being a commissioner is the worst,’ grinned Kipps, ‘as its disadvantages are threefold: it will keep him away from Court and the centre of power; it will cost him a fortune; and it will be a thankless chore – if he does it well, no one will notice, but if he fails, there will be hell to pay. I certainly should not want it.’

‘It is rare for Clarendon to best an enemy,’ remarked Stephens, still watching Reymes and Doyley through the door. ‘But he succeeded royally with Reymes.’

‘Especially as it could not have come at a worse time,’ put in Kipps, gleeful on his employer’s behalf. ‘Reymes had just rented a mansion in Chelsea, and invited lots of courtiers to join him there. It is expensive, and I doubt he would have done it, if he had known he was going to be made a commissioner.’

‘He was burgled recently, too,’ gossiped Warwick. ‘That cannot have helped his finances.’

‘So was I,’ sighed Stephens. ‘These days, thieves assume that all wealthy folk have abandoned their London homes for safer pastures, and view every respectable house as fair game. It is dangerous to be in bed at night, especially on the western side of the city.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ agreed Kipps. ‘The plague has all but eliminated honest trade, so the poor grow desperate. I feel for them personally. Food is expensive, and so are medicines against infection.’

‘They can always smoke,’ said Stephens. ‘Tobacco is the best defence against the disease, after all. It says so on the packet, so it must be true.’

‘Then keep some close,’ advised Kipps. ‘One never knows who might carry the sickness. But it is almost eleven o’clock, Tom, and we shall be needed in Clarendon House. Shall we go?’

Out on King Street, Chaloner and Kipps were faced with an important decision: to take a carriage to Piccadilly or walk. By the very nature of their trade, hackneymen were vulnerable to the plague, and fares were often obliged to run for their lives when drivers exhibited signs of ill health. But travelling on foot meant passing those who might be infected, and that was dangerous, too.

‘We shall walk,’ determined Kipps, when the driver of the coach they hailed began to cough. Chaloner suspected it was because of the dust that hung thick in the air – the result of weeks of dry weather – but the Seal Bearer lit his pipe to ward off the contagion, and indicated that Chaloner was to do the same.

They made their way up King Street, both wilting under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and Chaloner wondered if it was the hottest summer he had ever experienced