Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  “Samuel, how nice to see you. Take no notice of my husband, his mind is on other things. Now hurry about your toilette, do. We’re impatient to visit Mr. Fielding, that is if he’s in residence.”

  Samuel blew her a gallant kiss. “I shall be five minutes only, mark me.” And with that he hurried indoors to change into something more suitable for a social call. He emerged fairly rapidly, his sturdy frame crammed into what was obviously his best suit, a daring attempt at the new fashion of English ‘country’ clothes, the skirts of his coat cut away in front as if for ease on horseback. John, who preferred a great deal of embroidery on his clothes, was not sure that he liked the style, though he had to admit that it suited his well-built friend.

  Samuel squeezed into the coach. “So what was this other cause for celebration, then?”

  Nobody spoke, everyone looking at everyone else.

  “Let me apply my mind,” John’s friend continued. “You’ve only just found out, you’re not absolutely certain. So what can it be?” He grinned round jovially, the perpetual innocent, as ingenuous and lovely as an overgrown schoolboy.

  “I am with child,” said Emilia. “At least so my husband tells me.”

  Samuel swallowed noisily. “Well, he should know,” he said, and looked wonderingly when the other three members of the party burst out laughing.

  In view of the various delays encountered that morning, it was noon by the time Sir Gabriel’s coach clattered down Church Lane, turned left down Kensington High Street, continued down the length of Hyde Park Wall, passing Mr. Mitchell’s house and the Brompton Park nursery gardens on their right, then turned into the tree-lined lane that joined Kensington and the hamlet of Brompton together. At the junction of this lane with another, smaller, track, and surrounded by its own large garden, stood Grove House. Not as tall as Mr. Fielding’s Bow Street residence, it was for all that wider and more generously supplied with windows, presenting a gracious facade to the coach which pulled up outside its front door. Carrying no postillion that day, it was the coachman’s task to descend from his box and pull down the step for Sir Gabriel to alight. This, with much use of his great stick, John’s father did, refusing all help from the younger members of the party.

  A manservant who worked for Mr. Fielding at his Bow Street residence and who had obviously travelled to the country to be with his master at this time of celebration, answered the door.

  He bowed. “Sir Gabriel Kent, is it not?”

  “Indeed, it is, my good fellow. Is Mr. Fielding within?”

  “No, Sir. Miss Chudleigh called in her coach and insisted « that the family accompany her to her house for an informal levee. She had, of course, read the announcement in the newspapers. She did also say, Sir, that anyone who presented their card at Mr. Fielding’s door, provided they were a person of bon ton, should make their way to her home to join the festivities.”

  “Good gracious!” said Sir Gabriel, clearly both surprised and delighted, for Miss Chudleigh was a woman of vast reputation and someone to whom he had been particularly anxious to be introduced.

  From the coach came a shout of laughter, an interruption greeted by John’s father with a severe look and a raised eyebrow.

  “We shall be delighted to join Miss Chudleigh,” he said crisply.

  The servant bowed. “Very good, Sir. You know where the lady lives?”

  “I have passed her house many times, a fine place indeed.”

  “Indeed, Sir.” And with that the man bowed again and closed the front door.

  “Well,” said John as his father rejoined the company, “we’ve been invited into the hornet’s nest, it seems.”

  “I would hardly have described Miss Chudleigh in those terms.”

  Samuel rolled his eyes. “She is much spoken of, Sir, you must admit.”

  “I feel nervous,” said Emilia. “She is the sort of woman that makes other females totally terrified.”

  “Why?” asked her father-in-law. “She is unconventional, it’s true, cares nothing for what the world says about her, has used her beauty to lure and entrap men, but I do not believe her to be actually cruel.”

  “Is it a fact,” asked Samuel, “that she once appeared at a ball at Somerset House stark naked but for three fig leaves?”

  “So they say.”

  “I wonder what she will be wearing today,” John said, laughing.

  “I wonder too,” Emilia echoed nervously.

  With that heady mix of high spirits and apprehension which sets pulses racing, the coach party went off once more, turning back towards Kensington and proceeding up Brompton Park Lane, then bearing right to Miss Chudleigh’s house, presently quite modest but clearly still under construction. Yet for all its moderate size, it stood in extensive grounds and was obviously one day destined to be a mansion, the home of a woman who had made her way in the world - by whatever means. Greeted at the door by a fancifully liveried footman, Sir Gabriel presented his card. But there formality ended. From some inner room, the sounds of gaiety clearly audible as soon as she had flung open the door, Elizabeth Chudleigh herself emerged.

  “Ah, the most elegant man in Kensington,” she cried, going directly to Sir Gabriel and giving a deep curtsey. “I had intended to call on you one day, Sir Gabriel Kent, is it not?”

  He was utterly charmed, his son could see that. “Madam, you are even more beautiful than your portraits would have us believe. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  Miss Chudleigh turned, as politeness decreed, towards Emilia, then she gave a greeting that was a masterpiece of hidden messages, managing to convey simultaneously a hostess’s welcome, a smile that did not extend to the eyes, and a sweeping glance at Emilia’s ensemble together with a look that dismissed it as boring, John felt a definite flush of annoyance and only wished that he could have thought the same about his hostess’s appearance. But this was not possible. It was a rig fit to daunt a queen, which, so the world said. Miss Chudleigh’s appearance did to the new mouse who occupied the throne beside young George III.

  The hoops of the lady’s gown, in a deliberate snub to the fashion of wearing English country clothes, were as wide as the style of some ten years previously, at least fifteen feet in all and stretched over rods of osier. The black petticoat visible through the wide gap in her skirt was encrusted with rows of drop pearls, the gown itself was flauntingly crimson. But it was to Miss Chudleigh’s face and hair that John’s eye was drawn. For she wore the very latest coiffure, beginning to rise in height, plastered with pomatum and covered with white powder, the edifice topped with swaying black feathers of enormous size. This was a trend in fashion that the Apothecary had read about but not yet seen, a daring move away from the natural ringleted style that Emilia still wore. He noticed with slight anguish that his wife’s attention was riveted on Miss Chudleigh and hoped that she was not feeling too much the pregnant little frump.

  The Apothecary’s gaze moved down from the formidable hair creation to the face below. It was beautiful, there was no denying that, though the passing years had added the lines of experience here and there and given a slightly wrinkled look to the petulant drooping mouth. But the large wide eyes, a difficult colour to pinpoint, clear as a stream and with the same liquid intensity, showed little signs of the excessive living of which Miss Chudleigh was accused. Yet even while they gave him a frank stare, in the depths of which flickered a definite appraisal, John had a strong sense of something else about the woman, something that he could not quite pinpoint.

  “Miss Chudleigh,” he said, and gave an unenthusiastic bow, still angry that she had snubbed Emilia.

  She gave him the full beam of her attention, rather alarmingly so. “And you are, Sir?”

  “John Rawlings, Madam, Sir Gabriel’s son. And this is my friend of many years standing, Samuel Swann.”

  Oh how that woman could curtsey! A polite bob for

  Samuel, a somewhat deeper salute for John, indicating respect for his father’s status. The Apothecary decide
d that he definitely didn’t like her, though he was still unable to find the word that described this daring and difficult socialite.

  She was leading them into an inner saloon glittering with crystal chandeliers and rich furnishings. Within, a positive throng had already gathered, many of whom were local to the neighbourhood. John recognised Benedict Mitchell, who lived nearby, close to the Brompton Park Boarding School, and the Duke of Rutland, whose property bordered on to that of Miss Chudleigh. To add the royal seal of approval - though the Apothecary surmised that most of these people had probably come out of curiosity rather than to pay their respects to the blind magistrate - John saw that the old King’s mistress, Amalia Walmoden, Countess of Yarmouth, whose grounds were adjacent to the Duke’s, was sitting in a high-backed chair close to the fire. He turned to his father.

  “I had not expected anything quite like this.”

  “Mr. Fielding is always a big attraction,” Sir Gabriel answered cynically.

  And indeed it was perfectly true. The court at Bow Street was perpetually packed to the doors by those idle people with nothing better to do with their time; come to see a sightless man dispensing justice to the criminal classes.

  “But where is the great fellow?”

  Sir Gabriel raised his quizzer. “Not in the room, though I do spy Mrs. Fielding over there.”

  “Together with that bundle of trouble, Mary Ann.”

  “Yes,” said Samuel enthusiastically, revealing that his interest in the Magistrate’s sixteen year old adopted daughter had not waned since he had last seen her. John, who had known the girl since she was a child, gave his friend a slightly amused stare which Samuel stoically ignored. Yet it was certainly true that she had developed into a stunning beauty for all her mischievous ways and the trouble in which she had been involved in the past. And she was presently surrounded by men of all ages, gazing at her midnight hair and sparkling eyes.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake go and talk to her,” said John, bursting into laughter, “your tongue is hanging clean out your mouth.”

  “What a hideous description. But I shall not do so. I know you think I am far too old for her.”

  “A touch mature, perhaps. But, my dear friend, I cannot tell you how to conduct your life. She is now of an age. If you wish to pay court to her, you must do so.”

  Samuel, his cheeks rathered reddened, opened his mouth to reply, but the entrance of the Blind Beak into the room brought about a sudden hush. John, who had been his friend for so many years, stood in silent admiration, reappraising the man whom he respected nearly as much as his own father.

  John Fielding, soon to be Sir John, stood a vast six feet in height, tallness being a characteristic shared with his famous half-brother, Henry. And not only was he tall but broad, a big powerful lion of a man at the height of his powers. His long wig flowed to his shoulders, his handsome face with its prominent nose seemed to personify strength. Only his eyes, hidden from the world by the black bandage that he always wore, revealed the flaw in the diamond, the one thing that made this colossus vulnerable. Yet he strode in with dignity, his clerk, Joe Jago, barely seeming to touch his elbow as he guided him.

  Elizabeth Chudleigh hurried forward. “My dear Sir, there are more friends arrived to greet you.”

  Sir Gabriel led his party towards the Magistrate but before he could speak Mr. Fielding said, Mr. Rawlings is here I believe.”

  He had done it before, many times, but still John marvelled at the uncanniness of it. It was just as if the man could see.

  “My essence?” he said.

  “Just so. People have their own particular perfume; yours is quite distinctive.”

  John laughed. “I trust it is not of the kind that you would go out of your way to avoid.”

  A melodious rumble came from the Magistrate’s chest. “Not at all. Those are the sort that confront me each day in court.”

  Miss Chudleigh interrupted and it occurred to John that she was not the sort who would remain silent a moment longer than she had to. “Is it true, Sir, that you can recognise over two thousand villains by their voices alone?”

  “I believe claims of such a nature are made about me. Though the accounts do differ.”

  “In what way?”

  “Why, Madam, sometimes it is one thousand, sometimes three.”

  “And which is true?”

  Mr. Fielding smiled, his full, rather sensual, mouth curving. “I have no idea. Miss Chudleigh. I have never kept a record. You would have to ask Mr. Jago.”

  Elizabeth turned a ravishing smile on the Magistrate’s clerk, that craggy faced, foxy haired individual who not only acted as John Fielding’s eyes but who was sent to assist in investigating crime when the need arose. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise he noticed the colour suffuse Joe’s neck as that wide-open limpid gaze fixed on him.

  “Well, Sir.”

  The clerk bowed stylishly. “Madam, it would be indecorous of me to reveal the secrets of the courtroom.”

  Miss Chudleigh tapped him lightly with her fan and this time the man coloured violently. If John hadn’t been so astonished, he would have felt sorry for Joe. But now it was his turn to receive the gaze.

  “Mr. Rawlings - and Mrs. Rawlings, of course ...” Her eyes swept over Emilia who had been standing silently all this while. “ ... come with me. There are people here that I want you to meet.”

  John turned to his wife. “My dear?”

  Not looking too happy about it, Emilia said, “A pleasure.”

  But Miss Chudleigh had already swept on. Glancing back, the Apothecary saw that Samuel had given in to temptation and joined the buzzing group of males surrounding Mary Ann, while Sir Gabriel was deep in conversation with the Magistrate and his wife. Once more he observed with astonishment that Joe Jago, just as if he were being pulled by an invisible string, was tagging along behind Miss Chudleigh despite the fact that she hadn’t even noticed him.

  “Are you all right?” the Apothecary mouthed at his wife.

  She pulled a face. “I feel so drab.”

  “But you’re beautiful.”

  “I look an old-fashioned frump. And soon I shall be fat into the bargain. Oh dear!”

  “I thought you were happy to be with child.”

  “I am. It’s just that I have no amour propre today.”

  “You need some champagne,” the Apothecary answered firmly, and taking two glasses from a passing footman handed one to his wife and watched while she took a sip. “Better?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. Now brace up, we’re about to be presented.”

  Miss Chudleigh was already in full flow.

  “Lady Mary, may I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings, kinfolk of Sir Gabriel Kent?”

  A fat woman with an even higher coiffure than her hostess’s and a pale plump face, much rouged on the cheeks, nodded graciously. “Oh certainly,” she said in a high, childish voice which did not fit at all with her roly-poly appearance.

  Emilia curtsied low and John gave his second-best bow. “Your servant, Ma’am,” they chorused.

  “Lady Mary Goward,” Miss Chudleigh continued. Sheturned to the woman’s escort. “Mr. Goward, Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.”

  Further salutations were made and Mr. Goward proclaimed himself as “Chawmed.” He was an absolute ass, the Apothecary felt sure of it, but clearly believed himself tremendously clever for having married into the aristocracy.

  “Do you live in Kensington, Sir?” John asked politely.

  Mr. Goward neighed a laugh. “No, I prefer Islington, more to do, you know. We have a country place there. But I like town life, never been one for buccolic chawms myself.”

  Lady Mary chimed in in her little-girl voice. “My son spends his days at the Brompton Park Boarding School. We are here on a visit to him.”

  “How old is he?” asked Emilia, desperately trying to look interested.

  “Twelve,” answered Lady Mary. She turned to her husband, “Frederick is twelve, isn
’t he?”

  Mr. Goward shrugged. “I believe so. Something like that.”

  Emilia raised her eyebrows and he continued, “Not my child, you see. The lady wife was married very young. Frederick is the fruit of that early union.”

  “My first husband passed to his rest as the result of a riding accident,” she added by way of explanation.

  Leaving a rich widow ready for the plucking, thought John uncharitably, shooting a covert glance at her husband, who was devouring both Emilia and Miss Chudleigh with his eyes, the rogue.

  “Do you have any other children?” Emilia was gallantly attempting to keep the conversation flowing.

  Lady Mary appeared to get short of breath, her plump pale hands flying to her fluttering bosom. “No, fate did not decree that to happen.” She rolled an anguished eye. “Do you find it very warm in here, Mrs. Rawlings?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Lady Mary turned to her hostess. “Miss Chudleigh, I would take a turn in the fresh air. Could you show me to the garden door?”

  “Certainly, it’s this...”

  But Miss Chudleigh got no further. Lady Mary’s hands went up to her enormous hairstyle, she swayed giddily, then, turning in a large spiral, crashed to the floor, taking poor Emilia down with her.

  “I say,” said Mr. Goward, looking to where she lay, very white and very still,” I do believe the lady wife has fainted.”

  Chapter 2

  Just for a moment the Apothecary battled a strong desire not to get involved, certain that whatever move he made, the Gowards, husband and wife, would find fault with it. Then his professional training got the better of him but not before he had tended to Emilia, who was lying conscious but squashed beneath Lady Mary’s billowing form. Rolling the fainted woman to one side, not the easiest of tasks, John helped his wife to her feet.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right? Are you hurt in any way?”