Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  The Gardens, though smaller than those at Vaux Hall, were prettily laid out but John and Emilia, having arrived somewhat breathlessly after a rather hair-raising drive, hurried through them and into the great Rotunda or Musick Theatre. Here all was splendour. Booths, many dozens of them, filled the circumference, while dominating the centre of the building was the great fireplace, an enormous edifice which had once housed the orchestra but now had a vast fire burning within, supplying boiling water for all the many tea tables dotted around it.

  Above the gallery, which housed more booths, were stately windows, cupolas rising from each one, all arching centrally and terminating mid-ceiling in a point. From this the chimney of the great fireplace descended, giving a grandiose and stunning effect. Lights were everywhere, thirty-six branches of globe lamps lighting the Rotunda, besides many others nearer to the cubicles.

  John stared around. "Can you see any sign of him?"

  Emilia shook her head. "Not so far, perhaps he's walking in the Chinese Garden."

  "Not he. He announced his intention of attending a morning concert and the orchestra is already tuning up."

  "Let's hope that nothing occurred to make him change his plans."

  John was about to say what a total waste of time the visit to Ranelagh would prove to be if that were true, then realised how discourteous to Emilia such words would sound. For she was clearly enjoying herself, looking at all the sights with that angelic expression which he loved so well. He put his arm round her shoulders.

  "Let's find a booth and have some refreshment."

  "Then afterwards can we promenade? I love that way of listening to music."

  John, who thought the fashion of walking round and round the Rotunda, dresses swishing, faces serious, while the orchestra gave its all, was no more thrilling than the plodding of a donkey turning a treadmill, smiled.

  "It shall be exactly as you wish."

  But at that moment the man he sought chose to make an entrance and it was no exaggeration to say that almost every head in the place turned, including John's and Emilia's. Framed in the doorway, clad in scarlet and silver, his wig very white against his dark skin, his arms full of flowers, which he threw to the ladies in the booths, a retinue of sharp young blades behind him, at his side a truly beautiful white girl with pale red hair that hung au naturel to her hips and seemed without artifice except for the fresh blooms woven into it... Jack Morocco had come into the Rotunda. Whether by coincidence or design, the orchestra struck up a rousing air and the Duchess of Arundel's adopted son made his way to a decorated booth where he sprawled at his leisure like a Prince of Araby.

  "Good gracious," said Emilia.

  "Gracious indeed."

  "Strangely, I saw him go into the levee t'other day. He must have borrowed the Duchess's coach because the Arundel coat of arms was on the door."

  "It would never surprise me to hear that he has them painted on his own conveyance, he's such a showman," John said wryly.

  "But that would be going too far surely. After all, did you not say that he started off as the Duchess's black boy?"

  "I did, and he has climbed his way upwards ever since. Now quick, sweetheart, the booth next to his has just become vacant. I must get into conversation with the fellow by some means or other, and sitting next to him is as good a way as any."

  They hurried across the floor of the Rotunda, attempting to look nonchalant as they did so; no easy feat. Beating another, older couple with the same intent, John and Emilia took their places and motioned for a waiter to come for their order. Meanwhile from the neighbouring cubicle came the sound of much jollity as champagne corks popped. Emilia pulled a face.

  "Is that their idea of breakfast?"

  "A very good one," the Apothecary said severely. "Impending motherhood is not making you prudish, I trust."

  Emilia looked slightly put out. "I was only joking."

  "Never joke about champagne," John answered, "it's far too serious a subject." There was an explosion of mirth from next door, followed by Morocco's voice rising loud and clear. "Gentlemen, I give you a toast."

  "Hear, hear," said somebody.

  "To ladies of beauty everywhere. God bless them all, especially those who have loved me."

  A female voice spoke out. "I'll most certainly not drink to that."

  "No more should you, Madam," a man answered.

  Morocco came in again. "And let me add in front of witnesses that of those whom I dared to hope have cared for me, there is none more beautiful, nor one that has pleased me so well as my fair Aminta."

  The girl laughed. "Smooth as silk, Mr. Morocco."

  "If you so care to describe me."

  "He has all the answers," John whispered.

  "No wonder he got on in the world with repartee like that."

  Morocco was speaking again. "So, gentlemen, we'll drink to the ladies, and for our second toast of the morning, Aminta the fair herself."

  A golden opportunity was presenting itself and as John heard the scrape of chairs, he got to his feet, a cup of tea in his hand.

  "The ladies," said Morocco, and as glasses were raised John put his head round the comer of the booth.

  "Gentlemen, I could not help but hear what you said. Though it is only in tea, may I join in your sentiments?"

  Morocco looked up and John saw the momentary gleam of suspicion in his brilliant dark eye. Then he said. "Of course, Sir. But give the man a proper drink. Carter. We can't have anyone going short."

  And with that a glass was poured and handed to John who raised it on high and echoed, "The ladies," with the others.

  "On your own?" asked Morocco when the toast was done.

  "No, Sir, my wife is with me."

  Emilia popped her head round the booth and waved a pretty hand.

  "Charming," said the black man. "Now why don't you come and join us? Some feminine company will please Aminta who is feeling somewhat outnumbered today."

  Aminta, who was queening it, looked far from thrilled at the prospect but both John and Emilia ignored this and hurried into the two extra chairs provided by a waiter.

  Jack Morocco flashed his strong white teeth in a welcoming smile, then frowned. "Now I've seen you before somewhere. Both of you. Where could it have been?"

  "You presented me with a rose when I was out shopping the other day," Emilia answered.

  Aminta gave a light-hearted laugh. "Oh, he does that to everyone. He's known for it."

  "What a charming reputation to have," Emilia answered pleasantly.

  Oh dear, thought John, those two don't like each other.

  He studied Aminta surreptitiously. Very vaguely she reminded him of someone but he could not place who it was and gave up trying, instead appreciating her wood nymph beauty and autumn colouring. She really was quite breathtaking and the Apothecary wondered if she was the white mistress to whom Elizabeth Chudleigh had referred or if Jack Morocco had yet another lovely girl hidden away.

  The black man was speaking. "But you, Sir. You are very familiar. I've seen you somewhere recently. I know I have."

  "The investiture the other day. I was present and so were you."

  "I was indeed. Well, well. Who were you accompanying? Or did you receive an honour?"

  John gave a crooked smile. "Alas, no. I was with Mr. Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street. Now Sir John of course."

  "Ah, the Blind Beak, eh? Quite a character, I believe."

  "You've never met him?"

  "No, though I've seen him in court, of course. A great spectacle."

  John cleared his throat, ready to brooch the subject. "Did you by any chance witness ..."

  Jack Morocco held up an admonitory hand. "No sad talk this morning, I pray you. Let us drink and promenade and listen to music. Aminta, may I escort you?"

  "With pleasure," she answered, laying her pale fingers amongst his.

  The black man looked at John over his shoulder and his eyes quite clearly conveyed a message, though quite what that
message was the Apothecary was uncertain.

  "My dear sir, in case we become separated in the throng, be kind enough to give me your card. You look an interesting fellow and I would converse with you."

  John reached into an inner pocket. "This is my business address. I shall write my private on the back."

  "Excellent," said Morocco. He gave a jackanapes grin, downed the rest of his glass in a swallow, refilled it, downed that, then jumped to his feet, his legs already jigging to the music.

  "Shall we walk, John?" asked Emilia.

  "Yes," he answered abstractedly, well aware that Morocco had something to tell him that he was not prepared to divulge before the rest of the company.

  They charged into the melee, Emilia enjoying the experience of strolling with the finest company while listening to the sweet sounds of the orchestra. Ahead of them sauntered Morocco, stared at by all and sundry, smiling and waving at complete strangers, totally unabashed that he was the centre of attention.

  With a positive push to his pictorial memory, John conjured up the scene on the staircase as George Goward fell to his death. Shock and horrified surprise had been the expression on most faces; nobody had moved as the figure in salmon pink had plunged downwards. But as the Apothecary fought to recall it, another image came into his mind. A dark figure, standing alone, a figure that he had entirely forgotten was there but the image of which had been stored in the deep recesses of his mind, had broken the stillness. Thinking that nobody was looking at him, that he was totally unobserved, there had been a sudden flash of white teeth in an ebony face. As George Go ward lay dying. Jack Morocco had smiled.

  Chapter 10

  It had been a wonderful day, full of music and wine and flowers - for Jack Morocco had insisted on buying more and more nosegays to shower on his two female guests - but the homecoming had put a damper on the entire proceedings. No sooner were John and Emilia through the front door than the sound of raised voices coming from below stairs broke the joyful mood they had been enjoying but a moment before.

  She turned to look at him. "What now, I wonder?"

  John shook his head. "I've no idea, but whatever it is I'll sort it out. Go and sit down. You can leave this to me."

  It was not just that Emilia suddenly had a tired look about her, it was also because he had the strangest feeling that Lucinda Drummond was somehow involved in the argument and that it really was time for him to act. Without further ado John strode down the stairs to the basement and into the kitchen, the servants' principal domain.

  They were very surprised to see him, clearly not being aware that he had returned, for the footman who had let him in had not yet reported below stairs.

  "Well?" said the Apothecary into the shocked silence.

  "I must go to the mistress," said Dorcas, bobbing a curtsey. "I didn't realise you were back, Sir."

  "I'd rather you remained where you are," John stated severely. He looked straight at Axford, the head footman. "Your arguing voices could practically be heard in the street. Would you be so good as to inform me what all this is about."

  "It's Lucinda, Sir. She's run away."

  "Runaway? When?"

  "This morning, Mr. Rawlings. A letter came for her and she asked me for time off so that she could visit somebody sick. In short, Sir, I did not give permission for her to leave so she took the law into her own hands, packed her things, and left the house."

  "Do you know where she's gone?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Do any of you?" John looked from one face to the other.

  Bridget, Emilia's second maid, sniffed. "She said nothing to us. She was always very secretive and aloof."

  "Perhaps she found you equally unfriendly," the Apothecary replied curtly, and marched out.

  "It's Lucinda, isn't it?" asked Emilia, lying on a chaise in the salon but opening her eyes as her husband came into the room.

  "Yes, but don't judge her too harshly. Somebody close to her is ill - or so she says."

  "Is it her mysterious mother?"

  "I have no idea. But I have a very shrewd notion who will know."

  "Nicholas?"

  "The very same. I'd better go to the shop."

  Emilia frowned. "Must you? We've had such a wonderful day together."

  The Apothecary, who had no particular wish to turn out, full of champagne and food as he was, felt himself weaken. "Well, I'm sure an hour or two more will make little difference. There's nothing I can do till the morning in any event."

  His wife sat upright. "Don't tell me you intend to go after her?"

  "It's my duty to do so. After all, she's scarcely more than a child and she is under my protection."

  Emilia made a derogatory sound.

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "I believe that young woman to have her head well and truly on her shoulders. Don't think I haven't noticed how Nick moons after her..."

  "He is particularly susceptible. Remember Mary Ann and his passion for her?"

  "You told me of it, yes. But that is beside the point."

  "Which is?"

  "That I believe Lucinda to be a scheming minx who took you in utterly with her story of rape and molestation."

  "I thought you liked her."

  "Well, I've changed my mind."

  "Emilia, have you no pity? I suspect that the poor girl's brother may be ill. And if so, I truly can't blame her for running to his side."

  "What makes you think it is him?"

  "Because she told me when we first met that he was a sickly child. That was why her mother sent her to join him at school, disguised as a boy."

  "A likely tale. But if it's true, oh dear," Emilia answered.

  John burst out laughing, sat down beside his wife and took her in his arms. "Are you tipsy, Mrs. Rawlings? First she's a minx, now you're sorry for her. Oh the mercurial mind of a pregnant woman."

  Emilia frowned again. "Don't tease me. I don't know what I think about her, except that, whether she be good or bad, I don't really trust her."

  But this convoluted argument could not be followed further for there was a sudden peal at the front door and the sound of a footman going to answer. A minute or so later, the servant appeared with a tray bearing a card. John picked it up.

  "Digby Turnbull," he read. "Show him into the library, would you. I think he may have some information for me."

  Kissing a somewhat tearful Emilia, John went to join their guest who was standing with his hands outstretched to the flames of the fire. He looked up as the Apothecary came into the room.

  "Ah, Mr. Rawlings, I have brought you the list of footmen and pages-of-honour. I thought perhaps you would like to read it before it goes to Sir John."

  "Why? Is there anything of interest on it?"

  "Nothing that I can see. Of course, I am not in charge of the pages-of-honour, they are in the hands of a high-ranking courtier, but the footmen are my responsibility."

  John scanned the list, noticing that all the pageboys did indeed have titles, the lowest rank being an Honourable. There was even a young Duke amongst their number.

  "I suppose we shall have to speak to them all," he said to Digby with a sigh.

  "Surely not. What could they tell you?"

  "Only if they noticed anything unusual."

  "I feel fairly certain that they would have been staring at the Queen along with everybody else. The poor woman is still an object of curiosity, even amongst the aristocracy."

  John read the list once more, wondering why he had the feeling that it should be telling him more than it did. Noticing that only twelve names were written there, he considered the fact that he could have been mistaken about seeing thirteen boys. Yet the Apothecary felt absolutely positive that he had counted their number correctly.

  "One of these young people acted very fast," he said, almost to himself.

  Digby Turnbull stared. "What do you mean?"

  "I saw a pageboy run for help. As I was kneeling beside George Goward I noticed one o
f them haring down the reception corridor."

  "I don't know who that would have been. It would not have been considered correct for any of them to have left his post."

  "He must have acted on the spur of the moment."

  Turnbull seemed decidedly doubtful. "How very odd. You're certain of this?"

  "Yes." The Apothecary looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he was running away in fright."

  "But why? He would have seen no more than any of the other boys."

  "Unless he stood the closest," John answered.

  But his mind was racing on. If an extra page had been there for some reason, however innocent that reason might have been, the fact that there had been a fatal accident would most certainly have drawn attention to his presence. The boy was quite clearly making an escape before somebody discovered him. Or possibly because he had seen something but had no wish to say what, so was getting out before he could be questioned. The Apothecary tapped the list again.

  "This Duke of Guernsey, how old is he?"

  "Seventeen or eighteen. The eldest of them all. A descendant of Charles II of course. Nice lad."

  "Where can he be found?"

  "I'm not sure. Would you like me to discover?

  "Yes please."

  "Why do you pick him out in particular?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps through some deep-rooted idea that one should be able to trust the word of those bom to high station."

  "A misconception if ever there was one."

  "You're right, of course. Still, as he is the most senior I should like to talk to him."

  "I'll send you word of his whereabouts from Kew. I leave for the palace in the morning, rather early I'm afraid. So, if you've nothing further to ask of me I'll take my leave."

  "May I offer you some refreshment before you go?"

  "Thank you but no. Duty calls." Digby Turnbull smiled. "Will that be all?"

  "One last question. How old would George Goward's daughter be now?"