by Deryn Lake
"Guernsey, Guernsey?" John repeated, but got no further. For from within The Ram came the sound of a chair crashing to the ground, followed by the thump of a falling body.
"You little bastard," shouted a voice, its tones aristocratic. "You dirty little gammer-cock. Why, I'll take my crop to you. Just see if I don't."
"No, Michael, no," shrieked a younger voice. "Please, no."
But there was the unmistakable sound of a thwack followed by a yell of pain.
John looked at the landlord questioningly. "Should we go in?"
"I'm not sure. It's the Duke and his brother."
"But we can't let one beat the other to death. I'll take full responsibility. Come on, Sam."
"Right," said John's friend, looking cheerful. "I'm in the mood for a good mill".
"Well now you've got one."
With that the Apothecary threw open the snug door and used the element of surprise to full advantage. Looking down at the two young men wrestling on the floor, he put his quizzer to his eye and drawled, "Your Grace, be so good as to stop, if you please. You're frightening the ladies, to say absolutely nothing of the horses."
"Quite right," boomed Samuel. "Stow your whids, Sir. Stow 'em, I say."
Chapter 11
In the event, the Duke was too angry to stow anything and went on beating his brother round the arse with his riding crop despite the fact that by now he had a small audience. It was all too tempting to the onlookers just to leave them to get on with it, but the younger boy had contrived to get an injury to his neck and had started to lose blood. The Apothecary, looking with a professional eye, decided that it really must stop and, striding out to the stable yard, picked up a bucket of water which he pitched with deadly aim over the two combatants. There was a mutual gasp at the shock and the youths drew apart. Samuel and the landlord stepped in, pulling the lads to their feet and holding them fast.
“Well,” said John laconically, thinking that he could hardly make matters worse for himself, “that is the first time I have ever thrown water over a peer of the realm.”
“And you had better make it the last,” said the younger boy, apparently not in the least grateful that he had been saved from a beating.
The Duke, who was mopping his face and hair with a handkerchief, glowered at him. “You should be overjoyed, you stinking cully. I’d have killed you else.”
John held up his hand. “Gentlemen, please. This is not the place to air your private grievances. Now, your Grace, with your permission I will tend your brother’s wound. I am an apothecary by trade and know how to staunch the blood flow.”
Guernsey pulled a face, but nodded. “Very well. But I want nothing further to do with him. I’ll order my coachman to take him back to his school when you’ve finished with him, Sir. I’m off to another snug.”
John felt that his ears were growing outwards on stalks. “School, Sir?”
The young Duke turned in the doorway. “Yes. The little bastard attends the Brompton Park Boarding School.”
“God’s mercy!” muttered the Apothecary. “If I hear that name once more!”
“What’s that? What did you say?”
“I said there’s some blood on the floor. Samuel, would you be so good as to escort his Grace and get him a brandy for shock. I’ll attend to the injured.”
His friend rose to the occasion, bowing the youthful nobleman out, then giving an over-hearty wink before he, too, left the room. Alone with the Duke’s brother, John removed his travelling coat and hung it over the back of a chair, then looked at his patient.
It was a grumpy creature he was examining, truly an obnoxious youth. Spotty, some of his pustules with yellow heads, his hair the same jaundiced colour, his eyes a watery shade of grey … the Apothecary wondered at the contrast with his sibling. For not only was this boy plain but he had an ugly nature to go with it. As John gently cleaned the wound with warm water and a cloth provided by the landlord, the youth cursed to himself and once accused his helper of being a clumsy oaf.
“Ouch. Mind what you’re doing, fellow.”
John straightened up and began to put his coat back on.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“To find your brother and have a drink with him. I’m not tending anyone who treats me with such contempt. Wash your own wounds. Good day to you.”
“But you can’t leave me.”
“Oh yes I can,” said John, pulling his coat into position. “Go back to your school. Let them clean you up.”
The creature looked mutinous. “Very well. But I’ll tell the headmaster of you.”
The Apothecary snapped his fingers. “I give that for his opinion.” He paused as a moment of divine inspiration came. “What do you know of Lucas Drummond?” he asked.
The boy literally rocked on his feet. “He’s run away/‘ he said hoarsely.
“And not returned?”
“No. Though some say he stole back a few nights ago. Claim they saw him.”
“Oh? Then did he not stay?”
“No. And now Fred Drummond has gone as well. Lucas must have come for him.”
“And you would know nothing about any of that?”
The boy rallied unpleasantly. “Who do you think you are to ask questions of me. I’ll have you know I’m Lord Arnold Courtney.”
“Bad luck,” said John, and left the room without bowing.
He found Samuel and his young companion comfortably ensconced in The Ewe, a decanter of brandy and two glasses set on a table which stood before a large log fire, beside which they had settled themselves. Drawing up another chair, the Apothecary joined them.
“Well, Sir,” he said forthrightly. “I have left your brother to his own devices. He was so intolerably rude that I refused to treat him further.”
“Quite right. He’s a wastrel and a mistake,” said the Duke gruffly.
“What do you mean by that, Sir?”
“He should never have been bom. My mother died when I was a babe in cradle and my father - not a man to go without his connubial comforts for any length of time - promptly impregnated a distant cousin of his. A stupid, brainless creature if ever there was one. Arnold and the rest of my siblings are all half brothers and sisters. Anyway, after my father had produced four more children, he died. I succeeded when I was twelve.”
“And may I ask how old you are now?”
“Three months off seventeen. I have left school and am studying the finer things with a tutor. I have too much to do with the estate to attend university.”
He had a very direct way of speaking, something that went well with his open countenance, topped with his mass of red hair, which he wore tied, clearly not bothering with a wig on informal occasions. His eyes a clear untroubled blue, very light, almost Arctic in shade, stared at the world without guile. He was as pleasant as his half brother had been disagreeable.
It was while he was studying the young man, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar and also where he had heard his name before, that the answer came to John in the morning’s second moment of inspiration.
“The investiture,” he said loudly. “You were at the recent investiture. You were one of the pages-of-honour.”
The Duke of Guernsey looked startled. “Indeed I was. How did you know?”
“I was also present. Accompanying John Fielding who received a knighthood.” The Apothecary assumed his solemn expression. “What a terrible outcome, was it not?”
The young man’s light eyes did not falter. “It certainly was. I was standing on the right, quite close to the balcony, and looked down on the scene like a bird. All I could think was that he seemed to fall so slowly.”
“Yes, he did, you’re right,” John answered reflectively. His voice changed. “Tell me, Sir, how many of you pages were on duty that day?”
The Duke stared and the candid eyes started to cloud. “What an odd question. Why do you ask?”
“Because I must be losing my faculties, I think. For I cou
ld have sworn that I counted thirteen present. Yet good sense tells me there could have been only twelve.”
Guernsey lowered his eyes, the lids drooping slowly, rather as if he were shutting out the light. “There were twelve, Sir. You were mistaken in what you thought.”
He was lying, that was crystal clear. It was as plain as day that there had been thirteen boys present and the Duke knew it. But why was he hiding the fact?
The Apothecary exchanged a look with Samuel and cleared his throat. “Forgive me pressing the point, Sir, for you might well say that it is none of my business. But the fact is that not only did I accompany Sir John Fielding t’other day, I am also one of his associates. And in that capacity he has asked me to find out all I can about the death of Sir George Go ward. Indeed, Sir, you were one of the people on my list of people to speak to.”
The eyelids shot up and the Arctic eyes gazed into John’s in bewilderment. “Was I? Why? I had nothing to do with it.”
“Only because you were there,” the Apothecary answered soothingly. “I merely wanted to know how much you saw.”
“Nothing really. I confess I craned my neck when the Queen passed along the balcony.”
“But you must have seen her before, at the coronation for example.”
“She was a dot in the distance then. On this occasion she was quite close.”
Samuel joined the conversation, doing his version of putting a witness at their ease. “Ugly ain’t she, damme. Or so runs the consensus. Would you agree, Sir?”
The dignified peer of the realm fought with the boy’s natural exuberance, and the boy won. The young nobleman burst out laughing. “Dreadful, and slow-witted with it, so they say. The King should have married Sarah Lennox and hanged convention by the neck.”
“Are you unconventional, Sir?” asked Samuel, guffawing.
“I would hope so,” the Duke answered seriously. “I would not like hide-bound regulations to govern my every action.”
John seized his opportunity. “That’s a rather unconventional school your brother attends. I have heard the strangest reports about it.”
Guernsey’s eyes were averted once more. “What sort of reports?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled.
“That there was a girl there, dressed as a boy. Put in the place by a harpy mother to care for a sickly brother. That this same girl was forced to have intercourse against her will by one of the older boys. That she ran away and became a maidservant to a professional man in London, a man who is fearful for her safety, a man who even now is seeking her. But it seems this girl has returned to the school in secret, and decamped again, taking the ailing brother with her. That is, according to Lord Arnold, who told me of it this very morning.”
There was a long pause, then the Duke said, “What did he say to you?”
“Just that. The bare outlines of the tale. Why, do you know more?”
The red hair tossed and the Duke showed his metal. “No, Sir, I don’t - and I rather resent your attitude. As you represent Sir John Fielding I am quite prepared to answer questions about the fatal investiture but I fail to see what the Brompton Park Boarding School has to do with the matter.”
The Apothecary looked duly chastened. “You’re right, of course, your Grace. There may be no connection whatsoever except that you have a brother at the establishment - and there are some who will swear there were thirteen pageboys present at the investiture.”
Guernsey coloured angrily but said nothing. Instead he stood up as there was a clattering of wheels in the courtyard. “Ah, my coach has returned I see. Gentlemen, I must take my leave of you.”
John and Samuel rose and bowed.
“Thank you so much for your help,” said the Apothecary. “Here is my card just in case anything else should occur to you.”
Guernsey took it with a certain reluctance and placed it in an inner pocket. Then said, “Good day,” and sauntered out with as much nonchalance as he could muster.
The two friends looked at one another. “Talk about concealing things,” said Samuel, pouring himself a severe glass.
“He knows so much and is saying so little.”
“But how to break him down.”
“Well, I couldn’t. That would have to be a task for Sir John. Unless he has an attack of conscience and contacts me, of course.”
“I suppose it’s possible. He seems quite an honourable young man. Do you think he guessed you were Lucinda’s employer?”
“Indeed he did. But even the most upright and truthful can lie in their teeth in order to protect someone.”
“But who could he be protecting? He clearly doesn’t like his half brother.”
“Think, Sam. Who is the victim in all this?”
The Goldsmith frowned, then his brow cleared. “Good gracious!” he said. “Do you really believe so?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, I’ll be blessed,” said Samuel, and downed his brandy.
It was dark by the time their coach was roadworthy once more and John, anxious though he was to see Sir Gabriel, decided that he would rather return home.
“But have you found out all you wanted about the School?” the Goldsmith asked.
“Indeed I have. Lucinda went back and stole her brother Fred away. Now, presumably, they have gone into hiding.”
“But where?”
“That I don’t know. But I truly feel that the time has come to pool information with Sir John. Much as I love my father, he will have to wait. I shall bring Emilia to the country at the end of this week and we can see him then.”
“So your fears for Lucinda are calmed?”
“Not completely, but somewhat. I’m sure she wouldn’t have taken Fred away unless she had somewhere to go.”
“The uncaring mother?”
“Possibly but not probably.”
“I shall be interested to hear what the Blind Beak has to say about all this.”
“So,” answered John with feeling, “shall I.”
“The thirteenth pageboy,” said Sir John Fielding. “You are really sure he is connected with this case?”
“Positive, Sir. I am far from convinced that he had anything to do with the murder, but he was most certainly seen by me running away while Sir George lay dead or dying on the floor. Therefore he is a vital witness. What made him bolt like that? My belief is that he saw something and either had no wish to tell what it was to those in authority, or was so shocked by it that the poor boy was overcome with fright and took to his heels. And it’s because I am certain he knows something vital, he really must be found and questioned.”
Joe Jago cleared his throat. “But Mr. Rawlings, only Mr. Turnbull and the Duke of Guernsey know who the boy is - and they have refused to talk. In fact both have refuted what you have to say.”
“I could order them into court and put them on oath,” rumbled Sir John.
“Let’s leave that as a last resort,” said the Apothecary. “Maybe one of them will crack and come forward.”
The Blind Beak, sitting in his snug, Joe Jago, John and Samuel all crammed into the crowded space, sighed deeply. “This case is not progressing at all. There is so much still to be done. The Witherspoons are yet to be seen and questioned; Lady Mary Goward, who could well be guilty, must make a statement; Jack Morocco has given Mr. Rawlings a look indicating that he has something further to say. And now we learn that Goward has a daughter, presumably alive and well and living in Devon. So somehow she has to be traced. Mr. Rawlings, you have connections in the West Country, do you not?”
John went cold with guilt, remembering the woman he had met while on honeymoon with Emilia, conjuring her up in his mind till he felt he could almost smell her heady and exotic perfume.
“Er, yes,” he said, and Joe Jago coughed.
“Perhaps you could write and ask one of them to search the Parish Register. We have a rough idea of where and when the birth happened, do we not?”
The Apothecary could not answer, lost in a dream wo
rld, in which he and Lady Elizabeth, Marchesa di Lorenzi, made love before a log fire in a ruined house in which only one wing was inhabited while the rest lay empty and abandoned to the elements.
“Mr. Rawlings?”
“Sorry. Yes. I’ll see if Sir Clovelly Lovell can investigate.”
“A wise choice,” said Joe Jago, and winked a most disconcerting blue eye.
The Apothecary took a grip on himself. “When is Sir George’s funeral?”
“Next week,” answered Sir John, “and what a pother it has caused. Lady Mary had so many vapours that at first nobody could get near her to make the arrangements. However, it seems that all is finally settled. The poor man is to be laid to rest next Tuesday.”
“I shall go,” volunteered Samuel stoutly. “I might spot something of interest.”
“Very good of you,” said Sir John, smiling a little. “Jago will represent the Public Office. What about you, Mr. Rawlings?”
“I will if I can, Sir. But as you said, there is much still left to do.”
“Then may I suggest that the Witherspoons come next.”
“Tomorrow,” said John. “Samuel, would you like to stay the night so that we can leave early? I know that Emilia will be delighted to see you.
“A pleasure,” answered his friend, beaming at the world in general.
“Gentlemen,” said the Blind Beak, rising, “if you will come downstairs into the salon I shall offer you some refreshment before you leave.”
The Goldsmith turned to his friend, raising his eyebrows in question. John grinned. “Well, we’ve missed dinner and are so late now that we may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
But turning into Nassau Street from Gerrard Street, John wished that he had gone straight home. It was Emilia’s sadness, rather than her anger, that always cut him to the heart. And tonight he felt doubly guilty because he had been thinking of Elizabeth di Lorenzi and had suffered all the old wild stirring that memories of her always brought.