by Deryn Lake
“You’re very quiet,” said Samuel.
“I’m worried about Emilia.”
“Will she be in militant mood?”
“No, sad and sniffing more likely. Oh God, Sam, I am a terrible husband.”
“You most certainly are not,” said his friend stoutly, throwing a jovial arm round John’s shoulders. “Why Emilia looks one of the happiest women in the kingdom. I envy you having a loving wife, I truly do.”
“Well, don’t rush into anything,” the Apothecary answered thoughtfully. “Be quite sure that you have made the right choice.”
Then he thought of the power of Elizabeth’s personality and wondered if he could ever have married her, had his situation been different. Perhaps the two of them beneath one roof would have been too dramatic, too confligrational. Maybe they would have been better as permanent lovers, though even that had never happened between them.
“You’re in a funny frame of mind,” stated the Goldsmith. “Now pray become more jolly before we go within.””I’m sorry,” said John. “I’ve probably imbibed too deeply and have reached the melancholic stage.”
They stepped out of the coach, which Irish Tom promptly drove round to Dolphins Yard, which lay behind Nassau Street and was the place in which the carriages and horses were kept.
“Please be very apologetic and gentle,” whispered John as he inserted his key in the lock.
Then he stopped short. The house rang with gaiety and was full of light. From the music room came the sound of Phyllida Kent’s harpsichord being played more than deftly, indeed extremely well, by someone other than John’s wife. Then the tune changed and Emilia’s voice was raised in song.
“Bravo, bravo,” said a man enthusiastically. “Why, you’re so damned pretty I’ve just got to kiss you.”
“You shouldn’t,” answered John’s wife, giggling.
“Why not? A beautiful woman is born to be loved.”
“But I am en ceinte.”
“You are? But I adore pregnant women. They bloom so nicely. May I kiss your baby too?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Who is this blackguard?” said John furiously. “I’ll cut his culls off.”
“I heard that,” called the voice from the other room, a very cultured voice full of laughter and fun. “Well, just you stop right there, Mr. Rawlings. Otherwise you will never know what it is I want to say to you.”
John turned to Samuel, his eyes bolting in his head. “God almighty,” he said, then let out shout of laughter. “It’s the black buck himself. It’s Jack Morocco.”
Chapter 12
The harpsichord rang out again, this time playing a bravura piece by the late Mr. Handel. Without meaning to, John and Samuel found themselves marching into the music room in step to it, a fact which sent Jack Morocco and Emilia into hysterics, particularly in view of the glum expression on the Apothecary’s face. And the more they giggled, the glummer he got. So much so that Samuel began to grin at the sight.
“What’s so funny?” said John truculently, glaring at them.
That was the final stroke. The other three laughed till they wept, Jack Morocco throwing his arms round his companions as he doubled up with mirth. In the midst of all this frivolity, John sat down on a small chair, one leg crossed over the other, his expression furious, waiting for the storm to pass. But it didn’t, in fact it got even worse, Samuel whirling like a mill as he clutched his aching sides.
To his horror the Apothecary realised as he tried to sit back nonchalantly, that one of the chair’s supporting legs was decidedly loose. The thought of collapsing to the floor in full view of the howling mob that his wife and friends had disintegrated into was too much even to contemplate. With what dignity he could muster, he stood up.
“I am going to the library for some peace and quiet,” he announced and strode out, only to hear the laughter redouble behind his departing back.
He was hungry and had drunk too much but that did not deter John from ringing for a decanter of port and a glass. Then he sat, attempting to read the paper, while from the music room came more renditions on the harpsichord, punctuated by cries of “Good health, Sir. To your eyes, Madam,” indicating that spirituous liquor was being consumed.
The Apothecary seethed, then in the midst of feeling put- upon and down-trodden came the horrible thought that he was getting set in his ways, that he was middle-aged and acting it.
“I’m thirty,” he said aloud.
“And behaving as if you’re fifty,” answered a voice from the doorway. It was Emilia, coming towards him with her hand outstretched. “Oh John,” she went on, “don’t sit there all alone. Jack Morocco is going in a minute and he really does want to speak to you first. Shall I send him in?”
“Is he still screaming like an ape?”
“No, he’s quietened down. We all have. It was just that you looked so solemn …” Her lips quivered but she forced them to stillness. “Sweetheart, we’ve missed you. No gathering is complete unless you are there.”
He pulled her onto his lap. “I resented him flirting with you, that was the trouble.”
Emilia smiled and kissed him lightly. “Jack Morocco was born to flirt. No doubt he flirted with the Duchess when he was a little boy, no doubt it was his lovely flirtatious character that made her decide to adopt him. How could a joyful soul like that be sent to the plantations? I could never have done that to him if I had been his mistress.”
John smiled a little wryly. “There are mistresses and then there are mistresses, you know.”
She tweaked his nose. “Don’t be difficult. You know exactly what I mean. Now, are you going to see him or aren’t you? It’s nearly ten o’clock and I have ordered a cold collation to be served when Jack has gone.”
“Jack now, is it?”
Emilia stood up. “I shall get annoyed in a minute. Now what do I tell him?”
“To step into the library and join me for some port.”
It really wasn’t surprising that he had the beau monde at his feet, John thought, as the black man stepped into the doorway a moment later. For Morocco was one of those people who brought the sunshine of his native Africa with him. Even his dark eyes, so knowing and yet alive with good humour, sent out brilliant sparks of warmth. As John rose to meet him. Jack bowed low, as beautifully presented and well mannered as if he had been the Duchess’s true flesh-and- blood son.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” said the Apothecary, “and let me apologise for my ill-humour of earlier on. I have had rather an odd day and, to tell the truth, was feeling somewhat out of sorts.”
“My dear fellow,” the black man drawled in aristocratic tones, “the fault was entirely mine. To have been seized with laughter in that way was quite intolerably rude. I do trust that you will forgive such a childish display.”
“I not only forgive but wish that I had been in high enough spirits to have taken part. Tonight, Mr. Morocco, I looked at my thirty-year-old self and felt frightened.”
“Of age? Surely not. Youth is in the spirit, in the heart and in the mind. The outer casing may look older but as long as the eternal stream bubbles, then there is nothing to fear.”
“My father says that.”
“And so say I to my mother, the Duchess. Within she is but a girl; as young and as fresh as the day she bought me.”
“You remember it?”
“I,” said Jack Morocco solemnly, “remember everything.”
And suddenly, just for a second, he was all-wise and allknowing, looking at the Apothecary from eyes that had known generations of suffering. For no reason that he could account for, John felt tears sting at his lids. Then it was over. An easy smile crossed the handsome black features, Jack Morocco leant negligently back in his chair and sipped from his glass of port.
“You wanted to speak to me?”
“I rather thought,” said John, “that you wanted to speak to me.”
“Yes, so I did. I’d quite forgotten. It was on my mind t
o do so that day at Ranelagh but that was hardly the place to say what I had to.”
“Which is?”
“That George Goward was pushed to his death,” Jack stated, then smiled and emptied his glass.
The Apothecary’s stomach lurched to his boots for here was the first confirmation that Sir John Fielding had been right, that none of them was engaged on the wild goose chase that every one of them had silently considered.
John decided to be frank. “The Principal Magistrate is also of that opinion. But what makes you think so?””
“I half saw something out of the comer of my eye.”
“What?”
“I saw a pair of feet creep past.”
“Whose?”
Jack Morocco sighed and held out his glass for refill. “They must have been the murderer’s. But even before you ask, I did not see the rest of the killer. It was all so quick. By the time I registered the move, the person had gone.”
“How do you know it was the one who pushed Sir George?”
The black man shrugged exquisitely. “I don’t really, except for the fact that they were out of breath, as if they had just made some physical effort.”
“I see. Tell me about the feet. Were they small or large?”
“Very small.” Jack shook his head. “They must have belonged to a woman. Or perhaps an extremely short man.”
“Did anyone else see anything? What about the pages and footmen lining the staircase?”
“They all seemed to be staring at the Queen. But you would have to ask them.”
“That is already being done by the Runners, Sir John’s court officials. I just wondered if any of them cried out or made some sign that they had shared your observation.”
“None that I noticed.”
John stared into space, considering, then came to himself. “But the shoes must have given their owner’s sex away. Were they a female’s?””They were black and heeled, with a silver buckle. The sort that could be worn by a fashionable man or a woman who didn’t trust herself balancing up too high.”
“Why do you say that? Were they low?”
“Not enormously so, but on the low side, yes.”
A picture of Lady Mary Goward, fat and puffing, her large white stockinged legs thrust into tight shoes, came vividly into the Apothecary’s mind.
“Mr. Morocco…”
“Jack, please.”
“Jack, who do you think wore those shoes? Have you any idea at all?”
“The grieving widow,” said the black man, and flashed his jackanapes grin.
“Why her?”
“Because she always hobbles about in footwear that’s too small. Also the gasping sounds. Whoever gave that push was not in the best of health.”
“I believe she was standing quite close to you.”
“Precisely. All she had to do was heave into his back, then shuffle to her original position. Small wonder nobody saw anything. She would hardly have to have moved at all.”
“Would that series of events fit in with what you saw?”
Jack Morocco looked serious. “You must remember, my friend, that it was all over in a trice. I had hardly time to register anything before I heard Goward scream.”
Into the Apothecary’s mind came that vivid picture of a flash of white teeth in a dark face as the victim lay dead. “Jack, did you like George Goward?” he said.
Again, that elegant shrug. “I hardly knew him. He was not my sort. But he once hurt a friend of mine, very badly indeed. Perhaps it is my old tribal blood that stirs within me, but I neither forgive nor forget an injury done to someone close to me. Their enemy is my enemy;loyalty is an attribute that I do not lack, Mr. Rawlings.”
And what a dangerous enemy he would make, theApothecary considered, with his entree into high society, his easy manner, his deadly ability with a sword, and the protection of his powerful adopted mother. Somewhat to John’s disappointment, he began to consider whether the story of the creeping feet was, after all, a fabrication.
He sighed reflectively. “I suppose you won’t tell me how Goward upset your friend.”
“You suppose correctly.” Jack laughed and stood up. “Will that be all?”
“You have been more than helpful. I shall report all this back to Sir John. By the way, who else was standing near you?”
“The Witherspoons - an odd couple. La Chudleigh, of course. And, as you know, the grieving widow.”
“You don’t care for her, do you?” said John curiously.
“I adore the Chudleigh. She is so full of hidden secrets.”
“I meant Lady Mary.”
“Oh her. No, not particularly.”
“Another insult to a friend?”
“In a way,” answered Jack Morocco, suddenly serious again. “In a strange sort of way, you’re right.”
The ride to Islington the next morning was not a happy one, for the heavens opened and water deluged from the sky, soaking Irish Tom, swathed in oilskins though he was. Despite the fact that it was broad daylight, even though somewhat gloomy, the coachman came to a halt at The Angel coaching inn to join up with other conveyances, including a farmer with a cart, so that they might cross the fields leading to the village in a bunch and thus avoid the attention of highwaymen. To compound the soaking driver’s ills, there were several coaches already waiting and thus he was denied the chance of some ale and a chat with his peers. As he slammed back onto the coachman’s box, Tom cracked his whip into the air. John turned to Samuel.
“We’ll have to leave him at an hostelry while we track down the Witherspoons. Otherwise I fear a terrible ride back.”
“Is he always this moody?”
“No more than any other Irishman deprived of his drink.”
“What do you think of my idea that we should call on the Witherspoons on the pretence that we are looking for my father?”
“I believe the direct approach might work better. They’re bound to respond to the name Sir John Fielding. After all, they must have seen him at the investiture.”
“I wonder why they were present.”
“No doubt we shall find out.”
“If we ever get there,” said Samuel gloomily, peering through the curtains of rain to where the village of Islington lay nestling amongst its delightful fields, not very far away from them but seeming a great distance because of the terrible conditions.
Though not nearly as fashionable as Kensington, Islington had its share of persons of bon ton, for it positively teemed with places of amusement. Mr. Sadler’s theatre and pleasure garden, once famous for its wells but now much better known as a place of entertainment, led the field. For there one could see Miss Wilkinson, the graceful wire-dancer and player of the musical glasses, and other artistes of similar calibre. However, if water drinking, public breakfasting and dancing were more to one’s taste, then the delightful New Tunbridge Wells, prettily situated close to the New River Head, lay close by. From there it was but a step to the London Spa tavern, with the New Wells theatre and gardens, a serious rival to Sadler’s Wells, a mere hundred yards distant. And for those who enjoyed skittles, the Merlin’s Cave tavern, situated in fields near the river head, was the place to visit. These being but a few of the many haunts of delight near the village.
And it was to a house not far from the tavern, standing in its own grounds, also close to the river head and obviously owned by people of certain social standing, that John and Samuel made their way. As they dismounted from their coach and plunged through the rain to the front door, the Apothecary thought that they must present a sorry spectacle indeed as representatives of the Public Office.
A girl answered the bell, not a servant but obviously a member of the family. John removed his tricorne, sheltering in the pillared porch against the deluge.
“Is Miss Witherspoon in?” he asked.
“Yes,” the girl answered cheerfully. “Who wants her?”
“My name is Rawlings and I am here as a representative of Sir John Fie
lding, the Principal Magistrate.”
“My!” said the girl. “That’s impressive.”
She was an elf, a thin, small-breasted, mischievous, enchanting elf, with a face lively as quicksilver and a smiling humourous mouth.
“Will she see me, do you think?” John persisted.
“You’re looking at her,” said the elf, and moved back from the front door, motioning the visitors into the house.
John was amazed to the point of shock, while Samuel’s mouth hung open. In the Apothecary’s mind, the Witherspoons, ever since Miss Chudleigh had mentioned them, had been a middle-aged couple of rather unpleasant mien. The sort who had lived together always, surrounded by jugs of lemonade and sweet cakes, and who might well have indulged in unwholesome practices, driven to it by the fact that nobody else would look at them. But this sprite was so far a cry from such horrors that John found himself disbelieving what he was seeing.
“Is there an elder Miss Witherspoon?” he asked.
The girl chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint the Magistrate but I am the only one. Not respectable enough for you?”
“On the contrary. It was just that I had imagined someone rather older.”
She grinned. “I am fairly young but on the other hand I’m very rich. Will that make me more suitable?”
“By Heavens, yes,” said Samuel with brimming enthusiasm.
She shot him an amused glance. “And you are?”
The poor fellow blushed to beet. “Samuel Swann, goldsmith of London. I’m - er - assisting Mr. Rawlings.”
“To do what?”
“Miss Witherspoon, don’t tease,” said John. “We are here about the fatal fall of Sir George Goward at the investiture the other day. Witnesses have said that you and your brother stood quite close to him on the staircase. We wondered if you had seen anything that might throw some light on the matter.”
The elf attempted to look serious, a difficult task. “You’d better come in, Mr…?”
“Rawlings, John Rawlings.”
She held out her hand. “Christabel Witherspoon.” The elf dropped a small curtsey. “A terrible mouthful, is it not?”
“On the contrary; a charming name. Is your brother at home?”