by Deryn Lake
His guest frowned. “But I thought Elizabeth Chudleigh was a friend of his.”
John wondered briefly how discreet he should be, then decided to tell the truth. “I believe he could have been blackmailing her about an incident in her past.”
“Her child, I suppose,” E)igby Turnbull replied. “Oh, don’t look surprised. A great many people knew about it. However, there is one thing about her even more intriguing.
“And what is that?”
“It is believed in certain quarters that she is married. That her son was legitimate but that she and her husband parted company soon after he was bom and that now they have nothing further to do with one another.”
“But what about the Duke of Kingston?”
Digby smiled cynically. “Indeed. What about the Duke?”
A great diamond flashed on Sir Gabriel’s finger as he toyed with his glass. “Court life, great God. What next one wonders.”
“Perhaps young George will breathe some new life into it.”
“He is already exhibiting signs of being a bore,” stated Digby frankly. “Anyway, enough of that. Was it Lady Mary who pushed her husband?”
“Sir John thinks so. Jack Morocco agrees - that is if one can believe his tale of small feet and heavy breathing. I, personally, have absolutely no idea. Unless his unknown daughter were present and killed her father for deserting her.”
“But how could that be? We know exactly who was there.”
“But do we?” John said reflectively. “Do we?”
And with that an idea was bom that absolutely refused to go away.
Chapter 14
He had fully intended not to attend the funeral of Sir George Goward, but the more John thought about it the more he felt he would be missing a unique opportunity of studying the principal suspects. Yet his conscience bothered him. He was turning into an absentee shop owner. Indeed if it were not for the stalwart Nicholas Dawkins, pale and sad these days in the absence of Lucinda, he would not have any business left at all. However, visits to patients had not been neglected. By working at some rather unorthodox times, John Rawlings had managed to keep his clients happy and had only sent Nick out to dispense simple remedies to those with minor ailments.
For reasons best known to herself. Lady Mary Goward had decided to dispose of her husband’s mortal remains in Islington, rather than in the London parish where she had her town house. So yet again the difficult journey through Holbourn, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell Green and St. John’s Street was undertaken by the Apothecary, rook-dark in mourning clothes, while Irish Tom wore a black ribbon on the arm of his many-caped driving coat.
The waiting convoy at The Angel consisted almost entirely of mourners. John saw Sir John Fielding’s coach, the great man inside, together with his wife and Joe Jago. Emblazoned with the Duchess of Arundel’s escutcheon, a grand carriage was drawing up at the same time as the Apothecary’s own. Out of it, looking like something from an Araby fable, leapt Jack Morocco, gallantly reaching upwards to assist his passenger to dismount. It was the beautiful girl who had been with him at Ranelagh, John saw. Today, drained of colour, the red hair scarcely visible, swept up into a great black hat, she was like an injured animal, a vixen run beneath a carriage wheel and left at the roadside to suffer. Full of curiosity, the Apothecary found himself following them into the coaching inn to down a brandy before the ordeal ahead.
Elizabeth Chudleigh was already inside, seated alone at a table, a glass of strong liquor in front of her. Oddly enough, Digby Turnbull was also present, though neither had seen the other, he, too, fortifying himself for the occasion. It occurred to John that, other than for the Witherspoons, the group who had stood close to George Goward on the Grand Staircase was once again gathered together. And then, as if he had conjured them up, Julius and Christabel walked in, the little artist leaning on a stick, his sister straight as an arrow beside him. She looked around her.
“Good gracious. But don’t I know you all?”
“Morocco, Madam,” said Jack, and as he bowed before her a bevy of diamonds twinkled about his person.
“I saw you at St. James’s Palace, Sir.”
“And I you. Mr. Witherspoon, may I say how much I admire your work. I would like to commission without hesitation a portrait of my beloved mother, the Duchess, one of myself, and also one of Aminta, my dear friend.”
The girl curtsied to the new arrivals, and John thought that if he had been a painter he would have liked to capture her today, her beauty intensified by her extreme pallor, the curls that had escaped her hat glowing against the whiteness of her skin.
Miss Chudleigh raised a languid hand. “Mr. Witherspoon, I don’t think I have had the pleasure, though of course I have seen you round and about. Pray, will you and your sister join me?”
It was uncanny, John thought. All the people who had watched George Goward die, forming into little groups before they trooped off to see him laid in the earth. Present amongst them there might well be a murderer, hiding their black heart beneath a show of mourning. Very carefully, the Apothecary studied each one.
Elizabeth Chudleigh, her powdered hair swept high, a dark hat with bobbing feathers atop, was as self-seeking and ruthless as they come, he decided. If she wanted something, nothing would stop her getting it, be it man, riches or a title. More and more certain that the whispered conversation he had heard in The Hercules Pillars had been between herself and the dead man, John considered that they might have been discussing the fact she had contracted a marriage long ago and was still bound to it. Apparently news of this shocking state of affairs had not yet reached the ears of the unworldly Duke of Kingston. Would Miss Chudleigh have been prepared to kill to stop George Goward betraying her?
John’s gaze fell on Digby Turnbull, that most honest-looking of citizens, for here lay motive indeed. Originally from Devon, an associate of Hannah, the Beauty of Exeter and Goward’s first wife, could there be another story beneath the surface? Digby had admitted that he amongst many other admirers had also loved Hannah. Had it been more than a youthful passion and had he sworn revenge when she had been left behind in the West Country while her husband promoted his career in town? Had he, the servant of the Crown, seized his chance at the palace and heaved his old enemy to his death?
Then there were the Witherspoons, at present sitting quietly with Miss Chudleigh. The funny little carcass, as Christabel had described Julius, was a genius; no one could deny that. Had the death and defilement of his elder sister unhinged him slightly? Were not intellect and insanity meant to run hand-in-hand? Had he gone mad with grief and seized the chance to kill when it presented itself?
And what of Christabel? She had admitted to loathing Goward for the same reasons as her twin. Had it been she who had hurled him down the staircase, her small shoes moving into Jack Morocco’s line of vision as she did so?
This brought John’s thoughts to the Negro himself. Today, dressed all in black, even his wig consisting of long dark curls, he looked a truly fascinating prince of the night. Yet if he had been the one to end Goward’s life, then the motive itself was not readily apparent. Though there remained the inescapable fact that he had grinned as the victim had died. He had admitted to not liking the man but was there more to it than that? Could his great friend, as he had described Aminta, been one of George’s many conquests at some time in the past?
So, with the exception of Lady Mary Goward, all the suspects were there, gathered in The Angel to get a little liquid courage before the rigours of a funeral. Yet were they, thought John. For who had been the enigmatic thirteenth pageboy? And why had all the other boys denied seeing him? Surely they, of all people, must have noticed a stranger in their midst? With a determination that somehow he must get young Guernsey to reveal the truth about that day, John went to join Digby Turnbull.
Even though the clouds overhead were black as crows, the rain held off. Yet though the mourners might be spared that, a howling gale which shook the rafters of the church to the ex
tent that the funeral bell tolled a few times on its own - a highly sinister occurrence - seemed to come up from nowhere. Accordingly the service was conducted to the sound of moaning and wuthering, a dismal accompaniment that unnerved everyone present.
John had been, even as he left the house, convinced that today Lady Mary would give a spectacular display of major hysterics, and he was not to be disappointed. She had walked up behind the coffin quietly enough but then, billowing like a black barge, she had suddenly risen from her pew and flung herself over the casket, causing it to rock slightly on its trestle. John and Joe Jago, who were sitting at the back with the Fieldings, exchanged a glance, then simultaneously rolled their eyes heavenwards.
“We’re for it,” whispered the clerk out of the side of his mouth.
“What’s happening?” demanded Sir John, not quietly.
“Lady Mary’s about to go orff,” Joe replied, and grinned in an unseemly manner.
“Apparently she’s in regular high bridle because her son is ill and cannot attend her,” Elizabeth Fielding murmured.
“How do you know that?” asked her husband, still in the same loudish tone.
“Another mourner told me outside the church.”
“Ha,” said Sir John but made no further comment.
The Apothecary looked round. Elizabeth Chudleigh sat just behind the family pew as befitted her status, real or imaginary. Jack Morocco, too, not one to conceal himself, had taken a place well near the front, where he fixed the coffin with a dark unreadable gaze, looking neither to right nor left. Beside him, his lady friend, even paler than before if such a thing were possible, gazed at her prayer book and did not look up. John stared to see her expression, but Aminta’s face was concealed by the veiling of her hat which fell forward as she bent her head.
The Witherspoons sat near the back, their look grim and unrelenting. Julius’s lips moved silently and it occurred to the Apothecary that even here, in church, he was sending Go ward to his eternal rest with a curse. Behind the brother and sister was Digby Turnbull, his expression bland, revealing in no regard that he and the deceased shared a history that went back a very long way and had known a great deal of drama. But it was to Lady Mary that John’s eyes were drawn once again as she let out a cry that would not have disgraced a she-wolf and bodily embraced the coffin.
A female attendant, very slight and small, rose from her place in the front pew and grappled with the wailing widow, attempting to get her back to her seat. But Lady Mary was in full swing and would not be gainsayed.
“I feel vomitous,” she announced to the congregation at large.
“Oh God,” said John, and with the utmost reluctance rose from his place at the back and marched down the centre aisle, his feet ringing out noisily on the flagstones, to where the green-faced woman stood.
“Madam, if you will step outside,” he ordered firmly, “I will administer to you.”
She rolled her eyes piteously. “But it’s very windy beyond.”
The Apothecary looked harsh. “Madam, you cannot vomit over the coffin. Out with you.” And gripping her elbow he stalked to the door, dragging her with him, she clutching a handkerchief to her mouth and making quite the most hideous noises.
Once outside he pushed her behind a gravestone, standing well clear himself. Then, having half suspected that this kind of thing might occur, John fished from his cloak pocket a syrup made from the juice of balm with added sugar, already bottled, and uncorked it.
“Drink this,” he said shortly when she returned, looking much the worse for wear.
“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.
“A cure for vomiting. Lady Mary, you must take it. You cannot go on like this. The entire funeral is being held up because of your lack of control.”
“But I have lost my husband.” She pronounced it lawst.
Thoroughly tempted to ask where, John controlled himself. “Tragedy strikes us all at some time in our lives. It is up to one’s personal pride to conduct oneself as well as possible in the face of it.”
“If only my boy had been here. My little Frederick.”
“But I thought he was ill.”
“Yes, according to the school. He has never enjoyed good health.”
A mental picture of Julius Witherspoon’s portrait of an obese mother and son came into focus in John’s brain, and he considered that a child afflicted with so much excess poundage would be far from fit indeed.
“But surely you told me that the boy was not Sir George’s child?” he said.
“Yes, I did. He is the son of my first husband.”
“Then in fact this funeral is no place for him. Such sombre occasions can affect children very adversely. Probably his indisposition is a blessing in disguise.”
Lady Mary snorted with annoyance. “What rubbish, Sir. My son would have wanted to pay his respects to his stepfather. Besides, what about me?”
“What about you is that you should get back into the church and conduct yourself with dignity, Madam.”
“But Sir George was brutally done to death.”
“All the more reason for you to comport yourself with enormous gravity and grandeur.”
“But I cannot help my failing health.”
“That, Lady Mary, should be discussed with your physician at some future date. Now, are you going to keep the congregation waiting even longer?”
She blew out her cheeks at him, like a furious pug, but clearly bit back the words she would like to have said and marched ahead into the church. With a sigh of relief, John slipped quietly back into his place beside Joe Jago.
He had always found that the procession to the graveside revealed a great deal and this occasion proved to be no exception. Lady Mary, obviously having taken his words to heart, waddled majestically into the churchyard supported by the parson and the small female attendant. Elizabeth Chudleigh wept bitterly, or appeared to do so, her face obscured by a dainty handkerchief as she threw earth upon the lowered coffin. On the other hand Digby Turnbull seemed to fling with relish, almost as if he were saying good riddance. But the most surprising gesture came from Jack Morocco. Walking slowly with Aminta clinging tightly to his arm, her face now obscured, the veils on her hat totally pulled down, the black man threw a single red rose onto the casket.
John turned to Joe, who was eyeing Miss Chudleigh for all he was worth. “What was that for I wonder.”
“A red rose for love, Sir,” the clerk answered, wresting his attention back to his surroundings.
“But Jack Morocco had no love for the deceased. He grinned when the man died, I told you that.”
“Apparently, Mr. Rawlings, all is not as it seems.”
“Obviously not,” John answered thoughtfully, and having no wish to scatter earth, a custom he did not care for, made his way back up the path.
Very late and very much out of breath, Samuel stood there, apologising to anyone who would listen, particularly Miss Witherspoon.
“My carriage cast a wheel so I walked.”
“Not from London surely?” asked Christabel.
“No, from my father’s house. I spent last night with him.” He turned to John. “Did all go smoothly?”
“Eventually, yes. Lady Mary threatened to vomit in church…”
“Uh!”
“But I managed to get her outside in time. Other than for that there were no high tantrums. However, all may change in a moment, Sir John is waiting in the porch for the widow to return and he will then request an interview with her.”
“That will not please her.”
“But it will do her the world of good.” John turned as the Witherspoons began to move away. “Are you going?”
“Yes,” answered Christabel, “we only came to make sure he was really six feet under. I know it sounds strange but we had to see for ourselves.”
There was an awkward silence during which Samuel shuffled about, obviously longing to make a further assignation with her but somehow lacking the courage. Loving
everything about his old friend, John helped him out.
“Why don’t we all repair to The Angel? My coach can take you home later, as the weather is so inclement. I am sure one or two others will be joining us there.”
“Are you not going to the wake?” Julius asked.
“Certainly not. Nor, I imagine, will many of those of our acquaintance.”
“In fact,” said Samuel, “it will be interesting to see who does attend.”
Joe Jago came up the path, a weeping Miss Chudleigh on his arm. John, looking at him with all the affection of old acquaintance, saw that the clerk’s neck had gone extremely red and that his light blue eyes had a glazed expression in them.
“… you must call on me,” she was saying between sobs. “It is at times like these that I feel so alone, Mr. Jago. So very alone.”
She peeped round her handkerchief and caught John’s eye. He winked and grinned and she glared at him robustly.
Joe cleared his throat. “I shall make a point of it, Madam. When would be convenient?”
She whispered a reply, but the Apothecary caught the words, “As early as you please.”
So he was next, thought John, and decided that, all things considered. Miss Chudleigh might possibly do the clerk a world of good.
The red rose thrown into the grave puzzled him for the next half hour, particularly as it was not long before Jack Morocco and Aminta walked into The Angel as well. From the open door of The Unicorn, the room that he and Samuel were occupying with the Witherspoons, he saw them go past, the vixen-girl as pale and drawn as before, making their way into another snug. So even after that token of love they had not gone back to the house to eat cakes and drink sherry. It was all very strange to say the least.