Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  John turned to Julius. “Lady Mary seemed much put out that her son was ill and could not attend her at the funeral. Tell me, was the child sickly when you painted him?”

  “Well, he had all the woes of the very fat. He was constantly out of breath, could not run, even had difficulty in walking. I felt desperately sorry for him.”

  “What happened to him? Did he lose flesh?”

  “I don’t know. George really took a dislike to him so the mother sent him away to school instead of standing up for her son.”

  “Rather typical I would have thought.”

  “Very.”

  “Strange that she never had a child that her new husband could dote upon,” John said thoughtfully.

  “There were rumours,” answered Julius.

  “Really? What were they?”

  “That despite her size she was voracious as far as men were concerned. Apparently, she’d given birth before she was married and so already had a babe out of wedlock. Then, and this is really bizarre, she told George she was expecting his child but when it was born, the baby was black.”

  “What?” said John, shooting to the edge of his chair and startling Samuel and Christabel who were engaged in what appeared to be delightful conversation.

  Julius laughed aloud. “It is only gossip because the whole matter was extremely hushed up. It seems she had made free with one of her slaves but took a chance that the pregnancy was caused by her husband and only discovered her mistake at the actual birth.”

  “What happened?”

  “George, who knew exactly which side his bread was buttered, decided to forgive her her trespasses, and the child was taken away.”

  “By whom?”

  “I have no idea. But presumably by someone who could sell it into slavery later and make a handsome profit for a pretty little black boy.”

  “God almighty,” said John, hitting his forehead with his clenched fist, and saw once again the red rose go hurtling down into the grave’s gluttonous maw, thrown by the black hand of Jack Morocco.

  Chapter 15

  It appeared that Miss Chudleigh and Digby Turnbull had gone back to attend the wake, which was logical as both had known the dead man for several years. The question remained, however, whether Sir John Fielding would go to Lady Mary’s house, representing the Public Office. But in the end it seemed that the Blind Beak had shied away from visiting a place he did not know and had decided to brave The Angel instead. Thus, the occupants of The Unicom heard the familiar tap of a cane amongst all the other noises of the inn and John, recognising the sound, rose to meet him and lead him into the place where they were all sitting.

  Sir John was accompanied by his wife and clerk, one walking beside him, Joe steadily behind so that he could hurry to assist should the Magistrate fall. The Apothecary, who by this time had drunk far more than he should have done and was feeling enormously sentimental as a result, watched the three of them silently for a moment, thinking how inextricably his life was now linked with theirs and of all the many strange and sad things they had come across in their time together.

  “Mr. Rawlings,” said Joe, seeing him.

  “Come in here, please do join us,” the Apothecary answered, hoping that his speech was not blurring. To the Magistrate he said quietly, “Mr. and Miss Witherspoon are with us. He is the noted portrait painter Julius Witherspoon, she is his twin sister. As I told you at Bow Street, they both hated George Goward because their beautiful elder sister was his mistress, abandoned by him when she became pregnant.”

  “He was indeed a true blackguard,” said Elizabeth with feeling.

  “Be that as it may, they are interesting company, particularly as they were standing close to Goward on the Grand Staircase.”

  “Fascinating,” said Sir John, “pray introduce me, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Sir,” said Julius, having bowed politely, “I would deem it a privilege if you would sit for your portrait. I should not want a fee, merely the honour of leaving your likeness for future generations.”

  “I should be duly flattered,” the Blind Beak answered. “However, as I do not find travelling as easy as I used, I wonder whether you could come to Bow Street and paint me there.”

  “It would be an honour,” Julius answered.

  John smiled benignly, suddenly seeing himself in the role of one who brought great people together.

  The delightful Christabel spoke up. “Julius, I think a portrait of Lady Fielding would be another splendid notion.”

  “I shall paint the two of you together,” her brother announced.

  “And I,” said Sir John, sipping from the glass that John had just handed him, “shall commission a painting of my clerk and right hand man. Joe Jago’s image shall adorn the walls of Bow Street also.”

  The clerk, who was obviously in a highly charged emotional state after Miss Chudleigh’s invitation to call, flushed deeply. “But Sir John, surely I am not worthy?”

  “You are more than worthy, my friend. For do you not realise that without your eyes it would be almost impossible for me to carry out my duties?”

  The eyes that the Blind Beak was referring to, filled with sudden tears. “Oh Sir John,” Joe said in muffled tones.

  “Come, come, my friend. Do not distress yourself.”

  But John, observing silently, felt certain that Joe Jago was suffering the pangs of falling in love and was far more likely to be weeping because of his passionate condition than through anything else. Decidedly tipsy as he was, the Apothecary raised his glass.

  “A toast to beautiful ladies,” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

  “Yes indeed,” Joe responded fervently, as did Samuel, gazing adoringly at Miss Witherspoon.

  “My beautiful wife,” Sir John added gallantly, raising his glass to Elizabeth.

  “History repeats itself, does it not?” said a voice from the doorway. “Surely this was how we met at Ranelagh, Mr. Rawlings?”

  It was Jack Morocco and his lovely pale companion.

  Sir John Fielding moved his head in the direction of the sound. “Do I have the honour of meeting Mr. Morocco at last?”

  “You do, Sir.”

  The Blind Beak stood up. “Sir, if you would not consider it an imposition, there are one or two questions I would like to ask you about the day of the fatal investiture. And now would seem as good a time as any. May I suggest that we withdraw to a private room and that Mr. Rawlings and Joe Jago accompany us.”

  The Negro hesitated, his dark eyes clouded. Then he said, “Why not? But surely Mr. and Miss Witherspoon should be questioned too. They were standing right by me.”

  Sir John took his seat once more and turned in their direction. “My friends, would you object?”

  “Of course not,” said little Julius, heaving his crazy carcass out of the chair. “Better to be interrogated in the comfort of an inn than at Bow Street.”

  Lady Fielding spoke up, looking at the pale Aminta. “Miss …er…”

  “Wilson, Ma’am.”

  “Miss Wilson, would it upset you to be left with myself and Mr. Swann for a short while? I assure you that we are very civilised and will try to give you good company.”

  It was so charmingly said that the ground was cut from beneath Aminta’s feet. She had no option but to say, “No, of course not.” John saw the flamboyant Jack Morocco look truly caring just for a second before he flashed his usual dazzling glance. “Aminta, you have only to say and I’ll refuse to go.”

  “To deny the Principal Magistrate would not be clever. Jack. I’ll be perfectly all right with Lady Fielding,” Aminta answered in a quiet, well-modulated voice.

  “I’ll take care of her,” said Samuel loudly, and laughed a boisterous laugh that filled the room.

  John saw Christabel wink at her twin and hoped fervently that Samuel wasn’t going to be disappointed in love yet again.

  Aminta spoke, this time quite firmly. “As there are only three of us and far more of you, I suggest, if Lady F
ielding agrees, that we are the ones to find somewhere else to sit. Mr. Swann, please lead the way.” And she stood up, revealing that she had more strength of character than was at first apparent.

  “Certainly,” said Sam, who had seen the wink, was accordingly thoroughly flustered, and led the ladies out with much over-compensatory noise. There was a moment’s silence after their departure and then the Blind Beak got straight to the matter in hand.

  “Lady and gentlemen, I don’t doubt that you have already told Mr. Rawlings all that you saw and heard on the day that Sir George fell to his death but for my benefit, would you be so kind as to say it once more.” He turned towards Christabel. “Miss Witherspoon, pray begin.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sir John, I am sure that Mr. Rawlings has already informed you that I hated George Goward.”

  The Magistrate nodded silently.

  “But as it happens I did not give him the deadly push.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No, but even if I knew I wouldn’t say. All I can tell you is that there was a movement close by me and some whispered words, but I did not see who uttered them.”

  “What were the words you heard?”

  “What price slackness now.”

  “Slackness!” Sir John exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

  “Not totally. But it was something like that. Why? Did you hear it too?”

  “Yes,” the Magistrate answered. “But I thought he or she said, ‘What price greatness.’” He paused then said, still facing Christabel. “Miss Witherspoon, give me your opinion if you please. Was it a man or a woman who spoke?”

  She frowned. “It is hard to say, and I refuse to hazard a guess for fear of betraying someone. All I can tell you is that the words were whispered and the voice had a strange quality to it, almost unearthly”

  Sir John signed deeply. “I, too, cannot decide.” He turned towards Julius. “Sir, did you hear anything?”

  “I was a little further away and only heard the whisper, the words themselves were not clear.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Only Goward falling to his death. Which sight, though shocking, held a certain fascination for me. For like my sister I disliked the man, but it was not I who pushed him, of that I can assure you.”

  The twins exchanged a glance, noticed by nobody except John, who happened to be staring at them while they were speaking. Were they telling the truth, he wondered, or were they both accomplished actors who, as twins, had spent years weaving fantasies about themselves and half believing them?

  Jack Morocco spoke up. “Sir John, I saw and heard something. Has Mr. Rawlings told you what it was?”

  “Yes. But tell me again in your own words.”

  “It was the sound of physical exertion and then a pair of small feet came into my sight line. They were encased in low heeled buckled shoes, neither masculine nor feminine. The most striking thing about those shoes was their lack of size. So whoever wore them had particularly small feet.”

  “Like me,” said Julius Witherspoon, and stuck his shoes out before him to show how tiny they were.

  “You heard no whispered words, Mr. Morocco?”

  “There was something but I could not make out what it was. No, the thing I remember most clearly was the sound of exertion.”

  “Did that lead you to any conclusion?”

  The black man looked thoughtful, moving a little in his chair, the sprinkle of diamonds he wore catching the light as he did so. “Not really, except perhaps that the person who did the pushing wasn’t immensely strong. That it was hard for them to do so.”

  Sir John Fielding gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Excellent. That was what I had thought myself.”

  The Apothecary, through a wine-haze, looked at Jack Morocco as intently as he could. He had just told his story well, and most believably at that. But it was his hand that had thrown a red rose onto George Goward’s coffin. For what purpose if it was not as a token of love? Before he could stop himself, John found that he was asking a question.

  “Jack, why did you throw a flower onto the casket when you told me quite clearly that you had no time for Goward? That he was not your sort?”

  The Negro stared at him, thoroughly startled, and John knew for certain that he thought he had been unobserved. Eventually he said, “I considered it polite to do so.”

  “Polite!” echoed Joe Jago, clearly astonished.

  Morocco looked aloof. “It is a custom of my people,” he said coldly. “Now, can we drop the subject if you please?”

  It was as well, thought John, that Emilia had decided to stay in Kensington with Sir Gabriel. For by the time he had taken the Witherspoons back to their home and had driven Samuel, who sighed gustily every so often but said very little, back to the City, it was midnight before he put his key in the lock. Worse for wear though he might be, the Apothecary still noticed that two letters awaited him on a tray in the hall. Picking them up, John decided to read them in bed.

  The first was from Sir Clovelly Lovell of Exeter.

  My Friends,

  I much Regret the Tardiness of this my Reply, but the Ways have been Foul with Flooding, and there are Branches over the Ways caused by High Winds and Torrents of Rain.

  I found the Information You Seek in the Parish Register of St. Mary Magdalen, Chudleigh Knighton. It Read: Baptised,

  28th April, 1744, Georgiana Aminta, Daughter of Hannah Goward and George Goward, of This Parish. The Mother’s Death and Burial are Recorded a Few Days Later.

  Trusting that This is of Help, I Remain, Your Friend

  C. Lovell.

  So that was it! Georgiana Aminta. George Goward’s missing daughter was not only in London but her lover had stood within feet of her father just before he had plunged to his death.

  Good God, thought the Apothecary, and wondering at the strangeness of life fell fast asleep, the second letter, still unopened, in his hand.

  Chapter 16

  The Apothecary woke the next morning feeling absolutely terrible and swearing to reform. Indeed he was so far gone in suffering that he was forced to mix himself a potion before he could even face going downstairs to breakfast. Once there, however, and after several cups of strong tea, he felt somewhat better and able to tackle the correspondence which had arrived for him while he had been at the funeral.

  Having re-read Sir Clovelly Lovell’s letter, John wondered if he had jumped to a conclusion too rapidly. Aminta, though not common, was far from an unknown name, and there was simply no reason, other than for an odd coincidence, why Jack Morocco’s friend should be George Goward’s daughter. Yet the Apothecary had a feeling that would not go away, a feeling so strong that he knew he could never totally reject the idea until he had found out for sure. The second letter addressed to him was in an unknown hand, yet there was a clarity and youthfulness in the writing that immediately made him think of Lucinda Drummond. With fingers that shook a little, though this probably caused by his excesses of the previous day he thought wryly, John opened the paper. It was indeed from her and he read the message eagerly.

  My Dear Mr. Rawlings,

  How Ill you must Think of Me that I left You as I did. Having Heard from My Brother that he was Grievous Sick I could abandon Him at the School No Longer. I Stole Him away and for Two Days we Lived very Poorly. Yet a Lucky Meeting brought us Face to Face with our Saviour Who has now put Us under His Protection. Thank You for Your Many Kindnesses to Me. My Greatest Regards to Mrs. Rawlings.

  I remain, Sir, Your Friend, L. Drummond.

  “Oh dear,” the Apothecary sighed. And a mental picture of Lucinda’s protector as a loathsome, leering old man with lecherous intentions flashed into his mind. Still, there was nothing he could do about it. There was no address and no indication of where the letter had been posted. The trail, as far as his erstwhile servant was concerned, had gone dead. Wondering whether his apprentice had also received a communication from her, John left the house and headed for Shug Lane.r />
  Nicholas, as usual, was ahead of him, dusting and tidying and looking very long-faced. The Apothecary, certain that he could guess the reason for it, put on his sympathetic expression and lead the conversation in the direction in which he felt the Muscovite would like it to go.

  “I had a letter from Lucinda yesterday.”

  “So did I,” Nicholas answered miserably.

  “Ah ha. What did it say?”

  “That our friendship, hers and mine, must remain only that and could not progress to anything further.”

  The Apothecary was frankly astonished. “What a strange thing to write. You haven’t seen her recently, have you?”

  “Of course not, Master. How could I? I’ve no more idea where she is than you have.”

  “Then why put such a thing?”

  Nicholas grew slightly less pale than usual. “Because I became fond of her while she was in your household - and she knew it.”

  “But why, out of sky blue, write that?”

  Then he saw it, even as he said it, but Nicholas had already worked out the answer for himself.

  “She has met someone else, Master, and is warning me off. Which is utterly foolish as I shall probably never see her again.”

  John nodded. “You’re right, of course. But women don’t think like that, Nick. In her eyes she will have done the honourable thing by telling you, regardless of the fact that she is no longer in touch.”

  The Muscovite sighed. “The older I get, the less I know. I don’t think I shall ever meet a female that I understand.”

  “Will any of us?” asked John, and burst out laughing.

  Nicholas did not join in. “But who is this man? And how has she grown so attached to him in such a short space of time?”

  “Because he’s rescued her and her brother from living on the streets. In her letter to me she said that she had been saved and put under someone’s protection…”