Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  Chapter 17

  Rather oddly, considering his dislike of the woman, Lady Mary Goward’s London home was a mere stone’s throw from Jack Morocco’s private apartments. Whereas he lived in Grosvenor Square, she had a large and fashionable house in South Audley Street and no doubt they must have seen one another when strolling round town. But today, John thought, as the coach carrying himself and the Fieldings from Bow Street drew up at the graceful house in which the dead man and the fat lady had lived together, there was little chance of being seen by anyone. It was pouring hard, the sky dull and leaden, the streets awash with all the accumulated filth of days.

  It seemed that the widow had left Islington the day after the funeral, preferring to do her mourning in her more accessible London residence, where she could receive sympathetic visitors, no doubt, and weep profusely over continual cups of tea. As the Apothecary stepped down from the carriage to assist Elizabeth Fielding and Sir John to disembark, he wondered just what sort of condition they were going to find Lady Mary in, and checked yet again that he had a small medical bag with him. He had also taken the precaution of putting on rather an old suit of clothes just in case he was unable to sidestep her habit of regular vomiting.

  The Blind Beak himself was in a very bad mood and not prepared for any nonsense, as he had informed John during the journey.

  “She’ll not shilly and shally with me, by Jove she won’t,” he had said as they left the Public Office behind them.

  “Do you still think she is the guilty party, Sir?”

  The Magistrate had grunted. “I have thought so for so long that I am now beginning to doubt it. She’s too obvious, if you know what I mean.”

  “And there were several people present who had a grudge against Goward.”

  “Yes. Including your friend Digby Turnbull. Wasn’t he in love with Sir George’s first wife?”

  “At the least, very attached to her. I wonder if he knows that Aminta is Hannah Wilson’s daughter.”

  “I should make a point of telling him then closely watch his reaction,” Sir John had answered, and after that had relapsed into total silence, a sure sign that he was thinking things through.

  The interior of the Goward establishment was as fine as its outside. Having climbed the stairs, beautifully curved and displaying wrought iron balustrades, most elegantly designed in the shape of a lyre, John entered a room almost self-consciously stylish. Deep red in colour, it had a marble fireplace, the mantelpiece supported by two scantily clad caryatids. Over the fire hung a very fine painting, a large chandelier throwing light onto it and also on to the figure in black, a handkerchief raised to its eyes, which reclined on a sofa, sobbing loudly.

  “Great God,” muttered Sir John, and tapped his way into the room and to a chair, in which he sat without invitation.

  “Sir John and Lady Fielding and Mr. John Rawlings,” boomed Lady Mary’s footman, somewhat late in the day.

  The Apothecary noticed with enormous interest that the man was in his forties and jet black, clearly a servant who had been kept on from boyhood. Was this, John wondered, the father of Lady Mary’s bastard. And, if so, had Jack Morocco been lying in his teeth about his parentage?

  “I can’t receive you,” wailed the widow pitifully. “As you can see, I am in disarray.”

  “I cannot see, Madam,” said the Magistrate angrily. “And even if I could I should not take pity on you. The Public Office has left you entirely alone during the time of your troubles and this arrangement to speak with you has been made for some considerable time. You may plead indisposition for as long as you wish but here I sit and here I stay. Mr. Rawlings, be so good as to administer salts if you please.”

  The Beak was clearly furious and even his wife looked alarmed, laying a calming hand on his arm. He completely ignored this and made a gesture to John, who stood shuffling from foot to foot, to calm his patient down.

  “Lady Mary,” the Apothecary said placatingly.

  She glared at him, her eyes piggy with weeping. “I don’t want your horrible salts.”

  “Then do without,” thundered Sir John. “But know that I shall order you into court if you refuse to cooperate.”

  She howled the louder but took the proffered bottle and sniffed gingerly.

  “Would you like some soothing physick?” John asked.

  “No, I shall do naught but bring it back.”

  The Apothecary groaned audibly and the Blind Beak hissed with rage. “Madam, you must take your emotions in hand. I refuse to allow this procrastination one second longer.”

  “But my husband has only just been laid to rest.”

  “Then it is time to let him lie in peace and discover who was responsible for pushing him to an untimely death.”

  “He wasn’t pushed,” said Lady Mary mulishly. “It was an accident - and that is all I have to say about it.”

  “If I may remind you, Madam, you stated to Mr. Rawlings at the funeral that you husband had been done to death, or words to that effect at least.”

  “Well, I’ve thought it over and changed my mind. He tripped and fell. There’s an end to it.”

  “That is not the opinion of myself and a certain other witness. Now, tell me all that happened. Everything, from the moment you entered St. James’s Palace to the time of Sir George’s plunge.”

  Lady Mary glared at John. “You’re the other witness aren’t you, you wretch?” she whispered.

  “No, I’m not,” he whispered back. “Now get on and answer or you’ll find yourself charged at Bow Street.”

  She looked furious but slowly started to speak. “George and I travelled to the investiture by coach. We waited in the long reception hall with everybody else. Then we climbed the stairs and went through the various apartments. Then I went to sit with the guests and George waited with the rest of the recipients.”

  “I believe you were taken ill on the way in,” Sir John interrupted. “What happened?”

  “A page-of-honour escorted me to a closet. I was vomi- tous.”

  “Again?” the Magistrate asked rudely.

  She ignored him. “The page sent for water and cleaned the front of my dress.”

  “That was very good of him.”

  John spoke. “Did you by any chance notice that there were thirteen pages present that day instead of the customary twelve?”

  The porcine eyes glinted in his direction then John distinctly saw Lady Mary turn away from him so that the expression in them would not be revealed. She knows, he thought.

  But her lips said something different. “Of course not. How could I have done?”

  “Very easily I imagine. By counting, as I did.”

  “Well I didn’t count them.” She turned to the Blind Beak. “Shall I continue?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “After the ceremony was over I went to go down the stairs with everybody else. Then Her Majesty…” Lady Mary simpered. “… passed along the landing and I turned to make obeisance.”

  Only she could have put it like that, thought John.

  “At that moment George missed his footing and fell. That is all I have to say,” the widow finished.

  “You saw nothing out of the ordinary? Nobody moved near you?”

  “I can’t even remember who was standing close.”

  “Then let me refresh your memory. Julius and Christabel Witherspoon, who are neighbours of yours in Islington; Jack Morocco, the Duchess of Arundel’s adopted black son; and close behind, Miss Chudleigh and a servant of the King’s household, Digby Turnbull.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Lady Mary repeated obstinately.

  “Well, take it from me, they were there. Further, one of them saw a pair of shoes move quickly as the push was executed. A pair of shoes not unlike your own,” Sir John said harshly.

  Lady Mary emitted a scream loud as a trumpet. “How dare you? Are you accusing me? You shall not get away with this, Sir. I shall go to the highest in the land with my complaint against you. You shall b
e stripped of your office. Apologise I say.”

  Sir John remained amazingly calm. “Madam, I have accused you of nothing. I merely pointed out that the shoes that were seen were not unlike the ones you wear yourself. They were small and rather tight, that is all.”

  “Who saw this?” she asked truculently.

  “That I am not at liberty to disclose.”

  “Because there’s no such person,” Lady Mary retorted. “You say these things to discomfit your victims. Anyway, I’m telling you for once and for all, George fell accidentally.

  “You are entitled to believe that,” Sir John answered, and suddenly looked benign, a complete change of tack. “Tell me your life story,” he said, almost as if he were requesting a fairy tale.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said tell me your life story. You were born Lady Mary Milland, were you not? Daughter of the Earl of Grimsby?”

  “That is correct.”

  John could not help but notice that the widow’s little girl voice had returned and presumed from this that she was starting to calm down.

  “What happened next?”

  “I married young, very young, indeed scarcely seventeen, the Earl of Lomond, an ancient Scottish peerage. I then had my son, little Frederick, but when he was only two years old, his father was killed in a hunting accident. Then I met George and we were married shortly afterwards.”

  “How fortunate that a widow and widower should come together like that,” Sir John stated comfortably.

  She shot him a look of pure surprise and the Apothecary could almost see the words of denial forming on her lips. Then Lady Mary realised that the Public Office knew far more than she had reckoned on and that to contradict would do her more harm than good. “Yes,” she said shortly.

  “I believe your husband had a daughter by his first wife but that you did not wish to take her into your household,” the Magistrate continued.

  “It was for the girl’s own good,” Lady Mary answered, her voice now very small. “She was being brought up by her mother’s sister and was tremendously happy. She would not have enjoyed London life.”

  So Aminta had not lied. Lady Mary had known all along that the girl existed.

  “Did you ask her?” John said caustically.

  “There was no need to,” the widow answered crossly. “The situation spoke for itself.”

  “I see. I have also heard that your son was sent to boarding school because your husband did not care for his appearance. Is that correct?”

  “Of course not. He was sent to school to be educated. George was very fond of Frederick.”

  “Even though he teased him mercilessly about being obese?”

  The little girl voice had vanished. “Who told you this?” hissed Lady Mary angrily.

  “People who knew you at the time. The artist Julius Witherspoon and his sister to be precise. Mr. Rawlings has seen a portrait of you and your son that Sir George Goward refused to accept because he said you both looked too large.”

  Lady Mary’s face worked. “How dare you, Sir? What is the point of these questions? What are you trying to prove by asking me about the past and throwing insults into the bargain?”

  “By enquiring about the events leading up to a suspicious death, the reason for that death frequently becomes clear. Despite your contradiction, I believe that your husband was murdered and that somebody had a grudge against him. What I am trying to elucidate is, from the many who disliked him, which one actually gave him the fatal thrust.”

  “You’re wasting your time. George was very popular.”

  Sir John ignored this, turning the black bandage which he always wore over his eyes in her direction and sitting motionless, an old and unnerving ploy.

  “Thank you for telling me your story. Lady Mary. Now, is it complete in every detail? You have omitted nothing?”

  “Why should I?” Her tones had altered completely and a definite note of defiance was clearly audible. The Apothecary automatically fished in his bag for something calming.

  “No reason, no reason,” said the Blind Beak cheerfully. He paused, then asked silkily, “You only had the one child?”

  “I’ve already told you, Sir George and I did not have any children.”

  “I remember you saying that. But what I meant was, did you have another child, perhaps before Frederick was bom? And maybe another, conceived while you were married but proving to be unsuitable?”

  Lady Mary rose to her feet, looming like a great crow in her mourning clothes. “What are you insinuating, Sir?”

  “Nothing. Again I am only repeating rumour and gossip, a necessary part of any investigation I fear. Apparently it is said in Islington that you bore a child out of wedlock when you were a very young girl. Further, that you had a child while married to Sir George Goward but that it was black.”

  Lady Mary lost all colour and mouthed frantically, no sound coming from her lips.

  The Blind Beak continued ruthlessly. “Is this a fact, Madam? Answer me, I pray you.”

  The widow’s face turned the shade of raw liver and she made a choking sound as she clawed the air frantically. “Frederick,” she gasped, then fell in a dead faint at the Apothecary’s feet.

  It was more than a simple faint, of that he felt certain as he knelt at her side and felt her pulse. Lady Mary’s face had contorted, her lip down on one side, her eyelid drooping as if she had palsy. Further, her arm had twisted in a peculiar way and was lying half underneath her.

  “God’s life!” John exclaimed forcibly. “I think she’s had an apopletic fit.”

  “What?” called the Blind Beak, turning towards the sound. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Lady Mary. I believe she’s had a seizure.”

  “You must ring for the servants,” said Elizabeth, rising from her chair and hurrying to join John. She leaned forward to look into the widow’s face. “She seems palsied indeed. I declare the strain has been too much for her.”

  “That and her own precarious state of health. With the amount of extra weight she carried it is small wonder that she has been struck down.”

  Elizabeth’s anxious gaze met the Apothecary’s. “John’s questioning didn’t bring this about, did it?”

  “In a way. But this kind of seizure could have come upon her at any time, rest assured.” He searched frantically in his bag. “I’m not carrying anything really suitable. I hadn’t envisaged this sort of eventuality.”

  “Have you nothing that will bring her back to consciousness?” asked Lady Fielding, frantically tugging a bellrope.

  “Only Black Horehound for hysterics. That and my salts. I will do what I can but I think a physician should be sent for immediately.”

  “Is the woman seriously ill?” asked Sir John from his chair.

  “She has certainly had a seizure, Sir.”

  “Did I cause it?”

  “She was very unfit and the questions you asked her obviously hit home. Yet I can’t believe that someone with nothing to hide would have been as upset as she.”

  “If I have brought her low then I have much to answer for,” the Blind Beak said seriously.

  “You alone could not have done it,” John answered with equal gravity. “The apoplexy might have attacked at any moment. Please believe that.”

  The door to the salon opened and the black footman appeared. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Your mistress has been taken ill. Kindly arrange for her to be carried to her room and for a doctor to be summoned at once. Meanwhile, I will treat her.”

  Without much hope, John administered a spoonful of the horribly bitter Black Horehound and after a moment, much to his surprise. Lady Mary choked violently, twitched and opened one eye. Then she tried to speak but with no effect. It was as he had feared; an apoplexy had left her palsied and dumb. There would be no further statements from her for some considerable while. The mystery of her children was, for the time being anyway, going to remain just that.

  The journey back t
o Bow Street was conducted in sombre silence, Sir John Fielding obviously feeling more than guilty that Lady Mary had collapsed whilst being questioned about her past. However, his spirits were greatly restored by the sight of Julius Witherspoon who had called without an appointment on the chance of being able to make some preliminary sketches of the Blind Beak and his wife. Having decided that this would be in order, the older couple went to change into more suitable garments, leaving John alone with the painter.

  “And where is your delightful sister?” the Apothecary asked, hoping that his friend Samuel was not totally out of the picture.

  “She is shopping in town and is to go to the Theatre Royal later with Mr. Swann. Christabel and I are both planning to spend the night in London.”

  “So you will be on your own this evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do come and dine with me. My wife is in Kensington at the moment, staying with my father, so I would really appreciate your company.”

  “I’ve a better idea as you are temporarily a bachelor,” Julius answered. “Let us dine at my club, the Pandemonium. They are due to meet tonight at the Blenheim Tavern in Bond Street and I had half promised to be present. I think you should come.”

  “I should very much enjoy that,” the Apothecary answered, and leaving the little artist to start his sketches, hurried back to the shop to put in as much time as he could before the time to dine.

  It seemed that the Pandemonium Club rejoiced in the most extraordinary initiation ceremony to which John, proposed as a new member by Julius Witherspoon, suddenly found himself subjected. Almost as soon as he had entered the Blenheim Tavern, Julius had suggested that he should join their ranks, a proposal met with much acclaim by several other rowdy members, one of whom, the Apothecary was astonished to learn, was Thomas Gainsborough, the celebrated painter, presently living in Bath but in London on this occasion to execute a commission.