by Deryn Lake
They had all returned to Nassau Street late on Sunday night, John’s father walking round the house with a quiet reflective air, as if he were remembering the past when he had lived there with his wife and adopted son. The Apothecary, sensing something of this, insisted that a fire was lit in the library and that he and Sir Gabriel sat there and talked before they went to bed, as they had always done in the past.
“And so what steps will you take next?” his father asked when John had told him everything that had recently occurred.
“First of all I must find Lucinda and Lord Lomond. At the very least they have to be told that their mother is ill.”
“So it was Lady Mary that Lucinda was protecting all the time.”
“Yes, though I truly don’t think she deserved any loyalty whatsoever.”
“Tell me again about the black child that Milady is supposed to have had.”
“The rumour is that she became pregnant while married to Sir George, tried to pass the child off as his, but that when it was bom it was the wrong colour, so her plan was foiled.”
“And she didn’t keep it?”
“Certainly not. It was probably given away, or even sold. It occurred to me that it might just be Jack Morocco.”
“But how could that be? Surely he is far too old.”
The Apothecary had stared at his father, wondering how he could have been so obtuse as to not see this for himself. If Frederick was twelve, then the black child must be no more than ten. The dark dandy’s connection with the Gowards had to be through his relationship with Aminta alone.
“Did everybody hate George Goward?” Sir Gabriel had asked, picking up John’s train of thought.
“Yes. Elizabeth Chudleigh thought he might blackmail her because it is said that she is still married though she pretends to be single. Julius and Christabel Witherspoon detested him for impregnating then deserting their older sister. Aminta Wilson must have felt betrayed, knowing that he was her father but had never even bothered to see her. Jack Morocco, who loves her as far as he is capable of that emotion, disliked the man for that very reason. Digby Turnbull loved Aminta’s mother and could well be seeking to avenge her.”
“Which one pushed him?”
“If only I knew.”
“Was it Lady Mary herself?”
“Very possibly.” John had shaken his head ruefully. “But if her power of speech does not return then we will never find that out.”
“It seems to me,” Sir Gabriel had said thoughtfully, “that you most probably will not solve this mystery at all.”
“I agree,” John had answered, and with this sobering thought they had retired for the night.
But now it was morning and everyone was more cheerful, particularly as a good table in the Great Room had been secured and the delicious smell of Miss Trusler’s baking was being carried on the air to awaken the appetite.
Having ascertained the whereabouts of the Duke of Guernsey’s estate, the Apothecary had decided to breakfast with his family then leave them to enjoy the concert while he went to call.
“Supposing he is not there?” Emilia asked, sipping chocolate.
“Then I shall leave a card and return on another occasion. Anyway, you two are perfectly happy here for a few hours?”
“I could spend all day in the Gardens,” Emilia answered.
“And I,” added Sir Gabriel gallantly, waving to an acquaintance he had just noticed at another table. “It will be most pleasant to catch up with old friends.”
“And make some new ones,” his daughter-in-law added saucily, smiling at a handsome gentleman.
But the Apothecary was too busy eating a huge breakfast to rise to this and merely winked his eye at her.
An hour later he was back in the coach and heading away from the Gardens towards Love Lane, which cut across the fields in an easterly direction. Fronting on to this lane, separated from one another by the open spaces of Marybone Park, were three inns. The Queen’s Head and Artichoke, The Jew’s Harp House and The Yorkshire Stingo. The Queen’s Head was very old, reputedly once being the house of a gardener to Queen Elizabeth. Though humble, it none the less had a garden for skittles and bumble-puppy, and served cream teas in shady bowers. The Jew’s Harp was also very modest, though here the attractions were bowery tea gardens and skittle grounds. The third was a little more ambitious for already extensive tea gardens were being laid out and there was a bowling green attached. But it was to none of these idyllic rural retreats that John made his way, though he felt fairly certain that Irish Tom would be weighing up the possibilities of each as he passed. Instead he turned left at The Jew’s Harp House and continued on to where an imposing pair of gates, a crest in ironwork atop, led onto an elm drive. Here he waited while the lodge keeper swung the gates open, then the coach passed through into the parkland beyond.
The first Duke of Guernsey had been a bastard of Charles II by one of his many mistresses and it was he, so John believed, who had started to build Fishergate Park. Other, later, dukes had added their own touches so that now a truly magnificent pile rose to greet the eye as Irish Tom eased the horses round a bend in the drive and the house came into view. Protected by a great archway, an equestrian statue dominating its highest point, two exquisite wrought iron gates shutting the house off from the world, Fishergate Park stood square, three massive blocks joined together by two smaller. On the roof of the central block stood an Italianate tower, a vast arched doorway at its centre.
“He’s very young to own all this,” remarked Tom from the box as the second pair of gates were swung open to give them admittance.
“I just hope he’s at home.”
“Wouldn’t they know that at the lodge, Sir?”
“Not necessarily. Just look at the size of the place. There’s another drive leading from the back, crossing over that marvellous bridge. He could have gone out that way and no one would be any the wiser.”
“A secure and secret spot to hide in.”
“It certainly would be,” said John, and was seized by that customary frisson which told him something was afoot.
Gaining admittance to the house was more difficult than it had been to get into the grounds. After a great deal of tugging at bell chains and thunderous knocking, the vast door in the central block was opened by two footmen who took John’s card, then closed the door again.
“I reckon the little bastard who owns this could do with a good hiding,” said Irish Tom loudly. “Who does he think he is, giving himself all these airs and graces?”
“He’s a descendant of Charles II and he’s alright really. It’s his half-brother who’s a true tripehound.”
“I’ve a mind to sort him out and all,” Tom stated, clearly rattled by the fact that his master had been kept waiting.
“He’s only a boy so it would be an unequal contest. Mind you, I did nearly drown him recently. A very satisfying experience.”
With a great deal of squeaking the front door opened again and John was ushered into a Great Hall of immense proportions, so immense that it rose into the tower under which it had been built. A huge fireplace with not only a painting but also a full-sized statue above, dominated one end of the hall, the other was taken up by arched glass doors leading out into the grounds. Standing by the fireplace, warming himself and looking totally unconcerned that he should be meeting someone from the Public Office, was the youthful Duke himself.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said as John made a formal bow. “I was expecting one of those Beak Runners. Do you work for Sir John Fielding then?”
“Occasionally I do. I am helping with this case because I was present at the investiture when the fatality took place.”
“Is it true George Goward was pushed?”
“Yes, we now have another witness who saw something.”
“Really? I’ve already told you that I didn’t. But I forget myself. Come up to the Double Cube Room. It was built nearly a hundred years ago and is full of surprises.”
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��Such as?”
“Well it was planned as a Double Cube Room - sixty by thirty by thirty - but still it is somewhat out of kilter. The windows aren’t symmetrical; the fireplace isn’t completely opposite the centre of the painted ceiling. It’s mysterious - and fascinating, because nobody can explain it.”
The Duke mounted a staircase leading from the Great Hall and John, following him, thought how mature the young man suddenly seemed, how capable of handling any situation, how sure of himself.
“Did you know George Goward at all?” he asked.
Guernsey turned his head and frowned. “No, the investiture was the first occasion on which I’d set eyes on him.”
“I see. Apparently his stepson was at school with your brother. I just wondered if you might have come across him there.”
“I can’t say that I did. No.”
“Ah. Well, by the most extraordinary chance, it now seems that this same stepson is the boy who has run away. The one I told you about who had a sister at the school, disguised as a male.”
The Duke did not reply, striding along the corridor at the top of the stairs, then throwing open a pair of double doors and ushering his visitor into the room that lay beyond. Overwhelmed by its magnificence, John looked around him.
A beautifully painted ceiling edged by glorious gilt surrounds drew the eye upwards at once, but as it lowered again intricately carved doorways, huge windows, family portraits in gilt frames, two full sized gold figures over the fireplace, framing a picture of the Duke and his half-siblings, all came into view.
“Glorious,” said John.
“It’s my favourite place,” Guernsey answered casually. “Now take a seat, do. Tea will be brought.” He waited for his guest to find a chair, then sat down opposite, crossing one fine young leg over the other. “So, Sir, tell me how I can help you further.”
“It’s about the pages-of-honour,” said John.
As they had on the previous occasion, the light blue eyes clouded. “What about them? I have told you everything I know.”
“Your Grace, with respect, I do not think that you have.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Sir?”
The Apothecary remained calm. “How could I be so churlish? It is simply that, beyond a shadow of doubt, there were thirteen boys present that day. I personally saw one of them run down the long reception room after George Goward fell. At the time I thought he was hurrying to get help. Now I believe that he was getting away as quickly as he could before he was noticed. Your Grace, I am not accusing this boy of being a murderer; the fact that he was there is probably a mere coincidence. But I do need to know why he was present and who he was. Please help me.”
There was a long silence during which the Duke got to his feet, walked to the window and stared out over the park. Eventually he spoke with his back turned.
“It would be dishonourable of me to dissemble. There was another boy present. I saw him too. But he had nothing to do with the murder.”
“How do you know that?”
Guernsey continued to stare out. “I just do. You will have to take my word for it.”
John raised his mobile brows. “So you know who it was?”
“Yes.”
“And why he was there?”
“That too.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
The Duke turned on his heel and gave John the most powerful stare. “No, Sir, I am not. I have given my word as a gentleman to keep silent, so silent I will keep.”
“You could well be impeding the course of justice.”
“Then justice be damned. The boy had nothing to do with the death of George Goward. It is another matter entirely that caused him to be present at the investiture. Now let us drop the subject and take tea like civilised folk. You’ll get nothing further out of me so I advise you not to try.”
For one so young he commanded a great deal of authority and John knew quite certainly that to persist would do more harm than good. With as good a grace as he could muster he made polite conversation over the tea cups, though all the time his mind was racing as to how he could discover the identity of the thirteenth boy. For with him lay the key, he felt it instinctively. The page had seen something, John was certain, for why else should he run away like that? An idea came.
“Was your brother at the investiture. Lord Guernsey?”
“Arnold? Perish the thought. Why do you ask?”
“I saw him the other day, at the Cold Bath in Kensington.” John omitted to say that the little beast had removed the Apothecary’s drawers underwater.
“How unpleasant for you.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I can’t stand the fellow, particularly after his latest exploit.”
“Which was?”
The Duke coloured and momentarily lost his composure. “It was a family matter. One that I do not care to discuss.”
“I’m sorry, I did not mean to intrude.”
“No, of course not.” The young man cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Rawlings, can I be of any further assistance?”
This was his cue to depart and John took it. “No, your Grace, you have been most kind. However, if you should reconsider and decide to tell me who was the unidentified page-of-honour, I can assure you that you will be assisting Sir John Fielding greatly. Now I must take my leave. I ordered my coachman to return in an hour. He should be here by now.”
Irish Tom may have many faults, a penchant for drinking and singing being two of them, but unpunctual he was not. The coach was drawn up outside, John’s strong dark horses standing quietly, obviously having enjoyed their break as much as their driver.
“I’ve a mind, Sir,” said Tom, as he helped the Apothecary in and pulled up the step behind him, “to go out the other way, just for the pleasure of driving over that bridge. Would you have any objection to that?”
“As long as it doesn’t take us too far out of our way, no.”
They swept round the house, staring at the beautiful south front, its gracious lines displaying only two towers, one on each corner. On the first floor of each tower were stone balconies, one beneath each major window, and a slight movement on one of these galleries caught the Apothecary’s eye. A boy sat there, or rather lay, on a chaise, scarcely visible behind the sheltering balustrade. But at the sound of the coach he raised himself and, very briefly, peered over to see the carriage below.
It was a haunting face, even at that distance. A face dominated by enormous eyes that gazed sadly downwards, a face so thin that the skin seemed stretched to breaking point over the prominent bones. Then the boy lowered himself out of sight.
“Did you see that?” John called to Irish Tom.
“I did, Sir. Made me think of a changeling. We have lots of those in Ireland.”
“Do you now?” John answered, and laughed. But inside his head the picture of the boy lingered, and the more the Apothecary thought about it the more certain he became that somewhere or other, and not so long ago at that, he had quite definitely seen the child before.
Chapter 120
It was quite extraordinary. It was almost as if John were acting under compulsion. Ever since he had left Fishergate Place strange thoughts had flown through his mind, thoughts that he couldn’t properly identify, memories that he couldn’t quite grasp. Overriding all these, however, had been the fixed idea that he must visit Lady Mary Goward once more. That somehow, exerting all his powers as a healer, he must help her to speak, impress on her the need to tell him everything about her past.
Yet even while these notions overwhelmed him, the professional part of his brain, the part that controlled the apothecary who had studied diligently and for so long to gain knowledge, knew that such ideas were sheer folly, that it was highly unlikely that the widow would ever fully regain her powers after her apoplectic seizure. But still the mood was upon him, to the extent that he instructed Tom to collect Emilia and Sir Gabriel from Marybone Gardens while he picked up a hackney coach an
d returned to London alone, telling the driver to head towards Hyde Park and that more specific directions would be given later.
All the while he drove, John continued to mull over the situation, picturing the people involved in the mystery, certain that the answer now lay close at hand, could he but grasp the thread, Sir John had believed the children in the case held the key: Lucinda, Frederick Drummond, also called Lord Lomond, Aminta, Elizabeth Chudleigh’s dead baby, and the missing black boy, if there were such a creature. But how to fit them into the puzzle and then see the final solution? And what of the Witherspoon twins? Had their sister really miscarried George Goward’s child, or had the child lived and was even now lying concealed somewhere, ready to be used by its aunt and uncle as a tool for vengeance against Lady Mary?
It was as he was thinking these things, staring out of the window, gazing but not really seeing, that John suddenly came to his senses at the sudden appearance of one of the very people he had been considering. Aminta Goward, or Wilson as she preferred to be known, was walking down the street. Ebony James a few paces before her, clearing the way for his mistress. Today she was dressed and presented even more unconventionally than usual, her glorious red hair hanging straight, a simple hat topped by a bow on her head, her gown totally without hoops, blue and white, utterly artless, utterly stunning.
John couldn’t help himself. He lowered the window and called out, “Miss Wilson, over here.”
She looked startled, then recognised the man leaning out of the coach and dropped a demure curtsey. Acting utterly on impulse, John ordered the hackney driver to stop, then jumped out, paid him off, and joined her.
He bowed low. “May I say how delightful you look?”
Her eyes twinkled. “You may say it by all means.”
“And where is Jack Morocco today?”