by Deryn Lake
“He is actually working - he does occasionally, you know - giving a fencing lesson to some privileged puppy.”
“You sound as if you don’t approve.”
“Of Jack working or the recipient of the lesson?”
“Both perhaps.”
“As I told you, Jack Morocco is a free spirit and will do as he pleases when he pleases. As for the puppy, no I don’t approve of those brought up with too much money and not enough hardship.”
“You suffered as a child.” It was a statement not a question.
“Of course, but I don’t regret it. It made me so much stronger, I am more than aware of that.”
“Still you must blame your father and stepmother for not wanting to take you in and bring you up.”
“They are not worth the blaming,” said Aminta factually.
“They are - were - far too stupid even to consider. I’m on my way to see her now,” she added surprisingly.
“You mean Lady Mary?”
“Who else?”
“Then may I accompany you?”
“Of course, though first I must get flowers.” She took some money from her purse. “Ebony, go and buy blooms. Don’t be long and hurry back. Mr. Rawlings and I will make our way to South Audley Street.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the black boy answered in a voice that made John smile. The child’s original negro tones were fast disappearing beneath an accent extremely like Jack Morocco’s own.
When the child had gone, John said, “I am surprised that you are calling on Lady Mary. I didn’t realise you were on those terms with her.”
“I am not,” Aminta answered simply, “but I heard that she had been struck down and I was moved to call out of pity. I doubt she will even know who I am.”
“I wonder. Will you tell her you are her late husband’s daughter?”
“I might. I shall have to wait and see her condition.”
“Let us hope that it has improved.”
But long faces answered the door of the gracious house where Lady Mary resided when in London and, seeing them, John doubted that he and Aminta would even be given permission to enter. However, there he was to be surprised. It appeared that the sick woman’s physician was forward-thinking and believed in as much stimulation as possible for those who had suffered from apoplexy - or so they were informed by a fierce looking woman who announced herself as Lady Mary’s helper.
“Then we may go up?”
“Just for ten minutes. Milady is washed and ready.”
And obviously bed-ridden, thought the Apothecary.
The room in which the sick woman lay was stifling, full of the stench of decay. Casting his mind back to when he had first seen her, fat and frothy, her little-girl voice piping, her stays too tight, John was horrified by the change in Lady Mary Goward. Now she lay like a great marshmallow, pale and terrible, her face distorted, her mouth on the twist, and yet the expression in her eyes sent a shiver through him. He felt certain from the very way she looked at him, that she knew absolutely everything that was going on.
“Two visitors. Milady,” said the helper loudly, as if the sufferer’s hearing had also been affected.
John bowed out of sheer force of habit and Miss Wilson gave a bob of the knees. Lady Mary just stared, that same frighteningly knowing stare.
Aminta had obviously judged the situation rapidly and found the poor wretch too feeble to be told the truth about who Aminta really was. So, “I am a neighbour,” she said instead. “I have brought you some flowers to cheer you. My boy will be here with them in a moment.”
There was no response, just total silence and the same unflickering gaze.
“I hope you remember me, Madam,” John said cheerfully, feeling utterly craven for even smiling in the presence of such affliction.
The dreadful eyes regarded him without blinking. She hates me, thought the Apothecary. She associates me with Sir John Fielding and she believes that he caused her downfall.
“Nice to have visitors,” said the helper, still bellowing. “Shall we try and say something?”
The eyes moved sideways but there was no other response.
There was a sound in the hallway and Ebony James’s voice rang out. “My Mistress is with Milady. These are her flowers.”
“May he bring them up?” Aminta asked the helper.
“Certainly. Nice to have blooms, isn’t it,” she yelled into Lady Mary’s ear.
Small feet pounded up the staircase and a second later the door opened and the black boy stood there, his little face grinning broadly beneath his stylish turban, his arms full of flowers.
“I’m here. Mistress,” he said.
The figure in the bed heaved like a whale as Lady Mary jerked upright. John, amazed that she could have managed even that, stared at her and saw her face contort into that of a gargoyle, then heard a ghastly screeching scream come from the distorted mouth.
“No,” cried the agonised woman, and sat totally straight for a moment before she fell back on her pillows, motionless.
The Apothecary ran to her side and felt for her pulse. There was none.
“Clear the room,” he said to the helper. “I think Lady Mary is dead.”
The fastest running servant in the house had been sent flying for a physician but even though the doctor came almost immediately, nothing could have saved her. She was dead when she hit the bed. The moment that Aminta and Ebony James had been hurried away, the Apothecary had buried his head in that billowing bosom and listened for the sound of Mary Goward’s heart. There had been nothing but silence. He had looked up at the helper and shaken his head.
“She’s gone?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But why?”
“A massive heart seizure, I imagine.”
“But what could have caused that so suddenly?”
Again John had shaken his head but inwardly he thought he knew. Had it been the sight of a black boy of about ten years old that had frightened her, quite literally, to death? Had she thought that at long last her past had caught up with her and the day of reckoning had come?
He had stayed with the body until the physician had arrived. Had reported all that he had seen, and the measures he had used to ascertain death, then taken his leave. Now, as he descended the stairs he saw that Aminta and Ebony James awaited him in the hall, the child sobbing uncontrollably in his mistress’s arms. The boy turned a large glistening eye in John’s direction as he heard the Apothecary approach.
“Oh Masser, did I kill her?” His aristocratic accent had vanished again.
“Of course you didn’t. She was very ill and could have gone at any time.”
“But she looked at me, Masser. Oh, how she did look at me.
“What do you mean?”
“As if she knew me. But I ain’t never seen her before, so how could she?”
Aminta spoke, quite firmly. “Ebony, you are to forget this whole matter and cease to upset yourself. You imagined that Lady Mary was staring at you. She had had a seizure and it had made her eyes strange. Now come along. We are going home.”
“I will escort you,” said John. “And then I shall make my way to Bow Street, Sir John Fielding must be informed of this latest extraordinary development.”
“Tell me,” asked Aminta as they stepped out into the street, “do you ever see your wife?”
“Of course I do. I was with her only this morning.”
“And before then?”
“A few days ago.”
She clicked her tongue against her teeth and smiled capti- vatingly. “You don’t keep a mistress as well, do you?”
“Of course not. What a preposterous suggestion.”
“Well, you would hardly have the time I suppose,” she answered, and laughed so wickedly that John found himself joining in.
The court at Bow Street was just rising at the end of the day’s session and John, approaching on foot, found himself swept along in the melee as those members of the beau monde who made it their amusemen
t to while away an hour or two watching a blind man administer justice, poured into the street. Somewhat to his astonishment, the Apothecary noticed a familiar figure amongst them. Digby Turnbull had been in court that day. John called his name and the honest citizen turned his head.
“My dear Sir,” said Digby, bowing politely, “how are you? Have you tracked down the missing Lord Lomond yet?”
The Apothecary grimaced. “Absolutely not. He and Lucinda seem to have vanished off the face of the earth. However, there has been an amazing development. Their mother is dead.” And he recounted in detail the events of that afternoon.
“I can barely credit this. And you say Hannah’s daughter Aminta was in the room?”
“Yes.”
“Was she very upset?”
“Not at all. Obviously it was a shock but she did not grieve.”
“Quite rightly, considering the way the Gowards treated her.” A slow cruel smile crossed Digby’s features and John realised that the man was capable of looking thoroughly evil. “So they are both gone. Hannah is avenged indeed.”
He loved Aminta’s mother very much, John thought. There could be no doubt of that. Only one strong emotion could provoke another of such ferocity.
Perhaps realising that he had gone too far, Turnbull’s face rapidly restored to its usual blandness. “Well, I must be on my way.”
“One last thing, Sir, before you go. Did you see Lord Lomond at the investiture? Personally I can’t remember remarking him.”
Digby grinned sheepishly. “To be quite honest with you.Mr. Rawlings, I do not know one page-of-honour from another. The boys change, grow too old or too tall for the job, and I can never keep account of them. The only one I recognise is the Duke of Guernsey because he is the oldest and tallest and this will be his final year.”
“I see. A pity. Lomond’s enormous by the way, if that helps stir your memory.”
“Yes, you’ve already told me that. But many of them are very roly-poly. Eat too much, the little devils. Ah well, sorry I can’t be of assistance.”
Was he telling the truth or was he covering for some reason, John wondered, and sighed as he walked into the house in Bow Street where Sir John Fielding dwelled with his family.
The Blind Beak, having just left court, was in the process of removing his formal coat and slipping into a larger, easier garment in which he could relax. He turned as John was shown into the salon by a servant.
“You have a visitor, Sir John.”
The Apothecary bowed but remained motionless, wondering if the Magistrate would do his usual trick and, sure enough, after a moment or two of sniffing the atmosphere, the Blind Beak said, “Mr. Rawlings, I believe.”
“That never fails to astonish me,” John answered.
“It is really very simple as I have often explained. Now, Sir, take a seat. I believe you are weary. Let us have a restoring drink together.”
“How did you know that? That I was tired?”
“Your voice gave it away. It lacks its usual sparkle.”
“It is hardly surprising. A woman died in my presence today.”
“One of your patients?”
“No, Sir, “ John answered quietly. “It was Lady Mary Go ward.”
The Blind Beak became very still. “Is this death to be laid at my door? Did I kill her, Mr. Rawlings?””No, Sir, you did not. Be assured, though your questioning was hard it would not have affected anyone in a normal state of health. If Lady Mary had been fit she would have come through the interview unscathed.”
The Blind Beak nodded. “I think you had better tell me everything that has happened.”
“I will be delighted to do so. But before I launch into my tale may I ask you one question?”
“Certainly.”
“The whispered words uttered just before George Goward was pushed. You thought they were ‘What price greatness now.’ Miss Witherspoon believed the key word to be ‘slackness’. Can you not recall exactly what it was?”
Sir John hesitated. “It is not a question of recollection,” he said slowly. “Merely that the voice dropped so low that I could no longer hear it.”
“Then may I urge you once again to say whether it was the voice of a man or a woman.”
The Blind Beak shook his head. “It was fluting and high, obviously disguised. Its tones were unearthly. In fact, it sounded neither male nor female.”
“Oh ‘Zounds,” said John, and put his head in his hands, wondering exactly where this puzzle was finally going to lead him.
Chapter 21
“I do wish, John,” said Emilia, quite crossly, “that you would stop pacing about and get into bed. Has the death of Lady Mary Goward so upset you that you can’t settle down to sleep?”
“It’s not that,” he answered. “Of course, for anyone to die in such a manner is not pleasant, but the woman herself had led a feckless life, with little concern for her offspring, so it is hardly a great loss to society.”
“Then what is it that is concerning you so deeply?”
He frowned. “It’s the fact that there’s something I should be remembering, something that’s right under my nose and yet I cannot grasp it.”
“Do you mean that you know who pushed George Goward?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s to do with the thirteenth page boy.”
“You have discovered his identity?”
“I am on the brink of it. I should have realised it by now. It’s so close. Oh ‘Zounds, I sometimes think that my mind is going.”
Emilia laughed. “We all feel that from time to time. Come on, sweetheart, get some rest. Maybe the answer will come to you during the night.”
He smiled at her. “You’re so lovely. However, did I manage without you?”
“Very well, I imagine. Drawing comfort from the beautiful Coralie Clive.”
“That is not kind.”
“No, it wasn’t very. But, annoyingly, I hear your former mistress continues to go from triumph to triumph since her sister Kitty retired.”
“Then she will be achieving her life’s ambition. Now don’t lets talk about her any more. What’s past is past.”
“Yes it is.” Emilia patted the bed beside her. “And at present I am missing you, so please get in.”
He did so, suddenly exhausted, his entire body aching with weariness. But the second he closed his eyes he relived the dreadful moment when Lady Mary had sat bolt upright, screamed, and died. How altered she had been by her apoplexy, he thought. In the portrait painted of her by Julius Witherspoon, plump and vapid though she had looked, there had been a certain freshness and appeal about the woman. But the distorted creature lying in the bed had been transformed out of all recognition by illness.
“So changed,” he muttered.
“What?” said Emilia sleepily.
“I said how changed people are by illness.”
“Of course they are,” she answered, almost unconscious.
“Yes,” said the Apothecary in a sibilant whisper. Then he clapped his hand to his head. “That’s it,” he shouted. “That is it. Changed out of all recognition. Why didn’t I see it before?”
“Oh, do be quiet,” murmured Emilia, unable to know that in the darkness her husband was at long last smiling.
He rose at five, even before his apprentice, and walked round to the mews to wake Irish Tom, who had a room above the stables. The coachman, who had clearly had a bit of a thick night after he had brought John home, was forced to put his head into a bucket of cold water to revive himself, but finally he came to and set about getting the horses ready.
“Where are we going, Sorrh?” His accent was always very Irish when he was under pressure.
“First to Islington to see the Witherspoons, then on to Marybone.”
“That is one hell of a long drive, Sorrh.”
“I know, that’s why we’re starting early. Can you pick your way through, Tom?”
“Leave it to me, Mr. Rawlings.”
“Good, then cal
l for me at the house in ten minutes. I just want to go back and leave a message for my wife.”
“I’ll be there, never fear.”
And Irish Tom saluted, something of the Apothecary’s excitement rubbing off on him and making him suddenly cheerful.
They left exactly eleven minutes later, John pausing momentarily to put on his greatcoat for the morning was sharp with autumn cold. Tom, now wide awake and raring to go, set off at a fast trot towards Greek Street then picked his way through various lanes and alleys until he emerged in High Holbourn. From there it was a straight run down to Holboum itself, where the equipage turned left into Hatton Garden. Now the coach headed east, passing through Clerkenwell Green and eventually joining St. John Street. Here they turned north once more, heading straight for Islington.
Even though it was still early, coaches were waiting at The Angel so that they might cross the fields in convoy and frighten off lurking highwaymen. John took this opportunity of consuming a warming brandy before he climbed into his carriage once more and headed towards the home occupied by the Witherspoon twins, his mind racing at the prospect of his theory proving correct.
Julius was at home alone, Christabel having left the house early in order to go into London for shopping.
“My dear fellow,” said the painter, much surprised at the sight of the Apothecary standing on his front doorstep. “To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”
“To rather an odd request, I fear.”
“Which is?”
“That I might look at the portrait of Lady Mary Goward and Frederick once more.”
Julius lowered his voice. “Is it true she has died? Rumours are flying.”
“Yes, it’s perfectly true. I was present. It was terrible.”
“The mills of God, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if she pushed the wretched George then it’s divine retribution.”
“But I don’t think she did,” John answered, but refused to be drawn further.
The portrait was in its customary position, stacked behind a pile of others, all placed on the floor and leaning against a wall. Holding the stack while Julius heaved the picture out, John felt excitement mount within him as the artist placed it on an easel and stood back to examine it.