Death in Hellfire

by Deryn Lake

  Master Purefoy had stroked his chin. “And how did you administer it?”

  “I infused them in boiling water and gave the liquid to the man in teaspoonfuls.”

  The little girl had interrupted at this point. “I am going to be a herbalist when I grow up and I am going to use foxgloves to treat people.” She had turned to John. “Are you going to be an apothecary?”

  “I hope so,” he had answered.

  There had been further discussion between the two men, John recalled, and then the herbalist had left the shop. One thing he did remember vividly: the little girl had turned in the doorway and winked at him.

  Now John started looking frantically for some wild bunches of the beautiful flowers, Sir Francis, seeing him quicken his pace and search about, said, “What’s up, O’Hare?”

  “I need to find some foxgloves. I think I know a way to cure Lord Orpington’s heart attack.”

  “There are some growing over on the hill leading to the mausoleum.”

  “Oh, God’s life, that’s miles. Nothing nearer?”

  “I don’t know, my boy. I simply don’t know.”

  Samuel turned his head. “Anything wrong, John?”

  “I’ve got to find some foxgloves. No, don’t stare. I might be able to cure the old man’s heart trouble.”

  “Then go and look. Any instructions for when we get him - them - in?”

  “Yes, get his Lordship undressed and into bed. She’ll have to go into one of the outhouses. I’ll need to examine the body later.”

  “Right you are.”

  It took John ten minutes of frantic searching and then a flash of vivid colour caught his eye and his breath simultaneously. There was a huge clump of foxgloves growing in some sandy ground amongst the profusion of trees behind the house. Tearing them up he hurried indoors and went straight to the kitchens.

  He knew that by rights the leaves should have been stored and dried but he had no time for such niceties. Ripping them from the stalks, he poured boiling water over them and let them infuse. The kitchen hands and the chef, meanwhile, were staring at him askance and John’s assurances - stated over a shoulder while he continued to make his potion - did little to convince them that he was a genuine apothecary. Eventually one of them slipped away to ask Lady Dashwood and came back looking surprised and nodding.

  John, meanwhile, was weighing up the odds as to whether he should finally tell the company that he was working for Sir John Fielding. If he did, he thought, he would not dare tell Sir Francis that he had been present for the explicit purpose of investigating the Hellfire Club. Better to gloss over that and say he was in the neighbourhood by chance. Which led him to the difficult question of whether he should announce his true identity and lay to rest, for good and for all, the persona of Fintan O’Hare.

  It was all going to be extremely awkward but for the moment he had other things to concentrate on. The infusion was as ready as it would ever be. Taking a small spoon, John left the kitchen and hurried upstairs.

  Lord Orpington was clearly in agony, grasping his chest and groaning. He was wet with sweat and was calling out, “Arabella, Arabella,” in a feeble voice, at which Sir Francis, who was standing anxiously beside the bed, could only shake his head and mutter, “But she’s dead.” Clearly glad to see John arrive, he stood to one side and watched, his usual jovial countenance for once changed to one suitable for the occasion.

  “So you really are an apothecary, O’Hare?” he said, a note of wonderment in his voice as John spooned a small amount of liquid down the patient’s throat.

  John turned to face him. “Yes, I am, sir. In fact, I am not Fintan O’Hare, as I told you. My name is John Rawlings and I have a shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly. Furthermore, I occasionally work for Sir John Fielding, of whom no doubt you will have heard.”

  “You’re not O’Hare!” Sir Francis repeated in an accusatory tone. “Then tell me, why are you here?”

  “There’s been a bit of trouble in the neighbourhood,” John lied blithely. “I came down to investigate it.”

  “What trouble?” asked the other, his eyes narrowed and porcine. “I don’t know of any.”

  At that moment the patient moaned and raised his lids. “Where is Arabella?” he said, gripping John tightly by the shirt. “Rest now,” answered John, disengaging himself.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’ll come soon.”

  Behind him he heard Sir Francis clear his throat and John shot round. “Please don’t tell him the truth. Not at this stage. It could literally kill him.”

  “It seems that you deal easily in lies, young man. I suggest you soon turn over a new leaf.”

  “I promise to tell you everything, Sir Francis, but meanwhile I beg you to be patient. If Lord Orpington is going to survive he is going to need all my nursing skills.”

  “Very well. But I want a full explanation just as soon as you see fit to leave him.”

  “You shall have it, sir, of that I can assure you.”

  And with those words John Rawlings turned back to the inert figure on the bed and poured another spoonful of liquid between Lord Orpington’s lips.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was quiet in the outhouse. Outside Samuel stood on guard while Dominique, badly shaken - or doing a good impression of being so - sat in the workshop, his head in his hands. John, having seen Lord Orpington drop into a fitful sleep, had left the house and gone under the arch to the stableblock. Samuel had greeted him.

  “How is his Lordship?”

  “Sleeping at the moment. You know foxgloves can be highly toxic. That’s why I only give him very small amounts of the infusion. Quite honestly, Sam, it’s kill or cure.”

  “Oh dear. Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

  “Has anyone been near?”

  “Several people, though none have seen the body. Coralie and the child; Charles Arundel’s sister, Juliana; even Lady Dashwood came round, gave me a look that would have slain a gorgon, and went back to the house.”

  Despite the grim task he was about to undertake, John had laughed.

  “I can just see her. Anyway, whatever you do let nobody in while I examine her.”

  “You can rely on me,” Samuel answered, and had looked menacing.

  And now he watched outside while the Apothecary once more stood alone with death. It was a job that he never relished, in fact positively disliked, though he was well aware that he was the best qualified to do it. Yet still there was that slight hesitation as he first laid his hands on the corpse and gently began to look for the cause of death.

  First he removed the shoes, gazing into each one to see if there had been any foreign body lodged therein. Then, hating it, he removed the white stockings and minutely examined the legs, looking for a sign, any sign, that something untoward had taken place. There was nothing. Next he raised her skirts to her waist and performed the most horrible task of all - looking to see if Lady Orpington had been sexually active recently and whether this could have caused her sudden and shocking demise. Somewhat to his surprise he discovered that she had not.

  Undressing the top half of the dead girl he stopped for a moment to admire her childlike beauty, then put such thoughts from his mind as he concentrated on looking for some clue as to how she had died. There was nothing. As far as he could see the cause of death must have been a natural one. Still he went to the door and called to Samuel.

  “Sam, come in here a moment.”

  Samuel’s round face appeared anxiously in the opening. “Why? John, I’m not very good with bodies.”

  “I want you to lift her for me, turn her over so that I can examine her back.”

  “But that will mean touching her.”

  “Of course it will. Now come along, my friend. Think of it as a favour to me.”

  The Goldsmith took a cautious step inside and said, “You’ve undressed her,” in an accusing tone.

  “Not completely. Besides, I had to do so in order to examine h
er.”

  Samuel crept forward, each step tentative. John, watching him, said, “She can’t hurt you, you know.”

  “I am aware of that. It’s just that I have had little to do with corpses.”

  “You’ve seen a few with me, my dear.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But somehow this seems different.”

  “Well, it isn’t. Now come on.”

  Samuel stationed himself by the girl’s feet, while John took hold of her shoulders.

  “Right, now turn her to the right. Are you ready?”

  Samuel nodded and they performed their macabre task in silence. John gently placed Lady Orpington’s head to one side so that her face was not pressed into the wood of the table on which she lay.

  “By the way,” he said, as he started his examination, “where is her lover now?”

  “He’s coffined up and been taken back to the house to lie in state before his removal. We must go and pay our respects before we return to the inn.”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied John absently.

  He was concentrating on the girl’s neck, having pulled her hair up and out of the way. Just above the line of her dress he could see a little red mark, like the bite of an insect. John bent down over it, examining it carefully. Then he called Samuel, who was still standing by the girl’s feet, looking pale.

  “Come and have a look at this.”

  Samuel reluctantly made his way and surveyed the wound closely.

  “It’s very small. Looks like a bee sting.”

  “But it’s not. The sting is missing.”

  John put out a finger and very gently rubbed the mark, then he sniffed and carefully tasted the substance on his digit.

  “Samuel, I’ll swear that this girl has been poisoned, though exactly how it was administered defeats me at the moment.”

  “You mean that it went in through that little hole?”

  “I do. But how? A knife would be too big and would leave a different wound. Even an arrowhead would be larger. God help me, I could be wrong, but I have a strange feeling about it.” He straightened up. “We have to inform the constable, I fear.”

  Sam groaned. “Oh dear, we all know what they can be like.”

  “Indeed we do. Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Do you remember that Lady Orpington’s hat was lying beside her?”

  “Yes, I do. She had it clutched in her fingers as I recall.”

  “She must have had it on when she was poisoned so that her neck was free of hair. So who took it off?”

  “And,” Sam added enthusiastically, “who put her in that folly? For surely she did not go in there to die.”

  “Definitely not. Somebody must have carried her inside after she was poisoned.”

  “Which points to a man.”

  “Not necessarily. She was a tiny little thing. A strong woman could have managed her with ease.” John braced his shoulders. “Come on, let us leave her in peace. I must brave the wrath of Sir Francis. He is after my blood full pelt having realised that Fintan O’Hare was a figment of imagination.” They stepped outside, locking the door behind them. Dominique Jean was in the stableyard, just climbing into his coach, and he looked across in their direction.

  “Gentlemen,” he called, “I have decided to spend one more night at the inn and I am making my way there now. I will buy you that drink after all.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said John, and bowed to him as the coach rumbled past.

  In the house there was an ominous silence. Indeed there was no one around that either man could see, let in as they were by a servant.

  “Where is Sir Francis Dashwood?” John enquired.

  “He is outdoors, sir. I do not know where.”

  “And Lady Dashwood?”

  “As far as I know, my Lady is with him.”

  John turned to Samuel and was just about to say that perhaps they should seek him out when a door at the far end of the hall opened and Lady Juliana Bravo stood there.

  “I hear that you have been here under false pretences,” she said coldly.

  “I am here, madam,” John replied with dignity, “on behalf of Sir John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of London. He sent me to investigate the proceedings of the Hellfire Club, which he believed might be subversive. As it happened, I could find no evidence of this. But in the meantime two people have been murdered and I regard it as part of my duty to assist the constable in his enquiries.”

  She gaped at him, going very white. “What are you saying? That somebody murdered my brother and the Countess of Orpington?”

  “Yes, precisely that.”

  “And what may I ask was the method used?”

  “Poison for the lady,” John said firmly. “Of what origin I am not yet certain.”

  Juliana drew breath and brought herself under some form of control. “And you are sending for the constable?”

  “Not to do so, madam, would be to go against the law of the land. As soon as I have seen Sir Francis I shall go straight to the village and make enquiries as to the constable’s identity.”

  She sat down rather suddenly. “I am thoroughly shocked by what you say.” She paused a moment and looked thoughtful. “Of course Charles and the lady in question were very friendly, you know.”

  John looked at her. “Yes, I was aware.”

  “It occurs to me that she could have been so upset at his death that she committed suicide.”

  Thinking of that strange little hole in the back of Arabella’s neck, John looked sceptical. “I very much doubt that.”

  “Why? Could she not have administered poison by her own hand?”

  “Indeed, she could. But I do not think it likely.”

  Lady Juliana looked determined. “Well, I am quite prepared to tell the constable my theories. I believe that I might well have hit upon the truth.”

  John bowed. “You must do as you think best, my Lady.”

  Samuel said nothing till they got outside, but once there he stated, “But that’s not possible, the suicide theory I mean. For who stabs themselves in the back of the neck?”

  “An acrobat,” John answered tersely, seeing Sir Francis Dashwood sitting on a bench in the sun and already preparing himself for a severe reprimand.

  He approached quietly but saw one eye open. “So there you are,” Sir Francis said.

  “Yes, sir. I have examined the body of the Countess of Orpington and concluded that she was poisoned. I intend to go at once to inform the constable,” John answered very formally.

  “A moment before you do so, young man. You say that you work for John Fielding, who is a likeable enough fellow in his own way. Did he ask you to find out about the Hellfire Club?”

  “Sir, I was instructed to discover any hint of subversion amongst its members. I found none.”

  “And why should Fielding think that, pray?”

  “Because I believe at one time John Wilkes was a keen member of the organisation.”

  Sir Francis literally ground his teeth together in a crunching sound.

  “Merciful heavens! Are we all to be tarred with that man’s beastly brush? He may be a rabid rabble-rouser but that is a matter entirely for himself and does not mean that everyone associated with him is of like mind. As you know well, O’Hare - Rawlings - whatever your name is, we concentrate on one thing and one thing alone.”

  John grinned, he couldn’t help it, a vivid memory of Teresa coming back to him.

  “Working the pilgrim’s staff till it’s ready to fall off,” Sir Francis continued robustly. “And the Lord help any domine- do-little who joins our merry throng.”

  The interview was far more civil than the Apothecary had imagined it could be and he decided to retreat before any more could be said. He bowed.

  “It is gracious of you to be so kind about my deception, Sir Francis. I am afraid that those attached to the Public Office are sometimes forced to adopt disguises in order to achieve their objective. I am sure that as a Member of Parliament you will understand and toler
ate this predicament in which we find ourselves.”

  Sir Francis decided to be munificent. “One appreciates what you fellows have to go through.” He already seemed to have classified John as a Beak runner, pure and simple. “Nonetheless, it is not so funny when the deception is aimed at oneself. However, in the present grim and terrible circumstances we should, I suppose, be grateful that you are among us.”

  “I sincerely hope so, sir,” said John, while Samuel - not to be left out - also muttered something appropriate.

  “Now, what are you going to tell the constable?”

  “Nothing about the Hellfire Club. That shall remain our secret. But I must inform him of the two deaths and let him make his own investigations. By the way, sir, do you know who he is?”

  “Of course I do. His name is Zachary Flint and he farms nearby.”

  John’s heart sank, as it often did when he considered the local village constable. A job much hated and despised, some citizens picked a deputy to act for them and those people were probably the worst of all. At least this one was in an honest profession.

  “You’ll find him at Five Oak Farm, near the entrance to the east drive. But he goes into the George and Dragon most evenings. You’ll probably catch him there.”

  “Thank you, Sir Francis. I shall put in my report how very cooperative you have been. And now if you’ll forgive me, I think Mr Swann and I should pay our respects to the late Lord Arundel.”

  As they made their way upstairs they were joined by Lady Dashwood, looking, if possible, more dreary than ever.

  “Are you going to see poor Charles?” she asked tonelessly.

  “Yes, madam, that was our intention.”

  “Then come with me.”

  She led them into the bedroom he had occupied until recently, the curtains drawn against the light, the place lit by large candles which she had dotted here and there.

  “We are having some of the neighbours round tonight,” she continued in the same colourless voice. “I must give instructions about the catering.” And she immediately turned on her heel and left them.

  “Ah well,” said John, approaching the bed on which the poor fellow’s coffin had been placed.