by Deryn Lake
“I’m off to a funeral later, my lads,” John said briefly, and slipped off his coat and put a long apron over the rest of his sombre gear.
At half past one the solemn funeral bell started its melancholy single note and ten minutes later the Apothecary hurried from his shop and went down Shug Lane to Castle Street, turned left into Air Street and thus made his way to Piccadilly and the church of St James’s. Pulling his hat well down, John stood behind a bush in the churchyard and watched the various arrivals.
Dignitaries came by the score and amongst them the Apothecary recognised several monks of St Francis. As well as the monks there were two apostles, namely Lord Sandwich and Sir Henry Vansittart, who made their way inside to be followed a moment later by the arrival of Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood, he very florid, she looking disapproving and somewhat thin. Finally, the immediate family appeared escorting the coffin. Coralie - very pale and lovely - holding the hand of her pallid child, followed by Lady Juliana on the arm of an elderly artistocratic man who John presumed to be the dead man’s father, the Duke of Sussex. Having checked that they were safely inside, the Apothecary slipped in and sat at the back where he could see everything that occurred.
Coralie was weeping, presumably remembering her husband as he must once have been, as was the old Duke, probably for the same reason. John wondered if the man had another son who would now inherit the title, and looking round those sitting in the front pew thought he identified a likely candidate. Lady Juliana sat ramrod straight, her lips moving soundlessly as if she were praying for the soul of her departed brother. Occasionally she would pat the hand of Georgiana, who sat next to her, her face utterly expressionless. John thought that if he had been asked to pick a murderer from among them his money would have gone on the child.
The service finally came to an end after several flowery funeral orations, one given by Sir Francis himself - by now puce in the face - which as far as John could see amounted to nothing more nor less than a series of totally false compliments. As soon as it was over he rose like lightning and made his way out to the churchyard. The freshly dug grave - like an open black mouth - yawned nearby, the gravediggers standing removed at a respectful distance. Down from the church wound the mournful dark procession and John secreted himself behind a large family grave with an overpowering angelic erection above. The line of mourners passed within a few feet of him and he found himself terribly aware of their individual smells. At the head of the file came Coralie, holding Georgiana by the hand, and John was instantly reminded of the many nights he had spent with her, locked in her embrace, inhaling that wonderful perfume of hyacinths which he always associated with her. The child smelt faintly of horses and John suspected that she had not washed since going for a ride that morning.
Behind them followed Lord Arundel’s father, sister and brother; the old man smelling of shaving soap and ancient perspiration, she of lavender water, as if she had splashed a great deal on herself, the brother of costly scent, Sir Francis Dashwood stunk of stale alcohol, Lady Dashwood of vinegar, while Lord Sandwich had a musty aroma peculiar to him alone. Betsy and James Avon-Nelthorpe both wore outrageously expensive perfumes. There were a great many people walking to the graveside and from each one John detected a highly individualistic whiff as they passed him by in his hidden hiding place.
He was just about to creep away when a voice muttered in his ear, “Good morning, sir. I thought I might find you here.” He looked up and straight into the fox face of Joe Jago.
“Joe!” John exclaimed at full voice and was instantly told to be quiet.
“Nobody knows you’re about so let’s keep it that way, sir.” The Apothecary looked contrite. “You’re right,” he whispered. “What brings you here?”
“Saw the announcement in the papers and Sir John suggested I come and have a look. He also suggested that if Sir Francis Dashwood were here then we head straight for West Wycombe and search the grounds before he gets back. Are you game, sir?”
“Of course I am. When do we leave?”
“Immediately. I have a coach waiting at the church gates. I also have a runner ready to deliver a message to your family.” John gave a smile that turned his mouth up on one side. “Poor wretches. It would never surprise me to walk in one day and for my daughter to say, “Who are you?””
Joe chuckled. “I am quite aware of how you feel, sir. So if you’d rather not…”
“I can’t wait to conduct a search in your company, my friend. Let us go.”
Half an hour later they had left London and were heading in the direction of Oxford. Four hours after that they stopped for refreshment at Henley-on-Thames. By now it was getting on for seven o’clock and though it would be light for another few hours - it being high summer - by the time they reached West Wycombe the shadows would be lengthening. They decided therefore to leave the coaching inn first thing in the morning and take a chance that Sir Francis would not travel home overnight.
“It is my belief he will enjoy the delights of London for a few days,” said John.
“Let us hope you are right, sir. Otherwise I shall have to go all official and brandish my letter from Sir John.”
In the event they arrived at West Wycombe House at seven o’clock the next morning and John, waving cheerily at the east gate lodgekeeper, managed to gain entrance. But once there the enormity of the task before them struck them both with force.
Joe gulped loudly. “The grounds are vast, sir. It would take an army of men a week to search them thoroughly.”
“But you expected them to be large, did you not?”
“Yes, but not quite as big as this.”
“Listen, Joe, let us start searching near the Temple of Venus - that is where the second murder took place - and work outwards from there. I have a feeling that if anything were dumped it would be close to that spot.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the murderer must have carried Lady Orpington’s body there. She was killed somewhere nearby and dragged or lifted up and put to lie in the temple. Clearly the killer’s little joke about the girl’s purity - or lack thereof. Anyway, the point I’m making is that if she was killed by a poisoned arrow it is more than likely that the murderer dropped the blowpipe in order to transport the body.”
“And you’re sure that’s how she died?”
“Positive. I’ve spoken to the expert on such poisons and it was he who told me how it was more than likely done.”
Joe looked slightly dubious but John ignored it and, leaving the coach - which stayed hidden in a thick group of trees and out of sight of the house - the two men began their search.
An hour later and nothing had come to light. Joe, clearly feeling ill at ease about the whereabouts of Sir Francis, constantly glanced across the lake towards the house, while John became convinced that they were on a fool’s errand and that the murderer had kept the blowpipe about their person after the killing. Eventually they sat down to catch their breath and it was then that they saw the figure of the runner who had driven their coach making his way towards them. John noticed at once that the man was carrying something in his hand.
“Hello, Munn. What’s that you’ve got?” Jago asked.
“Don’t know, sir. But it looked like it could be important. I found it in the ashes of a fire which someone had started down by the lake.”
He held it out and Joe took it, turning it over and over in his hands.
It was the charred remains of something like a recorder, except that there were no holes for producing the notes. John let out a cry.
“God’s own life, Joe! That’s it. That’s what’s left of the blowpipe. And home-made, too, by the look of it. The killer obviously tried to destroy it but never reckoned on this piece remaining.”
Sir John Fielding’s clerk peered down at the burned piece of wood. “It’s so commonplace. I think I might have overlooked it. Well done, Munn. How did you find it?”
“I’d just gone to the lake to answer a
call of nature and have a look at the boat and my foot kicked against something in the grass. I saw the remains of a fire and stooped down and picked it up.”
John took the pipe from Joe and held it in his grasp. As he did so a faint smell rose from the thing and he raised it to his nostrils and sniffed. Marred as it was by the smell of burning, there nonetheless was a distinctive odour and one that he felt was familiar to him, though how he could not say.
“What are you doing, sir?” asked Jago.
“It has a slight smell.”
The clerk took it back and sniffed it. Then he said a word and John sat stock still while a million lights went off in his head.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. I should have known before.”
They drove back to London as soon as it was light on the morning of the following day. John, being put down in Nassau Street, told Jago that he would call on Sir John Fielding that night but meanwhile must pay his compliments to his family. As soon as he was through the front door Rose came running down the stairs in a flurry of flying hair and outstretched arms.
“Oh, Papa, here you are. I’ve missed you so much. I do wish you would stop working for Sir John Fielding.”
John picked her up and hugged her, answering, “Your mother often thought the same thing.”
“How do you know that? What she thought, I mean.”
He laughed. “I didn’t. I am only guessing.”
Rose wriggled to the floor. “I believe it is time, Papa, that you went to visit Mrs Elizabeth again.”
“My dear child, I am not certain that she wishes me to visit her. Besides, it would be rude of me to call without an invitation.”
“Yet I feel certain she is thinking of you.”
He stared at Rose and she stared back, smiling, but with old magic in her eyes. After a few moments John tickled her under the chin.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They drove back to London as soon as it was light on the morning of the following day. John, being put down in Nassau Street, told Jago that he would call on Sir John Fielding that night but meanwhile must pay his compliments to his family. As soon as he was through the front door Rose came running down the stairs in a flurry of flying hair and outstretched arms.
“Oh, Papa, here you are. I’ve missed you so much. I do wish you would stop working for Sir John Fielding.”
John picked her up and hugged her, answering, “Your mother often thought the same thing.”
“How do you know that? What she thought, I mean.”
He laughed. “I didn’t. I am only guessing.”
Rose wriggled to the floor. “I believe it is time, Papa, that you went to visit Mrs Elizabeth again.”
“My dear child, I am not certain that she wishes me to visit her. Besides, it would be rude of me to call without an invitation.”
“Yet I feel certain she is thinking of you.”
He stared at Rose and she stared back, smiling, but with old magic in her eyes. After a few moments John tickled her under the chin.
“You wise child, you. Maybe I will write to her and ask how she fares.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, I promise. But it will have to wait until I’ve solved this odd case.”
“What is odd about it?” asked Rose, leading the way out into the garden.
John sat down and took the child on his knee, playing with her bright red whorls of hair.
“It was the method used to dispatch certain people.”
“By dispatch I suppose you mean kill.”
The Apothecary ruffled the curls and put her to stand on the ground, getting to his feet himself.
“Enough questions. Where is your grandfather?”
“He is packing in preparation for returning to Kensington. He says he is tired of London and requires a little country air.” As she uttered, the child unconsciously mirrored the way in which Sir Gabriel spoke and John had an extraordinary moment of comparing Rose with Georgiana, that sad and abused child. Speaking on impulse he said, “I wonder if you might like to play with a little girl I have met. She is the daughter of Lady Arundel, who was once the actress, Coralie Clive.”
“Is she a nice child?” Rose asked.
“Not particularly,” John answered, laughing at his daughter’s directness. “But she is interesting.”
“Then I would like to meet her,” pronounced the youngest member of the Rawlings clan, and with that took John’s hand and led him back into the house.
Climbing the stairs, John found his father taking his ease and directing his valet as to the arrangement of his clothes in his trunks.
“Father,” said John, kissing him, “I hear from Rose that you are leaving London.”
“Yes, my dear,” answered Sir Gabriel, returning the embrace, “I think perhaps I am getting old. The noise of the city is too much for me. I desire nothing more than the quiet of Kensington, until that, too, bores me and I return once more.”
“When will you depart, sir?”
“Tomorrow morning, if I may borrow Irish Tom again.”
“Of course you can. But Father…”
“Yes?”
“I wonder whether you would mind if Rose accompanies you. I have to go away again for a few days and I am sure that Octavia da Costa will be much preoccupied with her forthcoming nuptials. You know how much the child enjoys staying with you.”
“It would be a great pleasure to have her. I love her company. But where are you bound for this time, my dear?”
“To West Wycombe Flouse, that is if Sir Francis Dashwood will allow.”
“I see,” replied Sir Gabriel with a wealth of meaning.
“Do you?”
“I take it that you have discovered the identity of the guilty party?”
“I have, but on the flimsiest piece of evidence. Everything will depend on the way I handle the situation.”
“My son, you will do it with ease. I have every confidence. And now, if you will leave me, I must dress and saunter forth. I promised to call on Lady Clydesdale this late morning.”
“And she must not be disappointed,” said John with a chuckle, and having kissed his father once more, left the room.
As soon as he had washed and changed his clothes, John made for Shug Lane, where Nicholas and Gideon greeted him with a great deal of fervour.
“We were so worried, sir, when you did not return from the funeral.”
“I was called away on urgent business. But you know about that. A runner must have told you.”
“He went to your home, sir. He did not come here.”
“Oh well,” said John, and grinned at them.
Later he drew Nicholas on one side and told him about the finding of the blowpipe. “It had a certain aroma, Nick, which proved to me who had used it.”
“So you know who committed the murders?”
“Yes, though the evidence is thin.”
“Have you told Sir John Fielding yet?”
“I shall call on him immediately after dinner.”
And so saying John donned his long apron and went into the compounding room where, with much joy, he got to work. But this day was not destined to be peaceful, for a half hour or so later a stiff-backed lady’s maid entered, peering about her and saying in an affected voice, “Is Mr Rawlings here?” John came through from the back. “I am Rawlings.”
“My mistress asked me to give you this.” And she thrust a letter into his hand.
“Thank you. Could you tell me…”
But the woman was gone, having dropped a very slight curtsey and turning on her heel before John could question her any further. He broke the seal on the paper and scanned the contents.
“Sir, I beg of You to Call on me Tonight. There is Much of Importance that I would say to
You. I shall Await You after Dinner.
I have the Honour to remain, Sir,
Yr Obedient Servant, Coralie Clive.”
So she had used her old name and not bothered with title
s or obeying custom. Something of the woman he had once loved came back to him, standing there and holding her letter, begging him to see her. He knew at that moment that he would go to her, however late at night it was, but first of all he must acquaint Sir John Fielding with the facts and ask for his help in setting the final scene.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
John Fielding was now forty-five years old, though through the years of hard work and strain he looked considerably older. He sat in the dying light, his trenchant profile turned to the window, his flowing white wig curling onto his shoulders, his handsome face beginning to fall slightly into a double chin, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. For once he wore the black ribbon that covered his lack of sight pushed up so that his eyes showed beneath the half-closed lids. John, regarding them, thought them a pleasant colour - a shade of calming blue - and regretted for the thousandth time that his great friend and mentor should have been blinded in an accident at the age of nineteen.
Also sitting in the room was Joe Jago, as cheerful as ever and hardly having changed at all in all the years that John had known him. His red unruly hair was distinctly visible beneath his wig, his light blue eyes danced in his craggy face, his figure was as spare as it had been when the Apothecary had first set eyes on him. He was a man of mystery, of little-known antecedents, yet he was omnipresent, Sir John’s right-hand, his sight. But of his personal life John knew nothing and felt it beyond his business to enquire.
The three men sat in silence, waiting for Sir John to speak. From the street below the usual noises drifted upward but other than that there was no sound. The Apothecary felt that he was sitting on the edge of a precipice waiting for the Magistrate to tell him that what he believed was pure nonsense.
Eventually the Blind Beak spoke. “Pass me the remains of the blowpipe once more, will you, Joe.”
“Here you are, Sir John,” replied the clerk cheerfully, and handed the object to his master.
Very delicately the Magistrate raised it to his nostrils. “There is definitely an odour,” he said at last, “though very faint and heavily masked by the fire.”