Death at Apothecaries' Hall

by Deryn Lake

  John looked at him with much affection. ‘You are quite sure?’

  ‘Quite, quite, my dear. I plan to divide my time between this place and town. Not as you will, on a regular basis, but in a more leisurely fashion.’

  ‘So will you mind if I return to Nassau Street in the morning?’

  ‘My dear boy, it would be obvious to anyone who claims even a slight acquaintance with your good self that you are straining like a greyhound before a race. Go back and solve the mystery of why Master Alleyn so sadly died.’

  ‘Yes, that,’ answered the Apothecary, ‘is what I most certainly intend to do.’

  Chapter Four

  The downpour continued throughout the journey back to the capital, turning the ways into brooks and Tothill Fields a quagmire. Ross, Sir Gabriel’s new coachman, clad in oilskins, cursed his luck, and the four beautiful white horses arrived home bedraggled and spattered with mud to their necks. No one was more thankful than John when the poor creatures were finally led round to Dolphin Yard, situated behind Nassau Street, to be stabled and the carriage housed.

  ‘Let them rest for a day before you return for Sir Gabriel,’ he instructed the driver.

  ‘Very good, Sir.’

  John answered the unasked question with a grin. ‘Don’t worry, Sir Gabriel will find himself some sort of conveyance in the meantime, you can be sure of that. He simply has to stand there and people run to serve him.’

  ‘I had noticed that, Sir.’

  ‘Then all of you take a good rest. The travelling conditions were appalling.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ And John went into the house and sat by the library fire until dinner was served. Pictures came into his mind. Pictures of Josiah Alleyn fighting for his life and seeming to win; pictures of Mrs Alleyn and her unstinting devotion; pictures of settling down with Coralie and becoming as united as the old couple had been.

  As usual, that particular train of thought came to an abrupt halt. The younger Miss Clive, though perfectly willing to share her bed with him, seemed equally unwilling to share her life. As he sat there, sipping Sir Gabriel’s excellent sherry, his adopted son wondered just how much longer he would be prepared to put up with the situation. Last June he had celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, and though he was still in no desperate hurry to marry, he now cherished hopes that within the next three years that situation might come to pass. However, the beautiful, ambitious Coralie appeared to have no such plans and though he loved her, was totally besotted with her in many ways, he could not see himself allowing this state of affairs to drag on indefinitely. Something of Maud Alleyn’s compassionate love for her husband reached out and tugged at John’s heart, and suddenly he found himself wishing that his beloved was a very different kind of woman.

  Despite all the differing shocks and sadnesses that he had recently experienced, the Apothecary slept well that night and woke at first light, grey and sullen and wintery though it was.

  Downstairs, Nicholas Dawkins was chewing his breakfast before setting off to open the shop in Shug Lane. He looked up, surprised, as John came into the room. ‘Master, good morning. I hadn’t expected you back so soon.’

  ‘There has been a strange twist in events.’

  ‘Master Alleyn?’ John nodded.

  ‘Not dead, surely?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But how? I thought you said he was out of danger.’

  ‘So I believed.’ And the Apothecary related to his apprentice everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. ‘What puzzles me is the differing symptoms that the Liverymen suffered. According to Michael Clarke some were mildly ill, others seriously. I suppose everything depended on how much of the rotten food they consumed.’

  ‘Unless of course the dinner itself were tampered with,’ said Nicholas slowly.

  John stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That some foreign agent were introduced and that some Liverymen received a greater amount of it than others.’

  ‘But what substance could do that?’

  ‘You know perfectly well, Master.’

  ‘Are you saying …’

  ‘I’m saying arsenic, Sir. White arsenic. This may sound fanciful, but if someone with a grudge against apothecaries put poison into their food, arsenic would produce symptoms very much like the ones you’ve just witnessed.’

  ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Nicholas, thoughtfully carving a slice of meat. ‘Is it really? I think it is a possibility that should be seriously investigated, not denied.’

  ‘But who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Someone with a diseased mind. Someone who believed that an apothecary was responsible for the death of a loved one perhaps. You of all people, Master, should know that there are some very strange individuals roaming the streets.’

  John sat silently, his enthusiasm for enormous breakfasts for once at a standstill. ‘You know, you may have hit on something,’ he said eventually.

  ‘So when you investigate do you intend to proceed cautiously down that path?’

  ‘How did you know I meant to investigate?’

  ‘Because you are yourself, Master,’ Nicholas answered, a rogue’s smile transforming his pale features.

  ‘As it happens, I plan to return to Apothecaries’ Hall this morning.’

  ‘Then bear what I say in mind, Sir. There’s something odd about this business. I feel it in my old Russian bones.’

  The frisson of fear that occasionally gripped the Apothecary when a situation boded no good, ran down his spine at the very words. ‘I wonder if you could be right.’

  ‘If I am, then you will find it out,’ Nicholas answered with unnerving confidence.

  ‘How to begin without upsetting a great many important people? That is the difficulty.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll charm them, Sir.’

  John looked at his apprentice severely. ‘The difference between charming ordinary witnesses and charming the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries is a considerable one, young man.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Master,’ Nicholas answered cheerfully, and swallowing down the last bite of his breakfast went whistling off to work.

  ‘I simply can’t credit it,’ said Michael Clarke, eyes bulging. ‘He must have had a total relapse. The entire occurrence beggars belief.’

  ‘As a result, I feel my treatment has been called into question,’ John replied gloomily. ‘Almost as if the poor man’s death is a slur against my professionalism.’

  ‘But your treatment was perfectly correct. Did I not tell you of it that very afternoon?’

  Knowing that this was going to be a powerful weapon with which to persuade Mr Clarke to help him, John put on a sad face and sighed deeply. ‘Indeed you did, Sir. Indeed you did.’

  ‘Then my judgement must be called into question equally with yours.’

  ‘It is noble of you to say so.’

  Michael cleared his throat. ‘I feel, in view of all that has happened, we need to know more about this mysterious outbreak. What caused it and how such a terrible thing can be avoided in the future.’

  ‘So do I. If I am to rest easy in my bed I would like to know what substance it was that could not be cured by normal means.’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Michael Clarke said with determination.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Jane Backler must come out of her hysteric and tell us exactly what ingredients went into that dinner.’

  ‘Indeed she must,’ responded the Apothecary vigorously, and assumed his not to be thwarted expression.

  Moving as one in what could only have been an hilarious fashion, John realised, the two men left the shop and marched purposefully under the arched entrance to Apothecaries’ Hall, across the courtyard and through a door on the right that led inside the building itself. Immediately facing them was the mighty wooden staircase rebuilt after the Great Fire, or
nately carved and rising magnificently to the Hall above. Beyond that, small but functional, lay an area known as the pantry, the province of the Butler herself.

  Tapping on the door, Mr Clarke was rewarded by a faint voice calling, ‘Come in.’ His pale eyes popping with intrigue, the shop manager beckoned John to follow him.

  The Butler was seated on a stool before a wooden table which also acted as a desk, listlessly going through a sheaf of bills. She looked up as the two men entered the room and gave a feeble smile, in that her eyes continued to look hunted and haunted though her lips parted to reveal a set of teeth with an intriguing gap between the front top two.

  ‘Yes, Mr Clarke?’ she said politely.

  ‘Mrs Backler,’ he replied with a faint bow, ‘have you heard the grave news?’

  The Butler dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘About Liveryman Alleyn? Yes, indeed I have. I have not slept since.’

  ‘How did you find out?’ John asked, curious.

  Jane Backler gave him a penetrating glance. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the honour …’

  He bowed low. ‘Excuse me, Madam. I forgot myself. John Rawlings, Yeoman of the Society. I attended Master Alleyn when he returned from the Dinner. I chanced upon him by Black Friars Stairs and considered him too ill to travel alone.’

  She rose and curtsied stiffly, obviously defensive. ‘Everyone is blaming me, Sir, for buying rotten foodstuffs, but I swear to you upon my honour that I did not. The only conclusion I can come to is that the flour used in the high sauce was in some way tainted. God be my witness, I have run a clean kitchen since Sotherton was appointed Beadle. I have taken my duties most seriously. I simply cannot understand what has occurred.’

  The gap in her teeth made her look curiously child-like and vulnerable, despite the fact that she must be fifty, and it was all John could do to stop himself putting his arms round her and comforting her. Mr Clarke, however, narrowed a protuberant eye.

  ‘Be that as it may, Mrs Backler, something went wrong. However hard you tried, everyone at the Livery Dinner suffered from food poisoning. And now with fatal consequences for one of their company.’

  Poor Jane’s hand flew to her throat and her cheeks flushed. ‘I know, I know. But what am I to do? How can I clear my name?’

  John spoke quietly. ‘Would it be acceptable for me to search in the kitchen? It is just possible that the source of the outbreak might still be there. Then, if it were something over which you had no control, the matter could be resolved satisfactorily.’

  She looked at him curiously, her eyes and face still attractive despite her anxiety. ‘But what sort of thing could that be?’

  The Apothecary looked vague. ‘Perhaps some poisonous substance, yew for example, might have hidden itself amongst the vegetables.’

  ‘But the vegetables were thrown out after the dinner, as were the meats, fish and fruits. Normally I make bundles for the poor with what is left over, but as soon as news came to me of the outbreak of illness, I burnt everything.’

  John’s heart sank. ‘What about the flour? The one used for the high sauce? Has that gone too?’

  She nodded, a wisp of light brown hair flying out from the sensible cap she wore. ‘I destroyed everything, Mr Rawlings. It seemed wiser to do so.’

  Barely disguising a groan of annoyance, the Apothecary said, ‘None the less, Madam, I would appreciate a look round.’

  Mr Clarke became officious. ‘I believe we should take this matter very seriously. I agree with Mr Rawlings.’

  Jane Backler turned a stricken face on them. ‘I am taking the matter seriously. If only something could be found to disprove my supposed negligence.’

  ‘One never knows,’ John answered, without much hope. ‘Lead the way, Madam.’

  They fell into step behind her as Jane walked from the parlour, through the entrance hall, then opened a door on the left. From there a narrow passageway led to a large kitchen, a fireplace adorned with spits and hanging cooking pots dominating the far wall.

  ‘Were those used to prepare the Livery Dinner?’ John asked, pointing.

  ‘Yes, but they’ve been scrubbed since.’

  ‘Still, may I look?’

  ‘Of course,’ the Butler answered, and began taking the pots down, one after another.

  ‘Will you help me inspect them?’ the Apothecary asked Mr Clarke, who was growing ever more large-eyed.

  ‘Yes, but what are we meant to be seeking?’

  ‘Traces of food, traces of anything. In fact any residue at all. Scrape it out with your herb knife.’

  They set to, holding the pots up to the light, scouring round the surfaces, removing anything they could find and depositing it on a piece of paper that Michael Clarke hurried back to the shop to fetch.

  ‘What are we to do with all this?’ he whispered.

  ‘Analyse it.’

  ‘For what?’

  John could not resist looking up and winking a very solemn eye. ‘Poison.’

  Mr Clarke started violently. ‘Did you say poi …’

  ‘Shush!’ warned the Apothecary, staring round as if he expected interlopers. He raised his voice to normal level. ‘Where did you keep the flour, Mrs Backler?’

  ‘In the big pot up on that shelf. It’s empty now.’

  And it was. Further, unlike the cooking vessels, there was not a trace of residue left in it. Every last grain of flour had been rinsed away. The pot stood devoid of any clues. Disappointed, John handed it back to the Butler and stood thinking for a moment before dropping to his knees and examining the stone flags that made up the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for any particles that might have fallen. No disrespect to your housekeeping, Madam.’

  Jane sniffed a little, but said nothing as John continued his search, joined after a few moments by an ever more astonished Michael Clarke, who had given up asking and now just followed the Apothecary’s lead.

  Opposite the fireplace, taking up most of the wall space, stood a rather unusual piece of furniture known as a dog kennel dresser, the name deriving from the arched open cupboard beneath. Laden with plates, the dresser’s purpose was purely functional, namely aiding service at mealtimes. John sat back on his heels to examine its solid symmetry, thinking that in earlier times such a piece might well have stood in the dining room, bursting with silver to impress the guests. Then he glanced, almost without thinking, at the open cupboard, the so called dog kennel, situated between the two closed ones.

  A mouse lay within its dark recess, unmoving and quite dead, a pathetic little figure despite its nuisance value. Taking out his handkerchief, John gently removed the corpse and wrapped it up.

  ‘Well, I can’t think where that came from,’ said the Butler, sniffing more than ever.

  John raised an admonitory hand. ‘Madam, please. If this poor creature died because of something it ate from the floor, it might well be the key to the whole wretched affair.’ He looked across at Michael. ‘Mr Clarke, may we go to your compounding room?’

  ‘Certainly. It will be …’ Once more he lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘… private there.’

  The Society had its own laboratory, situated beneath the Great Hall and of much the same size, but the shop manager clearly did not want anyone else to know what was afoot at this stage.

  The Apothecary turned to the Butler. ‘Do you want me to come back to tell you what we find?’

  ‘Please do. But remember that I go off duty and home for the night at six o’clock.’

  ‘Where do you live? Perhaps I could call on you there?’

  ‘In Pater Noster Row, close to St Paul’s. Number twenty.’

  ‘I will make a point of seeking you out, though it may not be until tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Good. Then you can also meet my husband, the Beadle.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  Both men bowed politely, Mrs Backler curtsied, then they parted company, the two apothecaries hurrying ba
ck through the gloomy afternoon to the compounding room at the back of the shop. There they laid the mouse on a cloth on the scrubbed wooden table and, taking a sharp knife from a drawer, the shop-keeper made a neat incision, parting the skin to reveal a small, somewhat bloated stomach. This, too, he cut open, delicately removing the contents.

  ‘Flour!’ said the Apothecary excitedly. ‘The poor little wretch ate some flour.’

  ‘What are you saying exactly?’

  John looked up from where he had been crouching over the minute corpse, admiring Mr Clarke’s skill with so tiny an autopsy.

  ‘I’m saying that it is my belief we are going to find white arsenic mixed with it.’

  The manager’s bulging eyes positively ballooned. ‘What?’

  ‘There is something a little too glib about this outbreak of poisoning. Something that doesn’t quite ring true. I have a premonition.’

  ‘Shall I do the experiment?’

  ‘Yes. It would be an education to watch you.’

  Picking up the lumps of flour with tweezers, Michael Clarke placed them in a copper pan which he held above an oil-lamp, breaking them up and slowly drying out the fluids of the mouse’s stomach. Then, when all the moisture had gone, he put them onto a sieve and gently shook the lumps till they turned into grains. These he returned to the pan, adding a cup of water before he heated the contents. Vapour began to rise as the water slowly evaporated.

  ‘Wait till it has all gone and then we’ll know,’ Mr Clarke said solemnly.

  Finally it was done. The water had vanished and with it the remnants of the flour. But lying at the bottom of the pan were a couple of tiny white crystals. Sombrely, the Apothecary and the shop manager each took one on a finger and licked it. Then the two men looked at one another.

  ‘Arsenic,’ they said in unison.

  ‘So the food for the Livery Dinner was deliberately poisoned?’

  ‘Clearly yes.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘In view of Master Alleyn’s death this is now a case of murder.’

  ‘You are going to inform the constable?’

  John shook his head. ‘No, I shall take a hackney straight to Bow Street and there acquaint Mr John Fielding with the facts of the case.’