by Deryn Lake
The Apothecary made an attempt at looking severe which failed rather dismally. ‘Very kind of you I’m sure.’
‘Not at all, Master. I always consider your welfare.’
They both burst out laughing, unusually close in age as they were. ‘How is the Comtesse, did her servant say?’
‘Very well, despite being close to the end of her term. But then the Comtesse would never allow being enceinte to bother her, would she Sir?’
‘No, wonderful woman that she is.’
Nicholas looked thoughtful. ‘Comte Louis is utterly devoted to her.’
‘He wasn’t always, you know.’
The Muscovite looked genuinely shocked. ‘You do surprise me. To me she appears the ideal wife: beautiful, witty, clever, wise.’
‘You do not mention being a good housekeeper amongst her attributes.’
‘That would be the least of my considerations.’
‘My God, times are changing indeed,’ said John with feeling.
Opening his beloved friend’s letter he felt even more certain that modern manners were hurtling out of control. Despite being only a few weeks away from delivery of her second child, Serafina de Vignolles was giving a supper party for friends to which he was most cordially invited.
‘Is it I who am growing staid?’ John asked himself in bewilderment.
He spent the next hour compounding various requests for medicines that had been handed into the shop during his absence, taking particular care with a potion of Delphinium Staphisagria or Staves-Acre. A small number of the crushed seeds, but not too many, were effective in the treatment of clap. This particular request had come from a noble house situated not far from Shug Lane, John was somewhat amused to see. It would seem that young Lord Delamere had been sowing his oats just a little too wildly.
The work done, John put on his cloak. ‘Nicholas, I’m off to Apothecaries’ Hall.’
‘So there was arsenic in the flour! Why did you not tell me before?’
‘It is enough for one of us to be involved in solving murders, let alone two.’
The Muscovite looked hang-dog. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘But I promise to keep you abreast of developments and to ask your advice from time to time.’
Nicholas brightened again. ‘I shall look forward to that, Master.’
‘And now I’m off to seek out Mr Swann in his brand new premises close to St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe.’
‘Do give him my kindest regards, Sir.’
‘And from there I’ll make my way to the Hall.’
‘I wish you good luck, Master.’
‘I shall need every bit of it, you can be assured of that,’ John answered as he went out of the door.
Chapter Six
As it transpired, John’s visit to Samuel Swann, his large and exuberant friend who considered himself a sharp wit when it came to helping the Apothecary solve a crime but whose line in questioning invariably made things worse, was curtailed. Samuel was out, calling on an important client, so his apprentice informed the visitor.
‘But I am sure the Master would like you to see the new premises, Sir. Do you have a moment?’
Knowing that if he were to refuse, Samuel’s feelings might be greatly wounded, John agreed, and was indeed impressed by the scope of the Goldsmith’s new workshop and emporium.
The apprentice, a strangely ugly young man with the beautiful hands of a fine craftsman, beamed expansively as the Apothecary enthused.
‘I shall tell the Master of your comments on his return, Sir. But I know he will be sorry to have missed you. May I say when you will be coming back?’
‘Later this evening. I might even beg a bed for the night. You can tell him that there is much to discuss.’
The apprentice’s button eyes, dark as chestnuts and quite out of keeping with his somewhat florid face, gleamed in anticipation.
‘I shall pass your message on, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Thank you, Ezekial.’
Ezekial Semple. As if his ungainly appearance weren’t enough to contend with the poor youth even had an unfortunate name.
Having left Samuel’s shop, which was situated on Puddle Dock Hill, John strode through a maze of alleyways, one very dark and malodorous, and emerged into Water Street where he turned right to go to the Hall. But he had literally taken no more than a dozen steps when a bevy of people coming towards him made him stop in his path and make a bow. Mrs Alleyn, with various assorted young persons, was approaching.
There was one girl and four men, anyone of whom could have been the owner of the ill fitting suit of clothes which Mrs Alleyn had given him on the night of Josiah’s illness.
Recognising John, the recently widowed woman, now dressed in dread black from head to toe, as were they all, gave a warm smile and, having dropped a polite curtsey, hugged the Apothecary, there and then and in the public street.
One of the sons reproved, ‘Tush, Mother,’ but she took no notice and continued her embrace.
Letting go of John at last, Mrs Alleyn turned to her children. ‘This is the Mr Rawlings I told you about. The one who fought so gallantly to save your father’s life. God bless him but no one could have tried harder. How are you, my dear?’
John thought rapidly. News of the arsenic in the flour obviously had not reached her. Michael Clarke had clearly sealed his lips. He bowed again, knowing he must say nothing until the Master had been informed. ‘Busy, Madam, as ever. But what of your good self?’
‘The Master sent for us all to come to the Hall. He wished to offer his condolences in person. He has been most kind but, of course, there is nothing anyone can really say or do.’ Mrs Alleyn made a hopeless little gesture to which her daughter responded by taking hold of her mother’s hand. Then the girl looked up from beneath her sweeping black hat. She was so tremendously beautiful that the Apothecary audibly drew breath, which he hastily disguised as a cough. ‘I must thank you, Sir, for all you did, not only for my father but also my mother. I think you must have been a rock of strength to her.’
‘Allow me to present my daughter, Emilia,’ said Mrs Alleyn, but the Apothecary could hardly hear her. He was drowning in a pair of angel’s eyes, submerged and sinking into their mysterious loveliness.
‘Rawlings, John Rawlings,’ he heard himself mutter in a voice that he could barely recognise as his own.
Emilia curtsied and he bowed yet again, so deep that his hat fell off at her feet. She smiled as only a heavenly creature could and returned it to him. Somebody shuffled his feet on the cobbles and the Apothecary realised that he had completely ignored the four sons and was behaving with extreme lack of courtesy. He straightened up.
‘My other children,’ said Mrs Alleyn, almost smiling at John’s reaction. ‘Thomas, my eldest; Richard, my second; Edmund and Ellis, the two youngest.’
They were all four very alike: squarish young men with rather wooden faces which closely resembled carved toys. The two youngest were clearly identical twins, always fascinating to behold, having the same reddish hair and hazel eyes. John wondered how four such very ordinary brothers could have produced a seraphim for a sister.
Thomas spoke up. ‘I believe we owe you much in the way of thanks, Sir. I am only sorry that your efforts finally failed.’
Was there, John wondered, a sting in the tail of that remark? Knowing that it wouldn’t be long before rumours of deliberate poisoning crept out, he answered, ‘The odds were too heavily stacked against me, Sir. I did my best but I don’t believe anybody could have saved your father.’
‘Not even Master Cruttenden?’ said one of the twins, and again it was difficult to know whether the remark was ingenuous or not.
‘Not even he,’ John answered.
Mrs Alleyn spoke again. ‘The funeral is in two days time, Sir. It would please me enormously if you could be there. It will start from the house at three o’clock.’
‘I had intended to pay my last respects,’ the Apothecary said solemnly. ‘Of course I shall be present.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emilia, and as she turned her head in his direction a glimpse of golden hair, an exquisite colour, showed momentarily beneath her concealing hat.
The four sons bowed, almost in unison, and gruffly muttered their gratitude. Mrs Alleyn planted a swift kiss on John’s cheek, while Emilia, head lowered, gave a neat curtsey. Then the entire party continued on down the street towards Black Friars Stairs where their barge was obviously moored.
John stood staring after them, both his heart and eye taking in the fact that Emilia was just as delightful to look upon from the back as she was from the front. He watched until her small shapely frame vanished from view, then stood a second or two more, regaining his equilibrium, before he turned on his heel and continued up the lane towards the shop.
It was empty, though, judging from the noise, Michael Clarke was in his compounding room and working hard. Again, the Apothecary stood silently, remembering Mrs Alleyn’s dislike of Francis Cruttenden, brought about by the fact he had encouraged her young daughter to fall in love with him. Was it Emilia, he wondered? Or was there, perhaps, another sibling whom he had not yet met? The thought of that beautiful girl forming a passion for the grey man Cruttenden was so unpleasant that John was relieved when Mr Clarke appeared from the back of the shop to take his mind off the subject.
This morning the shop manager positively buzzed with intrigue. ‘Ah, my dear Mr Rawlings. What news, what news? Have you seen Mr Fielding?’ he asked excitedly.
‘I have indeed, Sir, and he is taking the matter most seriously. He is coming in person to see the Master and inform him of events. Until that time we should remain silent about the poison.’
‘Thank God I have kept my own counsel. But, and here’s the truth, I had hardly a wink of sleep last night, mulling over in my mind anyone who might wish to harm the apothecaries as a body.’
‘And what answers did you come up with?’
‘Three names, Sir. Three! One of which will surprise you enormously.’
‘May I know who they are?’
‘Certainly. Step into the compounding room where we may be more private and I will give you the list.’
They went into the back and stood by the table on which the autopsy on the mouse had been conducted. Very solemnly Mr Clarke handed the Apothecary a piece of paper. He looked at it and read, ‘Sotherton Backler, Garnett Smith and Tobias Gill’. John’s mobile brows shot to his hairline. ‘But Sotherton Backler is the Beadle!’
‘I said you would be surprised. But let me explain. Shortly before the Livery Dinner, that very morning indeed, he and the Master had a great argument. So loud was it that I could hear every word standing at the bottom of the stairs.’
‘You were listening?’
Mr Clarke’s ears brightened a little. ‘I was just on my way into the pantry when the commotion broke out. The Master was bellowing like a bull, it was impossible not to overhear.’
‘What was it about?’
‘It seems that the Beadle has been claiming for money laid out on behalf of the Court of Assistants, together with further monies for extraordinary services rendered for them. The Master shouted that the Beadle was not to trouble the Court with any more bills for arrears of any nature whatsoever. The Beadle answered that such a reply was both unreasonable and unfair. Then he came storming down the stairs with a look like thunder and a goodly line in oaths coming from his mouth. After that he crashed his way into the kitchen. I saw no more of him after that.’
‘But surely you are not saying that he would poison everyone as an act of revenge against one man?’
Michael Clarke looked wise. ‘Perhaps, in the heat of the moment, the Beadle didn’t think like that. Perhaps he simply thought of what pleasure it would give him to make the Master vomit up his guts.’
‘But did Mr Backler not attend the Dinner himself?’
‘No, though he should have been there in his role as chief ceremonial officer.’
‘What excuse did he make?’
‘That he felt unwell,’ answered Michael Clarke and his bulging eyes gleamed.
The Apothecary stroked his chin, a sign that he was thinking deeply. ‘And who are the others on the list? Tell me about them.’
‘Garnett Smith is a prosperous merchant with a fine house in Thames Street. He has everything that money can buy, yet a year ago he lost his only son to cancer and blamed the apothecary treating him for the lad’s death.’
‘What happened?’
‘The boy, he was about eighteen at the time, appeared to develop a type of throatal wen. Anyway, his neck swelled up greatly and the apothecary, a Liveryman no less, gave him root of cinquefoil boiled in vinegar, thinking it would ease the knots and kernels in his throat. Alas, he could not know that these walked hand in hand with a cancer and were beyond cure. The father, in a frenzy, took his son to a physician who said he had seen the patient too late. It was all to no avail. The boy died. Thereafter Garnett Smith blamed the apothecary for not diagnosing correctly and in time.’
‘And he has borne a grudge against apothecaries ever since?’
‘Indeed he has. He wanders into the Hall from time to time, ranting and raving and uttering threats. Last time he had to be forcibly removed. It was all extremely undignified.’
‘I see. And what about Tobias Gill?’
‘He is a very different case. An apothecary himself with a shop in a somewhat seedy area of the City. He fell out with the Court of Assistants over some imagined grudge, I believe. Anyway, he never took livery and keeps well away from the Hall. However, and this is the interesting part, he has been heard to state publicly that he wishes the entire Society at the bottom of the ocean and would rather be dead than associate with them again.’
‘But surely that is just a figure of speech.’
‘Probably, but I thought it worth mentioning.’
‘Quite rightly so. Nothing should be overlooked in this investigation.’
Mr Clarke sighed. ‘When is Mr Fielding coming to the Hall? It will be most difficult to stop rumours flying, in view of the fact that Mrs Backler knew about the mouse.’
‘But she didn’t know what we found in the poor creature.’
‘Did you not call on her last night?’
‘No, I was otherwise engaged,’ John answered, and had the good grace to colour a little as he remembered the night he had spent with Coralie.
He turned to Michael Clarke, recalling Mr Fielding’s order to trust no one and thinking it was time to find out more about the shop manager himself ‘You have tried hard, Sir, and I thank you for it. Perhaps you would care to come and dine with me one day soon.’
‘I should enjoy that very much, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Across the river in Southwark, in Bandy Leg Walk. It’s very quiet but I enjoy that. I am something of a recluse by nature.’
‘Is there a Mrs Clarke?’ John asked cheerily.
‘Yes, but she, too, prefers the simple things of life.’
Thinking it sounded a horribly dull existence, the Apothecary smiled encouragingly.
‘We have one child,’ Michael continued, his tone changing. ‘Alas, poor boy, he has the falling sickness very badly and it is not safe to leave him on his own. My wife spends most of her time caring for him.’
‘How very sad.’
‘I believe it to be a birth defect,’ the manager added quietly, then he cleared his throat and changed the subject. ‘So what next, my friend?’
‘I’m off to the kitchen. I want to conduct an experiment to see if the arsenic could have been added to the flour in full public gaze.’
‘Surely that wouldn’t have been possible.’
‘It might if it were done by someone whose presence there was perfectly customary.’
‘Do you mean the Butler or one of the kitchen staff?’
‘I’m not quite sure who I mean yet,’ John answered, and with that made his farewells, promising to fix a dinner appointment just
as soon as Sir Gabriel returned from Kensington.
As luck would have it, John left the shop at the most fortuitous time. Just as he approached the arched entrance to the courtyard leading to the Hall a coach drew up outside, and from it leapt Joe Jago, Mr Fielding’s clerk and right-hand man, holding up his hand to assist the Blind Beak to alight. Seeing John, Jago called out, ‘Mr Rawlings. How are you, Sir?’ And the Apothecary hurried forward to join them.
One of the Magistrate’s legs emerged from the carriage and swung somewhat uncertainly in the air. Jago placed the foot on the carriage step, then helped the other foot find the cobbles below. It was clearly a much practised exercise and one carried through most smoothly.
‘Did you say Rawlings?’ asked the Beak, gaining his balance.
‘Yes, he’s here, Sir.’
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said John, and bowed.
Mr Fielding returned the compliment, the fact that he was pointing in the wrong direction not mattering at all. ‘I’ve come to see the Master. It is imperative that he is now informed of events.’
‘Is he forewarned of your visit?’
‘I sent a Runner round this morning with a letter. He came back with the reply that I would be welcome to call.’
‘Did you say what it was about?’
‘No. It was too delicate a matter to put in writing.’
‘He’s in for an enormous shock.’
‘He is indeed.’
They made their way across the courtyard then into the entrance hall, Mr Fielding taking Joe’s arm, John following behind. At the bottom of the Great Staircase all three men drew to a halt.
‘And where are you going now, Mr Rawlings?’ asked Joe, his fiery hair glinting in a sudden ray of winter sunshine, his light blue eyes narrowing as if he were looking out to sea.
‘To the kitchen.’
Mr Fielding turned to the Apothecary. ‘How are you getting on with your enquiries?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘Very well, Sir. It would seem that three different people might have had a motive for poisoning the flour.’
‘Speak to them all, then come and see me if you will.’
‘Gladly, Sir.’