by Deryn Lake
‘We’re here, Sir.’
‘Yes by God, we are.’
The place was much emptier than John recalled it, a great many of the beau monde having moved on to Bath, exchanging the rustic charm for the indoor formality and enjoying the contrast. After a quick wash and brush up, John found his father sitting on a seat by the river, which was at full tide and looked very pleasing. Next to him was Miss Titania Groves, delightful in green muslin and white lace. They looked up as he approached.
‘Oh my dear,’ said Sir Gabriel. ‘What a terrible time you have been through.’
‘I have indeed – and so have many others. But let us speak of happier things. How have you been enjoying yourself, Papa?’
‘To be frank with you, I am now getting a little bored. The place is lovely, don’t misunderstand me. But I shall be glad to see my own things about me once more.’
‘And quite right too. You have stayed here rather a long time through no fault of your own.’ John turned to Titania. ‘Tell me, if you will, how many people that I met are still here?’
She smiled up at him. ‘Well, everybody really. My mother, of course, and all the friends who sat down to cards. Oh, and Lady Tyninghame.’
‘And Sir Julian Wychwood?’
Titania blushed apple-blossom pink. ‘Yes, I believe so.’
Inwardly John grinned, though his features remained calm. ‘I see. Then I will be in time to say goodbye to them all.’
‘I think Lady Tyninghame is going within the next few days. She talked about moving on to Bath.’
‘As are you perhaps?’
‘Oh yes, Mama says it is a wonderful season. I would not miss it for the world.’
‘I agree, it is very enjoyable, but miss it I must. Sir Gabriel and I are homeward bound.’
‘Oh, what a pity.’
But John knew the little flirt was only toying with him. He felt fairly certain that she had given her heart to that wild seducer Wychwood.
‘How is Sir Julian?’ he asked casually.
‘I believe he is riding on the Downs today. He says the air is very fresh up there.’
‘How interesting. Does he ride well?’
‘I saw him on horseback t’other day. He looked magnificent.’
She sighed, and John, glancing at Sir Gabriel, saw his father wink a brilliant eye. The old man rose to his feet.
‘Pleasant though it has been chatting to you, I must now bid you farewell, Miss Groves. I feel a little fatigued and would like to rest before cards tonight.’
She stood up. ‘Of course, Sir Gabriel.’ She dropped a brief curtsey to him and to John and proceeded along the river path. John took his father’s arm and was somewhat startled by the weight the older man put upon it. For the very first time the reality of Sir Gabriel’s age came home to him in plenty.
They got back to the hotel and sat for a while, chatting about the twins and Elizabeth.
‘So how are the boys settling into London life?’
‘So far very well, but no doubt the day will come when they will beg me to take them home. Amusingly, they are both very much in awe of Fred, that little scallowag that bluffed his way into my employment.’
‘You’ve told me of him before. You mean the foundling child?’
‘That’s the one. He is a sweet little person but his accent is atrocious. I have promised to apprentice him if he can master reading and writing come Christmas. However, the twins have taken him to their hearts and are very well behaved when he is around.’
‘Then he is a valuable member of your staff.’
They talked a while longer and then Sir Gabriel made his way upstairs, leaving his son to peruse the papers, but he had only been reading for about ten minutes when he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps, panting breath, and a shock of carroty hair and a bright blue ribbon flashed into his vision.
‘Gilbert!’ he exclaimed, as young Mr Farr, complete with apothecary’s apron, dashed up to him.
‘My dear John, I am so glad to see you returned. I am afraid that I have made little or no progress with the investigation.’
‘So what have you done? Closed the case?’
‘Yes, more or less. Unless someone comes forward with a confession I do not know how to proceed.’
John shook his head. ‘I am sorry that I had to abandon you, but I was called away to a matter deeply personal. And then I had to sort out its aftermath.’ Gilbert opened his mouth to ask a question but John forestalled him. ‘I would rather not discuss the matter, though I thank you for being concerned. But Gilbert, there is something I would like you to do for me.’
‘And that is?’
‘There’s an escaped villain – an actual murderer – at loose in Bristol. He and an accomplice, who has subsequently died, shot several people at a wedding which I attended. He is now working in a nan-boys’ brothel dressed in female clothing, which hideously unbecomes him. In short, Gilbert, he needs to be arrested by someone in authority.’
‘You don’t mean me?’ asked Gilbert, askance, pointing a finger at himself.
‘I most certainly do.’
‘But what about the Bristol Constable, he—’
‘Oh dammit, Gilbert, ’twould be a personal favour to me. Come on now. The killer has gone free for two years odd.’
John read Gilbert’s thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. It was not his affair, so why should he be involved with it? Yet on the other hand, he had sworn to do his duty when taking on the job of Constable, which was a downright nuisance and interfered with the running of his business. He turned to John.
‘All right, I’ll do it. When do we go?’
‘Tonight, why not? I’m taking my father home in a few days’ time. Speed is now of the essence.’
Gilbert pulled a face. ‘I don’t know why I’m getting implicated in all this.’
‘Neither do I. But it will be a debt long overdue when we get that little wretch behind bars where he belongs.’
Gilbert sighed laboriously. ‘Not my debt.’
‘Oh, courage my friend. A case of murder is everybody’s concern, surely?’
‘I suppose you’re right about that.’
‘You know I am.’
It seemed that deep in his clothes press Gilbert had hidden a suit made of vivid puce satin, with a waistcoat of emerald green trimmed with brilliants. It had been created for a wedding of some family relative and had been treated with much hilarity by his nearest and dearest, to say nothing of his roguish friends. Gilbert had crept home in shame from the matrimonial celebrations, had hidden the aforementioned suit safely in the recesses of his cupboard and had never worn it since. But now, after a great deal of persuasion from John, who said it would be a most suitable attire for the evening’s outing, he had dragged it out again and reluctantly put it on his back. John, meanwhile, had been to see the witty Mr Foote – catching him rehearsing at the theatre – and had borrowed a creation made of velvet and lace, a most effeminate set of garments which the one-legged actor, who always got the audience laughing when he appeared wearing it, insisted was returned the next day.
Thus rigged out, the couple were dropped outside the Strawberry Fields by Irish Tom and with shrill voices demanded entry. The door was opened by the black servant Samson, who looked with a certain surprise at John but made no comment. However, the dwarfish Mr Herbert must have left some instructions because instead of being shown into the main body of the building – from which emanated a great deal of laughter – they were whisked down the corridor and into that same room in which John had been questioned by the owner’s son. But this time the little man was not there. Instead, sitting behind the desk, was a veritable harridan of a woman, who glared at them through a vast quizzing glass encrusted with sparklers.
It was impossible to see her face, which was so plastered with white make-up that it resembled nothing but a malevolent moon. Above the line of where her eyebrows had once been were painted two black lines, while her mouth had been so e
xaggerated as to look as if it was swelling up after a nasty punch. She wore voluminous red satin and many jewels, glittering when she moved her head, her fingers, and fighting a battle at her neck. Her voice when she spoke was surprisingly deep pitched.
‘So you’ve come back for another taste, have you, my fine young Sir. And brought a friend with you. How cosy. But I can tell you that you’re too late.’
John gazed at her uncomprehendingly. ‘For what?’
‘For capturing my little Curlylocks. He – she – has vanished. My spies tell me that he’s taken a ship to the Indies, as a ship’s cook and whore to the sailors, I don’t doubt.’
John stared at her incredulously. ‘When did this happen?’
The featureless face regarded him. ‘What business is it of yours?’
Gilbert spoke up. ‘I may be dressed outlandishly, Madam, but I am here on official business. I am the Constable of the Hotwell and I am here to arrest Herman Cushen for murder.’
‘Well you can’t. And now I require you to leave my property immediately. Out with you, I say.’
She reared up, a horrific sight, because as she stood she got taller and taller until she towered over them both.
‘You’re no woman,’ shouted John, ‘you’re a man, damn you.’
The transvestite bared his teeth at them and, picking up a cast bronze lion that stood on the desk, hurled it with accuracy at John. It caught him a glancing blow on the temple but was enough to stop him in his tracks. At this Gilbert lost his temper and, jumping on to the desk with an agility that left John breathless, flung himself on to the great man-woman with a loud shout. Samson, hearing the fracas from the other side of the door, rushed in and threw a punch into the air which unfortunately caught John on the side of his jaw, just as he was struggling to his feet. Down he went to the floor again, listening to the sounds of Gilbert cursing and swearing as he belted the great creature with a series of blows which apparently inflicted no pain whatsoever. At this, Samson entered the fray once more and, picking up the bronze lion, leapt up onto a stool and crowned the almighty being with a savage downward thrust. The vast wig of curling blonde curls fell off to reveal an ugly brutal head covered by a mass of short black prickles. The owner of this unlovely sight stood swaying for a moment before buckling at the knees and crashing to the floor. The fight was over.
Samson looked round. ‘I have been wanting to do that for years.’
John, still lying on the floor, said, ‘But I thought the dwarf said that this flash-the-drag man was his mother.’
‘I think Mr Herbert believed he was.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ said Gilbert, getting down from the desk. ‘The minute he stood up I realised it was a chap.’
Samson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then I don’t know the answer, except that to a dwarf the whole world seems tall. But I do know that if we don’t get out of here immediately we’re as good as dead.’
They helped John up and made for the front door. ‘Are you coming, Samson? There must be a better life than working here, surely?’
‘Yessir, I’m escaping. I’ll come with you to the Hotwell and try to find employment there.’
The slave closed the front door quietly, but for all his caution there was the sound of an inner door opening.
‘Run,’ he said. ‘Go like the devil.’
The three of them took off at speed, only to hear the front door open behind them. ‘After them,’ they heard. ‘One of them has killed Madame.’ This was followed by a chorus of high-pitched shrieks and the sound of pounding footsteps.
John turned down a side street and, much to his relief, saw his coach standing at the ready. Irish Tom, hearing the hue and cry, peered into the darkness, identified John and shot off the box, lowering the step and opening the door. The three men clambered aboard, Samson losing a shoe in the haste. As they drove away they heard someone fling himself at the coach door, which opened a crack. Gilbert promptly trod on the pursuer’s hand and the accompanying yelp of pain was drowned by the noise of the equipage taking off into the darkness of night.
Nineteen
They did not stop until they reached the outskirts of Hotwell, where the coach pulled up by a low-class ale house, The Bear in Love Street. John and Gilbert hurried in, in need of some liquid refreshment after their chase from the Strawberry Fields. Samson followed them warily, but grew more confident when he saw another black face inside.
The whistles and shouts at the appearance of the Apothecary and Gilbert Farr had to be heard to be believed. The entire crew of customers thought them effeminate to say the least of it and the lewd comments were enough to curl their most intimate hairs. But they put a brave face on it and made some merry quips in return before sitting at a table with Samson. They had started on their second brandy when there was another stir in the ale house as Samuel Foote appeared, flushed with success as he had just finished a performance at the Playhouse. He made a bold entrance, shouting, ‘Unhand me gentlefolk, unhand me I say. I am but a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage.’
The landlord, one Thomas Brotherton, yelled over the hubbub, ‘Show some respect please, gentlemen. It’s an actor from the theatre.’
There was a lessening of the uproar and Samuel, spotting John, came over to join them.
‘You’re both got up very fine,’ he said, and turning to the Apothecary added, ‘That costume suits you, so it does.’
‘I promise not to spill anything on it.’
‘You’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t heave their guts up all over you.’
‘What a nasty thought.’
‘I spoke in jest,’ said Samuel, but his face bore a very serious expression.
Gilbert Farr said, ‘We haven’t been introduced, Sir, but I have much admired your work in the theatre. I was at the Playhouse this last week past and thought your performance admirable.’
Samuel rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘An admirer. And such a young and attractive one, too.’
John said in a slightly warning voice, ‘Gilbert Farr is an apothecary and is also Constable of the Hotwell.’
Samuel pursed his lips into a tiny O. ‘My, my, I shall have to watch my Ps and Qs, won’t I?’
Gilbert looked at him straightforwardly. ‘It is a bigger villain than you could ever be that we seek, Sir. Or rather, we sought.’
Samuel stared at him. ‘Do you mean the murderer of the fat man on the steep steps?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well the answer is obvious, my dear chap. It was that agile young man who swung round the theatre like a veritable ape. In other words, Sir Julian Wychwood. He had an enormous grudge against the fat feller for taking his box. He’s your man.’
Gilbert looked astonished and John said, ‘Have you any evidence, Samuel?’
‘Evidence? Not as such. But I know human nature. Had to study it in order to perform, you see. I tell you that Wychwood is a trickster, especially with the female sex. And at cards, too, I’ll warrant.’
‘That’s a bit heavy without any actual proof.’
‘Pouff to proof. It is what one learns from life. That is the way of telling what a man is really like.’
They gave Samuel Foote a lift back to his lodgings in Dove Street, and when he was gone Gilbert said to John, ‘Do you think I should question Wychwood?’
‘Definitely. After all, Sam Foote has had a great deal of experience and he might just be right.’
‘Should I make my visit formal?’ asked Gilbert.
John considered. ‘No, I think he might laugh. Try and bump into him – or even better come to the ball at the Long Room tomorrow night and I’ll introduce you.’
‘I will. And could you do me a favour, my friend? Could you quiz Mr Huxtable and his slave once more?’
‘I can certainly do that. And what about Henry Tavener?’
‘I think he’s innocent, don’t you?’
With these words they trooped off to their various addresses, but just as John was going i
nto his hotel he noticed a hound in the street outside, nose upward, staring at the moon which hung low in the sky and was a deep sanguine red, a Hunter’s Moon. The dog, which John recognised as Tray, had opened its muzzle and was letting out a doleful howl, a sound reckoned to shatter the nerves after listening for a minute or two.
‘Tray, be quiet,’ John called in an authoritative voice, but the wretched animal had now changed the unnerving sound to a continuous bark.
A window opened in the hotel and a head in a night cap poked out and said, ‘Can nobody shut that wretched beast up. It’s keeping us all awake.’
John called back, ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll see if I can find its owner.’
‘Thank you.’ The head withdrew and the window banged shut.
Cautiously, John approached the beast which bared its teeth at him.
‘Good dog,’ he said nervously. ‘Hush now. Be a good boy.’
The canine let out a low growl which made John shiver. It pulled back just as if it were about to launch itself at him when suddenly a hand rose from a bundle of clothes which John had not even noticed and attached itself to the dog’s collar.
‘Quiet, Tray, you miserable little bastard,’ said a voice, and with this reassurance John walked forward.
The forlorn object turned out to be Henry Tavener, as drunk as a wheelbarrow, lying on the ground, his hose muddy and laddered, his cravat smeared with vomit. It was not a pretty sight. Henry smelt disgusting, but for all that John took a deep breath and forced himself to pull him into an upright position. Forgetting that Henry still had his hand under Tray’s collar, the Apothecary was somewhat amused to see the dog jerked onto its back legs at the same time.
‘Wha?’ said Henry.
The Apothecary answered, ‘Release your dog, Sir. You’re choking it.’
‘Eh?’
‘Oh, never mind,’ and John slipped Henry’s nerveless fingers from Tray’s neckpiece, at which the wretched animal gave another loud howl and belted off into the darkness. Slowly and extremely uncomfortably, John led the shambling wreck to his mother’s lodging in Lebeck House, where he found all the candles lit and two anxious people waiting up.