by Deryn Lake
He smiled. ‘Good luck to you, provided she is willing to go with you.’
‘Jane is not as meek as she looks.’
And that was the only comment Blue Wolf would make before nodding his head briefly and disappearing again, as fleet of foot as ever.
SIXTEEN
With thoughts of love now planted in his mind, John headed for the livery stables, Ruby having made her way elsewhere and not returned last night. There he hired a horse by the name of Hussar, and having been assured of its gentle and kindly disposition, rode it off in the direction of the Common and Coralie’s house. On the way he passed a familiar sight. The cart in which Demelza Conway’s body reposed was being pulled by one solitary soldier into a building standing by the workhouse, which John suddenly realized was the mortuary. Once, presumably, it had housed the bodies of the penniless people who dwelt there, but now it also had a use for the militia who were camped so close by. And remembering Harry Dalrymple’s words, John made the mental connection and knew that this was where Demelza was being taken. He suddenly thought of Jacob O’Farrell and wondered whether news of his wife’s death had been communicated to him – or whether, perhaps, for a more sinister reason, he was already aware.
Coralie rushed in from the stable behind her house, her face downcast. ‘Oh, John, Abraham has just told me the news. Lady Conway died in some sort of accident last night.’
He kissed her swiftly, then said, ‘Why are you so upset? I thought you hardly knew the woman.’
‘Then you are wrong. She and Jake live in the stable block owned by Mr Hancock, and I wave to her on a daily basis. Besides, long ago, almost in another life, she and I acted together.’
‘What?’
‘I said that she was once an actress.’
A door, beyond which were vast and endless possibilities, opened in John’s mind. ‘God’s life. There’s some havey-cavey business here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lady Conway’s entire past takes on a different hue. I never knew she was on the stage.’
‘Well, she called herself a player but she was not up to snuff. And she wasn’t Lady Conway then. She called herself Moll Bowling.’
‘Tare an’ Hounds!’ exclaimed the Apothecary. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘Why should I? The subject never came up.’
John gathered himself together. ‘Listen, lovely girl, perhaps this is the wrong time of day to quiz you. You undoubtedly have a room full of eager young misses—’
‘Of which your daughter is one.’
‘Indeed she is. As I was saying, they’ll be dying to be taught how to play the harp and conduct themselves in company, so perhaps I should return this evening, when it is dark and lonely and you are wishing that you had someone to snuggle up against …’
‘You hope,’ said Coralie, sparkling, and losing twenty years as a result.
‘I know,’ John answered smugly, and regretted it instantly.
‘Please go,’ she said in a voice like a sliver of freezing glass. ‘Do you think I have looked after myself all these years to be reduced to thinking of you when I go to bed? Shame on you, Sir.’
For once the Apothecary was entirely at a loss. ‘Oh, my dear, I meant nothing by that foolish remark. I was talking about myself – at least, I think I was.’
Coralie smiled; she could not help it. John, the man she had known since she was a youthful girl, looked so sad at that moment, like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the jam jar.
‘John Rawlings, why have you become so pompous? I swear that fatherhood has brought out the worst in you. You must simply learn to be less serious if you wish to remain young at heart.’
‘And that I do.’
‘I nearly lost the gift once. Years of being in wretched company wore away at me like a dark cloud. But it came back. And do you know how?’
He shook his head.
‘By remembering all the fun I used to have. Recalling how much I’d laughed with Kitty, my witty, wonderful sister. What joy I had had from hearing the audience roar with applause. The infinite pleasure of knowing you and, moreover, the amount of sheer romping that we indulged in.’
John nodded. ‘They were wonderful days. I suppose it’s just the hardness of life now that makes me solemn.’
‘You, solemn! Don’t try that old sally on me. You’re as sedate as a wagon full of grinning apes. Now, do you want to hear the history of poor Moll Bowling or not?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, apparently she was given to Mr Garrick by Samuel Foote. You know the man?’
‘Quite well, in fact.’
‘It seems she played a breeches part in some production of Sam’s and was quite hopeless so he exchanged her for a basket of worn and smelly costumes that David no longer wanted.’
John was astounded and thought Coralie was teasing him, but said nothing.
‘Anyway, I’ll say this much for her – she had a wonderful ear for accents. She copied the fine talk of the beau monde and improved herself so much that Garrick gave her secondary roles. Old Lord Conway came regularly to the theatre and took quite a fancy to her.’
‘Don’t tell me, she upped and married him.’
‘Not immediately. You see, she was expecting a child—’
‘Who was the father?’
‘Nobody knew. She disappeared to the country for a month or three and came back slim and ready to resume her career.’
‘And the baby?’
‘Put out to a baby farmer, I don’t doubt. Or else dumped outside Thomas Coram’s.’
Some years back retired sea captain Thomas Coram had started the Foundling Hospital for abandoned children after seeing all the dying babies and starving youngsters littering the streets of London, but it had become so inundated with requests from wretched mothers – many of them prostitutes – that he had been forced to operate a waiting list. Thus bundled infants were left outside his gates at night, which the good-hearted man felt obliged to take in.
‘Do you know what sex it was?’
Coralie screwed up her nose. ‘I don’t think she officially announced it – in fact, I’m sure she didn’t – but word got round that it was a girl.’
‘But it lived, presumably.’
‘Presumably. Anyway, a month after that she went off with Lord Conway – who was aged ninety if he was a day – and rumour had it that she married his son instead, which caused the old fellow to have a heart attack and keel over.’
‘Is this all true?’
Coralie pealed with laughter, tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s like the plot of a ghastly novel. Do you swear to the facts?’
‘Indeed I do,’ answered Coralie, and placed her hand on her heart.
They both burst out guffawing but, when they had collected themselves some several minutes later, John asked, ‘So where does Jacob O’Farrell enter the story?’
Coralie shook her head. ‘I do not know and I am only guessing. But I would imagine that he was her groom, she took a fancy to him and they eloped.’
‘So they are not married?’
‘I’m afraid, my dear John, that we can only conjecture.’
‘Well, I intend to ask him.’
‘Beware his fists. He looks the sort of fellow who could turn ugly in a fight.’
‘I’ll heed your words of advice, Madam.’
But strangely, when John finally tracked him down at the Orange Tree, Jake was drained of all vitality and seemed as far from engaging in a bout of fisticuffs as a new-born infant. He sat, whiter than a shroud, at a table. John looked at his eyes, which had degenerated into slits caused by the puffiness on either side, and gathered that the news of Lady Conway’s death had reached his ears. In fact, so far gone was Jake O’Farrell in a mixture of sadness and being extremely hungover that he did not even hear the Apothecary come in. However, at that moment Suzanne entered the room bearing a large cup of thick black coffee.
‘Drink this,’ she said in a commanding voice. ‘It may restore you.’
Jake shook his head as if every movement hurt him. John, watching, wondered if it could possibly be an act. Suzanne gave the Apothecary a secretive look.
‘Have you heard?’ she whispered. He nodded his head. ‘What an awful thing. Apparently she drowned herself.’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ he murmured.
But Jake must have overheard him because he said thickly, ‘What’s that you say?’
The Apothecary paused, wondering just how much he should tell him. Then he made a decision. ‘How much do you know about your wife’s death, Jake?’
‘Only that she was found drowned at the Long Wharf. But how did it happen? Did she kill herself because I had gone carousing?’
‘The answer is that I do not think this was a suicide, Jake. I suspect foul play.’
Jake rose slowly, like a corpse arising from its grave. ‘If so I’ll kill the bastard who did it. I’ll tear his throat out with my bare hands.’
‘But how will you know who it was?’
‘I’ll find him. I’ll track him down if it takes me to the end of my days.’
It was the ramblings of a man still half drunk.
John humoured him. ‘Yes, I’m sure you will. But first you must get some sleep. I’ll fetch you a sedative.’
To his astonishment, Jake drank down the vial of physick which John handed to him without argument.
‘To bed with you,’ said Suzanne firmly and, half-carrying the man between them, they took the wretched widower to the same room in which he had spent the night.
SEVENTEEN
Having informed Suzanne that the Apothecary’s shop would be manned by his apprentice that day, for John had persuaded young Tristram to join him permanently – his employment with Dr Warren merely one of running errands, a neat arrangement which the doctor himself had approved – John set out on foot to cross the town. He was making his way to the mortuary, hoping to take another look at the body of the woman born Moll Bowling who had risen to greater heights.
The Apothecary walked quickly, raising his hat to various people along the way and feeling very much a part of the city. Yet for all that he missed London, the coffeehouses and the stinks, the playhouses and the gossip. And he missed word of his old friend John Fielding, his advice, his wit, his sharpness of intellect. But, as if to compensate him for all that he had left, he had found Coralie again, which was compensation indeed.
On entering the mortuary, where the bodies of soldiers lay stretched out and peaceful, each wrapped in a sheet awaiting burial, John was overcome with a certain lurching of his stomach. But he steeled himself against this and made his way to where he could see a doctor at work on a corpse.
The man looked up and smiled. ‘Are you Mr Rawlings, by any chance?’
‘Yes. I am here on behalf of Lieutenant Dalrymple.’
‘He told me you might call. Do you want to take a look at Lady Conway? I have moved her into another room. It did not appear seemly to leave her surrounded by all these men.’
John smiled to himself. It would appear that even in death the niceties had to be preserved.
‘That would be very kind.’
‘Follow me.’
She lay on a bare slab, her body still uncovered, a few corpses of other women close by.
John turned in some surprise to the doctor. ‘Who are these?’
‘Camp followers. Soldiers’ wives and sweethearts. One or two died in childbirth, the rest from other natural causes. But generally they are a tough lot. In fact, they are quite indispensable for doing menial tasks around the encampment.’
‘A hard life for a woman.’
‘Better than dwelling in Old Pye Street, London.’
John smiled crookedly. The doctor was referring to one of the worst rookeries in the capital. Lacking any form of sanitation, people pissed anywhere and dropped their excrement into the streams, which led to them being covered and gave rise to the foulest stench pervading the entire area.
‘You’re right, of course. At least the air here is clean.’
‘Relatively so, yes. But you came to look at Lady Conway, I thought.’
‘Yes. What do you make of her death?’
‘There are one or two odd things about the corpse. Look at the hands. Notice the way her fingers are cut deep, all of them. It was as if she was clinging on to something. And why was she dressed as a young man? Some sort of Sappho or what?’
Despite the solemnity of his surroundings, to say nothing of the faint but persistent smell of death, John smiled. ‘She was actually born in Boston but went to live in England at an early age. After that I know nothing until she turned up at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and was given to David Garrick in exchange for some cast-off wardrobe items. She led a very scandalous life but nothing Sapphic, as far as I know.’
‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘That’s enough to be going on with. But the poor soul ended up drowned. And how did she get those damaged hands?’
‘She was seen climbing up the rigging on one of the tea ships.’
‘You are being serious, I trust.’
‘Completely. A reliable eyewitness saw her.’
‘But why did she do that, for the love of God?’
‘I can only conjecture that she was being pursued and thought it a reasonable means of escaping.’
‘Or perhaps somebody followed her and gave her a push.’
The Apothecary fingered his chin. ‘I shouldn’t think a push was possible but if you are right – and we can only guess at it – someone could have grabbed her heels.’
‘And thrown her off balance so that she landed in the sea. Damme, so this could be a case of murder.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But why?’ asked the doctor. ‘What had the wretched woman ever done?’
‘That,’ said the Apothecary, ‘is what I intend to find out.’
Leaving the mortuary behind him, John Rawlings strolled down the road towards the great mansion owned by the Hancock family and loitered behind the line of trees that protected it. The coach house, an imposing affair, stood on the far left, while slightly behind the great house was a smaller dwelling where the servants resided. John walked to the right, following the line of fencing, and eventually found a place where the wooden paling had been damaged and was leaning slightly away from its accompanying stakes. He crouched down and pushed it, and it gave way sufficiently for him – with a great deal of breathing in – to squeeze himself through. He emerged on the other side, red in the face but on the Hancock property.
Nonchalance, he decided, brushing himself down. Look as though you belong. He leaned through the hole, retrieved his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, which was tied back with a bow, and crammed the hat back on his head. Then he strolled away, humming a cheery tune.
There were not many people about. Passing a gardener, John gave him a merry, ‘Good day to you,’ and received the answer, ‘And to you, Sir.’ Pleased with this, the Apothecary walked round the back of the great house and made his way to the servants’ quarters. At this time of day it was deserted. John adopted his good citizen face and entered. A very old slave, snoozing in the morning sun, spoke.
‘Good morning, Sir. Can I help you?’
John looked contrite. ‘So sorry to disturb you. I am an apothecary and have been asked to call on the coachman, who is feeling very under the weather at the moment.’ No lies there! ‘Could you tell me where I might find him?’
The elderly negro servant smiled and rose slowly from his chair. ‘Well, Master, they do live in the coach house to be near the horses and all. I haven’t seen Jakey this morning so guess he might be takin’ his ease. Come to that, I ain’t seen the lady neither.’
John raised his hat. ‘How kind of you. Many thanks.’ So news of the drowning hadn’t reached the Hancock residence yet. He had to act fast before it did. He nodded and smiled. ‘
I’ll make my way to see them directly.’ The old man still hovered above his chair and John added, ‘Just you sit down and rest. You looked as if you were enjoying it.’
‘Mr Hancock, he’m be a good master, Sir. He don’t throw me out just because I’m too old to work no more.’
John’s heart constricted. He knew the fate of many black slaves, literally shown the door when their age became too great to allow them to labour further. He smiled at the old fellow and, wishing him a good day, made his way to the tall and imposing building that was the coach house.
The great coach that John Hancock’s uncle Thomas had ordered from London, slightly battered now by age and wear but for all that magnificent, rested quietly in the large hall that the Apothecary now entered. It was covered with a home cloth to keep it spotless but John lifted the protective sheet to have a look. It reminded him vividly of London, and yet again he felt that ache in his heart which he always had when he thought of his home town. To the left of the room in which the conveyance was housed were some loose boxes, from which came the familiar stamp and whinny of horses, to say nothing of the distinctive smell of horseflesh. To the right was a wooden staircase. With a great deal of caution, John mounted it.
Above, built under the roof and with a fine display of windows which had the most magnificent views over Boston Common on the left-hand side and Beacon Hill on the right, lay two spacious rooms. The first, a living area, was furnished simply but with good taste. The second, which John approached with caution, ever fearful that Jake might have made a swift recovery and could possibly be within, was thankfully empty. The Apothecary tiptoed inside and shut the door behind him.
A large bed, the sheets still rumpled, stood inside, together with a clothes press, a chair on which lay some of Lady Conway’s garments, and a wooden dressing table with a mirror above. So there had sat the late Moll Bowling, applying her powder and paint before the challenge of the day. John approached the small stool that stood in front of it and sat down. There was a sound from the stables below and the Apothecary, with nowhere to hide, stood behind the door and listened. It was a groom talking to the horses.