by Deryn Lake
‘Come on d’ere, Starlight. How are you, my liddle sweetie? I’ll give you some oats if you is a good gal.’
Somehow it was rather touching to listen to and John felt himself relax. Not really knowing what he was looking for, the Apothecary began a hasty but thorough search. Moll Conway’s clothes gave nothing away, discarded in a hurry as she changed into man’s clothing for that last fateful venture she had undertaken when the rebels of Boston attacked the English tea ships. Sniffing the pillows, John detected a faint whiff of perfume from her side, while the other pillow revealed the unmistakeable odour of Jake, sweat and booze and general manliness. But it was at the dressing table, hidden in a little box behind the mirror, covered by a shawl which had been draped over it, that the Apothecary found the letter. It had been posted in London and had clearly arrived by one of the many ships that docked in the various harbours. Scanning it, he read:
At the office we were glad to have news of your arrival safely in the town of Boston. Continue with all haste upon your mission. We await, dear Madam, your next communication.
It was signed with the initial N.
John stared at it, wondering what it could possibly mean. What mission could Lady Conway have undertaken and who could possibly have sent it? And then he thought back to when he had met the Bishop of Bath and Wells, the most unlikely decipherer of cryptic codes, who had been employed by the Secret Office and whose extra-curricular activities were shrouded in mystery. Was it possible that Lady Conway was working for them? Putting the letter into his pocket, the Apothecary took one last look round and decided that the bedroom had nothing further to tell him. He quietly went out and left the door as he had found it, ajar.
A quick glance at the living quarters told him that there was nothing further of any relevance to be discovered and he silently made his way downstairs to where the magnificent coach, under its protective shroud, stood in all its majestic beauty. But just as he was making his way out into the grounds, the groom entered and stared at him. John inclined his head, wreathed in smiles. ‘It seems that I have had a wasted journey. Mr O’Farrell is not in.’
‘Oh, no, Sah, he done gone missin’ in Boston. I think he might get de sack if he don’t come back.’
John risked all. ‘But surely his wife will know where he is.’
The groom shook his head emphatically. ‘No, Sah. She gone missin’ as well.’
As he had earlier thought, news of the tragedy had somehow not reached the magnificent pile built by the late departed Thomas Hancock. This, he imagined, was because the mansion lay at some distance from the town, resplendent in its own gardens and parkland. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before somebody came running to tell them the tidings. He must make his exit soon.
John assumed a puzzled expression and said, ‘My goodness me. Well, no doubt you’ll see one or other of them shortly.’ Feeling somewhat ashamed of his blatant lying, he made his way hurriedly out of the place by conventional means, the gatekeeper giving him a magnificent salute.
He would have dashed back to Boston but for a strange sight which caught his eye as he reached the lane which ran towards Beacon Hill. This too was fenced off, but presumably somebody had come up the hill from the far side and now appeared to be standing near the top, having somehow scaled the precipitate climb, and remained stock still with a pair of divining rods in his hands. John gasped aloud. If his eyes were not deceiving him the figure looked amazingly similar to Sir Julian Wychwood, the last person on earth that John would have associated with divination. He stood agape, watching the diviner walk forwards slowly until the rods suddenly dipped down. At this, Julian dropped on his knees and started scrabbling at the earth below. John cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed ‘Julian’, at which the other turned his head and gazed at the Apothecary’s distant figure. He waved his arm and gave an unreadable pantomime to which John nodded enthusiastically before giving it up as hopeless and continuing on his way.
His walk back to town would have taken him back directly to the area he knew well but instead he decided to have a look around and acquaint himself with the more distant part of the North End. Accordingly he turned right in Treamount Street and, walking quite hard, eventually found himself at a place new to him, the place where the Charles River had been dammed to form Mill Cove. It was a fairly deserted spot, not many houses having been built nearby, and had a slightly eerie atmosphere. John presumed that the powering of the mill wheel came from the tide, because this was where the Charles River flowed into the sea and fell under its influence. The mill itself stood at the top of Mill Creek, the manmade brook which virtually cut the north end of Boston off from the rest of the town. No wonder, John thought, that this place of poor sanitation and tightly packed houses held so many rebellious citizens in its grip.
Looking round him, the Apothecary stared solemnly at the sheet of water – as large in size as the whole of the Common – and felt himself go cold. He realized that he had eaten nothing since a very light breakfast – not at all his usual fare – and decided that the cove was not his favourite place. Thinking deeply and concentrating his mind on Julian Wychwood, that seducer of women and charmer of men, he pondered the problem of what on earth the fellow could have been up to on the bleakness of Beacon Hill.
EIGHTEEN
Dusk was falling by the time he walked beside the steep wooden escarpments down which water cascaded to join Mill Creek by means of a tunnel under the road, the stream eventually pouring back into the sea. Furthermore, the Apothecary felt freezing cold and realized that it was only a few days to Christmas. Rose would soon be returning home from school for the celebration of the festival.
Inside the Orange Tree Irish Tom loomed large behind the bar while little Suzanne ran round like a gnat, serving customers, clearing tables and grinning at everybody as if they were more than welcome. Big Matthew was in there and, wonder of wonders, Lady Eawiss attempting to look the height of respectability, drinking a cup of milky tea and smiling at her current cicisbeo, who was different since John’s last viewing and now appeared to be a very tall, very bland, very young English officer who was, presumably, willing to sleep with anything provided it had money.
‘Of course, I’ve always admired a military man,’ she was saying in a loud and terribly affected English voice. ‘My late husband, you know, Sir Bevis Eawiss, was a colonel, of course.’
‘Really?’ replied the other with a desperate show of interest.
‘Oh, yes. I was a mere child bride at the time.’ This remark was made very deep and loud. John and Irish Tom exchanged a wide-eyed look. ‘But then my poor spouse was called to Jesus and I have been alone ever since.’
‘For a long time?’ asked her gormless escort.
‘Oh, three or four years at the most,’ she whispered plummily.
‘Gracious,’ replied the youthful officer, and stared fixedly into his glass of cognac.
The door opened and in walked Sir Julian Wychwood, plucking his hat from his head and standing for a moment in order to gain the maximum amount of attention. Lady Eawiss fluttered where she sat and Sir Julian, noticing this, dashed over and raised one of her fat, over-ringed hands to his lips.
‘Ah, my dear Madam, how are you, pray? ’Tis an age since I’ve seen you. Tell me, how is that delightful little thing you employ as a maid?’
Lady Eawiss simpered alarmingly. ‘Well, of course, I know I gave her employment when the poor wee soul was utterly stranded, but now I regard her as more of a daughter. She calls me Mama, don’t you know.’
The Apothecary raised an eyebrow at Tom, who choked back a laugh, while the young lieutenant raised his eyes to Sir Julian’s elegant frame and looked exquisitely miserable.
‘How touching,’ Julian chattered on. ‘How one loves to hear a tale so full of enchantment.’
He turned and pulled a face at the other customers and there was a subdued laugh. ‘I am always full of pensees de assassiner when I think of my dam.’
Lady Eawiss
made a moue as the rest of the customers, many of whom were descended directly from the French, fell about in a loud roar of mirth. The young lieutenant drew out his watch and said, ‘Heavens, I must report for duty,’ bowed, clicked his heels and disappeared rapidly. Blue Wolf came through the door as the youth departed and looked around solemnly, finally fixing his eyes on John.
‘I have to report that your sons are in bed and asleep. I also have to report that they had a very large supper which I prepared for them.’
John stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Blue Wolf. I knew you had it in you.’
But his conversation with his newly appointed servant ended abruptly. Lieutenant Dalrymple entered the drinking house with an extremely earnest expression on his face.
‘Excuse me a moment, if you would,’ said the Apothecary to the Indian. ‘There is someone I really must talk to.’ Motioning the army man into an alcove usually reserved for courting couples, he said, ‘I have something of interest to show you,’ and produced from his pocket the extraordinary letter he had found in Lady Conway’s dressing table.
The lieutenant scanned it, then read it again slowly. ‘What the devil does this mean?’
‘Your answer is as good as mine. I have no idea. But my feeling is that the deceased woman was a spy.’
Dalrymple looked frankly astonished. ‘But for whom? On which side? And why?’
‘As you know, she was born in Boston, knew Doctor Warren when he was at school, then was shipped to England. But after this her life took some strange twists and turns. Yet, supposing that, from an early age she had become indoctrinated with the thought of freedom and liberty for the Colonists. Would this not make her determined to return and fight for the cause? Particularly if she had joined some organization in London which actively supports her ideas. It’s all perfectly possible.’
The lieutenant swallowed a cognac with a great gulp. ‘By God, it makes you think, though. How can we find out?’
‘I would go and see Doctor Warren if I were you. He won’t tell you anything because he strongly believes in the movement. But you could read between the lines.’
‘I’d rather you did it. You sound as if you’ve had more practice than I have.’
The Apothecary gave a wry little smile and said, ‘Really?’
‘Meanwhile, I could place the husband under arrest and question him sharply.’
John shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would do any good at all. He’s more likely to button his lip and prefer to be beaten up. I think the best way to is to befriend him and ask him questions gently.’
Dalrymnple sighed. ‘It sounds as if I should concentrate my attentions entirely on this woman. But I am sworn to keep up my army duties.’
John smiled at him. ‘Surely you have an intelligence officer within your ranks.’
‘We have several but their methods tend to be somewhat brutal. Could you undertake the task, Mr Rawlings?’
John nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘I can but try. But I can’t promise anything, mind.’
Dalrymple rose, bowing militarily, and at that moment Sir Julian Wychwood, suave as ever though his face was more flushed than usual, sidled into the alcove. His eyes took in the scene and he bowed languidly in Dalrymple’s direction.
‘A fellow Britisher, I see. How dee do, Sir.’
Dalrymple clicked his heels, bowed and said, ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir. But I am afraid I must be off. Army life, don’t you know.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Julian answered vaguely and watched while the lieutenant departed, then turned to John with a sudden energy. ‘My dear fellow, I think I have discovered where my mother’s fortune lies.’
‘Is that what you were doing on Beacon Hill strutting about like a water diviner?’
‘Exactly.’ Julian went slightly redder. ‘Of course, you know all that transpired in England.’
John nodded. He had indeed met Lady Tyninghame, Julian’s mother, an incredibly beautiful and ageless woman, in Bristol what seemed like a century ago but in fact had been the year in which he had sailed for the Colonies. He also knew her whole tragic story.
‘But before we parted company …’ Wychwood continued, looking for the first time in his life positively ill at ease, ‘… I got hold of a clue. Look.’ And he thrust a worn piece of paper under the Apothecary’s nose.
It could have been drawn by a child but looking at it closely one could see that it was a primitive sketch of Boston with one or two recognizable features, including Beacon Hill, by which was marked a large X. It could have referred to anything but Sir Julian, forgetting for once his pose as a man of fashion, was hopping about with excitement.
‘Don’t you see it, John? I mean, it is clear as daylight. That’s where she buried all her loot.’
‘But I didn’t think she had any.’
‘Oh, pshaw. She positively dripped with cash. Why you only had to look at my beloved Mama to see she had stowed away a fortune in diamonds or some such. And now I’ve found them.’
‘Have you? Well, congratulations.’
Julian looked down his nose. ‘Well, I didn’t actually have time. Two beastly old men were puffing up the hill on t’other side and I had to abandon my search. But the divining rods leapt in my hands as I walked over the spot. I know it’s buried beneath, John. I feel it in my very bones.’
‘So when do you plan to unearth whatever may be there?’
‘Tomorrow morning, at first light. I’ll approach the hill from the far side so I don’t have to traverse the Hancock estate. I shall take my divining rods with me, together with a stout spade, and by nightfall I shall be in possession of what is rightfully mine.’
‘D’ye know, I’ve a mind to come with you. It will take my mind off other problems.’
‘What other problems?’
‘Nothing really. The death of Lady Conway still bothers me somewhat.’
John was making light of the situation, though deep within his heart he felt that the murderer was not unknown to him. It was just a question of fitting a face into the whirling pattern in his brain.
‘As it does all of us,’ Julian uttered in an extremely solemn voice.
But no more of their private conversation was possible because at that moment a head appeared round the entrance – a head belonging to Jacob O’Farrell, looking dejected but entirely in control of himself.
‘I want to apologise for my behaviour on that terrible night, gentlemen. Will you ever forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive, my dear chap,’ Julian answered, smiling a lazy smile. ‘After such a ghastly event nobody could blame you for your behaviour.’
But, John thought, he had not yet heard of his wife’s death when he turned up drunk as a wheelbarrow and was sick all over the place.
‘When did you learn of Demelza’s death, Jake?’ he asked quietly.
Was it his imagination or did the look on Jacob’s face alter fractionally? But the man answered calmly enough.
‘T’was Suzanne who told me next morning when I had sobered up. I screamed and shouted but she left me alone to do my worst. Eventually I recovered my dignity.’
‘I offer you my deepest sympathies,’ said the Apothecary, watching Jake’s reaction intently. There was nothing; not a flicker. The man was either a very good actor or was completely genuine.
Julian was drawling something. ‘Terribly hard on you, old feller. Still, we must face things the best way we can. Will you allow me to buy you a drink?’
‘Thank you but no. I must make my way back home. I fear that Mr Hancock will think I have run away or else. Good night, gentlemen.’ Jacob made a small bow and was gone.
John and Julian stared at one another.
‘He’s taking it pretty well, don’t you think?’ said Julian.
‘Indeed, indeed,’ answered John, and said nothing further.
The sun rose like a prince, scaling the heavens in majesty. First came the pale pink threads of dawn, then these were lit by shade
s of blood, and finally the wondrous fireball could be glimpsed soaring above the horizon in all his great magnificence.
John Rawlings and Sir Julian Wychwood, clambering up the steep sides of Beacon Hill, paused, breathing faster, and looked around them. For once Julian’s languidness escaped him and he said with genuine fervour, ‘My God, John, but I am glad to be alive on such a day.’
And the Apothecary smiled, knowing the true character that lurked behind the foppish fellow, and answered, ‘So am I, my friend.’
They were toiling up the northern slope of Beacon Hill to escape attention but John, who had never before climbed the dastardly heights, motioned towards a large hump on the western side of the hill.
‘What’s that?’
Julian grinned. ‘It is where my mother’s treasure is buried. But do you know that man Revere?’
‘The short, dark fellow who comes into the Orange Tree? Quite a friendly sort?’
‘Yes. He made Doctor Warren’s false teeth for him. He refers to the hump as Mount Whoredom.’
‘I can’t imagine ladies in that profession struggling up this hill to ply their trade.’
‘Nor the customers either.’
But Julian interrupted this train of thought with a shrill shriek as the divining rods which he had drawn from his pocket twitched violently.
‘Come, let us hurry. We must dig from the back or we will be visible to the people in the big house.’
They set to with a spade and a small shovel, which was as much as they could carry with them. By now the sumptuous sunrise was in full glory and they had to crouch below the brow of the hill to avoid being spotted from the Hancock home. That their distant figures would have been visible to the dwellings that lay to the north they completely ignored. Julian dug with a will and after about half an hour gave a cry of triumph as his spade hit something.