by Deryn Lake
‘’Zounds, John. I knew it was here. She was a cunning old vixen to hide something so far away. Do you think she knew that one day I would find it?’
‘No.’
Julian looked slightly startled. ‘Don’t you believe my mother had one redeeming feature?’
‘No, not one.’
The other shrugged. ‘Ah, well. You’re probably right, of course.’
John spread his coat upon the ground and sat down to admire the view, which from his high vantage point was spectacular. Boston was reduced in size to a miniature, a child’s toy, a sweet reproduction. He looked from where the sun glistened and gleamed on the church spires to where it turned the Mill Cove into a blue sparkle and then to the sails of the ferry boat to Charlestown, shining white as daisy flowers in the glory of that early day. He was at that moment utterly filled with the elation of being alive and well.
Julian, meanwhile, was digging for all he was worth until he shouted, ‘I’ve uncovered it, John. It’s a large tin box.’ Together, heaving, they pulled it out of its dark pit and attempted to open the lid. It had rusted but John, using his shovel, managed to ease the top a little.
‘Damme, my boy, this is a corky moment. Shake the hand of a man about to be wealthy,’ Julian exclaimed.
John’s eyebrows raised darkly and he laughed. ‘I hope so, Julian. Indeed I do.’
Fingernails splintering, Wychwood tore at the lid and then exclaimed in horror, ‘God’s wounds, it’s a skeleton.’
Instantly the Apothecary peered into the box’s depths. There was indeed a set of bones arrayed within but as John gazed at it he realized that it was the remains of a dog, curled over but nevertheless a canine. He put his hand inside and pulled out a leather collar with a name on it – Rover. There was also an ancient piece of paper folded into four. Carefully, John unfolded it. It read, Here lies my faithful friend, Rover. Alas, he and I will rove no more. R.I.P.
John did not know how to restrain himself. It was sad but laughable. Yet the expression on Julian’s face was tragic. He had genuinely expected to find a fortune but instead had found nothing but the skeletal remains of a hound. He sat down upon the grass and tears ran down his handsome cheeks. At that moment Sir Julian Wychwood was as far removed from being a dandy man as was mortally possible.
‘Come on, old friend. You didn’t really think your mother would leave you anything, did you?’
‘Yes, I thought that for once in her miserable life she had done the decent thing.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that she left you nothing but poor old Rover. That is, if he was ever hers.’
Julian looked up, still weeping. ‘Wretched dog and wretched me.’
‘Oh, do stop. See the funny side.’
‘It’s difficult.’
‘Let’s rebury the poor creature. His owner, whoever he was or is, would prefer that we did so.’
‘You’re right – as bloody usual.’
John Rawlings solemnly replaced the box in its rightful setting. Then he said deeply, ‘Farewell, Rover, your barking days are over but now you romp in fields of clover.’
Julian looked aghast. ‘Was that supposed to rhyme?’
‘I thought it was rather good.’
‘Oh, John Rawlings,’ Julian answered, a slow, sad smile starting to steal over his reluctant features. ‘Come on, let’s call on the Hancocks and see what they are up to. There’s quite a pretty girl …’
The rest of his conversation was lost as they made their way down the hill and back to civilization.
NINETEEN
Tristram had done well, surprisingly so for a boy new to apprenticeship. And then John remembered that the young man had been assistant to Dr Warren’s students and had obviously gained some knowledge while in their company. Nevertheless, the Apothecary was pleased when he walked into his shop after leaving Sir Julian, half laughing, half crying, making his way into a tavern. The place was spotlessly clean and, just for a moment, John stood in the doorway and let his mind wander back to all the apprentices who had served him in his shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly, and all the happy memories he had shared with them. He indulged in a moment of pure homesickness then, telling himself that there were more pressing problems to be addressed, straightened his back and went in.
Tristram was serving a customer who turned round, whey-faced, as he heard footsteps behind him. It was Tracey Tremayne, looking sick to die.
‘My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?’
Tracey grabbed at the counter before he slumped into a chair that John had placed discreetly for the use of customers who were feeling weak at the knees.
‘Oh, my dear John, I have a vast attack of the looseness – and so does poor George. The fact is that we started to celebrate Christmas a little early and we must have eaten something that was poisoned, for now we can neither of us leave the pan for long.’
The Apothecary put on his sympathetic face. ‘Oh, you poor souls. Let me make you a decoction of Dog’s Grass, the seed of which should bring about relief within the hour. Meanwhile, would you care to visit a closet?’
‘Yes, I think I would.’
And Tracey disappeared, with much groaning, towards an outhouse used by the customers of the Orange Tree and all the people who worked nearby. It was horribly smelly but it was a part of life and had to be endured. John, meanwhile, took a plant down from those hanging on the shop’s ceiling, bruised the roots of the herb, added the seeds and boiled the whole lot in wine. The mixture was cooling down when Tracey staggered back in, looking pale as parchment. The Apothecary motioned him back to the chair and gave him a glass of the dispensed physick to drink. Tracey sipped it.
‘A pleasant enough taste. Thank you.’
‘I have prepared a large bottle for George and another for you. If you have any further trouble do not hesitate to come back.’
‘Thank you from the heart of my bottom,’ said Tracey, and giggled hysterically at his own joke.
Tristram hid a smile but John, playing the part of serious apothecary, merely raised an eyebrow.
The dancing master finished his drink and gave the Apothecary two shillings. ‘And where will you be spending Christmas?’ he asked.
‘With Madame Clive, I hope.’
‘A very beautiful woman. How is her school?’
‘Very well, I believe. My daughter, Rose, attends there.’
‘Really,’ said Tracey, ‘I had no idea. Will she be coming home soon?’
‘The day after tomorrow. Tonight they will be producing an end-of-term play in the barn behind the house in which Coralie lives.’
‘The one thing I cannot abide about Boston is this Puritanical attitude they have towards the theatre. What is the matter with these people?’
As Tracey said those words a thrill of fear, conjured up by heaven knows what, ran through John’s body like an icy splinter. He knew these feelings of old and had by now recognized them as a portent of disaster.
‘What’s the matter, Sir?’ asked Tristram. ‘You’ve gone quite white.’
John passed it off with a wave of his hand. ‘’Tis nothing. A moment of sympathy with our friend here.’
Tracey bowed carefully. ‘Thank you again,’ he said, then dashed out.
After he had gone the Apothecary sat in the recently vacated chair. ‘I know it is early in the day, Tristram, but would you get me a nip of brandy from the Orange Tree? I feel I need it.’
‘Of course – at once, Sir.’
Left alone, John sat silently, trying to understand his thought process. It had not been the mention of the theatre that had given him that instant frisson of fear but rather the mention of the people of Boston. He thought back to the ravaging of the three tea ships and how the mob had suddenly seemed like one angry unit. Was it probable that they were going to rise up and protest against British rule? Yet the people he knew as individuals were all so friendly and easy-going. He thought back to the night he had extracted Dr Warren’s teeth. What a charming man, and yet he
had been one of the thinly disguised people who had been involved in the attack. And then John considered that there had been a murderer in their midst. Possibly, no, more likely probably, a British agent whose sole purpose had been to end the work of Demelza Conway, also known as Moll Bowling. But who was it? What shadow-like person walked along the streets of Boston with a smile and a friendly nod for everyone he passed?
Tristram came back bearing a large glass of brandy which John swallowed in three gulps. Somewhat revived, he stood up, put on his long apron and then put his thoughts behind him, and prepared to face the rest of the day.
Despite the ban on theatrical performances quite a few people made their way to the barn where Coralie’s pupils were due to perform their Christmas presentation. There was a cheerful atmosphere amongst the parents and friends winding their way along Beacon Street. Lady Eawiss, fat and fluttering, was accompanied by a uniformed figure who John could not identify. Following one pace behind, walking demurely, was pretty Jane Hawthorne, yet there was something different about her. Her entire carriage had a confidence that John had never noticed before, but he knew the reason beyond doubt. In some sort of secret ceremony performed by a tribe elder that Blue Wolf had located, the couple had been married. Looking at Jane long and hard from beneath the brim of his hat, John thought her more poised and calm, more serene, and he cast his mind back to the bath house and how he had glimpsed Blue Wolf touching her body as if it were a rare jewel, and knew that the couple had undoubtedly consummated their love.
Christmas was not celebrated at all by the more Puritanical members of society; however, there was another section of the population who did. These were supporters of the British crown, who went to the Episcopalian churches, decorated with sweet-smelling boughs of green brought in from the woods. These same citizens sent their daughters to Madame Clive’s School for Young Ladies and laughed and joked with each other as they jostled for seats on the wooden benches which had been set in three rows in the barn, the back two raised up by planking so that everyone could get a good view. John sat in the front with Jasper and James, the long, lean figure of Blue Wolf on their other side. In the back row he observed Tracey and George, presumably cured of their looseness by John’s physick. Further down sat Lady Eawiss and her entourage, while almost directly behind was Sir Julian Wychwood with a brilliantly garbed young lady on his arm. Matthew and his wife, and Irish Tom and Suzanne, arrived late and had to squeeze on the end of the back row. Then, even later, young Tristram came in, red in the face and panting audibly, with a half-hearted request to Lady Eawiss to move up a bit. Eventually all were seated and the performance began.
It was the usual rendition of girls playing solos on the pianoforte or singing in loud, clear voices, some definitely off key, alas, but the end was absolutely marvellous. Coralie and Rose acted in a two-hander playlet written by Madame Clive. It was the story of a teacher obsessed by the idea of having a doppelgänger, terrified that she will meet it one day and so bring about her own death. Rose played the part of the pupil who sees her schoolmistress dying of fright before a full-length mirror. It was a taut and fearful tale and the audience sat very still for a moment or two before bursting into sustained applause at the end. John, watching intently, thought that his daughter would have a definite future upon the stage as she played the role with great intensity and a depth of feeling that surprised him. He felt enormously proud of her and, glancing at young Tristram, saw that the boy had gone red as a rowan berry.
The makeshift curtains were pulled across and the audience fell to talking amongst themselves.
‘My dear, I swear your child is a beauty of the first order, ’pon my life. How old is she now?’
‘Coming up for fourteen.’
It was George Glynde who had spoken but he was almost immediately shouted down by Tracey Tremayne. ‘’Pon rep, but she’ll make a delicious armful for some young blood who’ll be dangling after her.’
John smiled a trifle wryly. ‘Don’t tell me. I believe she already has a young admirer.’ And he cast a surreptitious look in the direction of Tristram who was standing on the edge of the crowd, turning his rather small hat in his hands, still very rosy about the cheeks.
Matthew walked up to them and said, ‘I’m glad I left my children at home with Sarah’s mother. I think they’d have been scared out of their wits by that play. But little Rose was wonderful in it, John.’
The Apothecary took him by the elbow. ‘If I may talk to you on another matter.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You have heard the news about Lady Conway, no doubt.’
‘Yes, it’s the talk of the North End.’
‘Tell me, Matthew, did you see anything odd that night? Anything at all?’
‘I saw Blue Wolf go aboard one of the ships, though which it was I couldn’t truthfully say.’
‘What was his purpose, do you know?’
‘I have no idea, John. As far as I could see he just stood silently, gazing round in a way that only people of his race do.’
‘Do you think he was looking for someone?’
‘Could have been.’
So was it possible that the young Indian was involved in some way? Clearly he was – but in what manner? For John could not accept the idea that the man who had saved their lives by guiding them across the unforgiving landscape to Boston, who had hunted for them, fallen in love with the delightful Jane Hawthorne and done so much to keep the party safe and protected could possibly have murdered one of their number.
He turned back to Matthew. ‘What happened then?’
‘I don’t know. The person next to me said something and I turned to answer. When I looked back, Blue Wolf had gone.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
‘Only that the men in disguise were raping the tea chests. They seemed so violent about it. I think there’s trouble coming to this country.’
‘Will you stay?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve made my future here. I am quite content in my little house with my big family. I’ll remain, come what may.’
One thing he could be sure of, John thought, was that Matthew was in no way involved with the death of Moll Demelza Bowling Conway. He made up his mind there and then that he would go and visit Jake O’Farrell that very night and somehow get the truth out of the wretched fellow.
He left the school play shortly after and walked through a night seething with intrigue and unrest in the bitter winter darkness. The atmosphere was almost palpable; the icy wind blowing in his ears seemed to contain whispering voices and there was a sniff of danger in the very coldness. With his heart pounding John made his way carrying one small lantern until he saw the lights from the tents of the soldiers camped on the Common glimmering in the distance. The white palings of the fence which surrounded the Hancock family’s mighty swatch of land suddenly loomed in the darkness and John was glad to walk beside it until he reached the whole magnificent edifice. This time he did not attempt to squeeze through the fence but instead marched up to the gates and rang the bell. A young black fellow, alert but for all that yawning widely, came out of the small hut in which he sat while on duty.
‘Yassir?’
‘Would it be possible to see the coachman Jake? I know that this is no hour to call but I have some physick for him. He has lost his wife in tragic circumstances and is in a terrible state.’
‘I ain’t seen him, Sah. But I thinks he went to call on Mr Hancock and then wuz sent straight to bed. That wuz a terrible business, that wuz. And she wuz such a nice lady.’
John’s face became very earnest. ‘Of course, I didn’t know her as well as you do. Can you tell me anything of her?’
‘Wahl, Sir. She teaches riding to young gals from the school next door. And she also teaches it to other ladies of the town. Sitting side saddle an’ all.’
‘She doesn’t have any men pupils then?’
‘No, Sah. Except one day a fellow turns up – tall and dark and a stranger as far as I
could tell ’cos I had to let him through these main gates, whereas Lady Conway, she always uses the little wicket gate at the side to admit her pupils.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, he spoke with a strange accent, not like the natives of Boston talk.’
‘What do you mean – was he English?’
‘I think so, Sah. He says, “I believe the lady of the house teaches riding, don’t cher know. Be good enough to direct me to her.”’
All this was said with great effort and a great deal of screwing up of the young negro’s features.
‘That sounds English enough to me. Did you see them meet?’
‘Oh, yes, Sah. She seemed mighty startled to clap eyes on him and would have galloped away but he grabs her bridle and raises his whip to her.’
‘Good gracious. Did she say anything?’
‘Yus. She says, “You bird of ill omen. Why have you followed me here?” And he says, “You know demned well why I have.” Then they goes out of my hearing. So that’s all I can tell you, Sah.’
John fished in his pocket for a coin and pressed it into the eager young fellow’s hand.
‘Thank you indeed. You have been more than helpful. Now I must get this physick to Jake, who is in a far worse state than either of us.’
The coach house was decidedly sinister at night. Lanterns were hung at various points on the wall, throwing flickering shadows over everything, the most monstrous of which was the coach itself, hung in its protecting shroud. The horses moved in their loose boxes, the thud of their hooves and the sudden high whinny the only sound in the deserted building. John had been in some nerve-racking situations in his time but this one ranked highly. Cautiously, he took a lantern off the wall and started to mount the shadowy staircase that led to the apartment above. Every stair creaked under his weight, the sound ringing out in his imagination like the boom of a canon. And then he heard a faint noise above him, as if a mouse somewhere had scuttled away. The next thing he knew there was a crashing fist in his face and a pair of furious eyes glaring at him as a voice with a notably English accent said, ‘Oh no you don’t, you damnable little snoop.’ And then all was darkness as he rolled down the staircase and into oblivion.