by Deryn Lake
The years had not jeopardized his performance at all. John still vigorously attacked the steps whilst making a decent leg of it, though he had to admit he was breathing somewhat faster by the time the last chord was sounded. That done, he hurried to the punch bowl in order to refresh his glass and that of Coralie and ran straight into Tracey, who was observing his patrons through an elegant quizzer which hung round his neck on a velvet ribbon. The dancing master, staring over the heads of the crowd, gave a little laugh and drawled, ‘Damme, John, if your daughter ain’t shining everyone else down. And her so young too.’
The Apothecary answered in a measured voice, ‘Come, come, my dear friend. Surely you have no thoughts of that sort.’
The quizzer turned in John’s direction and, close as he was, he could see an enormous yet startled pair of blue eyes regarding him.
‘No offence, dear Sir. I was merely remarking.’
‘D’you know my daughter would not be here now if a pair of wicked bastards had had their way.’
Was it John’s imagination or was there a flicker in the depths of those eyes before the quizzing glass was abruptly dropped?
‘You shock me, Sir. How so?’
‘Firstly she was persuaded to leave school with a strange woman posing as someone sent by myself. Then she was delivered to the Mill Creek for the hands of a person I have yet to identify. But two other people were there and, knowing that I would be present – a note having been sent to my house to advise me to be so – they tied her up and left her in the Mill House, alone and frightened. She could have died.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I don’t think you pay your child enough credit, Sir. I think your little redhead is a hardy young sprite.’
The quizzer was raised once more and John looked into eyes that were growing less friendly.
‘Is that why you chose to imprison her instead of setting her free?’ he asked.
Before his gaze Tracey Tremayne transmogrified. The handsome, slightly effeminate exquisite vanished and in his place stood a man of steel, in total control of himself and ready to shoot to kill in an instant. The carmined lips curled as he whispered to John, ‘That we may have done, but we never physically harmed her. You said yourself that the girl who brought her was looking for another. We merely took advantage of the situation.’
‘Who are you?’ the Apothecary asked, not quite believing what he had just heard.
A beautifully manicured hand shot out and held his arm with a grip like an iron clamp. ‘George and I are just about to tell you that.’
And even as John watched he saw the elegantly clad body once more adopt the pose of a mincing dandy and heard the voice rise a few decibels. The acting ability was phenomenal. They had lived in one another’s company for weeks, tramping across the most wild and beautiful terrain and never for a moment given the impression that they were anything but a pair of effeminate fops.
George simpered his way across the room. ‘John, my dear fellow, how can I help you?’ he asked, and gave a flourishing bow.
Tracey turned to him. ‘He has guessed everything. I suggest we inform him of the truth immediately before he inflicts some real damage.’
George gave a long, drooping wink, his black-rimmed eye momentarily disappearing, then he turned to John with an expression hard as ice. ‘What a good idea,’ he said.
The next second the Apothecary felt his legs snatched from under him as he was carried – Tracey’s hand resting, oh so casually, beside his mouth – into the corridor that led backstage. There he was shoved without ceremony on to a small wooden chair. Tracey and George simultaneously removed their exquisitely embroidered jackets and stood towering over him in their shirt sleeves. In an act of defiance, the Apothecary rose to his feet.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well, nothing,’ replied George. ‘How did you guess that we were at the Mill Cove that night?’
In the teeth of great danger, John tried to act as calmly as was possible. ‘Your turn of phrase, gentlemen. Together with your rather bad Bostonian accents.’
Tracey burst out laughing. ‘And I thought we were so convincing.’ He looked at John narrowly. ‘How much do you know?’
‘Only that you threatened to kill my daughter.’
George put in, something of his old drawl returning, ‘T’was merely a bluff, dear boy. We would never have done it. Too fond of the child.’
‘My guess is that you are political agents. Am I right?’
‘Of course you’re bloody right. As usual.’
‘But which side are you on? The British or the Colonists?’
‘British, damn you. We came to Boston – albeit by a long and hazardous journey – in pursuit of a ruthless daughter of liberty. But then you know all about her, I suppose.’
‘I believe that you killed her,’ John answered, hedging his bets.
There was an audible silence, during which George and Tracey shot one another a look of total surprise.
‘If you are referring to Demelza, Lady Conway, née Moll Bowling, you are mistaken, Sir. Yes, she was the woman we were pursuing but we could not make a move against her until we were certain. Oh, the hours we spent on that journey with that tedious fat woman complaining and the rest of you all so damnably stoical. We had had our instructions in London from the Secret Office to track an agent provocateur who was shipping out to Boston to stir up trouble. Little did we think that we would be shipwrecked with the evil bitch.’
‘But did you kill her?’ John asked, perplexed.
‘No. You know that we were standing close to you throughout the raiding of the tea ships. We heard her fall to her death, though we weren’t aware of it at the time. Good God, John, you won’t get any points for observation. Not always right this time.’
The Apothecary smiled wryly, his lips curling up in their usual winding way, suddenly feeling at a total loss. Though one puzzle was now clear to him, he looked at the two men standing before him, stripped of all their rakehell behaviour and at the height of their particular game, and knew that though they had answered one query, he was now presented with another. Who had killed Demelza Conway and her hapless lover?
John asked them a question he had asked before, though this time he expected a different answer. ‘Tell me, was it you who punched me on Jake’s wooden staircase or were you just observing?’
‘No, we fight fair,’ answered George, which was, John thought, a total pretension when they had practically frightened the wits out of him. But he said nothing. They were supporting a cause they believed in and being paid for their services as well.
Tracey took up the story. ‘We were watching Jake’s dwelling. Had bribed our way in – not difficult with underpaid servants – and were just about to go up the stairs when you appeared. At that moment someone burst out of his apartment and knocked you flying.’
‘Who was it? Did you see?’
‘No. Nor could we catch the bastard. We gave chase as best we could without raising an alarm but we lost him in the darkness.’
‘So it was a man?’
‘Clearly.’
‘But I don’t think he did come from Jake’s apartment. I think he was lying in wait at the top of the stairs. I say that because Jake was still alive at that time. He came down and attended to me.’
They both grew tense and John thought that if the pair were not lovers then they were indeed close, trained to the hilt to respond at precisely the same moment. There were a few seconds of silence, then George said, ‘What do you mean by “alive at the time”?’
‘Well, he’s dead. Didn’t you know?’
Their very attitude told John that they were not the killers.
‘No,’ answered Tracey. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Sometime over Christmas. I saw the Hancock coach pulling out of the gates on Christmas Day and Jake was not driving. To cut to the heart of the matter, I called on him shortly after and when I searched I found him in a cupboard, standing upright, his throat cut wide
.’
Tracey and George exchanged a glance. Finally Tracey spoke. ‘What did you do?’
‘I called John Hancock, or rather, I should say that his servants roused him. Anyway, he came to look at poor dead Jake and made a great gulping sound when he saw the remains. Then he contacted the coroner and I left.’
‘And that was all?’
‘Not quite. It is my belief that Lady Conway’s husband is after her. I presume you know the story?’
George and Tracey laughed cynically, a rather cruel sound. ‘We knew more about that doll trapes than she knew herself.’
‘But did you know this? A servant at the Hancock mansion told me that a tall, dark man came enquiring for her. He had an English accent and raised his whip to her when she tried to ride away.’
‘Either a husband or an ex-lover.’
‘Of which there were a great many,’ added Tracey.
‘But do you think it possible that a former fancy man would take a ship from England and hunt her down?’
‘You’re right,’ answered George. ‘I’d lay money the husband’s the one.’
‘But who is he? And where is he? And was it him who killed her? And, if so, how did he get access to raid the tea ships that night?’
Tracey shook his head and said, ‘Damned if I know.’
George answered, ‘We’ll track him down somehow. We are not without our informants.’
John raised his brows. ‘In this colonist city?’
The spy nodded slowly. ‘I think you would be very surprised at what and who we know,’ he replied.
A few days later, Lady Eawiss took Major Roebuck for her husband. The bride wore purple and gold and had the most enormous hairstyle that John had ever clapped eyes on. It rose, powdered and puffed, to a staggering height of three feet, the golden curls designed by Monsieur Piemont peeping coyly over one shoulder, the rest a la mode. Atop the lot was a birdcage, a miserable-looking canary within, clinging to a swaying bar for dear life. As the bride processed slowly up the aisle on the arm of a small man whom John did not recognize, she emitted shrill trills of greeting to her various friends, most of whom had accompanied her on the tremendous journey across country to Boston. Present beside the Apothecary and his daughter were the two British agents, Tracey and George, Irish Tom, Matthew and his various offspring – both step and actual – and sitting at the back with the twins was pretty Jane Hawthorne. Sir Julian Wychwood came in late, as usual.
The ceremony over, the bridegroom, still obviously affected by the gout, limped down the aisle, his enormous bride on his arm, and was helped over to the Marlborough Hotel – where a room had been hired for the nuptial party – by Colonel William Dalrymple, father of John’s friend, Lieutenant Harry. Looking round the salon at the fellow guests, John saw that not one but two of her hairdressers were present. Monsieur Piedmont and Mr Shirley had clearly left the shop in the hands of a young apprentice and taken the day off.
Jane Hawthorne hovered in the entrance. ‘I’ll take the boys home now, Mr Rawlings.’
‘You can leave them here with me, Jane. I’m sure they’ll behave themselves.’
He looked at his sons, who gazed back at him silently, scrubbed clean beyond recognition and in matching sailor suits, representing innocence personified. John gave them a penetrating glance. ‘You will, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ answered Jasper.
James added, ‘Of course, Sir.’
Satisfied, John said to Jane, ‘I don’t suppose you would wish to stay?’
‘You’re right, Mr Rawlings. I am glad to have left her service and work for you.’ Then she let out an uninhibited chuckle. ‘Lord love me but she looks like a Covent Garden Lady with that monstrous fandango upon her head.’
John felt an overwhelming urge to join in and tittered aloud. Jasper looked up at him. ‘Why are you laughing, Papa?’
‘What’s so funny?’ asked James.
The Apothecary could not help it. He suddenly creased up with the giggles, behaving with no decorum and unable to help himself. Outside it was snowing but inside the room was warm and full of good cheer. Everyone, including the roly-poly bride and her poor, gout-ridden husband started to laugh, as did Sir Julian Wychwood, bellowing with mirth, his eyes streaming and foot stamping. Into this melee came the sound of somebody breaking wind and this set the whole company off into further hysterical raptures. But how wonderful, John thought in the middle of his guffawing, to have such merriment at a wedding. He found himself hoping that the affected Lady Eawiss and her gouty spouse would find mutual enjoyment and a kind of devotion in their life together.
When order was restored once more a toast was made to the bride and groom, and after this formality people began to think about leaving. Before they did so, however, John managed to get a conversation with Monsieur Piemont.
‘A wonderful creation on the bride’s head, Sir. Your style is very au courant, if I may say so.’
Monsieur Piemont bowed – an adorable little man whose very Frenchness made him irresistible to the more modern ladies of Boston.
‘Thank you so much, my good Sir. You came the other day for a shave, I think. But these London fashions were brought to me by my new assistant, Mr Shirley. I cannot claim credit for them.’
John bowed before the Frenchman’s companion, the tall, slightly brooding man who had rolled the latest fashionable hairstyles off the tip of his tongue in rollicking style.
‘My dear Sir, it was a pleasure just to hear you talk the other day. Tell me, are the hair modes nowadays really as high and as mighty as you described?’
‘Even more so,’ Charles Shirley answered in a gravelly voice. ‘Women can barely walk upright under the weight of their immense coiffures. D’ye know it was reported to me on the best possible authority that the Duchess of Billingham had a mouse’s nest within hers that was not noticed until her friseur saw her style moving of its own volition.’
John pulled a face. ‘What a ghastly thought. Have you been in Boston long, Sir? I do not recall seeing you around town.’
‘I arrived some time ago but spent the months before coming here with an old aunt of mine who lives near Lower Falls. When she died I decided to up sticks and work in the city.’
‘But you were a friseur in London?’
‘In a way. I guided the ladies on what hairstyles would suit them. One could say that I worked in an advisory capacity.’
To ask Charles why he had left London would have been impolite, but just as the Apothecary was turning over the problem in his mind, he spoke.
‘Of course, I do miss the city. But I had to leave it all behind when the letter from Aunt Mildred arrived. She was always in poor health, you know. In fact, I think it might be fair to say she enjoyed it. But her last plea was that I should come and see her before she died. The fact was that she had planned to leave me a fair amount of money so I got the next ship out, having nothing left to encumber me.’
‘You were not married, Sir?’
Charles sighed heavily, his dark eyes pits of melancholy. ‘Alas, no. I was, once. But she, poor soul, was called away. I was left alone to grieve.’
John muttered condolences but his attention was distracted by a loud shriek from the bride.
‘Oh, my dear people, I just want to tell you how happy we were to find you all present. My husband and I …’ she gave a girlish laugh, ‘… are so delighted to have had you with us. Major Roebuck will now say a few words.’
‘Damned fine,’ pronounced the major, staggering to his feet and looking blearily round the assembled company. ‘I think it’s a damned fine turn out. Yes, damme, I do.’
There was scattered laughter and then applause before the guests slowly began to make their way out into the bleakness of the snow-filled night. John took the twins under his cloak – they had behaved well and been a credit to him, other than repeatedly staring in amazement at the bride’s extraordinary hairstyle. His daughter, like several others present, snuggled into a fur-lined cloak
of her own. Thus they walked through the quiet, dark streets of Boston to their home, which was warm and welcoming, a smell of scones wafting through the air as the boys rushed in. But their father’s mind was preoccupied. Somewhere, even in these very crowded streets, there resided a cruel murderer who could strike again at any moment.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The trouble was that he no longer knew where to look. As far as he could tell he had explored every possibility, had followed every lead there was and had still come up empty-handed. Yet the thought of the poor drowned body of Lady Conway and that of her former groom and lover, Jake O’Farrell, pushed into a cupboard, his corpse ghastly, the throat cut raw, spurred him on to find whoever was responsible. But what further clues were there? With a load on his mind, John went to bed that night and, as was quite usual for him, had a vivid dream.
He dreamed that he was watching the sacking of the tea ships once more but that this time the rape of the tea chests was being done by his many and various friends. They, quite undisguised and quite clearly themselves, were romping over the decks of the three ships having the holiday of their lives. Rose was there and the boys and, sitting in a chair, quite at ease amidst the busy and bustling throng which careered all around him, was Sir Gabriel Kent. In the dream John bellowed the word ‘Father’ repeatedly, over and over again, but Sir Gabriel either could not or would not hear. Instead he took an elegant pinch of snuff from within a silver, monogrammed box and, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, crossed one elegant white stockinged leg over another. Just as the Apothecary was about to give up in despair his father looked straight at him and said one phrase, ‘Here lies the answer,’ and the dream faded away and John returned to normal sleep. But he awoke the next morning convinced that he had received a message from something beyond his understanding.