by Deryn Lake
Having washed, shaved and dressed, and having seen that his children were happy, John left the house and headed straight for Griffin’s Wharf. It was hard to believe that just before Christmas the quayside had heaved with seven thousand onlookers, to say nothing of those Sons of Liberty together with the journeymen, apprentices and strangers who had come to help them as they set about the rape of the three British ships. But, before the gaze of the huge crowd, that is precisely what they had done. They had boarded the vessels, broken open the tea chests and thrown the contents into the harbour below. And not only the tea. In the midst of all that pitching chaos, a body had fallen as well. But today all was calm and there were none at the wharf except those going about their lawful business. That is, with the exception of a group of nasty-nosed urchins who were throwing stones and other rubble at a helpless individual who danced about, crying piteously and begging them to stop. John, looking at the poor wretch intently, diagnosed from the jerkiness of the boy’s movements that the poor creature was suffering with St Vitus Dance. Brandishing his walking cane, the Apothecary approached them with a rush and was delighted when they dispersed, one child clutching his behind where the cane had accidentally landed.
The boy turned to him. ‘I love little old King George, I do.’
‘Of course,’ John answered calmly. ‘But it might be best not to say it out loud.’
The boy went into a spasm of jerky movements. ‘I’m not daft, you know.’
‘I never said you were, my friend.’
‘Them boys say I am. They call me Looney Luke, they do.’
‘Where do you live, Luke?’
‘In the workhouse on the Common. But I got a guv’nor, I have.’
John examined him closely, thinking to himself that if it wasn’t for the awful twitching gait and crazy spasms the boy could have been called handsome. But as it was, the face beneath the straw-blond hair contorted, hiding the pair of vivid viridian eyes and the kindly mouth.
‘So who might that be?’
‘He loves King George, he does. He comes to see me every day and brings me something nice to eat. His name is Sergeant Frankland and he’s in the army, he is. And he took an oath to King George to serve him well. So …’ The wretched boy went into an enormous convulsion, his feet rising from the ground and his arms hanging by his side, jerking as if they were separate entities from his body. ‘… So that’s why I love him.’
Whether he was talking about the monarch or the army man the Apothecary was not certain, but in either case the poor child obviously meant every word he said.
John asked, ‘What are you doing down here at Griffin’s Wharf? Shouldn’t you be back home?’
‘No. My guv’nor’s on duty, he is, so I wanders about on my own till he can come and see me. I likes it down here, I do. There’s plenty going on with the ships and all. But I hates them urchins – they torment me because I’m a bit simple. That’s what they say up workhouse anyways.’
Staring into those frank eyes, presently looking so open and honest, John’s heart bled for the accident of illness that had rendered this child incapable of living a normal life. And, whoever he was, he blessed the name of the kindly British soldier who had seen him, taken the poor boy and given him the thing he craved above all else: love.
Luke was seized with another minor spasm then sat down on the cobbles, gesturing to the Apothecary to do the same. ‘I comes here every day and watches the goings-on. My guv’nor comes with me when he’s got the time. But that ain’t often so I sits by myself.’
John said, more out of politeness than anything else, ‘Were you here on the night they raided the tea ships?’
‘Yes, I’d known something was afoot all day, I did. So I creeps out and comes down here and watched them at it all night long. When I gets back to the workhouse I got six of the best for my pains.’
John laughed. ‘Did you now?’
‘Yes, but it was worth it. Watching them Injuns – though they wasn’t really, you know – tear them tea chests apart.’
The Apothecary quickened, suddenly feeling intensely alive. ‘I was there that night too. I didn’t see you.’
‘No, because I was a loony they let me sit in the front. I didn’t like that, I didn’t. People kept shoving me and every time I jerked they hit me, they did. But I saw it all.’
John’s next question was written in the stars. ‘Did you see a woman climb the rigging?’
‘No,’ Luke answered shortly. ‘I didn’t.’
‘What?’
‘I sees two women, both dressed in breeches, they was. One was climbing up and so was t’other. Chasing her, you see.’
John stared at him incredulously. ‘You say there were two of them?’
Luke did a violent dance. ‘Yes. There was. I saw them, I did.’
‘How is it that nobody else did?’
‘Perhaps they weren’t looking,’ Luke answered.
Which was very true. Most of the fevered citizens of Boston had been concentrating on the work on deck, the rending open of the tea chests, and if several of them had glanced up and seen two cabin boys climbing the rigging they would have thought little of it. But John persisted.
‘Luke, you are certain that both the people you saw were female?’
The boy twitched. ‘Yes, because I was sitting on the ground and had to look up.’
John was silent, trying to focus his mind on the fact that there had been another woman up on the sails at the same time as Moll Bowling. But as he tried to concentrate, Luke suddenly shook all over.
‘I’ve got to go back to see my guv’nor now. I promised to buy him some sausage, I did. Goodbye.’ And he was gone, shambling up the dockside without a backward look. John contemplated running after him but decided against it. If the boy had been speaking the truth it brought a whole different bearing on the case. Or was it the truth as Luke had seen it? With his mind seething over the new facts, the Apothecary turned and walked away from the wharf to somewhere quiet where he could sit and ponder.
His thoughtful progress took him to the Bull Tavern in Summer Street, an ancient building erected by the early settlers. Inside was a roaring fire and John went to sit by it, warming his hands and feet. The snow continued to fall on Boston, though in spasmodic drifts, and the Apothecary could not remember when he had been colder. The door opened and he was just about to ask the newcomer to shut it behind him when he stopped short. The man standing with his back to the white light was none other than Joe Jago, John’s old friend and clerk to the court of Sir John Fielding. And then realization dawned: though very similar in looks and build it was a complete stranger who stood there. The Apothecary let out an audible sigh.
The man smiled. ‘You look disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?’
John nodded. ‘Yes. Excuse me, Sir, but you bear a striking resemblance to somebody who was a particular friend in London. I thought for a moment …’
‘That I was he? I am sorry to disappoint you. My name is Alexander, but I do know the chap you are talking about – at least I think I do – because I have often been mistaken for him in town. People have commented that we could be twins. I take it you are referring to Sir John Fielding’s assistant?’ John nodded and the man continued, ‘I have attended the Blind Beak’s court once or twice and have remarked on the strange similarity between his clerk and myself. Quite uncanny. But perhaps we are distantly related. May I buy you a drink, Sir? I have just arrived from London and would like to share a little companionship.’
What could John do but agree despite the fact that he needed badly to think quietly? His new companion rambled on, telling him of the latest plays and gossip from the metropolis, laughing heartily as he spoke and generally giving the impression of being a thoroughly decent man. John watched him, thinking that his similarity to Joe was only skin deep. But his mind was changed as a ruffian in torn and ragged apparel came staggering through the door and demanded ale in a loud and bleary voice. The blowsy serving girl beg
an to protest but the stranger, walking up to the ancient bar, seized her by the throat and began to shake her like a waterside rat. Suddenly, with no warning, Alexander was on his feet and with a monumental strength delivered a blow to the ruffian’s chin that shook the very rafters of the aged building. As the tramp fell in a heap on the floor the newcomer picked him up by the scruff of his neck and deposited him outside the door into a heap of falling snow. Then he brushed one hand against the other and said, ‘As I was saying …’
The Apothecary gazed at him in open admiration. ‘By God, Sir, I have never seen anyone move so quickly.’
‘It’s the only way,’ replied the other. ‘Can’t bear to see a pretty woman molested.’
The girl, who was rubbing her neck and recovering, gave him a smile that revealed she had two teeth missing and placed a large glass of brandy in front of Alexander.
‘Thank you, good Sir. You acted with extreme courage.’
‘I’ll say you did. You were like a bolt of lightning.’ The Apothecary looked at the other closely. ‘Have you had any experience with this kind of thing?’
Alexander gave a half smile and at that moment John had the strange feeling that he was dealing with someone from an organization which probably ran the whole of the British Isles. Boston was like a powder keg waiting to explode and a representative of the Secret Office, sent especially to deliver messages back to London as quickly as was humanly possible, in view of the long voyage that even the fastest vessel could make, might well be considered essential by those in power. He looked into the other man’s eyes, noting to himself that despite the kindly smile on his lips his eyes were sharp as a knife blade.
‘How do you communicate with your masters?’ he asked directly.
Alexander’s gaze tautened. ‘Now who might they be?’ he asked in a lazy voice that belied his visible response.
John leant back in his chair. ‘I am only surmising, of course, but I would hazard a guess at the Home Secretary.’
Alexander laughed and took a sip of his brandy, rolling it round his mouth before he swallowed. ‘You’re a very sharp fellow. Do you always greet strangers in this manner?’
‘No. But I have recently had a close encounter with two representatives of the Secret Office and I can tell you frankly that their tactics left me breathless.’
Alexander smiled enigmatically. ‘It has been felt in London for some time that there was an element in Boston that needed a careful eye kept on it.’
The Apothecary decided to go directly to the point. ‘Did you ever hear of an actress called Moll Bowling, Sir?’
There was no immediate reply but the Apothecary felt himself being scrutinized by those cold sea eyes. Eventually the other man spoke. ‘I think that is my business, don’t you?’
John plunged on, throwing caution to the breeze. ‘She’s dead, you know. Perhaps the news has not reached you yet.’
Alexander laughed aloud. ‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you? Quite the little cock bantam.’
John smiled crookedly. ‘I’ll admit that I am acting on instinct alone but I have the feeling that you would like to know exactly how it happened. Do you wish me to proceed?’
‘If it is your desire to do so then by all means continue.’
‘Very well. It was the night of the sacking of the three tea ships.’
John could tell by the other man’s lack of expression that this fact was news to him. He had presumably been on his way to the Colonies when the event had taken place. However, he was trying to mask what he was thinking with an unreadable face.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I spoke to a boy on the quayside. He was looking upwards at the time and saw two figures climbing the rigging. Both were women.’
Now, at last, John saw the metal of the man. Alexander’s eyes became as piercing as diamond cutters. His face grew hard and ruthless though he still spoke quietly.
‘And did you know who the young man was talking about?’
‘Yes. One of them was Lady Conway, née Miss Bowling. The other was her killer, whose identity remains a mystery.’
Alexander finished his brandy in one long swallow. Then he looked at John as if he were finally taking in the measure of the man sitting opposite him. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s to business. You have surmised correctly that I work for the Secret Office and that I have come to Boston to get to know the Sons of Liberty, as they call themselves. Furthermore, I was to stop the activities of Lady Conway – born to rebellion if ever a woman was – that is, if my two agents …’
John caught himself thinking that the man must be high up the ladder indeed to use that expression.
‘… had not done so already. But it seems that they were beaten to the task by someone else. Let me ask you a question.’
‘Yes?’
‘Was she murdered that night? Was she pushed out of the rigging?’
‘I am sure of it. I saw her body next day. She had drowned and there were some faint signs of a struggle upon the corpse. The army doctor who examined her commented that it was all very strange.’
‘Why were you given leave to see the corpse?’
‘Because I am an apothecary and traded in London, in Shug Lane, Piccadilly, to be precise. Lieutenant Harry Dalrymple, a British officer and son of a colonel of the same name, asked me to investigate on his behalf. I think I was the only medically trained person available at the time,’ he added.
‘I see.’ Alexander leaned forward. ‘So now I will tell you something. You asked about Moll Bowling. She was born into a family of early settlers who decided that they wanted to be free of the yoke of Britain for good. Somehow the girl took ship for England and wandered into the theatrical profession accidentally. I believe that from an early age she was groomed to spy for the Colonists and probably sailed for London at about fourteen with this object in mind. Everything was going according to plan until she met Lord Conway, when her life went slightly adrift. But though love might have possessed her for a time she was undoubtedly returning to Boston to add her voice to the fight for freedom.’
‘Didn’t she have a child?’ asked John.
‘Yes, when she was about seventeen. Apparently it was put out to a baby farmer. I presume it died. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t really know. Just a feeling I have. It was a daughter, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. I’m not really certain.’ Alexander stretched himself. ‘I would like to question that boy of yours, the one you met at the wharf. He might have some further information. Where can I find him?’
‘In the workhouse,’ John answered bluntly. ‘Are you going now?’
‘Directly.’
‘Then I will accompany you.’
They stepped outside into a world changed beyond recognition. Boston was by now under heavy snow and the flakes were falling, thick as a fist, blinding the eyes and making it hard to breathe. Before them stretched crystal streets, ice crunched beneath their slipping feet, and overall there was the immense stillness and silence that only a blizzard can bring about.
John turned to Alexander. ‘It is going to be a dangerous walk, Sir. The ways are like ice pits.’
‘You’re right. I shall go back to my hotel and see you in the morning at nine o’clock outside the workhouse.’
‘Very good. I’ll make my journey home as best I can.’
So saying, they parted company and the Apothecary slid to his house along the icy streets, thinking of all the women he had met since he had arrived: Suzanne, Jane, the former Lady Eawiss. Eventually his mind turned to Coralie, who had once acted with her. Were any of them a possibility for chasing Moll Bowling into the ship’s rigging and clawing at her heels, unsteadying her balance until she had plunged to her death in the midnight ocean below? The more he thought about it the more he thought it a distinct possibility, for those older ladies might well have hired a wench from the backstreets to do their bidding. And all of them had come from London at some time in the past and
might well have made a connection with that secretive and most hidden of spies, Lady Conway herself.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next day did not start well. Despite his enormous mental and physical fatigue the Apothecary hardly slept. By the time he had reached his home he had fallen down three times, the last being a painful experience, jarring his spine and hurting his neck. The evening had darkened and he had had no lantern. Thus for the last quarter of a mile he had risked life and limb just to get indoors to safety. Suzanne had been at the Orange Tree and there had been a note from Jane Hawthorne to say that she had retired early owing to a headache but had left Miss Rose reading by the light of the fire. John had walked into a quiet house with a feeling that all was not well in his realm of existence.
Rose had risen and rushed into his arms. ‘Father, you’re covered in snow. You have fallen over, I think. Did you hurt yourself?’
‘Nothing broken, sweetheart, but I landed hard on my behind and jolted my old bones.’
Rose grinned up at him, looking quite cheeky. ‘Come, come, Papa. You are maturing in your cask like a good sherry. You will be young when you are eighty.’
He smiled, his crooked grimace never more apparent. ‘You are a true charmer, child. Now fetch your aged parent a glass of brandy before he faints at your feet.’
They had conversed for a merry hour before Rose had finally taken herself off to bed. Then John had sat in silence, gazing into the flames, wondering until his mind felt as if it were bleeding about the identity of the woman who had sent Moll Bowling to her death. But when he had at last retired, sleep would not come. He had finally fallen into a deep slumber as the ghostly grey of a snow-laden day had come creeping in at his bedroom window.
When he woke it was to see that it was almost nine in the morning. He dressed hurriedly and sped out of the house without breakfast. Fortunately sweepers had been out, but his progress to the workhouse for all that had been slow and difficult. He arrived there to find that Alexander had been and gone and a militant Corporal Romney was standing over a traumatized Luke, demanding an explanation for the questioning of his adopted brother. As best he could, John tried to calm him down.