by Deryn Lake
‘I do apologise to you, Sir. It was just that Luke saw something that night when the tea ships were sacked and Mr Alexander, being a representative of British High Command, wanted to find out if the boy could tell him any more.’
‘And who might you be?’ the corporal demanded in a militant fashion.
‘I am working with Colonel Dalrymple,’ John answered, exaggerating wildly. ‘I cannot discuss with you the nature of my enquiries but, believe me, they are genuine.’
The corporal patted Luke’s head and the boy did one of his shambling and somehow unbearably poignant little dances. He looked at the Apothecary and said, ‘My guv’nor,’ with a great deal of pride. John’s heart bled.
‘I think you are to be commended, Sir, for taking this child under your wing,’ he said in a low voice.
The corporal looked stern. ‘I had a brother who had the very same illness. He was teased and picked upon. Eventually he died. I think the poor soul was tired out with all the tormenting. Luke reminded me of him. What else could I do?’
John did not answer, silently shaking his head, wishing that the whole world possessed the generosity of spirit and kindness of heart that Corporal Romney exhibited.
‘Well, even if that Alexander was the King himself I don’t think he had the right to barge in here and frighten the young lad like that.’
‘No, he hadn’t, and I do apologise.’
‘You’re not going to ask Luke anything else, are you?’
‘No,’ John answered hastily, though that had been his very intention. ‘I shall leave the boy in peace. Good morning to you.’
He left the workhouse hoping to catch up with the extraordinary Mr Alexander, but there was no sign of him. Gazing around the snow-bleached streets, the Apothecary saw that despite the awful conditions the hardened citizens of Boston had opened shops and were pursuing ordinary life as far as it was possible. Tavern doors were being flung wide as figures, stark and black against the whitened background, made their way within for a nip of brandy to warm them in such blistering conditions. John made his way to the north corner of Hanover and Court Streets, where the Orange Tree was situated. Kicking the snow to one side, he proceeded to the premises at the back which had been turned into an apothecary’s shop. Inside he found a pale-faced Tristram desperately trying to serve an overweight man whose face was constructed entirely round a formidable mouth of protuberant false teeth. If these were the handiwork of the compact Paul Revere, who had skilfully fashioned two for Dr Warren, John would have been very surprised.
‘No, no,’ the man was shouting, ‘I have to take them out when I eat. I only want something to hold them in place while I am speaking.’
As if to give a demonstration, his teeth flew upwards and outwards and were only saved by the man clapping his jaws tightly shut and putting a hand over his mouth. John intervened.
‘Good morning, Sir. I apologise for the lateness of my arrival. Weather conditions, don’t you know. May I suggest that you use a glue made from ground down whalebones? That should seal your dentures in place for several days.’
‘Excuse me,’ the man answered.
‘I said several days.’
‘No,’ gasped the other through layers of material. ‘I meant excuse me.’
And with that he slipped the gargantuan set into the confines of a red spotted handkerchief, looking a little pinched and downcast as a result. It was at this moment that Suzanne walked in, pausing in the doorway as she saw that John had custom. He looked at her questioningly. Was it she who had climbed the rigging that night, murdered Moll Bowling and then raced back to join Irish Tom? The more he thought about it the less likely it seemed, for hadn’t Luke said that both the women were dressed in boy’s clothing? If that were the case, if the poor, afflicted youth were right, then it could not possibly have been Suzanne. But could she have hired someone else to commit murder in her place? And the same could be said of Lady Eawiss. Could all her smiles, simpering and elderly coquettishness be a great act? Remembering her horrible behaviour during the journey to Boston, the Apothecary thought it highly probable.
Suzanne dropped a small curtsey. ‘Oh, begging your pardon, Mr Rawlings, I didn’t know you had custom.’
‘It’s quite all right. I shall come and see you later.’
Suzanne smiled and went out, and John turned to his customer, who was standing looking much smaller without his teeth.
‘You say you take your dentures out when you eat?’ His customer nodded. ‘Then, may I suggest that with this particular fixative that will no longer be necessary. And may I further suggest that you go to Paul Revere, the silversmith, and ask him to make you another set.’
The man nodded once more and the Apothecary realized that without his set in place the poor fellow was afraid to speak. Taking the handkerchief, John gave it to Tristram, complete with contents.
‘Clean these up for me like a good apprentice and then spread this glue …’ John handed him a bottle, ‘… fairly liberally, then give the teeth back for the customer to try.’
Five minutes later it was all over, the newcomer restored to his big, blustering self, gnashing his teeth with pleasure and pressing a tip – which John pretended not to see – into Tristram’s palm.
‘You have solved my problem, Sir,’ he said, bowing in the doorway, hat in hand. ‘I bid you good morning. Now, where did you say your friend Revere could be found?’
Knowing that Jane was looking after his house and children, John fortified himself with a little cognac before making his way homeward, for there was much good cheer in the Orange Tree Tavern as darkness fell. All his old friends were present, with the exception of those two men of steel, George and Tracey. John thought about them as he sipped his drink, considering that they were two of the finest actors he had ever met. He imagined them in conference with the mysterious Mr Alexander and deliberated to himself that the Sons of Liberty had a considerable force to be reckoned with. But, when the final analysis came, what were three men, however clever, pitted against the weight of hundreds?
His silent contemplation was interrupted by a voice at his elbow. ‘May I join you?’ He looked up and saw Charles Shirley, creator of the immense hairstyles, standing there.
‘Please do, my dear Sir.’
The dark, saturnine creature took a seat and remarked, ‘By God, but it is a cold night.’
‘It is indeed. Colder than it was back home.’
‘Ah, you still refer to England as such. I was wondering if you intended to stay in Boston.’
‘No, Mr Shirley …’
‘Please call me Charles.’
‘Charles. I miss London too much. The old haunts, the gossip, the stinks, the people, the whole bustling atmosphere of the place.’
‘Yes, indeed. I spent a great deal of time there despite the fact that I had a place in the country. Do you know what I miss most, though – the theatres. My father used to take me when I was a mere youth. I was in love with all the actresses.’
John smiled a quizzical smile. ‘Did you know that one of them is now living here in Boston?’
‘No, I didn’t. Pray who? Do tell.’
‘Coralie Clive, sister of the wonderful Kitty.’
Charles clutched his hands together in ecstasy. ‘Oh, the Clive sisters! How well I recall them. I adored them both.’
‘As did I, ‘answered John. ‘As did I.’
‘When I last left London I went hunting for them but I heard that Kitty had retired and that Coralie had married into the aristocracy.’
‘With rather sad results,’ John said.
A dark cloud passed momentarily over Charles Shirley’s face and he let out a melancholic sigh. ‘Speak to me not of it. Such things are better left unsaid.’
It was a peculiar remark to say the least, and the Apothecary’s interest was piqued. ‘You have had experience of such things?’
Charles smiled and peered into his empty glass. ‘I would be saying too much if I betrayed a confidence.
But let me get you a drink, my dear Mr Rawlings. More brandy for you?’
‘I should get home.’
‘Ah, let me persuade you.’
John weakened and was glad he did, for at that moment three people advanced on him: Suzanne followed by Irish Tom and Sir Julian Wychwood. All of them seemed in high spirits and, John thought, it would only need Matthew to enter and the shipwrecked party would be almost complete.
‘We’ve something to tell you,’ Suzanne giggled, all of a fluster.
John smiled at her but within his thoughts piled high on each other. Was this the woman who had contrived Moll Bowling’s death? For he knew full well how murder could wear a grinning face. But her next blushing words rather threw him off balance.
‘Irish Tom and I have some news.’
The mighty ex-coachman spoke up. ‘Yes, we have. And I don’t suppose it will be too great a surprise to you, John, to hear that I have found love at last. I have asked Suzanne to marry me and we were wondering if you would act as her father for the occasion, seeing as she has no living relatives in Boston.’
John was both delighted and devastated at the news. He knew that as soon as he had discovered the identity of the murderer he would be making enquiries about the next ship back to England, hoping that fortune would be kind and that Coralie would decide to go with him. But even if she did not – he could hardly bear the thought – he knew that the whole powder keg which was Boston was one day going to explode, and in future it would be a difficult place in which to make a home unless you were wholeheartedly behind the Colonists.
‘What do you say, Sir?’ Tom asked anxiously.
John rose to his feet. ‘It will be my pleasure. Suzanne, I wish you great happiness. Now, do you know Charles Shirley who has created some outrageous hairstyles and is currently working with Monsieur Piemont?’
There was a yes from the happy couple but Sir Julian raised his quizzer and said, ‘By Jove, I think we have glimpsed one another over the gaming tables at Almack’s.’
John mentally raised an eyebrow, the gambling club being a haunt for the fashionable young bucks of town and not the sort of place where one would expect to find a friseur. However, he said nothing.
Charles behaved well, eyeing Sir Julian up and down before he answered, ‘I think not, Sir.’
‘Oh, surely. I never forget a face.’
‘Then I must be the exception to your rule, Sir. I am but a humble working man.’
The conversation veered back to the forthcoming nuptials, about which the Apothecary had many mixed emotions. He wanted Irish Tom to be happy and settled even though he knew that he would be losing the greatest friend he ever had. But the bride-to-be was a great deal younger than her future husband. Yet, he thought, who was he to question anything? That the ill-matched couple loved one another was plain to see. That their future would be unbridled happiness was entirely in the lap of the gods.
Eventually, after much jollity and merriment, a slightly inebriated John Rawlings made his way back through the snow. Sir Julian and Tom were spending the night at the Orange Tree, and so it was just the Apothecary and the hairdresser who slipped and slid their way back to the North End, holding each other up. But for the last lap of the journey John travelled alone – Charles Shirley having branched off to go to Monsieur Piemont’s dwelling, where he had a room. But as the Apothecary rounded the corner he saw to his horror that every lamp had been lit in his house, the reflection lighting the snow. His heart pounding, John went as fast as was humanly possible to his front door. It was opened by Rose, fully dressed, holding a twin in each hand. He stared at her.
‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Why are you all up and where is Jane?’
‘Father, she has been kidnapped. We are here on our own and the boys are very frightened.’
‘No, we’re not,’ said Jasper bravely. ‘We are just a little bit scared.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ John asked as he took them into the living room and put more wood on the fire.
Rose answered, ‘It was at about nine o’clock. Jane said she had to go out to get a breath of air. I warned her of the cold but she put a cloak on and went up the road a little way. Then I heard a faint cry and looked out of the door and saw her being picked up by a man in a cloak and hat and carried off.’
‘Was it Blue Wolf who took her?’
Rose nodded. ‘I reckon so.’ Then she added, ‘I couldn’t see him distinctly, Papa. His clothes disguised him. But I thought it was obvious that she had gone with him.’
‘Did your gift tell you so?’
She shook her head, puzzled. ‘No, it eluded me completely. It was as if something had blocked it from my view.’
John pulled himself together. ‘Then I must go after her. She might possibly be in danger.’
‘But Papa, it was over two hours ago.’
‘I know, but I must try.’
‘It would be a thoroughly foolhardy gesture,’ said his daughter with great reproof.
The Apothecary sobered up and knew she was right. ‘As always, you’re quite correct. I must wait until morning before I search.’
‘I don’t think they will be far away. Even an Indian would have difficulty getting through a night like this.’
‘Where could they have holed up?’
Rose looked wise. ‘Maybe with a friend. Where does Matthew live?’
‘Not far away. Sheafe Street, I believe.’
‘Then set off early, Papa, and hopefully you’ll catch them before they leave.’
‘But they may not be there.’
‘I don’t think they will have gone far,’ Rose answered certainly. Suddenly she looked very serious. ‘But if it was Blue Wolf who took her she will never come back – you know that, don’t you.’
‘Yes, I do and I wish them well. I think they have loved one another for a long time.’
‘I believe so too.’
It was the day’s first blink when he found them. In the east a rose-pink aureole had just peered over the horizon but in the west night reigned triumphant, though its inky blackness was bleached to a lovely shade of cerulean blue as the oncoming day triumphed over darkness. Stars glimmering in the sky slowly vanished one by one, as if some almighty conjurer was concealing them beneath his hand. The spires of Christ’s Church caught the first rays as the sun rose in wintry grandeur and the Apothecary watched his breath fly out like spun glass as he knocked with his hand on Matthew’s door.
The little widow woman whom he had married was up and at her baking. She answered and looked at John in great astonishment. Then she bobbed a little curtsey. ‘Why, good morning to you, Sir. Is it Matthew you want to see?’
‘If you please, yes.’
But the countryman was already coming down the stairs, his braces over his woollen vest, his shirt not yet on. John caught his eye and silently asked a question, and Matthew gave a small smile and nodded.
‘I couldn’t turn them away, my friend. A night on the streets would have meant death.’
‘It is Rose Hawthorne and Blue Wolf?’
‘Yes. And don’t lecture me about them coming from difference races, I beg of you, John. They are a pair of star-crossed lovers if ever I saw one.’
The Apothecary wondered if Matthew had ever seen a Shakespeare play but kept the notion to himself.
‘Don’t worry, I mean them no harm. There is something I want to ask Jane, that is all.’
‘They are in the eaves, the only shelter I had to offer them.’
Matthew’s wife made a token click of disapproval but her husband merely smacked her on the behind very gently and she laughed at herself.
John ascended the stairs then climbed the ladder to the loft. He was very quiet, his footsteps soft and cat-like, his breathing hushed, and thus he caught them asleep, their bodies entwined, wrapped round each other like a pair of love-starved children. He saw how brown Blue Wolf’s skin was, his dark, beautiful hand encircling one of Jane’s round and marbled breasts. H
ow black his hair, one lock of which fell over her rose-drenched cheek. The Apothecary stopped and drew breath, seeing the two of them together, wishing that he could paint and capture their beauty for ever on a canvas that would always be there. Then he felt like an intruder on their privacy, their loveliness cheapened by the eyes of an onlooker, and began to descend the ladder. But at that moment Blue Wolf opened his ebony-lashed eyes and said, ‘Is that you, Matthew?’ in his unusual French-accented voice.
The Apothecary hesitated, then called out, ‘No, it is John Rawlings. Forgive me for trespassing. I just wanted to have a word with Jane.’
Her voice answered, ‘I rather thought you might, Sir. Go downstairs and I will come to you as soon as I can.’
It was a dismissal and, feeling terrible for intruding on the lovers’ privacy, John crept down the ladder and into Matthew’s kitchen. There he sat, drinking his first cup of coffee, while various children came down and washed in the sink before being inspected by Sarah, Matthew’s wife, and then sent upstairs to dress, the big ones helping the smaller, as was the custom.
Eventually the runaway couple came down, Blue Wolf dressed in the clothes John had given him when employing him as a servant, Jane in the plain skirt and apron she had worn when she had run away last night.
Matthew called out, saying, ‘If you would like a little privacy then you are welcome to go into the parlour. We don’t use it during the day.’
The room was small but with the door shut it offered a quiet place in which they could speak frankly. The three sat down in an ominous silence, John suddenly too embarrassed to say a word. Eventually, after clearing her throat, Jane said, ‘You have come to ask me whether I killed Lady Conway, have you not?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because no doubt you have been informed by some observant person that she was seen climbing the rigging on the night of the tea raid, and that she was being pursued by a girl dressed in a young man’s clothing.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Well, the answer is that it was indeed myself who was following her. But as for killing her …’ Her voice suddenly broke, a strange, heart-rending sound. ‘The answer is no. How could I? She was my mother.’