by Deryn Lake
John gazed at the girl, not quite sure exactly what she was telling him. ‘You mean that you were the child she put out to a baby farmer?’
Jane started to weep silently, the tears running down her fresh-faced cheeks. Blue Wolf put a protective arm round her, meanwhile, treating the Apothecary to an unblinking stare.
‘My dear, I feel completely at a loss. Can you tell me the story from the beginning?’
‘There is no story. Not really. One day, when Mrs Boucher had been on the gin, she told me that my mother was an actress called Moll Bowling. Then two years later she informed me that my mother was being kept by a rich man and had changed her name to Demelza. I was twelve years old and I made my way to London on foot and went to find her. But she had moved on. The last thing I heard of her was that she had married a Lord Conway. The rest you know.’
‘No. I’m sorry, I don’t.’
Jane looked at Blue Wolf who suddenly kissed her – a lovely kiss which told her how much he loved her.
‘Tell him, my Silver Fox. He needs to know everything.’
‘I decided to leave for the Colonies. I took work as a kitchen drudge and in ten years I had saved ten pounds for my passage. It was an act of fate and fate alone that I was booked on the same ship as you and Lady Conway and Jake, and that we were shipwrecked. At first I thought it must be a coincidence, that it must be another woman with the same name. But gradually I picked up enough information to realize that it was my mother, that she had said farewell to her husband and had eloped with Jake. The trouble was that I liked him, and quite liked my mama too. I wanted to hate her, to kill her, but instead I found myself becoming fond of her. Oh, dear God, it was a terrible position to be in.’
She clung to Blue Wolf and wept bitterly, and John wished that he had never started on this line of enquiry. Yet the ruthless side of his character persisted. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I wanted to talk to her privately, to tell her who I was, to forgive her and ask her to love me. But we were never alone. Jake was always at her side. Sometimes I just wanted to shout it at her. But between Jacob and Lady Eawiss I never got the chance.’
‘Could you not have seen her in Boston? Surely you must have had some spare time.’
‘By then I had fallen in love with Blue Wolf and I did not feel the need for affection as despairingly as I once had.’
‘So what happened on that fateful night?’
‘As you know, Blue Wolf went aboard.’
The French-accented voice took up the story. ‘It was quite easy. There were journeymen, apprentices and strangers taking part. I simply joined in.’
Jane gave a little laugh which turned into a sob. ‘I had gone dressed as a boy. It seemed to me that I would stand a better chance of seeing something that way. If I had gone in women’s garb I don’t know what might have happened. There were some rough elements loose that night. Anyway, when Blue Wolf went aboard I couldn’t resist it. I joined in. We were silently divided into three groups on the quayside and when I looked round I saw that my mother had gone aboard the Beaver so I went too. We were face-to-face and I simply said to her, ‘Lady Conway, I am the daughter who you gave away all those years ago.’
She fell silent, weeping once more, and Blue Wolf finished the story for her. ‘Demelza looked at her and thought she was a mad boy. She felt so frightened that she was about to be attacked that she climbed the rigging to get away. Jane went after her, pleading with her not to be afraid. She put out her hand to stop Milady’s flight and with that Demelza must have lost her balance and plunged into the sea below. Jane let out a terrible cry and I, seeing what had happened, dived in to rescue her but the sea was full of tea, chestload upon chestload of it. I could not find Lady Conway. I swam to one of the jetties and willing hands pulled me out.’
‘And this is the truth?’ asked John, but it was a superfluous question. The very sight of the broken girl and the veracity with which her Indian lover had spoken confirmed every word they had said. He sat in a stunned silence, knowing that they had told him the facts as they had happened.
Eventually John said, ‘But what about Jake? Did you murder him, Blue Wolf?’
The Indian looked at him with an expression that spoke more than words could ever say. ‘It is not the habit of my people to kill one’s friends.’
John felt the size of a pygmy. He had been lowered by asking the very question. And one look at the weeping Jane Hawthorne spoke louder than any words. Now the question remained. If neither of the young couple had killed Jacob O’Farrell, then who had?
TWENTY-NINE
It was a question which John turned over in his mind constantly but could never come up with an answer. Of one thing he was certain. The husband of Demelza Conway, née Moll Bowling, was responsible – but who was he? In the end he whittled the suspects down to the mysterious Mr Alexander, who had claimed to be from the Secret Office and who had known so much about her past. Nor could John omit his friends. Irish Tom could be ruled out because of their long and great association, but George Glynde and Tracey Tremayne were both in the running. Matthew he considered but mentally discarded. He was too honest a citizen to be capable of such a cruel crime. Sir Julian Wychwood, however, gambler extraordinaire and man about town, might well have been involved in some shady dealings. But of them all Alexander, about whom he knew so little, seemed to be the man most likely.
The snow had cleared sufficiently to allow the citizens of Boston to move around more freely and so, having escorted his children to school, the term having begun once more, John took a hackney carriage from outside the Orange Tree and in it piled all of Rose’s luggage as he took her back to Coralie’s emporium. He turned to her as they clattered along.
‘Tell me, sweetheart, are you happy studying at that school?’
‘Oh, yes. But I would not like to do so indefinitely.’
‘But how could you? You will grow too old for education.’
‘And then what? Marriage and children? No, Papa, I want to be an actress, like Coralie and her sister. And as theatre is not allowed by the pious people of town it is my ultimate aim to go back to London.’
‘And mine too,’ he said before he had had time to think.
‘Is it? I thought you were settled here.’
‘No, I long for all the sights and smells of London. Don’t mistake me – I love the Colonies, with all their bravura and fighting spirit. I shall never forget the beauty of the countryside we came through after the shipwreck. But I was born to enjoy the splendour of the capital with all its vice and filth thrown in. I am just hoping that when I go your headmistress might come with me.’
She turned a glowing face on him. ‘You want Miss Clive to accompany us?’
‘Yes, I do. Do you think she will?’
Rose looked very serious. ‘I don’t know. It is a chance you will have to take.’
Having deposited his daughter into the hands of one of Coralie’s minions and after enquiring about Miss Clive’s whereabouts, only to be told that she was unavailable and probably would be for the next few days, John returned to the hackney and ordered it to proceed to the Marlborough Hotel. But the staff within told him that Mr Alexander had gone out and nobody knew at what hour he would be returning. Somewhat disconsolately, the Apothecary paid the hackney off and decided to walk, thinking.
John trudged, hands deep in pockets, hat pulled well down, and almost ran into Sir Julian Wychwood who was walking along looking well pleased with himself.
‘John, my dear chap, what a gloomy face! What weighty matters are you considering that you should look so serious?’
‘I was thinking about the murder of poor Jake O’Farrell and who can be the guilty party.’
Julian changed his expression. ‘Yes, a very sad business that. I always liked Jake. Got on well with him. He liked a game of cards, you know.’
‘Talking of cards, do you know a man called Alexander?’
‘Alexander what?’
‘No, it’s his su
rname. I don’t know the rest of it.’
‘Can’t say I’ve met him. It’s not the fellow you introduced the other night, is it?’
‘No, that’s Charles Shirley.’
‘I could swear that I’ve seen him in London. If it wasn’t at Almack’s gaming club it was somewhere like that.’
‘Perhaps he has a double,’ John answered, but his mind was going down wild avenues.
‘Perhaps,’ Julian said doubtfully. He brightened. ‘Look, two of my favourite people are coming. My compliments, friends.’
He swept an elaborate bow and waved a greeting as George and Tracey appeared sauntering nonchalantly down the street. To look at them, the Apothecary thought, it would have been totally impossible to imagine that beneath the veneer of the posturing dandy lay a ruthless killer streak. They stopped, beaming broadly, only their eyes, John noticed, calculating and taking in everything that was going on around them. After the treatment he had suffered at their hands he found it difficult to smile. But then, he thought, they had apologised after a fashion, so there was no point in being childish.
Tracey spoke. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Will you be attending our Welcome 1774 dance on Saturday? We hope very much to see you there.’
‘Of course I shall be present. I always am,’ answered Julian. ‘I wonder which young lady I should invite. Perhaps Miss Dolly Quincy.’
‘I thought she was the intended of John Hancock,’ said John.
‘Nonsense. He can’t make his mind up and meanwhile she is free as air.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ put in George good-humouredly. ‘I don’t think she would be seen at a public ball with the likes of you.’
Julian was all smiles. ‘Is this a wager? Because if so I will see you.’
‘I’ll take it on,’ from Tracey. ‘Twenty dollars you can’t get her to come.’
Julian frowned but John could see the gleam of mischief in his eye. ‘I’ll go one better.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll wager fifty dollars to everyone present that I will get you all invited to take tea with Miss Quincy this very day.’
John could not resist it. ‘I’ll take that if you mean what you say.’
‘Of course I mean it. Gentlemen …’ He turned to the spying dancing masters. ‘What say you?’
‘You’re on,’ said Tracey.
‘Agreed,’ added George.
‘Right. Let us congregate at the Orange Tree at thirty minutes after two and I will take you all out to tea.’
With much laughter and merry quips the four went their separate ways, John bidding farewell to Sir Julian Wychwood, his last glimpse of whom saw the young man rubbing his hands together with an air of triumph, a gesture which set the Apothecary thinking deeply.
The Orange Tree was unusually full that midday. There were several ladies taking tea and cakes but there was a goodly gathering of gentlemen present, so much so that Irish Tom was called in to serve ale and wine as well. John, looking round, saw that the former Lady Eawiss had graced them with her company and was doing her simpering best to interest a stern-faced lady of considerable stature and girth who the Apothecary recognized as Lydia Hancock, aunt of John. With her was a sharp, small, pretty little creature, overdressed in ruffles and flounces, with bows in her hair and a permanent smile on her knowing lips. This surely must be Miss Dolly Quincy herself, the ward of Mrs Hancock who had moved into the Hancock house in the hope of gaining the attention of John, who was so mad for love of Sally Jackson that he could see no one else.
Sir Julian Wychwood had obviously hurried straight from his earlier meeting and had arrived looking handsome and terribly English. He stood at the bar letting his beautiful eyes wander in the direction of Miss Dolly, who caught his roving gaze and lowered her own in apparent modesty, the illusion somewhat shattered when she looked up again and gave him the faintest of smiles.
Julian bowed low and said to Mrs Hancock, ‘Madam, we meet again. I came to your delightful mansion some time ago to play cards with your nephew.’
Lydia Hancock looked at him with a steely gaze. ‘I can’t say that I can recall you.’
Miss Dolly spoke up. ‘Why, Mrs Hancock, I do remember the gentleman playing cards with John, I truly do. Sir, I know we were introduced. Sir Julian Wychwood, is it not?’
Julian slid into a bow that would not have disgraced a nobleman. ‘Indeed it is, Miss Dolly. Would it be forward of me to remark how beautiful you look today?’
The old silk worm, thought John, but could not resist a grin.
Miss Dolly obviously revelled in sweet talk and also had a weakness for British titles. She smiled charmingly. ‘How very kind of you, Sir.’
‘May I assure you that I really mean it. As for Mrs Hancock, may I say that you carry yourself like a queen, Madam.’
Lydia gazed down her nose in an uncompromising manner. ‘You may say what you wish, Sir, but I’ll have you know that I personally do not care for idle talk.’
The old harridan, John considered, but there his ideas were abruptly terminated as in walked George and Tracey, still playing the role of effeminate dancing masters, with Mr Alexander, all smiles and warmth and general affability. It was hardly believable that the man who claimed to be from the Secret Office and who had come to the Colonies deliberately to spy could look so genuinely pleasant, an atmosphere, almost cosy, surrounding him like a comforting cloak. Even hard-nosed Mrs Hancock looked at him with approval. Lady Eawiss’s voice rose above the general hubbub.
‘Of course, m’husband is a high-ranking officer, don’t you know. We had our nuptials quite recently. The reception was at the Marlborough Hotel, a very fine place.’
But she was drowned out by a squeal from Miss Dolly as Monsieur Charles, alias Charles Shirley, arrived, pulling off a pair of very fine kid gloves and blowing on his fingers.
‘Why, if it isn’t that most wonderful friseur. You dressed my hair quite recently, good Sir. All my friends were most taken with it. I wondered if you could do it once more. Perhaps a la Zodiaque this time.’
Charles regarded her solemnly, his dark eyes very serious. ‘No, Miss Dolly. For you it must be a la Zephire, because with your delightful personality you are like a gentle summer breeze laughing and cavorting amongst the leaves.’
To say that she adored the compliment would have been an understatement. Her sharp little chin rose in the air, she clapped her gloved hands together and her laugh was a peal of silver bells.
‘Why, do you hear that, Mrs Hancock? I declare that I wish to invite this coiffeur to take tea. He is a perfect English gentleman.’
Lydia looked him up and down with a face like a gargoyle, totally unsmiling and severe. Eventually she said, ‘Who are you, Sir?’
Charles bowed low and John thought him a fine figure with his sombre looks and brooding features.
‘The name is Shirley, Ma’am. Charles Shirley. I used to advise on styles in London but came to Boston on business which has subsequently been transacted. Monsieur Piemont was looking for an assistant so I offered my services, having nothing better to gain me useful employment. May I say how much I admire your house, Madam. It is one of the finest – if not the finest – that it has been my pleasure to look at.’
Something resembling a smile crossed the weather-beaten features. ‘Kind of you to say so.’
‘I only speak the truth,’ Charles answered, putting his hand on his heart and inclining his head.
Lydia stared at him long and hard, then said, ‘In that case you may come and view the interior. Dolly, you may invite this gentleman to sup tea.’
Her ward rose from her seat and whirled to where her hairdresser stood. ‘Do you hear that? How delightful. I am so pleased.’
The fact that she had a bit of a fancy for Mr Shirley was obvious to one and all. Charles took one of her minute little hands into one of his own.
‘May I buy you a cordial, Miss Dolly? And one for your esteemed aunt also.’
She giggled, her small face gr
owing flushed with excitement. ‘Oh, Mrs Hancock is not my aunt, Sir. We are related but, more importantly, she has adopted me as her ward, which was just so very kind of her.’
Alexander spoke up, his voice sounding very high-class London. ‘I say that kindness is one of the most important things in the world. Would you not agree, Rawlings?’
John, who had been observing things with some amusement, wondered why he had been asked. ‘Oh, yes, absolutely.’
Alexander shot him an amused smile. Lydia Hancock, meanwhile, had been glancing round the room, obviously approving of all the highfalutin Londoners speaking English with cut-glass accents while Dolly, on fire with frisky flirtation, whirled from man to man, gazing at all of them with the kind of confidence that her pretty face allowed. Charles, bowing before the older woman, handed her a glass of canary which she sipped with great enjoyment, meanwhile slipping an arm round and giving a quick squeeze to Dolly’s whaleboned waist. The Apothecary, observing, thought that this was indeed all human life.
Exactly one hour later – John having slipped back to his shop to see that Tristram was coping with everything – the party was gaining momentum. Irish Tom and Suzanne were standing hip on hip as they served tea and alcohol simultaneously; Mrs Hancock was in serious conversation with Mr Alexander, though what about John could not overhear; George and Tracey were dancing together, showing any of the assembled company that cared to watch the latest steps from London; Sir Julian had engaged Charles Shirley in a game of cards while Dolly fluttered like an enraptured moth. It was a pretty picture indeed and yet, John knew, somewhere in its depths it sheltered the person who had murdered Jake O’Farrell and stood him up in his cupboard with his throat cut wide. But Mrs Hancock was speaking, her words ever-so-slightly blurred.
‘Gentlemen – and I think you can all be granted the honour of that title – I invite you all back to Hancock House, now, this very afternoon, to take a small libation with myself, Miss Dolly and, of course, my nephew, John Hancock himself.’