by Deryn Lake
She’s an old snob, thought the Apothecary and, catching Julian Wychwood’s eye, knew that he was like-minded but triumphant.
Leaving Tom and Suzanne to serve the few customers left, the four men made their way outside to where the hackney cab stand was situated. This had been set up in 1708 by Jonathan Wardwell, who had been the proprietor of the Orange Tree at the time. Mr Alexander and Sir Julian had been invited by the ladies to join them in the lumbering Hancock coach – presumably because they were the most gentlemanly of all the gentlemen present. George, Tracey, Charles and John took the two carriages that stood waiting for hire. In a somewhat disorderly fashion they joined the small procession making its way to the Hancock mansion.
Yet again, the town of Boston buzzed with activity. The snow having been cleared and the footpaths being accessible once more, the place bustled with life. Street-sellers were out and shouting their wares loud and long, drowning the sounds of carts rattling and the high, bright clipping of horse hooves. Small, sad black chimney sweeping boys dragged their brushes along the cobbled streets hoping for a bit of custom even at this time of year when fires had been lit in all the hearths. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke and the sharp redolent tang of Newcastle coals. Yet it was the sounds that thrilled John Rawlings most. The city was alive with industry, people hammering, looms thudding, fishermen hauling in their silvery, slippery catches. It was a time of vast and enormous energy. It was a time of revolution.
The cavalcade of coaches reached the Common and the occupants looked out to where a canopy of canvas indicated the place where the men of the British Army, in all their redcoated glory, had encamped. Beyond the small white cluster stretched green pastures on which sheep and cows grazed contentedly. Riders were out in the sunshine, their horse’s feet lifting high above the turf where recent snow had made the ground soggy. Above all towered Beacon Hill, on whose majestic heights John and Julian had once found the remains of a poor dead dog. But it was to Hancock House that every eye was now drawn.
It stood, quite brazenly grand, proclaiming that its owners had a position in life. Yet for all its pretension, John liked the place. Surrounded by its magnificent gardens, paled off by its white fencing, it looked part of the landscape yet so utterly removed from the squalor of some of the alleys in the North End that the Apothecary felt it must cause jealousy in some stout Bostonian hearts. Yet his thoughts were a million miles away as his conveyance pulled through the gates, which were opened by a black slave. John leant forward and remembered talking to the man, then watched the slave’s face as he looked inside first the coach, then the two hackneys following it. It was quite clear he had identified one of the occupants as someone he had met before and his expression changed from that of smiling welcome to an appearance of total shock. The Apothecary knew at that moment that one of the travellers visiting the Hancock home was a murderer. But which of the other five was it?
‘It was a damnably difficult situation. I knew one of them had killed poor Jake but I had no means of finding out who it was,’ said John, swigging down a large glass of brandy.
‘But why not?’ asked Coralie Clive. ‘Surely it wouldn’t have been an impossibility to have found the gatekeeper and asked him.’
‘My dear, you have been entertained by the Hancocks. Surely you must appreciate the difficulties of leaving the room and going in search of one of their slaves.’
Coralie looked at him questioningly. ‘Well, in that case, how are you going to solve it?’
‘I am going back there tonight to ask the gatekeeper directly. If anybody wants to know what I am doing I shall say I came back to retrieve my gloves.’
‘Which you cleverly left behind.’
‘Quite so. I did.’
There was a brief silence. John stared out of the window on the darkening afternoon. He had refused to ride back to Boston with the other men, saying that he preferred to walk. But actually he had called in at Coralie’s house fully aware that there was something of prime importance he had to ask her. But now that the time had come, he was hesitant. Though there had been a lifetime of experiences between them he was afraid, as the years ticked by, of losing her for ever. And that was something he dreaded. He was past the age for cheap affairs. All he wanted now was stability and mutual consideration. But then, he thought, he was only forty-four and very far from his worst. Nonetheless, he loved Coralie very dearly and now was the time to speak.
‘You know that I am seriously considering returning to England.’
She gave him an inscrutable glance. ‘So I’ve gathered.’
‘How? How did you know?’
‘Because of your manner. You’ve had an edge about you in the last month or two. A kind of impatience that you are wrestling with.’
‘It’s not that so much. I just have the feeling that the American Colonies are straining at the leash. I am sure that at any moment the powder keg will blow. Then I will be forced to take sides, and this I cannot do. I think the Bostonians have right on their side, but I was born in Britain. I am British. It is to the mother country that I owe my allegiance. So what chance will I have when the war breaks out?’
‘You could keep your head down and say nothing.’
‘But Coralie, how could I? I am me and bound to do something or other. I could not just lie passive while all about me are fighting like dogs. I would be shot, sure as fate, and then what chance for my children?’
She smiled – a sad, wistful smile. ‘Oh, my dear, I know exactly what you are saying.’
‘Do you? Do you realize that in my roundabout sort of way I am asking you to give up everything and sail with me? Come back to London with me, Coralie. We can be married and live happily ever after. But if that is not to your taste then we can take dwellings close to one another. I can return home to Nassau Street. And so can you, if you wish it.’
He rather childishly went down on one knee and clutched her hands in his. The actress that was the true woman came out. She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘La, Sir, is this a decent proposal?’
‘You know perfectly well it is.’
‘Then I must have time to ponder. Seriously, though, it would mean giving up my school and my life here. I have become a respected member of the community.’
‘And what price your school, your position, if a revolution should break out, as inevitably it must?’
Coralie sighed. ‘And what if it does not?’
‘It will, you can rest assured. You did not witness the savagery that was everywhere on the night of the tea raids. I tell you as an old friend that the British are not going to be popular unless they side with the Colonists. Are you prepared to do that?’
‘I might. I don’t know.’
John rose to his feet. ‘Then it will be up to you to decide which path you take. You know that I love you, that the circumstances of life have chosen we are now both free to marry. I leave you with my offer. Remember it well, Coralie.’
She rose also. ‘I thank you with all my heart. And I promise to consider it with all of mine.’
‘Then I cannot ask more.’
And so saying, he put his hat on his head and made his way out.
It was but a short walk back to the Hancock House, and here John had a stroke of good fortune: the black slave was still on duty at the gates. As soon as he saw the Apothecary approaching on foot the servant opened the bars sufficiently enough for John to squeeze through.
‘Good evening, Master. I think you kept very strange company today.’
‘Did I, by Jove. Who was it, pray?’
The slave pulled him close and whispered in the Apothecary’s ear.
John looked extremely surprised. ‘You are sure it was him?’
‘As sure as my name is Robin, Sah, which was the first thing my moma saw after giving birth to me.’
‘Well, thank you most kindly, Robin. I shall hasten back to town and charge him with it.’
‘Then you will have taken a weight off my mind, Sah. Poor old J
ake. He wus a good fella and no mistake.’
‘Indeed he was,’ John answered. ‘And now I’ll collect my gloves and hurry back before the man has had a chance to shift.’
‘Good luck to you, Sah. Oh, thank you, Sah,’ the man said as the Apothecary pressed a coin into his hand and hurried away into the darkening evening.
There were very few customers in the Orange Tree – perhaps because the night was getting bitingly cold and the wind had snow on its breath, or perhaps because the Sons of Liberty were meeting in another tavern to discuss the next moves in their inevitable game. John could not blame them.
The atmosphere in the place had always been one of friendly discussion and not conducive to the hatching of serious plots. But two of his former companions were sitting in a corner, laughing over a glass of cognac. They had their heads quite close together and it struck the Apothecary at once that they had known one another for quite a considerable time. He approached them, bowing politely. ‘May I join you, gentlemen?’
‘Of course, of course,’ answered Mr Alexander, gesturing towards an empty chair that stood at the table, while Charles Shirley smiled and nodded.
John quietly took a seat. ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said.
Mr Alexander did not move a muscle but Charles’s eyebrows shot up. Neither of them said a word, however.
‘Tell me, Lord Conway, how well did you know Jake O’Farrell?’
There was total silence and for one terrible second John Rawlings wondered if he had made a most almighty gaffe – if Robin the gatekeeper had been wrong all along. Then there was a scraping sound as a chair was pushed back and Mr Alexander shot to his feet.
‘So we meet again,’ he said in a voice that was little above a whisper.
‘Yes,’ drawled Charles Shirley, ‘so we do.’
At that point John felt totally uncertain, then a second later he was knocked sideways. As he hit the floor he saw Charles’s booted foot flick out and fasten round Alexander’s ankle. There was an enormous crash as the man joined the dazed Apothecary on the deck. Irish Tom appeared from behind the bar and attempted to leap over it in order to enter the fracas. Unfortunately he had forgotten the passing of the years and landed on the obstruction, knocking the wind out of himself entirely. It was little Suzanne who came rushing to the rescue, brandishing a wooden club which she crashed down over Charles’s head, sending him to his knees. At that Alexander rose to his feet and, taking a pistol out of his pocket, fired a deliberate shot into his opponent’s leg, then retook his seat and finished his brandy.
John gazed at him, awestruck. Then his training rushed back to him and he crouched down beside the groaning Charles, who was grabbing his leg where the blood spouted forth in a great red fountain. ‘Lord Conway?’ he asked uncertainly, at which Charles smiled his most cynical of smiles and nodded before turning his eyes to Alexander, who had refilled his glass and was knocking back the alcohol as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
‘You bastard,’ Charles said.
‘My dear chap, ’tis but a flesh wound. You’ll probably walk with a limp which no doubt will amuse the judge when you stand trial for murder.’
‘Damn your blasted eyes, Alexander. I had every right to kill O’Farrell. The man seduced my wife under my very nose.’
‘Whilst you were whoring your way round London. Don’t try it on with me, Conway. I’ve known you since we were both at Oxford and have followed your career with interest ever since.’
‘Listen to me, Jack,’ snarled the wounded man. ‘You think you are so vastly superior just because you became cronies with the Earl of Holdernesse. Well, let me tell you that makes you nothing more than a jumped-up lackey.’
‘I would suggest that you hold your tongue, Sir, or you will tempt me to shoot you in the other leg as well.’
During this acrimonious exchange John had been gallantly tying an old but clean sheet into strips to staunch the flow of blood, but felt incredibly thankful when Dr Warren – called by Suzanne, no doubt – arrived to relieve him. He thought as he stood up that he had never seen the doctor look better. Without powder on his gleaming hair Warren resembled a Nordic god, his light blue eyes alert and expressive as he took in the fact that there was a seriously wounded man lying on the floor.
Alexander rose and made a bow. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you are the famous doctor, are you?’
Warren gave a small salute. ‘Yes, Sir. I did not realize that my fame was so widely known.’ Then he knelt down and examined Charles Shirley, his hands, symbolically, getting covered in blood.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jack Alexander, recently arrived from London.’
‘Joseph Warren, Sir,’ murmured the doctor, and John thought that if the name had meant anything to him at all, Warren had not betrayed it by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.
‘The man you are attending killed the husband of one of your associates. I think you might know her. She was Lady Conway. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Dr Warren stood up and at that moment John admired him more than he could ever have imagined possible. ‘She was a very charming woman. Everyone knew her and her husband Jake. They were employees of John Hancock, I believe,’ he answered evenly.
The doctor was going to reveal nothing and Jack Alexander of the Secret Office knew it. ‘Well, in that case I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
‘I think not, Sir,’ Dr Warren stated. ‘You maliciously wounded a man in a public place. I think the sheriff would like to question you further about that.’
Jack Alexander smiled urbanely. ‘Then he will know where to find me. I am staying at the Marlborough Hotel. Good evening to you.’
And with that he sauntered out, cool as a cube of ice.
Warren looked at John. ‘Is there any point in going after him?’
‘I think not. He will be up and away before you even begin the chase.’
‘He’s a British spy, isn’t he?’
‘Somewhat higher than that, I think. Doctor Warren, I believe it would be best to leave that particular hound to his own devices. He is probably boarding ship even while we speak. But the surname of the man you are attending is Shirley, which is also, I believe, the surname of the Earls of Conway.’
Warren’s eyes narrowed to diamond points. ‘You believe that he pushed his wife to her death?’
John looked away. ‘No, I don’t think anyone is responsible for that. I consider it to have been an accident. But according to the servants at the house of John Hancock, Shirley slit Jake O’Farrell’s throat for him and thrust the body into a cupboard.’
Warren flashed one of his rare and beautiful smiles. ‘Well, he won’t be going anywhere for some time. I shall deliver him to the sheriff’s office and let the law takes its course.’
‘It could all be a coincidence, of course.’
‘Whatever the truth, he will have the fairest of trials, I can assure you of that.’
From the floor Charles Shirley, Earl of Conway, let out a groan then said to John, ‘Pour me a brandy, for the love of God.’
‘If I do will you tell me one thing?’
‘What?’
‘How did you come to be such a good hairdresser?’
‘Because it was my hobby, that’s why. I used to dress the hair of the ladies of the ton. Just for a joke, you understand. Now give me a drink before I die of the pain.’
‘But your creations,’ John persisted. ‘They would not have disgraced a lady of the highest quality.’
‘No,’ Charles answered bitterly, ‘if there is such a creature living.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Sir, that I do not believe there is so fine a being as a lady of true distinction.’
And with that he relapsed into silence and refused to speak another word.
THIRTY
Exactly three weeks later John Rawlings left the seething city of Boston and sailed once more for his beloved homeland, having said farewell to his companions who
had walked with him through the great wild and beautiful country of America. He had sold his business to a recently qualified young apothecary whose papa was a prosperous merchant who had paid to set his boy up, and had passed to him his apprentice, young Tristram, who had held the fort so often for his master when he had been off on his detecting trips. There had been some moistening of the eye when the youth had been told that the beautiful Rose would be leaving with her father, but he had sighed a great sigh and accepted the ill fortune of fate.
John had been to see Matthew during the time left, reminiscing over the incredible journey they had undertaken together. Inevitably the conversation had turned to Blue Wolf and Jane Hawthorne.
‘Have you heard from them at all, my friend?’
‘I received this through the post a few days ago.’
‘Where was it sent from?’
‘From Plymouth. They are nearing Haut Island. But take a look at it.’
It was a miracle that it had ever arrived for it was a present – a pair of moccasin shoes large enough to fit a small child. John had looked up questioningly and Matthew had grinned. John had smiled back.
‘And how many does this make, with your combined children?’
‘This will be the sixth, Sir. A hale and hearty family.’
‘Did you tell the runaways there was another on the way?’
‘No, John, I didn’t. It was too early. But you know how Blue Wolf was. He sort of knew things.’
‘Yes. I think he and she will have a wonderful life together. Blue Wolf and Silver Fox – very vulpine, don’t you think?’
But it was clear that Matthew had not understood him and John had smiled in the firelight and talked of something else.
The dancing duo had bidden him farewell with overwhelming smiles and eyes like rapiers. That Jack Alexander – of whom there had been no visible sign since the night he had walked out of the Orange Tree – was still giving them instructions was abundantly clear from their manner. They would kill you while sharing a joke and a laugh. Trying to think the best of them, John had remembered that they had spared the lives of both himself and his daughter. It was in an unsettled frame of mind that he had left their company for good but they chattered gaily, acting the role of cream puffs to the end, knowing that this was how he would always recall them.