by Deryn Lake
“Morning, Will.” This was the name John had adopted in order to be safe. “Nice to see you.”
“Thank you. Listen, when we’ve unloaded the produce can anyone help me mend my wheel? A damnable piece of masonry has fallen in the driveway and splintered two of the spokes.”
“Take it round to the stables. Someone will give you a hand there.”
“Right. By the way, have you seen anything of the new maid?”
The Apothecary put on a knowing look and slowly winked his eye. The kitchen lad appeared thrilled to be the recipient of such juicy gossip.
“Do you mean Lizzie? The new rum strum?”
“Aye, that’s the one. I tell you straight, I fancy her.”
“You’re not alone there. Though how she does it with that great scar on her I’ll never know.”
“Does what?” asked John, genuinely interested.
“Has all the coves panting after her.”
“Oh.” The Apothecary felt very slightly annoyed. “I see.”
“Anyway, she’ll come down to the kitchens soon. She’s lit the fires and emptied the slops so it’s time she had a break. So meanwhile let’s move your produce.” John was bent double beneath a churn when he spied Elizabeth’s feet coming towards him. With a gasp he straightened up, placing his burden on the floor beside him.
“Morning, Master Will,” she said, giving him a smile that could only be described as impudent.
“Morning, Mistress Lizzie,” he answered, scowling. Elizabeth lowered her voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to the bridge the other night. I was here gathering information. I did go last night but you weren’t there.”
John moved into the doorway, indicating that she should do likewise. Looking round to check that nobody could overhear them, he said, “Can you tell me what it is you’ve observed?”
“Briefly this. Lady Theydon is always murmuring in corners with her companion, Miss Priscilla.”
“What do they murmur?”
“That I don’t know. But something about their manner makes me suspicious.”
“Of what?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Again, I don’t know. All I’m aware of is that they seem unusually close.”
“What else?” John asked.
“There’s a certain footman here — you may have remarked him — he has a swarthy pock-marked skin …”
“I know who you mean. He arrested me after Emilia’s murder.”
“Did he by God! Well, his name is Benedict and I swear that he is the paid lackey of someone important.”
“Meaning?”
“That he is everywhere at the same time as I am; listening at doors, looking around in chambers when their owners are elsewhere. In short, he does everything that I am trying to do for you.”
Suddenly aware that they were being observed, John took one of Elizabeth’s hands in his and was shocked by how rough it had become.
At exactly that moment she said, “Your hand is callused.”
“Quiet,” he murmured. “We’re under scrutiny from the cook. Look loving.”
She turned on him a delightful smile and moved a step nearer. “Tonight at the bridge,” she whispered.
“Till tonight, darling,” John answered loudly, and kissed her hand.
There was a collective “Ooh” from the kitchen staff during which Elizabeth strutted out with a sway to her hips.
“Looks like she’ll pray with knees upwards soon,” said somebody.
John ignored them and hefted in the other churn.
With the delivery of goods done there was no further excuse to hang round so he slowly made his way, together with pony and cart, to the stable block, recalling as he did so the night he had escaped. In fact he was miles away when it suddenly became clear from sounds behind him that he was being followed. Glancing over his shoulder John saw that Benedict was strolling along in his wake. Pulling his hat down, praying that the red hair would disguise him sufficiently, John continued on his path.
“Hey, fellow,” he heard the footman shout.
Turning slowly, John said, “Be you addressing me, good Sir?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What be you wanting?”
“I wondered why you were going to the stables. What business do you have there?”
“Well, Sir, if you’ll bend down you’ll see that two spokes of my wheel be broke. It was suggested to me that someone in the stables might be able to help.”
Benedict flashed his large and powerful eyes in the wheel’s direction. “I think you’d be better off going to the smithy,” he answered.
John briefly removed his hat, scratched his bright red curls till they stood on end, replaced the garment, then said, “I don’t know that I’d get that far, Sir, without some temporary repair.”
Benedict was clearly irritated. “Oh very well, if you insist.” He fell into step beside John, something that the Apothecary found uncomfortable. “Are you new to the farm?” he asked. “I don’t seem to know your face.”
“Oh yes, Sir. I come to assist Mr. Bellow who has had a fall and broke his leg. He’s put me under Mr. Jacob, that’s what.”
All the time while this conversation had been going on John had kept his face towards the pony’s flank. Now, however, he turned and gave Benedict a full stare. There was a flutter, as if the footman thought he knew him. Then John saw it pass.
“And why be you going to the stables, Sir?” the Apothecary asked.
“Mind your own business, my good fellow,” retorted the other, and striding past John headed off down the path.
“Bastard,” said John under his breath.
From the back the stable block was built to the left of the building, a large block for the carriages, a longer series of loose boxes for the horses. Entering the coach house, John paused and looked round him. There was a smell of hay in the air, coming from the building next door. The Apothecary inhaled its grassy fumes, then looked behind him through the arched doorway. As always on a winter’s day the sky was a cloudless blue, a hyacinth shade. Just for a moment he forgot why he was there and exulted in the feel of the sun on his back. Then he remembered and called out, “Hello. Is there anybody here?”
There was no reply and he began to wander to the back of the building, examining the exquisite workmanship of the coaches; the brightness of the bodywork, the doors painted by an artist of the foremost kind. Then he heard a noise in the doorway and turned to see who it was.
A figure stood there, a figure wiping its hands on a cloth and peering into the depths of the building to see who else was present. The sun was directly behind the figure which made it hard to recognise. Yet there was something familiar about the way it stood, about the movement of the head, as bright a red as the Apothecary’s own dyed mop.
“Hello,” said a voice.
John stood riveted to the spot, then took a step or two forward. Then he started to run.
“Joe,” he shouted. “Joe, my friend, is it really you?”
Chapter Fourteen
He continued to shout as he ran towards Joe Jago but was silenced by the clerk clapping a strong and sensible hand over his mouth.
“For Heaven’s sake, Sir, keep quiet. Do you want everyone to know who I am?”
John shook his head violently, mouthed, “No,” and the hand was eventually removed.
“Joe,” he said in a gasping whisper, “is it really you? What are you doing here?”
The clerk looked round cautiously, then motioned John to go to the back of the coach house, meanwhile raising his finger to his lips to indicate utter silence. It dawned on the Apothecary that Sir John’s right-hand man was putting himself in the gravest danger for the sake of their long association and he shot him a look of great gratitude.
It was all there, just as he remembered; the rugged profile, the abundant red hair, the light blue eyes with a riverbed of wrinkles round each one. Yet for all that Joe still had an air of youthful determination about him, a fact which his s
trong lean body bore out.
Having reached the far wall Joe silently indicated that the Apothecary should sit down and, after another few seconds during which he looked round once more, joined him.
“Now keep your voice down, Sir. Walls have ears, especially round this place.”
“But Joe, why are you here?”
“I’ve been employed in the role of ostler, Sir, and you can take that surprised look off your face immediately. Or have you forgotten I’ve a special way with horses?”
The memory of Joe’s handling of equines during the time that the two of them had been in Surrey during the affair of the Valley of Shadows, returned graphically to John’s mind.
“No, you are wonderful with them but …”
“Let me tell you the story, Sir. Just you sit quiet and comfortable. All right?”
John nodded.
“When I got back to London I went straight to the Blind Beak and told him that you had fled and that I had missed you.”
“Did he believe you?”
Joe laughed gently. “Who’s to say, Sir? Maybe he did and, there again, maybe he didn’t. It was Christmas, see, and too late for him to act. Anyhow, when the festivities ended he called me into his study and there we had a long chat. The fact is that you are still wanted for arrest.”
“Have posters gone up?”
“Yes, indeed they have. Meantime, I asks the Beak straight out if he believed you guilty. He flew up in a mighty palaver, I can tell you. ‘Indeed not, Jago,’ he said very firmly. ‘That young fellow is incapable of taking a life. If it were not for the fact that Princess Amelia virtually ordered his arrest I would be looking elsewhere for the killer.’ It was then, Mr. Rawlings, that we came up with the plan.”
“Which was?”
“Well, Sir, you know that the Runners sometimes adopt ordinary guise when they attend ridottos and so on.”
“Yes.”
“Well it came to me in a flash that I should go undercover, as it were. We had connections with the stables here and persuaded one of the ostlers to leave, temporary like, to give me the opportunity to apply for the post. So during the time when I would have been on holiday — a time that the Beak detests I need hardly add — I was duly given the job and here I am. But what of you, Sir? Did you get to Devon?”
John nodded. “I did indeed. But how could I rest easy knowing that Emilia’s murderer was still at large? I came back and have been fortunate enough to get work at Bellow’s Farm.”
“And what of Lady Elizabeth, Sir?”
With those brilliant blue eyes fixed so firmly on him, John, for no good reason, felt slightly uncomfortable.
“She came with me and has got a job as a servant’s servant, if you understand me. In other words, she does the most menial tasks.”
“But surely someone of her breeding must find that abhorrent.”
“I expect she does but she does not grumble. The Marchesa is a very strong woman, Joe.”
“I’m sure she must be.” Joe’s eyes suddenly became alert. “Someone’s coming,” he murmured. “Remember, you don’t know me nor I you. Let’s take a look at that wheel of yours, young man,” he added in full voice.
“Yes, it was unfortunate the way those spokes split. But someone ought to be looking at the roof. It must be in a bad state for masonry to fall like that.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr … What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Will Miller,” and John held out his hand.
Joe shook it enthusiastically. “Pleased to meet you.” All the time they had been conversing they had been making their way to the door of the coach house and now they saw Benedict, standing motionless and watching them.
“And how may I help you?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“By getting on with your work, that’s how. You’re not paid to stand here gossiping with every farm hand who comes asking.”
“And what might you be doing here, Mr. Benedict, if I might enquire?”
“I’ve come with a message from Lord Hope. You can saddle up the mare for Lady Georgiana. She feels like riding.”
Joe’s blue eyes took on a hard aspect. “I’ll just take a look at this person’s wheel then I’ll prepare a suitable mount for her Ladyship.”
“This person doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things. I suggest he makes his way back to Bellow’s as best he can. They can repair it there.”
“I doubt he’d get that far,” Joe replied, still in the same pleasant tone. And with that he marched out of the coach house and up to John’s cart.
Ten minutes later it was done. The two broken spokes had been bound round with wire, strong enough at least to get him back to the farm without mishap. Thanking Joe and bidding him a cheery farewell, the Apothecary jumped into the cart and picked up the reins. But he had plodded no more than two hundred yards up the drive when a very familiar figure stepped into his path and imperiously waved him down. Unwillingly, the Apothecary brought the pony to a halt.
“Have you made your delivery?” Priscilla Fleming asked.
“Yes, Mam,” John answered, pulling his hat as low as it would go.
She peered at him. “I’ve seen you before somewhere. What did you say your name was?”
“Will Miller, Mam. Will that be all?”
“No, it won’t. There’s a stone in my shoe. Pray assist me to get it out.”
John gaped at her, affronted by her peremptory manner yet powerless to resist. Then slowly, unwillingly, he clambered out of the cart.
She leant back against the wheel and held her right foot aloft, gazing down at the Apothecary who crouched before her.
“Go on, remove my shoe.”
He did so and saw that there was indeed a small pebble inside. Turning the shoe upside down, he shook the obstruction out. He raised his head to look at Priscilla and at that moment she snatched off his hat, then gazed at him, wonderment surfacing in her eyes.
“John,” she breathed. “John Rawlings. So you’ve come back. I thought you would.”
“Priscilla,” he answered in an undertone, “for the love of God keep your voice down. I am here under false pretences, as you know. It is imperative that nobody is aware of my true identity.”
Her cheeks flushed rosily and her eyes grew wide, making her look suddenly rather pretty.
“I thought I recognised you the other day in the kitchens,” she whispered, “but you played your part so well that I wasn’t sure. Oh my dear, tell me everything.”
“This is too public a place. Where can we be private?”
“Meet me tonight in The Temple.”
John shook his head. “Where is that?”
“To the west of the house. It lies beside the Round Pond. Come at nine o’clock. Enter from Brentford Lane and turn right. I’ll be waiting for you.” She raised her voice and said theatrically, “Thank you my good man.” And with that set off down the drive with her nose in the air.
John’s thoughts rushed. If she had seen through his disguise then might not somebody else? Perhaps he should alter himself further. But eventually he gave up the idea. Dyed red hair and a slouch hat would have to suffice. He must be as discreet as possible, that was as much as he could manage.
For the rest of that day he was frantically busy. Jacob returned from market in an inexplicably bad mood and gave him a million tasks with which to occupy himself. The Apothecary set about them with a will, knowing that it would make the time pass quickly. And, sure enough, when he next looked up it was dark and time to go in to dine.
He clomped into the kitchen, and, having washed, made his way upstairs to see Hugh Bellow. He found the invalid sitting comfortably in bed, reading a newspaper. He looked at John over the rim of his spectacles.
“There’s an appeal for anyone with any information regarding the recent murder at Gunnersbury Park to contact Sir John Fielding at his house in Bow Street.”
John sat down on the edge of the bed. “Is there now.”
“Yes. Tell me, young
man, do you have any suspects yet?”
“I suspect everyone and no one, if you follow me. But, Sir, I beg you not to reveal my secret to anyone.” John paused, then said directly, “Not even your son.”
Hugh shot him a look. “I take it you two don’t get along?”
“Shall we just say that I find him fractionally forbidding.”
The farmer chuckled. “He’s not the easiest of people, I admit. But under all his gruffness he has a heart of gold. Once you’re his friend, that is.”
“Well, he and I seem to have got off on the wrong foot. But I promise to try harder.”
Hugh nodded fiercely. “It’s time I was back in control. How long before I can walk again?”
“As soon as I can fashion some kind of crutch for you, you can try. I’ll find time tomorrow.”
“You most certainly will. I’m still the gaffer here and I’ll tell Jacob that’s what you’ll be doing.”
John stood up. “Very good, Mr. Bellow. But don’t get me into any trouble, will you.”
“I’ll do my best to soothe the miserable young brute.”
Not feeling too confident John went down the stairs, the smell of Hester’s cooking wafting in his nostrils.
Jacob did not say a word throughout the meal, gulping his food as quickly as possible. He also consumed several pints of home-brewed ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and belching loudly at the finish. Then he stood up.
“I’m going to Brentford,” he announced.
The other two looked at him in surprise.
“But you were there this morning,” Hester said. “Well, I’m going again. I’ve some business to conclude.”
“Wrap up well,” John remarked, “it’s going to be another freezing night.”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it,” Jacob answered nastily, and slammed out of the kitchen.
Hester looked at John with a sad smile. “And I suppose you’ll be off on your nightly perambulation, Will.”
“I haven’t been for the last two so I really must go tonight.”
“Do you meet anybody?” Hester asked with a flash of perception.
“Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t,” John answered truthfully.