by Deryn Lake
“Madam,” he said, “I am arresting you for the murders of Mrs. Rawlings, your husband Lord Hope, and Lady Theydon. I would advise you to come with me quietly.”
“But Joe …” John started.
The clerk turned on him a fierce look, closely resembling some mythical figure of vengeance with his coppery curls alight and his blue eyes blazing.
“Sir, everything has been given away by the fact that Madam dropped an earring whilst about her husband’s murder. An earring which is still in your possession, I believe.”
“Yes,” the Apothecary answered faintly.
“Be so good as to fetch it.”
John stared at them, wondering that such a simple piece of jewellery could belong to such a woman. Then he slowly made his way to his room and fetched the earring from its hiding place in his drawer, where he had placed it for safe-keeping. By the time he returned Lady Georgiana had come downstairs with Jago one step behind.
“Well, Sir, be good enough to show it to Milady.” Reluctantly, John took it out of his pocket and offered it to Lady Georgiana. She gazed at it, then said, “No, that is not mine. As I have already told you, I don’t know to whom it belongs.”
“You will have to tell that to Sir John Fielding,” said Joe firmly. “Now, are you going to make a fuss or behave yourself?”
She shot him a look of pure dislike, then, with her head held high, allowed him to lead her out of the house.
Half an hour later dinner was served, it being six o’clock and somewhat later than was customary. News of the arrest of Lady Georgiana had swept the house like an infectious disease and everyone was agog with the gossip.
Princess Amelia set the tone by announcing in no uncertain terms, “If Mr. Jago believes it is her, then he is right. That man is thoroughly sound. After all, remember what he did for Eclipse.”
“Yes, but women and horses are different species, Ma’am,” put in the Honourable Gerald Naill, and was given a series of black looks from the assembled company for his pains.
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The Princess gave a contemptuous snort. “I am avare of zat, Mr. Naill. It is Jago’s integrity that I was commenting upon.”
“Quite so,” he answered, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour.
Priscilla, pink in the cheeks, spoke up. “It’s truly hard to believe it of Lady Georgiana.”
“Believe it or believe it not,” said Lady Hampshire, “it has happened.”
“There are many things that one cannot believe,” Princess Amelia commented, fixing Priscilla with a dark gaze.
John decided he must speak. “Jago must have had good reason to arrest Lady Georgiana. He does not do things lightly.”
“But Colonel —“
“Allow me to interrupt,” the Princess said in ringing tones. “The Colonel is a piece of fiction. It is Mr. Rawlings that you are addressing. He entered this house in disguise to find his wife’s killer. And none of you recognised him,” she ended triumphantly.
“Not even you, Ma’am,” remarked Lady Featherstonehaugh quietly.
The Princess glared and Lady Kemp tittered.
John removed his eye-patch and wig and, rising, bowed to the assembled company, who applauded mildly.
“I am so sorry that I had to gain entry by false means but there was no other way for it.”
It was at that moment a thought struck him so forcibly that he sat down again rather rapidly, smiling automatically, even though his mind was a million miles away. He was remembering an incident that had happened long ago. A night when a silent figure had stood in his garden and watched his house. A figure full of menace that had disappeared rapidly when it realised that it had been observed.
“How was Lady Georgiana removed?” This from Lady Hampshire.
“Those awful Runner people came in a coach and took her and Mr. Jago away. My God, to think she’ll be clapped in Newgate.”
John could have answered that he imagined that she would be kept in the cells below the court at Bow Street but could not bring himself to reply.
Priscilla caught his eye and she gave him a warm smile. “Of course, I knew it was Mr. Rawlings all along. I took a chance which, it seems, has paid off.”
“Well you certainly looked guilty, Sir,” said Lady Featherstonehaugh.
“As I have assured Princess Amelia, Madam, I most definitely was not.”
While they had been speaking they had all been aware of a distant commotion, as if somebody or other was hurling abuse. Now the sound got louder.
“Whatever is that?” asked Dr. Phipps, who had been sitting silently listening.
“I really can’t —“
But the Princess got no further. The door of the dining room burst open and there, with three servants clinging to him, dragging him to the floor, was Michael O’Callaghan.
“What has happened to her?” he bellowed, down on his knees. “What have you done with her in the name of God?”
John got up and went to the man’s side just as the footmen finally got their way and floored him.
“She’s been arrested,” he said quietly.
“For the murders?”
“What else?”
“But I swear by Jesus, Joseph and Mary that she is not guilty of those crimes.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I’ll tell you how. Because I did them. It is me they should be taking away.”
There was a scream from Lady Hampshire who fainted, most conveniently into the arms of the doctor.
Princess Amelia rose to her feet. “Mr. Rawlings, take this lout of an Irishman into an ante-room and question him. It would appear that there has been a miscarriage of justice.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
John entered the ante-room to discover a scene of devastation. Michael O’Callaghan was struggling on the floor with four footmen, two of whose wigs he had succeeded in knocking off to reveal spiky shaven heads beneath. The third one was bleeding from the lip, while the fourth was clinging to the Irishman’s leg like a terrier to a rat. The Apothecary paused momentarily, thinking that Michael’s strength must be profound, then he shouted, “Stop it. Stop it, I say.” And literally all five of them ceased fighting to gaze at him.
“Tell these bastards to let me go, John,” the Irishman bellowed.
“Do as he says,” the Apothecary ordered. “I think he’ll behave himself with me. At least I hope he will.”
“Of course I will,” Michael said, picking himself up from the floor.
He solemnly handed the servants their wigs back, bowing as he did so. They were snatched from his hand and thrust back on assorted heads, not altogether neatly. Then, amidst a bevy of black looks, the Irishman collapsed into a chair.
John took a seat opposite. “What made you confess to the murders?” he asked. “Was it to save Georgiana?”
“No, it was because I did them.”
“Really? Why did you kill Emilia, may I ask?”
“Oh, that was a mistake. It was Priscilla I was really after”
“You no doubt are a member of the Secret Office and wished to remove her because of her earlier scandal.”
Michael’s jaw dropped but he kept his composure. “Yes, that’s right.”
John nodded wisely and steepled his fingers, a characteristic borrowed from Sir Gabriel. Then he laughed. “It does take a bit of imagining, doesn’t it? Her intrigue, I mean.”
Michael nodded. “It certainly does.”
He was out of his depth but struggling gallantly. John looked at him shrewdly. “So you know all about it?”
“Not all, no.”
“But instruction came from the Secret Office to dispose of Priscilla. Didn’t you feel guilty because she had given you employment? Had been kind to you?” Michael O’Callaghan looked as uncomfortable as it was possible to do. “I had to do my duty.”
“Did you? Did you really, Michael? Now recount to me the facts as they actually happened. Go on, tell me the truth for once.”
Suddenly the actor looked weary to the heart, as if the recent strain was at last beginning to tell on him. Seeing this, the ruthless side of the Apothecary’s nature asserted itself.
“You’ve told me a tissue of lies, haven’t you? Well, that won’t suffice to get your lady love out of gaol. Do you know anything about the scandal in Priscilla’s past? If so, I’d be delighted to hear it.”
The Irishman lowered his head. “I don’t know any facts, to tell you the truth.”
“Indeed you don’t,” the Apothecary said softly, and O’Callaghan shook himself, rather like a wet dog, and remained silent.
“Very well, let us pass on to the murder of Lord Hope. How did you manage that?”
“Oh, that was easy. I just skipped over from Bellow’s farm, caught the brute in the Grotto, then skipped back again.”
“Dropping your earring as you did so, no doubt. No, Michael, it’s not good enough. Listen …” The Apothecary leant over the space that divided them and spoke earnestly. “I know that you would sacrifice yourself for Georgiana’s sake and I think it is a truly noble gesture on your part. But believe me, your story is as full of holes as a baker’s sieve. You’ll have to think of something better than that if you are going to impress Sir John Fielding.”
“To hell with him,” the actor answered wearily. “And to hell with you too, John Rawlings. I thought you were my friend.”
Some of the Irishman’s fatigue seemed to transmit itself to John, who said, “Michael, I am your friend, very much so. But if Georgiana is guilty of three brutal murders would you really want her for wife and possibly the mother of your children?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”
“Listen to me. I am not certain that she is guilty. I think the killer might still be at large.”
Michael raised his head. “Do you really? Or are you just saying it?”
“I mean it.”
“But surely those officials wouldn’t make a mistake.”
“I know the man who arrested her. I think he is one of the most excellent people it has ever been my good fortune to encounter. But I believe that this time he could be mistaken.”
The actor gave him a long stare. “Then in that case …”
“In that case your flinging yourself about, burdening yourself with guilt, is pointless. What we’ve got to do is trap the true killer, and we’ve got to do it fast.”
“How can I help you?”
“This is how.”
And in the small confines of the ante-room and speaking quietly, John Rawlings described his plan to the Irish actor.
By the time he rejoined the dinner table it was to find that most of the other guests had gone to play cards. Wishing fervently that he had a quarter of his adopted father’s aptitude for gaming, John was glad to sit down for a glass of port with Dr. Peter Phipps.
The physician was in pensive mood, clearly troubled by all that had taken place. “I can tell you frankly, Colonel — I beg pardon, Mr. Rawlings — that I shall be glad to get out of this house.”
“When do you intend to go, Sir?”
“Tomorrow morning. I still practise now and then, and even the most querulous of patients will seem like a rest cure after the recent ordeal. D’ye know, I somehow cannot credit that Lady Georgiana should turn out to be the murderer. But there we are; stranger things than that have happened in life.”
John nodded and his mobile brows twitched as his mind went haring down a million odd corridors. Supposing that Michael O’Callaghan had played the biggest bluff of his life by confessing to murders he had actually committed … Or supposing that Lady Georgiana, that ice cool beauty, had truly been responsible … Or supposing that, as John felt utterly certain, the murderer still lurked round Gunnersbury House, ready to strike again. He realised that the doctor was speaking.
“Lady Theydon has been removed?”
“Oh yes. The Runners have taken her to Brentford mortuary. The coroner will have to release the body for burial.”
“What a way to end it all. What had the poor woman done?”
“She befriended the wrong people, that’s what.”
“Who do you mean, Sir?”
“I’m not sure,” John answered him slowly. “That’s just the trouble. I’m not sure.”
“Have another glass of this excellent port to refresh your memory.”
“I don’t think it will do that, but I thank you, Sir.” And the Apothecary held out his glass.
There was a distant knocking on the front door and the doctor turned to John. “Oh, not more disquiet. Surely that truculent Irishman was enough for one evening. What happened to him, incidentally?”
“I sent him back to Bellow’s farm. He didn’t kill anyone, Sir. He was merely confessing to try to save his sweetheart.”
“Do you mean Lady Georgiana was having an affair with him?”
“I’m afraid, Sir, that I do.”
The physician assumed an expression which John interpreted as “it is impossible to shock a doctor”. In any other circumstances he would have found it amusing but tonight even his cynical sense of humour was stretched to its limit. There was a momentary silence interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. “Come in,” called Dr. Phipps.
A footman entered the room with a letter on a tray. “This came by express messenger for Mr. Rawlings.” The Apothecary stared. “Who can it be from?”
But as soon as he cast his eyes on the paper he knew the writing. The letter was from Joe Jago.
It simply said:
Honoured friend,
I can say Little except Please Watch the Grotto without Cease. I Think All Will be Revealed there.
Remain Vigilant.
Your most sensibly Obliged and Humble servant.
The signature J. Jago was written with a flourish and the address at the top of the note was given as The Red Lion, Brentford. John reread it with a rise in his spirits. If his interpretation was correct then the arrest of Georgiana had been a ploy and the killer was indeed still at large.
His thoughts roamed over the suspects. The Princess herself could not be excluded though he found it really hard to credit that such a plump woman could have leapt nimbly through the trees wearing a red cloak or fought Lord Hope in the Grotto. Still, stranger things than that had happened and she could not be ruled out. Then came Lady Hampshire with her penchant for much younger men. Had her desire to obtain jewels that sparkled led her to kill for them? If she had mistaken Emilia for Priscilla could it have been for something that Priscilla had worn? Similarly with Lord Hope who had flaunted rings and snuff-boxes and brooches.
His thoughts turned to those two strange women, namely Ladies Featherstonehaugh and Kemp. What was it they got up to in their private time? Could it be that they worked together as murderers, one giving the other an alibi? He ran this idea over in his mind and found a great deal to recommend it.
Finally he came to Priscilla who was, he felt certain, growing extremely fond of him. The trouble with her was that she lacked motive. Why should she kill an old friend and why on earth kill Lord Hope? Lady Theydon had clearly been done away with because she had refused to give the murderer any further assistance. But the other two? John mentally discounted Miss Fleming for having no reason to kill.
This left him with the enigmatical Michael O’Callaghan. The Irishman had confessed to the murders but surely only to defend Lady Georgiana Hope. But could this have been a bluff, a bluff which had fooled John completely. Well, almost completely. Though he had included the actor in his plan to find the murderer, he had not told him everything.
“Was it good news or bad?” asked Dr. Phipps.
John dragged himself back to reality. “Neither, really.” He glanced at the handsome watch that Sir Gabriel had given him for his twenty-first birthday. “Um, it’s just gone eight. I think if you’ll excuse me that I might go for a stroll.”
The doctor downed his port. “Do you mind if I join you? I could do with some fresh air.”
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Wanting desperately to be alone, John replied, “It’s still very cold, Sir.”
“Oh that doesn’t worry me,” the physician answered heartily. “I always wrap up well.”
There was no help for it, the two of them fetched their outdoor garments and marched out into the February night, John thinking that he would take a brief walk and return later. But for all that he found himself heading in the direction of the Grotto, the doctor striding along beside him.
Spring was definitely on its way, the bitterness of January a thing of the past. But it was still chilly and the Apothecary felt himself shiver as they approached the building in which the Grotto was situated.
“Do you remember last time we were here?” John asked.
Dr. Phipps turned on him a bleak look. “Only too clearly. What a terrible expression Lord Hope had on his face.”
Recalling those white features and the mauvish blue lips drawn back in the travesty of a grin, John shuddered again. “Poor fellow. He must have been detested to have merited such an end as that.”
“That, or simply in the way,” the doctor answered.
Though he was longing to take a look inside, armed as he was with a lanthorn, the Apothecary forbore. However he did linger a moment to see if he could hear anyone within. But there was nothing except silence and he and Dr. Phipps continued on and past, down into the parkland beyond.
They returned an hour later to find that the card party had broken up, Princess Amelia leading the way through a bowing line of her fellow players. Seeing John, she bore down on him while he bowed low, wondering all the while what she wanted.
“Mr. Rawlings, a vord viz you, if you please.”
“Certainly, Ma’am.”
So for the second time that day he found himself in her private sanctum, alone except for the usual handful of footmen.
“I will come straight to the point,” she said as soon as she was seated.
John carefully perched on the edge of the sofa opposite and smiled politely.