by Deryn Lake
Chapter Two
Samuel’s dilemma as to how to get to London in the small hours of the morning, yet remain unrobbed and alive, was solved by two gentlemen who were just leaving Vaux Hall by the Kennington entrance, clambering into a coach accompanied by three young ladies, their direction Back Lane and the city.
‘Room for one more,’ called one of them jovially. ‘Jump in, young Sir.’
‘Gladly,’ answered Samuel, scrambling aboard and cramming his large frame between two of the girls.
The man who had offered assistance held out his hand. ‘Frobisher, the Honourable Frederick. And these are the Misses Carter, Miss Bealieu and Lord Bramcote.’
‘Damme,’ said his Lordship, ‘rum do tonight, what? Who’d have thought poor Lizzie would have gone like that.’
‘Lizzie?’ repeated Samuel in astonishment. ‘Did you then know the victim, Sir?’
‘Me, and half of London. She was, that is until two months or so ago, when she left mysteriously, the favourite of the Leicester Fields brothel.’ His Lordship cleared his throat and added, ‘Forgive frank talk, ladies. Forgot myself.’
‘Not a Duchess then!’ Samuel exclaimed, and everyone laughed.
‘A Duchess in her way,’ put in the Honourable Frederick, suddenly solemn. ‘The usual story, I’m afraid. An innocent country girl looking for work in London and snatched up by a procuress. Then taking to the life, alas.’
‘You’re certain it was her?’
‘Positive. I saw her face before your friend covered it up.’
‘I wonder if they know this at Bow Street.’
‘They’re sure to find out soon enough.’
‘But where has she been recently?’ said Samuel, almost to himself.
Lord Bramcote frowned. ‘That’s the damnable odd part. Nobody knows. I think a fancy fellow must have set her up, couldn’t bear to share her, what?’
‘George, please!’ remonstrated one of the Misses Carter.
‘Sony, Sal. ’Zounds, but it’s a wicked world, ain’t it?’
‘So wicked I fear we may be robbed tonight,’ she answered, shivering.
‘If a highwayman comes I’ll blow his head off,’ Milord stated cheerfully, and produced a loaded pistol from an inner pocket.
Sam sat mute, thinking that this evening, which had started with so much promise, was turning into one of the most nightmarish of his entire life. In fact he was never more glad of anything than when the coach reached the outskirts of London, clattered over Westminster Bridge, opened to the public four years earlier, and set him down at the top of The Hay Market. Hurrying down Coventry Street, from which place he could glimpse the brothel in Leicester Fields where the dead girl had worked, Samuel ran the rest of the way to Nassau Street, startling the Night Watch as he panted up to the front door of number two.
When the street had been created in the 1730s, a uniform group of elegant residences had been erected, each four storeys high and three windows wide, their interiors furnished in handsome style. As Samuel Swann was shown into the hall by the night porter, he remembered with fondness the house next door where he had lived as a boy, nostalgically wishing he were still there. His father had long since moved away to the unspoilt rural retreat of Islington, while Samuel lodged with his former Master in West Cheap, as yet not settled in a home of his own. Yet looking round him now as the porter went to waken Sir Gabriel Kent’s valet to see if John’s father might himself, in his turn, be awakened, Samuel experienced a great surge of longing, a yearning for boyhood, for the past. And when Sir Gabriel appeared at the top of the stairs, clad in a night rail and turban, the younger man hurried forward to greet him just as he had when he was a child.
‘How very glad I am to see you, Sir,’ he exclaimed and, without thinking, raised Sir Gabriel’s hand to his lips.
The man who was to all intents and purposes John Rawlings’s father, for he had raised the child since it had been three years old, smiled and nodded, and Samuel stepped back to look at him properly.
At seventy years of age, Sir Gabriel stood a magnificent figure. Always dressed in black and white – black and silver for balls and other festive occasions – during daylight hours he made it his custom to wear a full-bottomed wig with long curls which flowed down over his shoulders. His eyes were extraordinary, sometimes fierce as an eagle’s, at others gentle as a deer’s, and an unforgettable shade of amber-flecked gold. But beyond his unique way of dressing and arresting features lay a powerful charm that drew even the smallest child to Gabriel’s side. He possessed the kind of magic that won many friends and, therefore, also attracted certain enemies.
‘My dear Samuel,’ he said now, ‘what brings you at this late hour? Has aught befallen John?’
‘In a way, yes. Oh he’s perfectly safe,’ the young man added hastily as he saw a frown cross the planes and hollows of Sir Gabriel’s face. ‘But there’s been an extraordinary event.’
‘Shall we discuss it in the salon? Come, you look fraught,’ and without waiting for a reply, John’s father strode, straight and tall and not in the least bowed down by the weight of years, into a room that led off to the left of the entrance hall. Samuel followed and sat down on the padded sofa with relief, glad that despite the unusual hour Sir Gabriel had poured two glasses of port and placed one in his visitor’s hand.
‘Tell me everything,’ he said, fixing his guest with a compelling gaze.
Almost as if he were speaking to his own father, Samuel let the story come out, only omitting the fact that he and John had been making sheep’s eyes at the murdered girl.
‘And you say she was a whore in Leicester Fields?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then she may well have had many enemies. Men grow indiscreet in the arms of a beautiful woman. A murmured secret that might jeopardise a marriage, a business matter, even the state, could prove fatal. The one in whom too much information has been entrusted is always in danger of being silenced for ever.’
‘I wonder what happened to the man she was with,’ Samuel answered thoughtfully. ‘A fine young dandy if ever I saw one. Monied, too. Halfway through the evening he seemed to vanish off the face of the earth.’
‘Perhaps they quarrelled and he abandoned her? Who knows? But enough of him. You say that John is at the Public Office now? That he is under suspicion of the crime?’
‘Ostensibly he was taken there to tell what he saw. Those who came to investigate said that Mr Fielding likes to question witnesses himself. But John fears that they do not believe his account of what took place.’
‘I do not consider he will come to any harm,’ Sir Gabriel answered after a moment’s thought. ‘John Fielding is known to deal fairly with those who play straight with him.’
Samuel yawned. ‘May I beg a bed for a few hours, Sir?’
Sir Gabriel rose to his feet, and despite his sudden and immense fatigue, Samuel could not help but remark how lithely he moved for a man of his age.
‘My dear young friend, pray forgive my thoughtlessness. Watkin shall show you upstairs at once.’
‘And what of you, Sir?’
‘I shall await John’s return. I have slept quite long enough.’
But in this John Rawlings’s adopted father was dissembling, for it was far from his intention to sit idle. As soon as Samuel had safely disappeared, the older man’s valet helped him into black breeches, a fine white shirt, and a stark coat relieved only by its white velvet buttons. Then, as the first pink smudges of dawn appeared in the London sky, a dark coach with milk white horses set forth from Nassau Street and down towards Leicester Fields. There, it turned left into Bear Street, picked its way through a narrow alleyway, only just wide enough to allow the conveyance to pass through, then crossed St Martin’s Lane on its journey towards Covent Garden and the Public Office at Bow Street, situated in the home of Mr John Fielding, Principal Justice of the Peace, in whose hands alone lay the responsibility for policing the lawless metropolis of London.
Hastening from
Vaux Hall, the carriage bearing John Rawlings and his two companions, whose names had been revealed during the ride as Lucy Pink and Giles Collings, turned into the Great Piazza of Covent Garden, on its way to the Public Office at Bow Street, cutting a slow path through the crowd as it went. Even at this dawning hour the vast square was already thronged with traders selling their wares from baskets set on the cobbles before them, the air filled with their cries. ‘Cabbages O! Turnips’, ‘Fine strawberries’, competed with ‘Buy my sweet roses’, and ‘Cherries O! Ripe Cherries O!’ in boisterous cacophony, the whole uproar punctuated with the noisy barking of alleyway curs and dismal wails of neglected street children.
John, surveying the tatterdemalion pageant with a jaded eye, thought about death and wondered if any member of this motley mob might face his end before nightfall. Shivering at this sudden stark awareness of mortality, the Apothecary attempted to summon up the last of his flagging wits as the carriage turned out of Russell Street into Bow Street, and drew to a halt before the third residence on the left-hand side.
The Public Office, which he was now contemplating with dread, was situated on the ground floor of a four-storey house, the upper areas of the same still, surprisingly yet by custom, serving as the private residence of the Metropolitan Magistrate, Mr John Fielding. This practice had started some years earlier when, in 1738, Sir Thomas de Veil, Colonel of the Westminster Militia and Justice of the Peace for four counties beside, had moved to a new home in Bow Street. Despite his terrible reputation with women, Sir Thomas had been highly respected as a legal man, no mean feat in view of four marriages, twenty-five children, and lusty extra-marital liaisons. Indeed, it was a known fact that the magistrate had used a private examination room in his house for the interrogation of pretty female witnesses, a room from which a lady would always emerge with a smile on her face.
Yet other, more serious, legal matters had also been conducted at de Veil’s dwelling place and in this way the Public Office had been born. Since Sir Thomas’s death it had become the custom for the Principal Justice of the Peace to live at the Bow Street residence. Now, looking at its tall thin shape as he got out of the carriage, John’s dark brows drew down once more at the prospect of what lay ahead of him.
The hallway of the famous house was much like any other, a beautiful curving staircase leading upwards, while four doors and a passageway marked the entrance to the other rooms. An ornate mirror hung on the right-hand wall and, despite his feelings of dread, John was amused to see that all three of them, Lucy and Giles reacting just as he did, stopped to stare into it, hastily attempting to smarten their dishevelled appearance. He looked wrecked, the Apothecary thought; his wig askew, eyes circled and heavy, his crooked mouth compressed into a harsh line, the mobile brows straight and frowning.
‘God’s life!’ he exclaimed, and pulled his headgear straight over his springing curls.
‘This way if you please, Sir,’ said the dark Beak Runner and, much to his dismay, John found himself shown into a small room on his own, spying out of the corner of his eye that Lucy and Giles were also being separated one from the other.
‘Mr Fielding won’t keep you long,’ the man added. Then the door closed and John Rawlings was alone for the first time since he had taken that fateful stroll down the Grand Walk. Pacing restlessly, the Apothecary began to examine the objects about him, rapidly coming to the conclusion that he had been put into Sir Thomas de Veil’s famous interrogation room. In any other circumstances a grin would have lit his impish features, but tonight even his ready humour was wearing thin.
A long and comfortable sofa ran the length of one wall, a chair and table, together with a coffer, the only other furnishing. Opening the lid of the chest a spark of amusement momentarily returned and John chuckled to himself as he noticed several different items of female clothing and what appeared to be a collection of fans.
‘Well, well!’ he said, and smiled his crooked smile.
The sofa was even better to sit on than it looked and as he sunk deep into its long padded cushion, the Apothecary suddenly realised he was weary to the bone. With a yawn that started in his boots, he closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep, but whether for an hour or merely a few minutes he never afterwards knew, for he was abruptly awoken again by a persistent noise. From somewhere in the silence of the house was coming the distant sound of tapping and as it drew nearer, John identified the source as a cane rapping on floorboards. He froze as the sound progressed steadily towards the room in which he waited, then snatching at his rebellious wig, fallen forward while he slept, John turned to face the door.
It opened slowly, dramatically, as if the person beyond were making an entrance in a play, and the Apothecary felt his heart quicken in fear as he stared into the gloom. A man waited silently in the shadows beyond, a vast figure, well over six feet in height, whose broad shoulders and powerful build filled the entrance in which he stood. John saw a long white wig which fell to the shoulders, a thin nose with flared nostrils, a black bandage where there should have been eyes. In awe and terror he watched as the Blind Beak, Mr John Fielding, the most powerful and respected man in London, tapped his way into the room, felt for the chair opposite the sofa and sat down on it.
‘Mr Rawlings?’ asked the Beak in a voice which sent a shiver down John’s spine, and turned his sightless gaze in the Apothecary’s direction. Even though he could not be seen, the younger man rose to his feet in respect.
‘You are addressing him, Sir,’ he answered, and to his ears his tones sounded as pitiful and fluting as the squeaks of a mouse.
‘Then kindly retake your seat.’
John obeyed, closely surveying the face turned towards his, its trenchant profile lit by the early morning light which was by now streaming through the window.
‘I believe it was you who actually discovered the body,’ the Magistrate began without preliminary. ‘Pray describe the scene for me exactly as you saw it. Take your time.’
It was a relief to talk at last to a man known for his fairness, for his acute mind and grasp of situations. Almost with alacrity, John began to recount the story of his solitary walk, of the muffled cry, the glimpse of the figure in blue running away. Yet throughout this discourse the Blind Beak said not a word, the black bandage turned intently in John’s direction, the man not moving in the slightest degree.
‘Tell me of the body,’ he said at last. ‘Every detail if you will.’
‘I fell over it to be honest, Sir. Landed face-down on the grass beside it. Then I rose and lifted the dead girl, turning her upwards. Perhaps your Brave Fellows have told you, Mr Fielding, that I am an apothecary. That is why I did not give chase to her murderer but stayed with the victim to see if I could restore her to life.’
‘But you could not?’
John gave an involuntary shiver. ‘No. She was gone. Choked to death with one of her own stockings.’
The Magistrate nodded. ‘So what did you do next?’
‘I put her back on the ground and straightened out her clothing, which had become disarrayed during the struggle. Yet this was no common rape, Sir. I could not help but notice that the girl’s small clothes were undisturbed.’
The Blind Beak pursed his lips but made no comment, instead asking, ‘Was the body still warm to the touch?’
‘Yes, Sir. I believe, taking into account the time elapsed between her scream and finding the victim, that the girl had been dead only about ten minutes.’
The bandaged gaze drew slightly closer to John’s own. ‘Was there anyone else near you? Did anybody else witness your stumbling over the corpse?’
‘No, Sir, I was quite alone, though a young couple who are presently here in the Public Office, arrived shortly afterwards.’
If Mr Fielding had been a sighted man he would have been staring the Apothecary straight in the eye. ‘You are probably aware, Mr Rawlings, that because of this fact you yourself are under suspicion. You see, it is a known trick for a killer disturbed in the act to prete
nd that he was the first upon the scene of the crime. It has been done many, many times.’
‘That’s as may be,’ John retorted angrily. ‘But the fact is I did not even know the dead girl. What possible motive could I have had for doing away with her?’
The Blind Beak looked grim. ‘It would seem that some do not need a motive to take life. That thwarted lust, a craving for excitement, can be reason enough in themselves. I am damning the whole of mankind when I tell you that gratuitous crime is commonplace.’
‘That might well be true,’ the Apothecary answered with indignation, yet for all that feeling the vile lurch of fear in the pit of his stomach. ‘But I can assure you upon my oath, Mr Fielding, that I did not kill the poor wretch.’
The Magistrate’s sightless gaze moved away and after a long silence he said, ‘I know that.’
‘You know!’ repeated John, both astonished and relieved. ‘Then I thank God for it. But how could you tell?’
‘When I lost my sight at the age of nineteen, Mr Rawlings, certain compensations were granted me. The rational delights of reflection, contemplation and conversation were one. Another was more practical; a keen improvement in my hearing made me aware of almost all that goes on around me. I heard you shudder when you described the victim, and though such an act may have been put on to deceive a sighted man it would have been pointless to impress one who is blind.’
John could not reply, only grateful that the pall of suspicion had been removed from him. Then remembering the fragment of torn material he turned to face the blind man once more.
‘There’s something else, Sir, something of which I did not tell the Beak Runners because I wanted to show it to you personally. The girl had a small piece of blue brocade clutched in her hand, pulled from her murderer’s coat.’ John reached in his pocket and took the thing from its resting place of safe-keeping within his handkerchief. ‘Here it is. Look for yourself.’
Having said those words he could have died of shame. Yet if the Blind Beak’s feelings were wounded he revealed none of it. Instead, he took the torn brocade and delicately turned it over and over in his fingers.