by Deryn Lake
Forcing his eyes open, his adopted son, feeling though not showing his reluctance, followed the older man into the room where, earlier that day, the Comte de Vignolles had revealed the depths of his unhappiness.
‘I wondered what you were about, Sir,’ he said as he took his seat beside the fire onto which the footman on duty had hastily put more wood.
‘Did you? Well, truth to tell I was out looking for something, something rather particular. And, do you know, I found it.’
The Apothecary could feel himself beginning to doze off. ‘I’m so glad,’ he answered sleepily.
‘I think you will be,’ Sir Gabriel said, a smile in his voice, and John felt a metal object placed in his hand. He opened his eyes, awake again, and saw a doorkey, quite large and serious looking. ‘What’s this?’
‘Look on the label.’
John stared at the paper attached to the key, which read, ‘Number Three, Shug Lane.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
Sir Gabriel stood up, his storied wig making him look even taller than he actually was. ‘Nor will you at this hour of the night. So off to bed with you.’
‘But . . .’
‘No more buts. Simply go to that address tomorrow morning and then report back to me.’
‘What will I find there?’
‘Something I think you will like. Now, John, you’re dropping and will be no good to man nor Beak at this rate.’
‘A clever pun, Sir,’ said the Apothecary as he helped his father snuff out the candles.
‘Ah, there’s still a trick or two in the old fellow,’ answered Sir Gabriel as he left the darkened room and made his way, yawning just a little, towards the stairs.
Chapter Ten
The delightfully named Shug Lane ran between Piccadilly and Marybone Street, the first turning on the right after the junction of Piccadilly and The Hay Market. Going down Nassau Street and by the gardens of Leicester House, feeling the mysterious key in his pocket, John thought that he could already guess the kind of lock it would fit. He was as certain as he could be without actual knowledge, that his father had bought him a shop in which he could start to practise the profession for which he had undergone his long and serious training. And sure enough, as he turned off Piccadilly – so named after the trade of a Mr Robert Baker who in the early seventeenth century had built a house near the windmill, now remembered as Great Windmill Street, in which he had made pickadills or shirt frills – John glimpsed the bow-fronted windows of an apothecary’s shop.
Sir Gabriel had been somewhat economical with the truth, John thought. For as he approached number three he could see that it had been recently renovated and that there was no conceivable way in which his father could have made the purchase the previous day. There were obvious signs that the building had been freshly painted and the windows themselves were new, replacing the old-fashioned sash windows divided by uprights. Smiling to himself at Sir Gabriel’s guileless deception, John put the key in the lock.
Inside lay an Aladdin’s cave of delight. In the shop itself was a large selection of the usual intriguing bottles and jars, now all standing empty, while the room at the back had been set up as a laboratory, complete with crucibles and alembics, retorts and matrasses, oil lamps, pewter pans and a selection of pestles and mortars. All that was missing were the ingredients which must be obtained before the compounds could be prepared. However, a few visits to the countryside, seeking the plants John had learned about in the Chelsea Physick Garden, and a trip to the warehouses importing the flowers and barks of the New World, would soon put that right. He only hoped that he would have the opportunity to do all this in view of the amount of time his investigations into the murder were taking. Suddenly, highly impatient to catch the killer soon, John locked up the shop and went home.
He spent a comfortable evening ensconced in Sir Gabriel’s study, even the notion that the streets of London might hold a killer who not only remembered but was actually seeking him, pushed to the back of his mind. Instead, John thought about the kindness of his father and the fascination of the Masked Lady. Only the realisation that he must delay the moment when he actually began to run his new shop on a daily basis, spoiled his utter contentment.
‘You sighed,’ said Sir Gabriel, who was looking at Joe Jago’s list through a magnificent pair of ring-end spectacles.
‘With happiness. You have given me what I have always wanted, Father. A place where I can put into practice all that I have studied. How can I ever thank you?’
‘Just by being yourself,’ answered Sir Gabriel, his voice catching in his throat a little. He removed his spectacles and wiped them, then said in business-like tones, ‘It seems that you will be off to Sussex soon.’
‘Yes. I have to interview the Dukes of Richmond and Midhurst, and also look into the fact that Elizabeth Harper originally came from there. A particular which might be a co-incidence and yet again might not.’
‘While you are gone will you gather some simples for your shop?’
This being an apothecary’s word for a medicinal plant, John understood at once. ‘Indeed I will. The only trouble is I doubt I will have time to get to the warehouses before I go.’
‘Would you like me to do so on your behalf?’
‘If you could, Sir. I would love to see my shop—’ He said the words with enormous pride. ‘—well stocked on my return.’
‘Then sit down now and make a list of the products you need from the importers and I will undertake the commission for you.’
So, with a certain amount of head scratching, John produced a catalogue of his requirements: Peruvian bark, snake-root, sarsaparilla, bark of the sassafras tree, balsam of Peru, cardamoms, camphire (refined), jallop, manna, balsam Coprava, and juice of the white poppy.
‘Surely that last is very powerful,’ said Sir Gabriel, looking over his shoulder.
‘Certainly,’ John answered carelessly. ‘But from it I can derive opium and laudanum which are both extremely soothing.’
‘Yet am I not right in thinking that opium is smoked in the East with very strange effects?’
‘I believe that is so, but here in England those properties are known only for their curative abilities,’ John stated firmly.
And though Sir Gabriel looked slightly askance, he had no alternative but to accept what his son said and change the subject.
‘I gave Samuel one of your potions this morning before he went home, by the way.’
‘Oh?’ John smiled. ‘He was imbibing quite heavily last night, I believe.’
‘Partly for that and partly because he’s love-sick,’ his father answered. ‘He dragged the name of the Masked Lady into the conversation at every opportunity.’
John grew strangely silent. ‘Well, she is very fascinating.’
‘And also a suspect in a case of violent death.’
‘I really can’t see why.’
‘Because she was present on the night of the murder.’
‘So were a great many other people. No, it’s my belief that she just happened to be there.’
‘Or was she following Lizzie? Had you thought of that?’
‘No,’ said John, with an enormous twinge of reluctance, ‘I must admit I hadn’t.’
He had to confess to himself, as he made his way to The Plume in Old Compton Street where, according to Joe Jago’s list, Lucy Pink was employed as a feather worker, that, like Samuel, he was becoming obsessed with the very idea of the Masked Lady. It seemed to John that she had been constantly in his thoughts since he woke up that morning, and though this was something of an exaggeration, the truth was that since the previous night in Marybone he had spent a great deal of time thinking about her.
‘Now what a damnable coil,’ he said softly as he arrived at the feather shop. ‘The last thing I should do now is develop a partiality for one of those involved.’
Yet the fact remained that the woman intrigued him and John felt positive that he would be unable to forget her until h
e had found out for certain who she truly was.
The owner of The Plume being a hard businesswoman, it took Mr Fielding’s letter to persuade her that one of her employees should be granted a few free moments to talk to him. Eventually though, and with some reluctance, John found himself shown into a small room no bigger than a cupboard, leading off the main work room. Peering through the open door, the Apothecary stared at row upon row of feathers, hanging from the ceiling like some bizarre festoon, at girls wrestling with Court headdresses almost as big as they were, at others crouched before dummies, stitching furbelows to the fronts of dresses. In a further room, just visible, were other workers, less well dressed, struggling along with arms full of feathers, stuffing them into mattress covers for beds. Despite the glamorous nature of the product, the whole place had a decidedly depressing atmosphere and John was glad when Lucy came through the door, somewhat breathlessly, then closed it behind her.
‘How nice to see you again Mistress Pink,’ he said, rising to his feet and bowing.
She went the colour of her name and bobbed a curtsey. ‘I was wondering if you would call, Mr Rawlings. I heard a rumour from a friend who knows one of the Runners that Mr Fielding had asked for your assistance and thought you might want to question me.’
‘The rumour’s true enough,’ John answered dourly. ‘Having convinced the great man by the simple expedient of shuddering at the right moment that I was not guilty of the crime, he enlisted my help to find the owner of this.’ And he produced the fragment of material from out of his pocket.
‘What is it?’ asked Lucy, staring curiously.
‘I found it in the dead girl’s hand. It obviously comes from her murderer’s coat.’ John paused, then said, ‘I know you will have gone through all this already for Mr Fielding but I wonder if, just once again, you would mind telling me exactly what you did at Vaux Hall that night, including a description of everyone you noticed, up until the moment you found me kneeling by the body.’
Lucy drew in her breath. ‘I’ll do my best, Mr Rawlings. Talking to the Blind Beak made me realise how unobservant I am, but I’ll try to recall what I can. For a start, Giles and I arrived early that evening and secured a box and ordered our supper.’
‘Did you notice anyone in particular?’
‘Well, I saw the Beauty and the Duke – I only remarked them because they were such a fine young couple – and I saw a woman in a mask. She was surrounded by a horde of gallants all paying court to her.’
‘Go on,’ said John with resignation.
‘I didn’t pay attention to anyone after that until the lighting of the Cascade. We were a little late for that event and had to stand on the very edges of the crowd.’
‘So whom did you notice there?’
‘You,’ Lucy answered, blushing even more deeply, ‘I noticed you.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘A young boy pushed past me to get a better view.’
‘A boy?’ said John, all attention. ‘What was he like?’
‘Quite small and slender, a handsome enough young fellow. I thought him remarkably well dressed.’
‘In this perhaps?’ asked John, handing her the piece of material.
Lucy examined it. ‘He could have been, it was a bit too dark to tell. But, strangely, he was in The Dark Walk. I saw him there as well. He was skipping along in a world of his own. I thought it incongruous that such a young creature should be playing in a place where only lovers go.’
‘Did you notice anyone else there? Please try to remember.’
‘I saw the Duke of Midhurst. He came striding by me in a fury and went into the Grand Cross Walk.’
‘Yes, my friend Samuel observed him too. Anyone else?’
‘Two others. A handsome young blood, very prosperous looking. And a plump pretty girl with a veritable mane of red hair.’
‘Were they together?’
‘No, they both seemed to be searching for someone.’
‘And the victim?’
‘I did not see her at all.’
John sunk his chin into his hand. ‘But neither did you see me, which means that anyone could have slipped by you in the darkness.’
Lucy looked at him with startled eyes. ‘Gracious me, I hadn’t thought of it like that. Yes, I suppose it does, doesn’t it.’
There was the usual wait in the library before he was ushered into the presence of the Comtesse de Vignolles who, this day, lay on a couch with a gauze veil over her face.
‘Merciful Heaven, Madam!’ said John and, purely instinctively, went to take her pulse.
She motioned him away feebly. ‘No, no, Mr Rawlings, pray do not bother yourself. I have the vapours, that is all.’
‘I came to enquire if my physick had done you any good but, though I am loath to say it, you seem a great deal worse to me,’ he answered anxiously.
The Comtesse waved a hand in the direction of a chair. ‘Sit there, if you will. I cannot bear anyone directly in front of me. It strains my eyes too greatly.’
And she turned away, coughing a little. There was a faint smell of gin in the air and, behind her back, John gave a sudden grin.
‘I’m wondering how best I can treat you,’ he remarked in a highly serious tone, thinking to himself that a good dose of tartar emetic would probably do the trick.
‘I don’t believe a physician ever could,’ the Comtesse answered softly. ‘You see, Mr Rawlings, I consider my condition was brought on by a broken heart.’ Before he could comment on this she continued falteringly, ‘We women are but frail creatures, blown about like storm-torn vessels at the whims of men.’
‘Good God!’ John exclaimed, his manners forgotten.
‘Oh yes, you might wonder. But you are young yet and a bachelor no doubt. You probably know nothing of the vagaries of those such as my husband.’
‘Well, it’s true I’m not very experienced in the ways of the world,’ John answered forthrightly. ‘But could you not fight back, Madam? I don’t believe I could ever allow another human being to spoil my life. I have too much anger in me.’
The Comtesse gave a sad little laugh. ‘I am too weak to fight, as you put it, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Then I’ll prescribe something to restore your lost energy. But there’s only one thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘If you were to take strong liquor with this compound it could make you very ill.’
The veiled face turned in his direction and just for a second John saw the flash of the Comtesse’s eyes as she regarded him. Then she said, ‘And would this magical pick-me-up enable me to go out again? It seems such an age since I set my foot out of doors.’
‘That and your own determination, Madam. If you want to get well, you will, mark my words.’
She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘I once loved my husband very much, you know.’
‘One should never love anyone so greatly that you allow them to take control of your destiny,’ John replied with conviction.
‘How knowing you are for such a boy.’
‘I am not far off my twenty-third birthday,’ John answered with a certain dignity.
The veiled head nodded. ‘Then go, my wise young friend, and mix your compounds. I’ll pay you well if you can bring about my reawakening to life.’
‘Only you can do that,’ he repeated levelly. And then he stopped, determined to progress in the matter of Elizabeth’s death even if it meant lying to the Comtesse to do so. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ John added. ‘I found this piece of material lying on the pavings outside your house. I thought it might be torn from one of your husband’s coats and could be useful when it comes to making repairs.’
The thin hand he had seen before emerged from the floating materials in which the Comtesse lay déshabillée, and took the fragment.
‘Where did you say you found this?’
‘Just outside.’
‘Well, I have never seen it before,’ the Comtesse said quietly, so quietly that John wondered
if she were controlling a shake in her voice. ‘The Comte most certainly does not have a garment made of such material.’
‘Ah well, it must have been dropped by a passer by,’ he answered nonchalantly, retrieving the piece and putting it back in his pocket. ‘So I’ll say adieu, Madam. I shall return tomorrow with your medicaments, for after that I shall be out of London for a few days. I am going into the country to gather some simples.’
‘How well I like that word,’ the Comtesse answered, and for the first time there was a smile in her voice. ‘It conjures up a picture of such unwordly innocence, of the guileless apothecary gathering his plants and herbs.’ The concealed face turned in his direction once more. ‘But, somehow, I do not feel that description quite fits you, Mr Rawlings. On the contrary, I would guess you are in fact quite a clever young man.’
‘It is kind of you to say so,’ answered John, starting to bow his way out.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the Comtesse with a sigh. ‘Until tomorrow.’
Chapter Eleven
The court at Bow Street was in full session. Seated in a high chair on a raised dais, his hands folded in front of him, his bandaged eyes turned towards the prisoner under examination, John Fielding loomed large. To his left, almost unrecognisable in a smart white wig, sat Joe Jago, while directly in front of the Magistrate and almost at his feet, the clerk of the court was ensconced at a desk, busily taking notes.
The sides of the courtroom and the gallery above were packed with finely dressed people, those members of the public who came daily to watch the remarkable Blind Beak, who had succeeded his half brother Henry only in April of that year, 1754, but who in that short time had already become something of a legend. For it was said by those who knew him that John Fielding could recognise over three thousand villains by their voices alone. Further, that the man could learn the entire contents of books, newspapers, letters and reports simply from hearing them read out to him.
It was also said that the Beak was hideously underfunded by the government, who treated his job lightly, more concerned with funding themselves. But short of money or no, the Justice for Westminster and Middlesex, the Metropolitan Magistrate, had already gained a reputation so fierce that the courtroom was packed with spectators every time it was in session.