by Deryn Lake
Arriving late, John was obliged to squeeze into the back of the gallery, where he sat wedged between a fair fat lady and a small thin beau, this last complete with face smothered in plaster of Paris to conceal time’s ravages, a cane dangling from his top button and one eye completely tucked beneath his hat. Pressed rather too close to them for comfort, John attempted to concentrate on the cases being heard below.
First came a gentleman accused of intending to do grievous bodily harm to a pretty young woman. Mr Fielding found the defendant guilty only of pursuing her with amorous intent and merely bound him over to keep the peace in the surety of forty guineas. At this the girl’s attorney volubly protested how unfair it was that his client should pay the costs of the accused’s arrest, and John was just thinking that fact to be perfectly true when the beau whispered in his ear that the plaintiff came from a well-known family of bawds and harpies. It was obvious that Mr Fielding, with his prodigious memory, had recognised the girl’s name and acted accordingly. Very impressed by the acuteness of the Blind Beak’s mind, John stared down into the hall of justice as two further prisoners came to the bar together.
Aged ten and twelve respectively, the boys had been arrested for assaulting and robbing a cabinet maker on the highway. Despite their youth they were committed to Newgate awaiting trial by jury, upon whose findings it was quite possible they would receive the death sentence, though it was unlikely that this would be carried out as both were under fourteen.
‘Transportation for life, I expect,’ said the large lady with satisfaction.
Her voice was drowned, however, by that of the Blind Beak, who was passing judgement.
‘I have no alternative but to send you both for trial. Yet it is a melancholy truth that, if you could avoid prison, you might be of some use to society before you become hardened criminals.’
John, listening intently, thought that Mr Fielding might well be right, for in gaol men, women and children were herded together indiscriminately, prey to vice and disease, helpless to fight against either and therefore only too easy to corrupt.
The last case to be heard that day was particularly unpleasant, and the harshness in the Magistrate’s voice as he sent the miscreant for trial at the Old Bailey revealed the strength of his feelings. A woman stood at the bar accused of beating her female apprentice to death, a hapless child who had been sent to her from the workhouse. It was further revealed that the murderess had treated the tragic girl most cruelly while she still lived. Even in that courtroom, packed with those powdered and patched creatures who had nothing better to do than while away an hour or two watching a blind man administering justice, there were cries of ‘Hang the bitch!’ and ‘Put her down.’
The fat lady sitting next to John affected to faint at all the excitement, and he was forced to revive her by means of the salts he always carried in his pocket. Thus occupied, he missed John Fielding’s dramatic exit from court, flicking his switch in front of him to feel his way. In fact, by the time the Apothecary had helped his patient from the courtroom there was no sign of the man he had come especially to see. However, Joe Jago was still visible amongst the throng, his wig – in defiance of convention – already snatched from his head which he was busily scratching. He grinned as John hurried over.
‘Ah, Mr Rawlings, have you found our murderer for us yet?’
The Apothecary rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘I’ve found nothing except, perhaps, who it isn’t.’
‘Well, that’s a step forward, I suppose.’ Joe Jago tapped his nose. ‘By the way, Mr Fielding requires you to dine with him, if that would be convenient.’
John looked thoroughly startled. ‘How did he know I was here?’
‘I saw you and whispered the information in his ear. I think he would like a progress report.’
‘Progress, huh!’ answered John bitterly.
‘Ah well,’ said the clerk, scratching hard. ‘Now, if you will make your way upstairs, Sir, you’ll find Mr Fielding in the parlour.’
The ground floor of the house in Bow Street being entirely devoted to the Public Office and its affairs, the Principal Magistrate and his family had made their home in the upper storeys, four in all, including the attic in which the servants were housed. Ascending the steep stairs, wishing that he had some really relevant information to impart, John found himself on the first floor, which consisted of a narrow landing with three doors leading off it. Knocking tentatively on the one facing him, he heard Mr Fielding answer, ‘Come,’ and stepped inside.
The room which John had entered stretched the entire width of the house and had three large sash windows, two of which stood slightly open to let in the afternoon air. The general effect was one of light and space, and John thought what a pleasant scene it made to see the Blind Beak and his family seated in comfortable chairs by those very windows, engaged in conversation. Before Mr Fielding was set a small table on which stood a glass of cool punch which he was sipping as John came into the room, picking up the glass with as much dexterity as a sighted man. The two females who sat with the Blind Beak looked up curiously as their visitor entered.
Elizabeth Fielding, John’s wife, was just on the verge of prettiness but missed being so because of the commonplace cast of her features. Ordinary was the word John would have used to describe her and yet, taken individually, her facial characteristics were pleasant enough. The child with her though, whom John took at first to be the Magistrate’s daughter, was a stunning little thing, her dark hair tied with a red ribbon and her pert nose not detracting in any way from her lovely rosebud lips. John imagined her to be about nine years old and momentarily allowed his mind to wander on to what she would look like in ten years’ time.
‘Ah, welcome Mr Rawlings,’ said the Beak, and the black bandage turned in John’s direction.
‘How did you know?’ he asked amazed.
‘Your personal aroma, Sir, as individual to any man as the very air he breathes. Now may I present my wife and niece?’
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ said Elizabeth Fielding, curtseying neatly, an action which the child copied.
John bowed. ‘My pleasure entirely, Madam.’ He turned to the little girl. ‘How nice to meet you, Miss . . .
‘Whittingham. Mary Ann Whittingham. How dee do?’
She was such a perfect adult in miniature that John found himself smiling, then he remembered that he had come to report not to enjoy himself, and he turned to John Fielding.
‘Sir, I have little to tell you, I fear. I seek people out and ask them questions but all to no avail. If there is a murderer amongst them he is cunningly concealing himself.’
‘Then we must look elsewhere,’ the Magistrate answered simply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You should remove yourself to Midhurst as soon as possible. The key lies there, albeit not directly, I feel sure of it.’
‘But what of the Masked Lady and that damned boy – or boys?’
‘You can forget them for the moment. I’ll set one of my men the task of following her and another to search for the lad.’ The Blind Beak paused, then said, ‘As you know we are not a large force and your help is therefore invaluable to me. Yet perhaps I was wrong to give you so much responsibility. Would you like a Brave Fellow seconded to you? If so, you must say so.’
‘But if I answered yes, would it not take him from other duties?’
John Fielding sighed. ‘Indeed it would.’
‘Then let me continue alone for as long as I can.’
Elizabeth joined in the conversation. ‘There speaks a good citizen. Mr Rawlings, I cannot tell you how overstretched the Public Office is. In taking on this enquiry you have, indirectly, assisted in the control and apprehension of London’s other criminals.’
He bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Madam.’
She smiled charmingly, then stood up. ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must check the arrangements for dinner. Mary Ann, do you want to come with me?’
‘N
o,’ said her niece, bright-eyed. ‘If you have no objection, Aunt, I am enjoying listening to the revelations of Mr Rawlings.’
Mrs Fielding suddenly looked rather fetching. ‘What a bundle of mischief it is to be sure. Does she bother you, John?’
‘No,’ chorused the Blind Beak and the Apothecary in unison. With that they both laughed and, for the very first time, John Rawlings felt his feelings of awe for the older man tinged by a certain warmth and empathy.
Chapter Twelve
By tradition the various forms of transportation which plied between the capital and the Southern Counties set forth from that part of London known as The Borough. Here, in the yards of the many inns that stood on the main thoroughfare – The Ship, The King’s Head, The White Hart and The George, to name but a few – the public carriages drew up every day to receive their passengers. Beside the carriers’ wagons, responsible for the conveyance of goods and the more humble type of traveller, there were two other forms of public transport on offer, namely the postchaise and the stage coach. The chaise was fast, smart and expensive and lived up to its nickname, The Flying Coach. The stage, by contrast, was slow and lumbering, could be more sociable, but was decidedly cheaper. On the rare occasions that John had used it, he had rather enjoyed himself despite the jolting and general discomfort. This morning, however, time being of the essence, he fastened his eyes on a four-seater postchaise, drawn up beside a notice saying, ‘For the Better Conveyance of Travellers, the Chichester fast coach. Dines at Guildford. Horses changed, Leatherhead and Midhurst’.
Seeing three passengers clambering aboard, two older people and a pale-looking girl whom John took to be their daughter, he called out to the man, ‘I’m going to Midhurst, Sir. May I share your conveyance and the cost?’
‘Certainly,’ the other replied with alacrity. ‘We are being charged £4.8s. to make Chichester by nightfall. If you will contribute one pound, Sir, you may gladly join us.’
‘Delighted to do so,’ answered John, and handing his luggage to the hostler, who clambered up like a monkey and stowed it on the roof, he climbed aboard.
The chaise was obviously new, there being windows all the way round for observation, while the body was well though somewhat swayingly sprung. There was no coachman as such, this role being taken by two postillions, smartly arrayed in riding clothes and caps, who rode, one behind the other, a pair of the team of four horses.
‘A smart rig this,’ the Apothecary observed, bowing to the ladies before he took his seat.
‘So I should think,’ responded the father. ‘The cost is iniquitous.’
‘But the service good,’ John responded reasonably.
The face of one of the postillions appeared at the window. ‘All stowed, ladies and gentlemen?’ There was a general murmur of assent. ‘Right then. As day is breaking, we’ll be off. First stop, the posthouse at Leatherhead.’
‘But what if nature . . .’ the girl protested to her mother, only to be stared at reprovingly as the postchaise vibrated into action, its wheels clattering over the cobbles of The Black Swan inn yard, before the equipage turned left into The Borough and headed south.
John, staring out with interest, looked longingly at the great shape of St Thomas’s Hospital, promising himself that one day he would discourse on healing properties with the physicians who worked there. Then his attention was drawn elsewhere as the postillions cut a swathe through the stallholders of Borough market, held daily for the benefit of the population south of the river and consequently enjoying a bad reputation for severely disrupting the traffic. However, with many oaths and cracking whips, the postchaise hurtled through this obstacle and Southwark’s two terrible prisons, the King’s Bench and the Marshalsea, came into view. Knowing something of their ghastly reputation, indeed having heard Marshalsea described as ‘a picture of hell upon earth’, the Apothecary’s face became grim, his thoughts going off at a tangent as he dwelled on crime and punishment, and the horrors endured by both victims and perpetrators alike. Then, with a start, he came back to reality as he realised the other man was addressing him.
‘May I introduce myself, Sir? I am Ralph Briggs of Chichester and these ladies are my wife and daughter. We have been in town for the sights and shopping, and a very good time we’ve had of it, too.’
John bowed his head to the two women and shook Mr Briggs’s hand. ‘John Rawlings, Sir.’
‘Of London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah! And what takes you out of the capital, if I may enquire?’
John fought off a wild desire to say, ‘The investigation of a murder’, and instead answered, ‘I am an apothecary, Sir, and am going into the country to collect some simples. Herbs and flowers, you know, from which I make my various medicaments.’ He accompanied this statement by assuming what he thought of as his honest countenance, beaming upon his fellow travellers as if he were the most uncomplicated soul in Christendom.
‘A medical man, eh?’ said Mrs Briggs, her interest obviously quickening. ‘Why, I’ll have you know, Sir, that I’ve been plagued with a delicate constitution all my life. Now, what I need to find is a really good strengthening medicine. Of the many I have sampled none has ever proved powerful enough. Could you perhaps recommend something?’
‘Well, I . . . er . . .’ John answered.
‘Splendid. You must tell me more about it over dinner. Mustn’t he, Mr Briggs?’
But her husband’s reply was drowned by the voice of her daughter, who was frantically screeching, ‘Mama, I feel sick. I do, I truly do.’
‘Oh, la!’ Mrs Briggs exclaimed irritably. ‘You’re not fit to be out in company, Lettice. One simply can’t take you anywhere.’
‘I think,’ said John, eyeing the girl’s greenish countenance, ‘that we had better stop the coach.’
This was hastily accomplished and the hapless Lettice thrust behind a bush by her fuming mother to do whatever she must do, discreetly hidden from the public gaze. John, meanwhile, sent one of the postillions to collect his bag from the carriage roof and from it produced some pills, guaranteed to bind the constitution of a giant.
‘Take one of these,’ he said, offering the returning girl the box together with a cup of bottled water.
‘How very kind,’ simpered Mrs Briggs, while Lettice attempted a miserable smile. ‘Do you always travel so well equipped, Mr Rawlings?’
‘I usually carry a few carriage sickness pills, yes. Not that I suffer from it personally. It’s more for the benefit of my fellow passengers.’
‘I can see that you are a young person of many parts,’ Mrs Briggs said admiringly. ‘I do hope that we can become better acquainted.’ She paused, regarding him with a calculating eye. ‘Are you a married man, Mr Rawlings?’
‘No, not as yet, Ma’am. I have only recently completed my apprenticeship.’
She looked roguish. ‘And made no pledge to your Master’s daughter, I take it?’
‘He had none, alas.’
‘There now!’ She tugged at Lettice’s crumpled clothing and pinched the poor girl’s cheeks, hard. ‘My, what a state you are in, child. I see that you’ll have to make a toilette when we stop to dine. What a dishevelled creature it is, to be sure. But a lovely disposition. Mr Rawlings, truly lovely.’
Lettice, who had turned from green to white, now went vermilion. ‘Oh, Mama,’ she protested weakly.
‘We are not addressing you,’ Mrs Briggs answered tartly, and with that extolled her daughter’s virtues for the next fifteen minutes, pausing only to draw in breath.
At one o’clock, having had only one brief stop at Leatherhead when the horses had been changed, they arrived at The Angel in Guildford. Here the travellers alighted, making their way to the dining room, though poor Lettice was banished upstairs with strict instructions to restore her ravaged appearance. She returned some forty minutes later looking a great deal fresher but declining any offer of food, and shortly afterwards the journey was resumed with new horses and a change of postillions.
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They reached the town of Midhurst just as the sun began to dip, the chaise heading straight for the posthouse, a hostelry of ancient origins called The Spread Eagle. The moment to part company with the Briggs had now arrived and Lettice, somewhat to John’s alarm, was instructed to make her farewells to her fellow traveller by taking a turn with him round the market square.
‘For the benefit of your health, girl,’ Mrs Brigg boomed as she and her husband took advantage of the few minutes’ break while the horses were changed once more, by going inside to sample the inn’s hospitality.
‘Yes, Mama,’ her daughter answered dutifully, after which she relapsed into an uncomfortable silence, her eyes cast shyly downwards.
‘I hope you get to Chichester safely,’ said John, gallantly trying to make conversation.
‘I’d like to stay here,’ Lettice murmured wistfully, still not looking up.
‘Why?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Because yours is pleasant company, Mr Rawlings. More pleasant, you see, than that of my parents.’
‘Well, I am somewhat younger,’ John said, stating the obvious.
‘That’s just the point.’ Lettice stopped in her tracks and at last wheeled round to gaze at him. ‘I’m with old people all the time. I’ve no friends of my own age. My days are spent ministering to Mama, indulging her every whim.’
‘She looks strong enough to me.’
‘Not she! Her entire life revolves round strengthening medicines.’
‘I wonder why it is,’ the Apothecary remarked thoughtfully, ‘that certain women make such an enjoyable pastime of feeling poorly.’
And he thought of the Comtesse de Vignolles, whose physick he had delivered to her house before dawn, on his way to The Borough.
‘You know as well as I,’ Lettice answered with more spirit than he would have thought she possessed, ‘that they get attention that way.’