by Deryn Lake
Table of Contents
By Deryn Lake
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Historical Note
By Deryn Lake
The John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH IN THE DARK WALK
DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA
DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S TAVERN
DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH
DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL
DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES’ HALL
DEATH IN THE WEST WIND
DEATH AT ST JAMES’ PALACE
DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN
DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER
DEATH IN HELLFIRE
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
DEATH AT THE
DEVIL’S TAVERN
A John Rawlings Mystery
Deryn Lake
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain by
Hodder and Stoughton 1996
eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 1996 Deryn Lake
The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0094-5 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
In memory of
ZAK PACKHAM,
my dearest friend and companion,
a true gentleman,
who will live on forever in the persona of
Joe Jago.
Chapter One
It being a blustery March day, the wind booming down the Thames with a jolly laugh, teasing the great ships at anchor into fine humour as they bobbed a merry dance upon its surface, John Rawlings, having cautiously emerged into the street from the confines of Apothecaries’ Hall, clutched at his hat as it rose swiftly from his head and blew away in the direction of the river. In fact so playful was this breeze that, in order to retrieve the wayward garment, John was forced to break into a fast trot of pursuit, an undignified gait for one who had just been granted his Freedom of the Company and was, at long last, a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, with all the gravitas that such a title implied. Scurrying down Water Street in the direction of Black Friars Stairs, he finally caught up with his hat at the entrance to Glass House Yard, and rammed it back upon his head so hard that his neat white wig, bought especially for the occasion, slipped slightly, thus giving its owner a rakish air quite unsuitable for a man of learning. Unaware of this, John Rawlings continued upon his way with as much decorum as he could muster in view of his bubbling good spirits.
His progress to Freedom had not been without difficulty and now the relief of finally reaching his objective was like a bumper of champagne. Originally, John had been released from his indentures in the late spring of 1754 but had not made his first application to be admitted to the Company until 22nd August. However, on that occasion the court had broken up before his appeal could be heard and on 5th December, the first date on which he had been able to attend again, a similar fate had befallen him. But now it was 13th March, 1755 and he had just seen for himself the official entry which had been made in the Court Book. Provided he paid his fees and passed an examination, Mr John Rawlings, a Foreign Apothecary, was made Free of the Company by Redemption.
Thinking about the day’s events and grinning uncontrollably, the new Yeoman let out a whooping sound far more suited to come from the lips of a savage, and tossed the offending hat aloft, barely retrieving his headgear as the high-spirited wind sported with it once more.
As was usual on the days when the Court of Assistants met in Apothecaries’ Hall, a flotilla of wherries was waiting at the foot of Black Friars Stairs to row the men of medicine back to their various destinations. John, seizing the opportunity to engage the services of one of the smaller craft plying for hire, bounded down the stone steps, almost slipping in the wet as he did so. Then, with his cloak flapping round his ankles, he clambered aboard from the landing stage, hoping that the journey to the shipping basin of Wapping would not prove as rough as the saucy wind promised, for the wide river was wild with waves which slapped savagely against the shore.
Seeing John’s somewhat anxious gaze, the waterman, part of a breed known for their coarse behaviour and foul language, laughed evilly. ‘Do you want my hoars, Scholar? Or are you afraid of spewing up?’
The Apothecary, ignoring the waterman’s deliberate mispronunciation of the word oars, attempted a dignified expression, no mean feat in view of the swaying craft and the desire of his rebellious hat to be airborne once more. ‘I am an excellent traveller, thank you,’ he answered, somewhat crisply.
‘Then take a seat. Now, where would your scholarship be going?’
‘Down river, to Wapping. Can you land me just below The Devil’s Tavern?’
The wherryman adopted a look of mock concern. ‘Are you sure, Scholar? I wouldn’t go there if I was you, not a refined gentleman like yourself. There’s lowlife gets in there, Sir. Not fit company for a man of learning. Who knows what bad habits you might clap in to.’
John gazed at him blandly. ‘How subtly put. Now, are you going to take me or would you prefer that I hire another craft?’
The wherryman rolled his eyes. ‘I was only trying to do me Christian duty, Scholar. If you wants to get your throat cut in a dark alley, or anything else cut for that matter, then don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘If that fate befalls me I doubt I’ll be in a fit state to blame anyone,’ the Apothecary answered succinctly, and took to staring out across the wide stretch of waterway, thinking, as they cast off, that today it resembled the ocean more than a river with its plumed waves and churning blue reaches.
Yet there was a certain truth in what the waterman had said, for John had chosen for the rendezvous with his old friend Samuel Swann, one of the most extraordinary a
nd notorious areas of London. Frequented by sailors and riverfolk, Wapping was full of taverns and brothels, halls where mariners danced with slatternly women, and dens in which opium, a powder produced from poppies and a substance which John used in the process of healing, was smoked. But like all localities of dubious reputation, Wapping held a certain fascination and it was considered de rigueur by the beau monde to visit the place at least once in order to see for oneself the unimaginable way in which the maritime fraternity lived. To say nothing of tasting some of its lowlife pleasures.
Pulling into mid-stream, the wherryman, who was undoubtedly foul but ferociously strong, strove against the unfavourable tide, rowing his passenger past Lime, Dung and Timber Wharves to where St Paul’s dominated the landscape.
John gazed upwards. ‘What a truly beautiful building it is, especially from this river view.’
The waterman shrugged. ‘It means little to me, Scholar, seeing it every day.’
John nodded but did not reply, his attention now caught by the south bank of the river, these days consisting mostly of tenter grounds, flat spaces used for stretching cloth by means of securing the material to the earth with tenterhooks. However, this bank had once had a livelier reputation and some of the places of entertainment so popular in the previous century were still visible. The Apothecary, whose very profession was dedicated to the relief rather than the inflicting of pain, turned his eyes away with a shudder from the Old Bear Gardens, where wretched animals had once endured the agony of baiting.
Directly before him lay London Bridge, dating back to the twelfth century and one of the wonders of the realm. Standing on eighteen arches, its double row of shops and houses perched higgledy-piggledy upon its stone back, journeying under it was a known test of both nerve and skill. Timid passengers were inclined to land at Old Swan Stairs on the north bank and rejoin their boat below the bridge. But John, relishing the adventure, clung on hard as the wherry crashed through the roaring cataracts formed by the arches, and almost enjoyed being soundly washed as the foam drenched through to his skin.
Now the whole mood of the river changed, for between the Bridge and Greenwich lay one of the most important shipping basins in the world. Eight thousand vessels lay at anchor in this reach of the Thames, to say nothing of the lighters, bumboats and other craft which serviced them. To add to the confusion, colliers bearing coal and barges bringing produce to the capital competed for space on the crowded waterway. Indeed, at the Legal Quays, where all dutiable cargo was obliged to unload under regulations dating from Elizabethan times, shipping formed a queue that stretched for a mile. And it was into this extraordinary maritime mêlée that the Apothecary now plunged as the wherryman skilfully negotiated his way past the Quays and the Custom House where the mighty masted sailing ships clustered close together.
Passing beside the grim edifice of the Tower of London, John stared thoughtfully at Iron Gate Stairs, situated directly below the Iron Gate to the east of the fortress. It was here that immigrants fleeing from persecution or starvation landed, making their way into the ghettos around the Tower. The poor Jews, often the Ashkenaze, lived in Poor Jewry Lane, while the richer Sephardi had their own quarter around the Guildhall, further west. Hungry Irish also made their way into London through this same entrance. A sad reflection of the harshness of the times.
The Apothecary felt himself growing introspective even at the contemplation of so much poverty and despair, no mood for such a celebratory day as this one, and forced himself into conversation with the wherryman to lift his spirits.
‘Do you live in Wapping, by any chance?’
‘No, Scholar. I’m from Redriff, me. And what about you? Do you hail from the City?’
‘No, from Soho. Nassau Street, to be precise. Do you know it?’
The waterman shook his head. ‘No, too far inland for me. So what were you doing at Black Friars Stairs today?’
‘I had attended the Court of Assistants. I’m an apothecary.’
‘I guessed as much, Scholar. Though I can’t say you look the part.’
‘Oh? What should apothecaries look like?’
‘Not like you,’ answered the wherryman, and chortled that this scampish young man with his dark red curls peeping from beneath his crooked wig, his vivid blue eyes and irregular smile, should be a member of the profession usually associated with sombre dress and grey beards.
‘I see,’ said John, and did not know whether to be pleased or annoyed.
They were fast approaching the bend in the river and the wherryman pulled with all his might, striving against the wind and tide as they approached Execution Dock Stairs, the place where pirates were put to death, their corpses left to dangle in the breeze as a warning to others. Thirty years before John had been born, in 1701, Captain Kidd had been hanged on this very spot. Apparently the execution had been so mismanaged that Kidd could quite easily have escaped but was so full of liquor, presumably imbibed in order to keep his courage up, that he was unable to move when the opportunity presented itself.
‘Is it much further?’ the Apothecary asked.
‘No, Scholar. I’ll land you at the sixth set of stairs from here. They are built right by the tavern and will lead you straight to it.’
John consulted the fob watch which his father, Sir Gabriel Kent, had given him for his twenty-first birthday three years earlier. ‘I see I’m somewhat early for my appointment.’
The wherryman gave an evil leer. ‘Then stroll about, Scholar. You’re sure to find many things that will interest you. Wapping High Street, now, there’s a place that might tickle your fancy.’
‘I’ve heard about it,’ John answered, ‘and I think I’ll wait until my friend joins me.’
The wherryman grinned, busy with his oars as he pulled into a landing stage from which rose a flight of wooden steps. Beside these steps and jutting out over the water was the place John had come to visit. The Devil’s Tavern, once a timber-framed country house but now an inn frequented by river people, thieves and smugglers, loomed above him. Standing up, John reached for his purse and gave the waterman a generous tip on top of his fare. What he lacked in charm, the fellow had more than made up for by his tremendous effort.
The waterman bit the coin John had given him, then rumbled a laugh. ‘Take care, Scholar. There’s much that’s been lost within those walls. Purses, watches, jewels, virginity – even life.’
John smiled his crooked smile. ‘I’ll guard everything that I still possess, never fear.’ Then he set off to climb the rickety steps.
He had been bobbing like a seagull on the surface for so long that his land legs had deserted him, and he could still feel the motion of the river as he made the somewhat treacherous ascent. In fact so strong was the sensation that he had to lean against the wall of the inn momentarily in order to regain his balance. The feel of its surface was cold and clammy to his touch, obviously where the spume thrown by the tide had hit it, and it was as much as John could do to conquer a sudden moment of irrational fear. Telling himself not to be foolish, he shook his head and looked around to get his bearings.
To his left ran Wapping High Street, that infamous thoroughfare of vice, while to the Apothecary’s right was a seedy alley called Fox Lane. Directly in front of him, however, John could see some gardens and a church spire. Though very far indeed from being pious, the Apothecary decided that a house of religion might well be the safest place in which to while away an hour’s waiting time, rather than risk wandering alone through Wapping’s festering streets. Guessing that the church must be the famous St Paul’s, Shadwell, known even as far away as Nassau Street as ‘the Church of the Sea Captains’ and therefore worth a visit, John felt in his pocket for his pistol, a necessary precaution in such a dubious locality, and strode out in the general direction of the spire.
Fox Lane widened out, turning from a mean alley to a sizeable walkway running beside both a cooper’s and a timber yard. Then it grew positively pleasant and became a path between some gardens a
nd the back of the churchyard. It was at this moment, as John walked on, enjoying the greenery, that the mighty wind, dormant for a while, gusted so heartily that the Apothecary found himself practically blown round the building and in through the pillared entrance. Rescuing his hat, attempting escape once more, John straightened his apparel and went inside.
Extremely interested in the church’s maritime connections, the Apothecary stared about him, hoping to find evidence of the great mariners in their place of worship. He even took a few bold steps down the aisle, only to pull himself up short. For he was not alone in the church of St Paul’s. Greatly to his embarrassment, the Apothecary saw that he had inadvertently interrupted a wedding. Somewhat flushed, he hastily took a place in a back pew on the left-hand side of the church, the side traditionally occupied by the family and friends of the bride, and attempted to become invisible, staring into his lap in an ostrich-like manner.
It was the sound of crying that first attracted his attention to the fact that all was not as it should be. Above the coughing and shuffling of the congregation, not very many to judge by the noise, rose the plaintive wail of a weeping woman. Raising his eyes, John allowed himself a good hard stare at the bridal party and was quite shocked to see that other than for the bride herself and an older woman, presumably her mother, he was the only person sitting on the left-hand side of the church. Of the bridegroom there was absolutely no sign, though a tall thin figure clearly dressed in his best suit, a fine affair in lavender silk, sat miserably crouched in the front right-hand pew, his head bowed and his hands clasped between his knees. This, John took it, must be the bridegroom’s witness, also kept waiting.
The parson, meanwhile, very red in the face and obviously extremely flustered, was stationed before the altar, Bible in hand. In between frantic glances at the church door, he occasionally muttered soothing words to the hysterical young woman, fast disintegrating into an inconsolable heap of wretchedness quite incapable of going through a marriage service. With his expressive eyebrows dancing, John took a cautious glance round to see the effect of all this on the other guests.