by Deryn Lake
Confirming his earlier impression, he observed that there was only a handful of people present, all sitting at the back, clustered together like an unkindness of ravens, clad in starkest black, looking as if they would be more suitable at a funeral than a marriage.
“Sblud!’ he muttered beneath his breath, and would have studied these freakish visitors more closely, had not the sound of the priest clearing his throat attracted his attention once more to the front. The cleric, plainly much discomfited, had produced a fob watch from beneath his cassock and was staring at it with furrowed brow. He had obviously set himself some kind of time limit before he declared the ceremony null and void and sent everyone on their way. And now, it would seem, that time was up. Heaving a great sigh, the unhappy man shook his head in the direction of the bride and closed his Bible with a thump. Behind him, John heard the definite swell of a muted cry of triumph drown the pitiful sobs of the young woman as she rose to her feet and, leaning heavily on the arm of her attendant, made her way from the church, head bowed.
As she passed by where he sat, the Apothecary observed that despite the fact she was by now unattractively flushed and her eyes were both reddened and sore, the deserted bride was an extremely pretty girl of no more than twenty-five, her figure neat and pertly breasted, her hair a glorious colour, pale yet rich, the shade of wheat. Whoever had jilted her, John caught himself thinking, had to be mad.
The other guests, however, clearly did not share his opinion. No sooner was the unfortunate young creature outside the door than they burst into excited conversation, laughing heartily, one or two of them, whilst the others chattered away cheerfully. It would appear that they had won the day, that the non-appearance of the bridegroom – clearly a friend or relative of theirs – was exactly what they wanted. Still keeping his seat, the Apothecary watched them go out.
Leading the way and having much deference paid to her in the process, was an elderly woman leaning upon a stick, a middle-aged female, presumably a relative, fluttering at her elbow. Next came a monstrous beau, past his best as regards years, but for all that dressed within an inch of his life despite his sober black garb. As he went out he caught John’s enquiring eye and flashed a sudden smile, adding a winsome wave of his fingers as if he had known the Apothecary for years.
A rugged young man, somewhat square of shoulder, followed, escorting a small bird-like woman, with darting brown eyes. Then came the last to leave, a redheaded beauty of striking good looks – or rather two of them! John stared in open admiration at a pair of twins, as alike as brother and sister could possibly be, and quite the most attractive couple of siblings he had ever set his eyes on. As soon as the last of this extraordinary black-clad party had gone, the gentleman in lavender scuttled out of the church, looking neither to the right nor left of him. John had one quick glimpse of a hawkish man with dark arresting features as the bridegroom’s witness hurried past.
Outside, the wind was still gusting furiously, tugging at the garments of the poor little bride as she clambered into her carriage, lugged the older woman up after her, and set off at great speed towards the City. Meanwhile, the others were also getting into their conveyances, still laughing and joking as if they did not have a care in the world. The Apothecary, frankly amazed by the entire spectacle, stood and stared until the last of them had disappeared from his sight.
‘Well, that’s a sorry business,’ said a voice at his ear.
John, who had a range of suitable expressions which he assumed according to the occasion, put on his honest, puzzled face and turned round. Standing beside him, shaking his head as the last of the carriages vanished into the distance, was an individual whom the Apothecary took by his dress to be the churchwarden.
‘Indeed it is,’ he answered in a sorrowful tone. ‘In fact I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I am but a visitor to this parish, Sir, and entered the church for its fame as the sea captains’ place of prayer. So do please tell me what is afoot.’
The churchwarden shook his head once more. ‘It’s a jilting, Sir, in plain language. The bride and her mother have been waiting this last hour but the groom did not appear. His witness knew nothing of his whereabouts, having arranged to meet him here. A sorry business for all concerned.’
‘Who is the groom? Do you know?’
‘A local ship owner I believe, born in the parish of Shadwell. I do not have his name. The wedding was arranged in something of a hurry and I was therefore not asked to assist.’
‘Is that common?’
‘When the ceremony is a quiet one, yes. There’s many a runaway comes here before they sail for the Colonies.’
‘The priest does not object?’
The churchwarden sighed. ‘He must eke out his miserable stipend somehow or other.’
John nodded, thinking that St Paul’s, Shadwell, no doubt provided its incumbent with a good living and that conducting runaway marriages would hardly be necessary to make ends meet. However, that was not the affair at issue.
‘Who were all those extraordinary people in black?’ he asked, his look bewildered.
The churchwarden lowered his voice, though there was not another soul in sight. ‘The bridegroom’s family, I believe. It seems they got wind of the match and came here to make unpleasantness.’ He fingered his chin. ‘Perhaps that is why the groom did not appear. Perhaps he wanted to avoid a scene.’
‘In that case he would surely have informed his bride and witness.’
‘Yes, you’re right of course. It is quite inexplicable.’ The churchwarden raised his hat. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Good day to you, Sir.’
John returned his salute, clutching his headgear in a firm grasp. ‘Good day, Sir. It has been most enjoyable speaking to you.’
Turning up his coat against the wind, the churchwarden headed off in the direction of the path, now dark with shadow, and John, glancing upwards, saw that the sun had sunk low in the heavens. Looking at his watch, he realised that there was no time left in which to explore St Paul’s, in fact he had only fifteen minutes to spare before his appointment with Samuel. Intrigued by all that he had seen and wondering how the poor bride was faring in the face of such a catastrophe, the Apothecary retraced his steps and hurried back towards The Devil’s Tavern.
It was the noise that first struck John. Even as he left Fox Lane and crossed to where the door of the inn opened on to the street, a fierce discord of sound was already assaulting his ears. Several voices were raised in a song of some foreign tongue, distantly a woman was screaming, though whether with laughter or fear it was difficult to tell, while at the tops of their lungs two men were arguing ferociously. With a delicious mixture of trepidation and eagerness, John pushed the door open and went inside.
The downstairs area consisted of a long low room at the far end of which were two windows looking out over the Thames. The bar, or what the Apothecary could see of it for the press of bodies standing close by, appeared to be made of pewter and stood upon barrels. This highly unusual feature ran the length of the building and was attended by a rough looking fellow with a beard. Looking round for his old friend and simultaneously guarding his pocket, John took stock of his surroundings. The air he was breathing was thick with tobacco smoke, the smell of drink, of bodies, and above all the river. The light was dim, thrown by tallow candles. In a dark corner a sailor was making love to a slut. It was one of the most dangerous and exciting environments into which he had ever ventured, and the Apothecary relished the prospect of the wild evening ahead.
‘Over here!’ called a great voice, and peering through the gloom John saw that Samuel had arrived ahead of him and had already secured a place, his powerful frame squeezed onto a settle beside some sailors, who were regarding him with a great deal of suspicion.
‘Coming,’ John shouted in reply and made his way through the throng, still guarding his valuables, for beyond doubt thieves and pickpockets, eager for pickings, would be mingling amongst this crowd of riverside scum.
Sa
muel stood up, dislodging a mariner as he did so. ‘There’s very little room. Do you want to stay here?’
‘Certainly I do.’ The Apothecary stared round. ‘Look, there are two places by that table.’
And he made a dive to where a wooden bench, very old and dishevelled but still standing, occupied a space beside a table in front of one of the windows and comfortably close to a cheerful fire. On the table a man lay sprawled, dead drunk.
Samuel looked doubtful. ‘Do we really want him for company?’
‘Of course.’ his friend answered. ‘He’ll be far less trouble than anyone else in this unruly mob.’
‘How very true,’ Samuel answered, and eased his broad build onto the protesting bench.
He was a very powerful young person, tall and largely made, and extremely handy to have around in times of trouble. As yet he still carried no excess fat, though this would undoubtedly gather with the passing of the years, but none the less Samuel gave the impression of girth and size, and always reminded John of a tower or windmill. And now that impression was endorsed as Samuel Swann threw a vast arm round his friend’s shoulders.
‘Well, my dear chap, how did it go?’
‘I’ve been made Free,’ answered John, pumping Samuel’s hand. ‘I am a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. And not before time as you well know.’
Samuel responded by giving John a slap on the back that sent him reeling. ‘What splendid news. I wonder if they serve champagne here.’
‘Bound to. The place is always teeming with quality folk come to see how the other half lives. A clever landlord will cater for their tastes, sure as fate.’
‘Besides, it’s an inn as well as a tavern. People stay here, waiting to board ship. I’ll go and order some.’
And Samuel rose to his feet, looming over the assembled company, and made his way through the throng towards the pewter bar.
The drunken man let out a terrible belch and a voice said in John’s ear, ‘Disgusting pig. Could we not roll him onto the floor?’
The Apothecary turned to see who addressed him and found himself staring into the prettiest pair of blue eyes he had seen for a long time, the colour of forget-me-nots and fringed by a pair of long jet lashes. Their owner, a neat comely little thing, simply dressed and smelling strongly of the sea, gave him a dimpling smile. John immediately guessed her to be one of the fraternity who haunted the banks of the Thames alongside the watermen and sailors, taking their craft down to the Estuary in order to fish.
‘I think,’ he said, rising and making her a small polite bow, ‘that if we wake him up it could be dangerous, for who knows what state of anger he might be in. Might it not be best to let him rot?’
She flashed her eyes, and Samuel, returning with a bottle of champagne and two somewhat rough looking glasses, regarded her with open admiration. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’
She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure of being presented to you. John …’
The Apothecary’s mouth curved. ‘Miss … er …?’
‘Kitty.’ She held out her small workaday hand. ‘I’m Kitty Perkins of Wapping. Oyster girl by trade. Evening to you both, gents.’
She descended to the floor where she sat cross-legged at John’s feet, such an inelegant move and posture that any person of breeding should have been filled with horror at the sight. Yet, coming from her, there was so much charm about it that both John and Samuel found themselves gazing at her in fascination.
‘Like me, do you?’ she went on.
‘Very much indeed,’ the Apothecary answered enthusiastically. ‘But are you comfortable down there? Are you sure you wouldn’t like my seat?’
‘Do have some champagne,’ Samuel added, and passed her his glass.
She raised it in a toast. ‘Here’s long life to you, gents.’ She drank deeply. ‘Reckon you’ve never met a working woman before, other than for your servants.’
‘On the contrary,’ John answered, grinning crookedly. ‘The ladies of my acquaintance nearly all have some occupation or other.’
Kitty looked at him mischievously over the rim of her glass. ‘Indeed? And what work might that be, Sir?’
‘My closest female friend was once a card sharp and gamester,’ he answered, amused by the astonished expression on her face. ‘And amongst my circle there are several actresses.’
Samuel chortled. ‘I rather thought Miss Coralie Clive should be described as a friend rather than merely a member of your group.’
‘As you are well aware,’ John answered severely, ‘I have seen little of that lady since Christmas. She has been appearing at Drury Lane a great deal and has had little time for socialising.’
‘Ooh!’ said Kitty knowingly, and Samuel chuckled once more. ‘I’d give her a piece of my mind if I was you.’
The Apothecary instantly felt irritable and could not think why. ‘Miss Clive and I do not have that kind of relationship,’ he said pompously. ‘We are merely people who meet from time to time. I have no right to tell her what to do, nor she me.’
‘More’s the pity, eh?’
Samuel tactfully changed the subject. ‘Where do you get your oysters, Miss Perkins?’
‘Kitty to you. I goes down the Estuary and brings ’em back from Essex. Sometimes I gets as far as Whitstable, but it’s quite a distance.’
‘And do you bring them back by the barrel-load?’
‘Yes, and sells ’em all around. I brought a haul in here tonight. Would you like some?’
‘I certainly would,’ answered John keenly, and stepped up to the bar to put in the order. And it was then that he saw the bridegroom’s witness, sitting in a dusky corner, consoling himself with a bottle of brandy. He had changed from his lavender suit and now wore plain grey worsted, but there could be no mistaking his long spare frame and hawkish features. Much intrigued, for it had not occurred to him that the man could possibly be local, the Apothecary studied him surreptitiously.
He was about thirty-five years of age, and handsome in his dark saturnine way. He was also, in marked contrast to the rest of the customers, immaculately clean. Looking at his hands, John noticed how long and elegant they were and thought to himself that this man had never done a day’s labouring work in his life. Fascinated, he returned to the table, bearing three great platesful of oysters.
‘Kitty, you come from Wapping, do you not?’ John asked as he sat down.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finishing her glass of champagne and pouring herself a refill.
‘Do you see that man sitting alone over there? The dark one in grey.’
She craned her neck. ‘You mean Mr Randolph?’
‘I’m not sure who I mean. Is he drinking brandy?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the one I want to know about. What can you tell me?’
‘His name is Valentine Randolph,’ she replied promptly. ‘He works for one of the ship owners. I think he manages their office. He lives across the river at Redriff. He rows himself over every day.’
‘Redriff?’ repeated John, frowning. ‘Where is that? The waterman referred to it earlier today.’
‘It’s also known as Rotherhithe,’ said Samuel importantly. ‘There’s quite a pretty fishing village clustered round the church, and one or two expensive properties as well. One of my customers lives there. He had a very fine gold necklace made for his wife’s birthday.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Kitty answered spiritedly, ‘but we locals call it Redriff. Redhra – sailor. Saxon, see.’
John shook his head. ‘No, I don’t.’ He smiled encouraging. ‘Tell me what else you know of Mr Randolph.’
‘Nothing really. Like I said, he lives across the river and works in Wapping.’
‘Is he a married man?’
She shrugged. ‘He could be. Though come to think of it I’ve never seen him with anyone. In fact most of his family sailed for Virginia a long time ago, leaving him by himself. Reckon he’
s got no friends.’
‘Well, he’s got at least one,’ John said thoughtfully.
‘And who might that be?’
‘The missing bridegroom,’ the Apothecary answered, and laughed to himself at the perplexed expression on both Kitty and Samuel’s faces.
Chapter Two
It had been one of the most exhilarating and colourful nights of John Rawlings’s life. As the evening had progressed, the bar of The Devil’s Tavern had filled with a motley collection of characters, all quite terrifying in their different ways and therefore tremendously thrilling to watch. Sailors of every nationality, or so it seemed, had leant against the bar, flaxen-haired Scandinavians rubbing shoulders with those of a far more swarthy hue. Pocket divers and cutpurses, clearly on the look out for members of the beau monde, cast their eyes over John and Samuel but decided that in their sober garb – John had dressed quietly that day in order to attend the Court of Assistants – they were probably not worth robbing. In one corner a gypsy told fortunes, in another a slut plied her trade, lowlife abounded in plenty. Sitting at their table, feasting on oysters and champagne, the Apothecary and his friend watched it all and were intoxicated by the swashbuckling, insecure atmosphere. The tide had risen while they had been in The Devil’s Tavern, so high that, with the driving wind behind it, the water now lashed against the window by which they sat. Staring out into the darkness, looking at the lights of the great ships which rode at anchor, John wondered where they had come from and what their next destination might be, and what great and mysterious cargoes they carried in their holds. Again and again, he felt his eyes drawn to the square rigger which bobbed mid stream directly opposite the hostelry, its lantern lit masts reflecting pale pools of gold on the black waters beneath, wondering who slumbered on board there in its cramped and coffin-like confines.
It was midnight, the hour of dark thoughts, candles were burning low and many of the patrons had gone to their lodging. Still at his feet, Kitty was singing quietly to herself, while Samuel slept, leaning forward on the table, his head a mere few inches away from that of the drunken man. In the thrall of a strange mood, the Apothecary felt as if his soul were flying out over the river enabling him to see the tide falling again, exposing the mud flats which banked the wild waterway on either side. Above him, the sky was a velvet cloak of deepest blue, scattered with sequinned stars. Below, the Thames looked like a tinker’s ribbon woven with glittering threads. Then John’s head fell forward and he realised that he had been on the point of dropping off to sleep.