by Deryn Lake
‘And what would you have done if he hadn’t returned?’
Mrs Hartfield looked marginally irritable. ‘I don’t know. Someone would have gone in search of him, I suppose.’
John got to his feet and bowed. ‘Thank you so much for giving me your valuable time. Tomorrow I shall call at Bethnal Green. But meanwhile I am going to have to ask Mr Roger Hartfield to accompany me to the mortuary to claim the body. The Coroner will only release it to a member of the family.’
‘Oh dear, why him?’ Lydia exclaimed. ‘Can’t Luke do it?’
‘I am afraid not. It has to be kin.’
‘Then why not ask horrible Hugh. He would be far more suitable.’
‘And who is he?’
‘My brother-in-law, the third of the four brothers. As he displays all the emotion of a swabbing bucket on every occasion, I think he would perform the task best.’
‘Is this particular Mr Hartfield readily available?’
‘No, Sir, he is not. He has gone on a short journey.’
‘Then Roger it must be. That body must go for decent burial without undue delay.’
Lydia whitened. ‘Please say no more. I will try and find out where he is and the current state of his nerves.’
And with that she left the room, her extraordinary face drawn and tense. Thinking that she was rather a splendid woman despite her inclination to be aggressive, John crossed to the window and looked out, only to hear the door open behind him once more. He turned to see who had come in and felt his eyes widen at the sight of the newcomers. For there stood the twins, just as fascinating and brilliant as he remembered them. Well aware of the fact that he was staring in open admiration, John made them a formal bow.
They were as similar as any two people can be who are not of the same sex. Burnished red hair, tight in natural corkscrew curls, whirled round the girl’s head, and though the boy had shaved his short in order to accommodate his wig, today he wore none and it was clear that had he allowed his curling locks to grow they would have been identical to his sister’s. Their eyes were of the same light blue, a disconcertingly unusual shade like a certain variety of meadow butterfly, while their features had been cast in a precise mould the only difference a certain hardness of the boy’s skin caused by shaving. In physique, too, they were of equal build, both inclined to be small, though there all similarity ceased, for the girl had pretty feminine curves which the Apothecary considered alluring.
He bowed again. ‘My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings. Whom am I addressing, please?’
They responded together, bowing and curtseying simultaneously. In any other situation it would have been amusing, but knowing that a close relative, presumably their father, had been done to death, John found himself unable to smile.
The girl spoke first. ‘I am Juliette Hartfield, Sir, and this is my brother Julian.’
The two men bowed to one another.
‘Do please tell us what is afoot,’ Juliette went on. ‘We glimpsed your arrival and were much intrigued that whatever you said caused Roger to take to his bed declaring billiousness. Also that Lydia swept from the room looking more like a fury than ever. Do you know something about them? Something scandalous, that is?’
The Apothecary shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t that. I had some news to impart to them, news that they were not happy to hear. And before you ask me what it is, let me say that I do not feel it my place to tell you.’
Identical eyes exchanged a glance and the twins’s entire aspect changed.
‘It’s Father, isn’t it?’ asked Julian tightly. ‘I felt certain when he didn’t appear at his wedding that all was not well.’
Juliette clung to her brother’s arm. ‘Is he dead? Is that why he hasn’t been seen?’
John, knowing that they would have to hear the ill tidings sooner or later, decided to tell the truth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he is. Please accept my sincere condolences.’
Both of them fought back tears, a sad and touching sight. ‘How did he die?’ asked Juliette in a whisper.
The Apothecary cringed, not wanting such a terrible duty. ‘I fear he fell victim to a murderer’s hand, and that is why I am here,’ he said quietly. ‘I represent Mr Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street, and it is my task to try and find the perpetrator of this evil crime.’
Juliette gave a snort. ‘If financial gain was the motive then I doubt you need look further than my father’s mistress.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Julian responded roundly. ‘Papa was entitled to his happiness. Just because Amelia comes from a lower walk of life there is no need to lay all ills at her door.’
‘Huh,’ his sister answered in a most unladylike fashion, ‘to hear you talk anyone would think you had a fancy for her yourself.’
‘How dare you!’ Julian replied furiously, and then he pulled himself up short. ‘Juliette,’ he said in a completely different tone, ‘here we are arguing while Father lies dead. We should be ashamed.’
‘Don’t, don’t,’ she answered, and fell sobbing into a chair, while he made fists of his hands and gulped furiously in order to stop himself doing likewise.
‘Take deep breaths,’ the Apothecary advised gently.
Julian turned a stricken glance in his direction. ‘But what a terrible thing. Our own father victim of an assassin’s blow. Surely robbery must have been the reason for his death.’
‘If so, not a great deal was taken,’ John answered grimly. ‘His rings and watch were missing, that is presuming he wore them …’
Julian nodded. ‘He did.’
‘… but it seems that those are considered honest pickings by the watermen whose duty it is to land bodies.’
‘God’s life, are you telling me that he drowned?’
The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I think not. It seems more likely that he was thrown into the river after he was killed.’
Once he had spoken, John wished he hadn’t said a thing, for this grim picture finally reduced Julian to tears. But with the extraordinary communication that exists between twins, Juliette stopped crying at that moment and rising from her chair went to comfort her brother. Thinking that he had handled it all very badly, the Apothecary produced his smelling salts and passed them to her.
She gave him a perceptive glance. ‘What’s this? Have the Beak Runners taken to carrying medicines?’
John smiled sheepishly. ‘No, the truth is I am an apothecary. I only work with Mr Fielding from time to time.’
‘I see.’ Juliette administered the salts to her brother. ‘Come Julian, we must rally. Let us give Mr Rawlings what help we can. We shall have plenty of time for grief after he has gone.’ She turned her lovely streaked face back in John’s direction. ‘Do you really mean to find the person who killed our father?’
‘I’ll do my best, though a cunning criminal could well elude me.’
Juliette looked at him pleadingly, her expression hard to resist. ‘I beg you not to let that happen. Now, Sir, what can we tell you? Would a description of the events leading up to Papa’s disappearance be of any use?’
John motioned her to sit down, tactfully turning the two chairs away from Julian, who was struggling hard to control himself. ‘Could you go back a little further, Miss Hartfield? Perhaps you could tell me how Sir William came to be involved with Miss Lambourn in the first place. I mean, how long has he known her?’
She crinkled her delightful nose. ‘I am not certain about that. I believe some time. Probably before our mother died.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Only seven months. It is all quite, quite shameful.’
Julian interrupted from behind them. ‘It was a natural thing, Mr Rawlings. Ten years ago, when Juliette and I were nine, our mother suffered a stroke which led her to be paralysed. My father was quite hale and strong at the time, in the early part of his fifties, and I believe sought the comforts of marriage elsewhere. My twin and I were too young to know about such things but we overheard family gossip and had the l
ong ears of childhood. Then he met Amelia and she became his mistress. My grandmother found out and took great exception to this, as did other members of the family who considered her a money-seeking flap. However, my father obviously cared for the girl because he planned to wed her.’
‘I know about that,’ John put in.
‘The marriage was to have been secret but Grandmama got wind of it …’
‘How?’
‘By terrorising Luke Challon into telling her. Then she ordered us all to go, dressed in black, to try and put a stop to it.’
‘But how could you have done that?’
‘Had the marriage proceeded she intended to shout out yes when the preacher asked if anyone knew any just cause or impediment.’
‘But she had no right. Your father was a widower after all.’
‘She considered that Mother – who was her daughter by the way – was not yet cold in her grave. Why, she swore that she would go to any lengths to see that her son-in-law did not remarry. Did she not, Juliette?’
‘Yes,’ said his sister, going pale as the full import of the words dawned on her.
John glided over the awkward moment. ‘And what was your opinion of Miss Lambourn, Mr Hartfield? I presume from your general tone that you take a man of the world’s view of your father’s transgression. Am I right?’
Julian blossomed and the Apothecary, remembering that the young man considered himself something of a gamester and blood, smiled inwardly.
‘I certainly did not disapprove. She is a very pretty delicate soul, albeit something of a dell.’
‘Really, Julian,’ said Juliette crossly, ‘she is a lowlife little harlot and well you know it.’
‘Men and women see these things differently,’ he answered carelessly.
Sensing that they were about to bicker again, the Apothecary determinedly changed the subject. ‘Tell me of the other members of your family apart from your grandmother. Describe them to me.’
‘Well, there’s Aunt Hesther, Grandmama’s daughter and our late mother’s sister. She never married and now acts as the old lady’s companion, poor creature.’
John nodded as into his pictorial memory flashed a picture of a fluttering female and a nasty old woman sitting together in church.
Juliette took up the tale. ‘Father had five children, Roger, Thomas – who drowned at sea – Hugh, then us. Roger never married …’ She exchanged a sudden mischievous look with her brother which spoke volumes. ‘… so he brought no wife to the house, though Thomas did. You’ve met her, Lydia the dark lily. She’s odd, a bit maddish, in total contrast to our brother Hugh, who is such a prim it is hard to believe he is a Hartfield. And the same can be said about his wife Maud. Needless to say they have no children. Julian reckons that they don’t know how to set about getting one.’
She giggled naughtily, her radiance restored, and John considered how ephemeral were the emotions of youth. Then, as if she had picked up his thought wave, Juliette’s face grew stricken again. ‘We shouldn’t be laughing, should we, with poor Father dead?
‘On the contrary, you are grieving for him in your heart so smiles are not forbidden. Now, is that the picture of your family complete?’
‘All but for Luke, though he is not actually related. My father took him on as secretary some years ago. I believe he is a younger son of some noble house with no hope of an inheritance. Anyway, despite the fact that he is not tied to us by blood, he lives with the family and seems one of us. He is as devoted to Papa as a dog. Was as devoted …’
Her voice trailed away sadly and Julian put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Shall we go now? Controlling emotions can be very difficult and the strain is beginning to tell on you, I think.’
Intensely sorry that two such burnished and beautiful individuals were having to carry so cruel a burden of sorrow, John got to his feet.
‘I regret that I have been the bearer of such grievous news.’
‘Someone had to tell us,’ Julian answered sensibly.
‘But a family member might have been better.’
‘Not at all,’ Juliette continued. ‘They are all so strange, in their different ways, that I preferred to hear the facts from you.’ She curtsied and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye Mr Rawlings. I hope that we can meet again soon.’
‘So do I,’ said John, and bowed.
A voice spoke from the doorway and all three of them turned to see that Roger, very white in the face and clad from top to toe in black, in fact in the very same clothes he had worn to Sir William’s wedding, had come silently into the room.
‘Lydia has informed me that you wish me to accompany you to the mortuary, there to lay claim to my father’s remains,’ he said theatrically.
‘And to make formal identification of the body to the Coroner.’
‘I thought that had been done.’
‘No, Sir. Identification has been surmised from the effects. It is the duty of a close friend or relative to do the rest.’
Roger staggered slightly. ‘I hope I am up to this.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Julian shortly, as he led his twin from the room.
‘It’s all very well for him,’ remarked Roger pettishly as the door closed behind his younger siblings. ‘He hasn’t got to do the ghastly task.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said John. ‘And I can give you some physic before you go in which will help to keep you strong.’
Roger looked at him moist-eyed. ‘How very charming of you, my dear fellow. I shall hold you to that.’
‘Do,’ said the Apothecary and held the door politely as his companion went out.
In order to avoid putting any extra strain on Roger’s fragile nerves, it was decided that the first part of the journey, beyond London Bridge as far as Billingsgate Stairs, should be undertaken by coach. Consequently, John found himself bobbing down the length of The Strand and Fleet Street in one of the most luxurious and expensive equipages in which it had ever been his good fortune to travel. Wealth and opulence breathed from the highly polished wood of the body work, the large and finely balanced springs ensuring as comfortable a ride as possible to the passengers, while the four generous windows allowed a good view of the passing parade. Outside, the carriage was decorated by panels depicting roses and fat naked cupids with bouncing buttocks. Within, luxurious padded red velvet covered the seats and there was a hand-painted chamber pot discreetly hidden beneath one of them lest there should be an urgent call from nature.
Seeing John’s admiring glances, Roger said carelessly, ‘Do you like it?’
‘Very much.’
‘It’s mine. Father would never have allowed such ornamentation on his carriage. He was somewhat staid, you know.’
‘Not as regards keeping a mistress, though.’
Roger frowned. ‘Oh you’ve heard about that, have you? It’s true, alas. He fell in with a grasping chit who insisted upon marriage once my poor mother had gone to her rest.’
‘But Sir William never attended the ceremony. Presumably because he was already dead.’
The beau blanched even paler. ‘Oh don’t talk about it! The very thought turns my stomach.’
‘Will you be all right to travel by water?’ the Apothecary enquired anxiously.
‘Probably not.’
John’s heart sank and he fished in his bag. ‘Do take this, Mr Hartfield. It is pleasant to the taste and really should help to settle any queasiness.’
‘What does it contain?’
‘A little secret of my own,’ the Apothecary answered swiftly, covering the fact that he had filled his holdall in such a hurry he could scarcely remember what he had put in it.
Roger uncorked the phial and downed the contents in a single swallow. ‘Excellent,’ he said, his eyes lighting up. He lowered his lids. ‘By the way, do call me Roger.’
John gulped noisily. ‘Er … yes … of course.’
Climbing Ludgate Hill and Ludgate Street, the carriage skirted round the back of St Paul’s Church Yard
and into Cheapside, where the daily market was in full swing and the conveyance reduced to walking pace in order to avoid the various stalls. Passing St Mary-le-Bow, whose famous Bow Bells had rung out the curfew in the Middle Ages, they made their way along Poultry, then into Cornhill, where they turned right as if going down to London Bridge itself. However, after a sharp turn into Thames Street, the coachman came to a halt, the way no longer being wide enough to permit entry. Cautiously, John alighted, realising that they were right by Billingsgate Fish Market, as famous for its foul oaths as it was for its fish. Guessing that one sight of Roger, albeit in black, would set the fishmongers off, John walked with eyes down, his ears assailed by obscenities, most of them casting doubt on Roger’s masculinity, until he and his companion had reached the relative safety of Billingsgate Stairs where, clustered amongst the many tall masted ships riding at anchor, some wherrymen waited for custom. It was a profound relief to take to the water and finally escape the catcalls.
Contrary to the Apothecary’s worst fears, the beau endured the journey well and showed no further signs of faintness until they reached the morgue itself. But once there the sickly scent of death that pervaded the place, despite the herbs and other aromatic substances used to combat the odour of decay, proved too much for him. Dragging a lace trimmed handkerchief to his nostrils, Roger let out a high pitched shriek and leant heavily on his companion.
‘God’s mercy, John, what’s that terrible stink?’ he gasped.
‘These corpses await burial, Sir,’ the Apothecary answered honestly.
‘Oh lud, can you not identify my father? One further step and I swear I shall vomit.’
‘You won’t,’ John stated firmly. ‘The physick I gave you will hold your stomach firm.’
‘But it’s heaving now.’
‘Oh come along. It won’t take a moment.’ And John propelled the miserable man forward, his hand resolutely beneath Roger’s elbow.
The mortuary attendant approached, striding between the cold slabs and their sheet covered occupants with the nonchalance of one who lived amongst the dead and never gave the fact a second thought.
‘We’ve come to see the body believed to be that of Sir William Hartfield,’ the Apothecary informed him.