by Deryn Lake
‘Foolish frump,’ Lady Hodkin was saying. ‘Spent all her life mooning after William instead of finding herself a husband. Now she’s on the shelf and who’s fault is it, eh?’
‘It does not behove me to speak ill of the dead, but I would say Sir William’s,’ Sir Gabriel answered smoothly.
Lady Hodkin glowered at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘I blame Sir William for not observing your daughter’s quiet charm,’ he continued without faltering.
His hostess hovered on the brink of various emotions, then came down in favour of amusement. ‘Oh, that’s rich, Sir. Quiet charm, eh? Well, you may be right at that. The old fool made an arse of himself over some whore with a merry smile and an eye on his fortune, so perhaps he didn’t like ’em docile. But too late for all that now, Hesther. Somebody’s done for him and serve the silly fellow right.’
Her voice rang down the length of the table and everyone stopped eating. There was a horrified silence, then Hugh said, ‘Be quiet, Grandmother.’
Lady Hodkin fumed. ‘No, I won’t be quiet, d’ye hear? Your father begged for trouble when he became involved with that slut from the Spa. Now fate has caught up with him and I for one cannot say I’m sorry.’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Hesther, mortified, and it was at that moment that the footman assigned to the front door appeared and announced in ringing tones that the first mourners, come to pay their respects to the body, had arrived.
‘Show ’em into the library and tell ’em we’ll join ’em shortly,’ ordered Roger. His eye ran over Sir Gabriel’s garb. ‘I’ll just go and change into something more fitting. A little jet would not be out of place I think.’
‘Peacock,’ remarked Lady Hodkin nastily. She turned to Sir Gabriel. ‘Would you oblige an old woman, Sir, and give me your arm when we attend the lying in state?’
‘If the gentlemen give me permission,’ he answered tactfully.
Before his grandmother could give a snort of contempt regarding what they thought, Roger spoke up. ‘We’d be only too delighted, Sir, believe me.’
He spoke with such heavy emphasis that it was all Sir Gabriel could do to conceal a smile, particularly when Juliette let out a barely suppressed giggle.
Hugh joined the conversation. ‘In view of the fact that the mourners are here, shall we dispense with the serving of port until later?’
There was a murmur of agreement and everyone stood up. Lady Hodkin hooked her full weight onto Sir Gabriel’s elbow, Hesther hovering nervously behind, then majestically made her way across the entrance hall into an enormous mirror-lined saloon which lay beyond.
A bizarre spectacle awaited Sir Gabriel’s horrified gaze. Yellow wax tapers had been placed in sconces around the room, as had four large candles, each standing at the corners of the coffin. The light from these muted illuminations reflected in the mirrors giving the entire saloon a strangely haunted look. Added to this was the fact that sable cloth had been hung in the spaces between the glass, so as much darkness was imaged there as was light.
In the midst of this unworldly glow stood Sir William’s coffin, resting on a trestle table. It was open, the lid lying by its side, so that the dead man’s body, surrounded by white silk, was clearly on view to the slow procession of onlookers who now began to file past. Sir Gabriel sniffed delicately. It was the seventh night since John had happened on the body in The Devil’s Tavern and no amount of embalming, however skilled the craftsman, could disguise the smell of death which hovered tangibly in the air. Beside him, Hesther made a strange sound and Sir Gabriel touched her arm reassuringly. He felt rather than saw her heartfelt look of thanks.
Even in a remote and rural spot like Bethnal Green there seemed an abundance of people come to pay their last respects and Sir Gabriel guessed that every neighbour for several miles around had braved the darkness to attend the lying in state, highly fashionable as this pastime was. Indeed, there were often near riots in London squares when hundreds descended upon a house to go in single line past a coffin, queuing down the street to gain admittance and thus bringing normal traffic to a standstill.
One hour passed, two, and still the winding procession went on. Then, at last, the final mourner traipsed by the deceased, head bowed, and Lady Hodkin spoke, her words slurring slightly. ‘There’s claret and ale, cakes and biscuits, for you all. Attend me in the library if you would.’ And she led the way, still clinging to Sir Gabriel for support.
‘One of your relatives?’ he heard an acquaintance enquire of Hesther.
‘Er … no. Just a friend.’
‘He seems to be doing wonders with Lady Hodkin. Just the sort of stalwart to have around at the time of a funeral, my dear.’
‘Yes,’ Hesther answered, swallowing audibly. ‘I can only pray that he stays for it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the other.
‘I said I hope he doesn’t go away,’ came the faint reply as Hesther, obviously exhausted by all that had happened, gave way to a storm of uncontrolled public weeping.
Chapter Eleven
An evening spent in the company of Serafina and Louis de Vignolles, John Rawlings’s closest friends other than for Samuel Swann, was normally that odd combination of being both stimulating and relaxing. Stimulating in the wit of the conversation, the fund of amusing anecdotes; relaxing as was any occasion when good food and fine wine were consumed in convivial company. But tonight all three members of this trio of companions were below their usual level of gaiety. John, very conscious of the fact that he must leave early in the morning for Sir William Hartfield’s funeral; Serafina fidgeting as she tried to find a comfortable position in which to sit; the Comte anxiously watching every move his wife made.
She was now in the sixth month of her pregnancy with a hearty, lively baby who danced inside her from mom till night, thrilling yet tiring its charming mother. For much as Serafina loved entertaining and being entertained, the need to retire early was becoming of paramount importance to her as she grew nearer her time. Yet her fondness for the young apothecary who had once played such a key role in mending her marriage led Serafina to delay longer than she should have done, and insist that John sampled the French brandy purchased especially by her husband for their favourite guests, before he left.
‘I see so little of you,’ she cajoled. ‘Stay another hour.’
John looked at her and smiled as she stifled a yawn. ‘No, Madam, fifteen minutes is my limit. Tomorrow I have to return to Bethnal Green for Sir William’s funeral and must get to bed early tonight.’
‘Why are you going? Do you expect his murderer to be present?’
Louis interrupted. ‘Serafina, what foolish questions! How would John know if the killer will be there?’
‘Because he probably has a fair idea by now who is responsible.’
‘Very far from it. Things should become clearer, though, when I have seen Sir William’s will,’ the Apothecary put in.
‘I do hope the poor man has not left much money to that scampish gambling son of his,’ Serafina answered, yawning in earnest.
‘Do you mean Julian?’
‘Yes. The boy with the beautiful face and eyes.’
John paused, his brandy glass half way to his lips. ‘Beautiful? Is he? Do you know that idea never struck me.’
‘I considered him very much so. But then I have not seen him for a while, having given up the gamester’s life.’ She smiled ruefully.
‘I wonder if Julian is something of a Miss Molly,’ the Apothecary said thoughtfully.
Serafina shrugged, her gorgeous shoulders rising in such an expressive gesture that John found himself staring at her with an adoring smile on his face. ‘Perhaps he worries not whether he wears kicks or corsets,’ she said carelessly.
‘You are vulgar,’ commented Louis, grinning.
Serafina laughed. ‘Quean or queen, it probably makes no difference to him.’
Louis guffawed as only a Frenchman could. ‘Who is this poor fellow you are so maligning?’
‘The male half of boy and girl twins, son of the murder victim and an habitual, though incompetent, gambler.’
‘He sounds as if he has very little to recommend him,’ said the Comte still laughing.
‘Ah, but that’s the puzzle of it,’ John replied speculatively, ‘he really isn’t a bad young man at all.’
‘Too much feminine influence from his sister, I dare swear. What we would call in France a petticoat boy.’
‘You’re probably quite right about that,’ the Apothecary answered, and stared into his brandy glass contemplatively as the first faint glimmering of an idea started to come to him.
Frederick Bull, the landlord of The George, that excellent hostelry situated beside the track leading to rustic Bethnal Green, had expected good business to come his way on the day of Sir William Hartfield’s funeral, and in anticipation had taken the trouble to make certain preparations. As a mark of respect, the parlour, that part of the inn kept exclusively for the use of people of quality, had been draped with black ribbon. While a terrible drawing of the deceased, executed by the young footman in love with Suky, the landlord’s daughter, was hung with black plumes, bought at considerable expense from a draper in Mile End New Town. This, together with a general clean up and an extra polishing of tankards, was as far as Mr Bull was prepared to go, however, in his demonstration of esteem for the dear departed.
None the less, his efforts were to be amply rewarded. The first customer to arrive was Sir William’s office manager, Mr Randolph, who rode into the stables on the night before the funeral and promptly took a room. Not long after this, Mr Luke Challon had come up from the Hall to say that a lady would be requiring a chamber for the night and had made a reservation in the name of Miss Lambourn. Mr Bull had been set agog, knowing full well as he did, that this was the name of the young woman Sir William had intended to marry. But there was to be further excitement next morning.
No sooner had the breakfasts been served – Miss Lambourn had a cup of chocolate in her room and nothing further – than the next visitor arrived. The good-looking young man from London, Mr Rawlings, had appeared on horseback and asked if he might book a room in which to change into his funeral clothes. This had duly been arranged and later on, clad in sombre hues, Mr Rawlings had stepped into the parlour for refreshment, only to discover Mr Randolph and Miss Lambourn, firmly ensconced and talking most earnestly.
Momentarily surprised, the Apothecary had gathered his wits and remembered that the couple had met on the doomed wedding day, and probably several times before that. He had gone to their table and bowed politely.
‘Miss Lambourn, Mr Randolph. Arrived early for the funeral, I see.’
‘As are you, Sir,’ Valentine responded.
‘I thought it best to come to The George first and change.’
‘A wise precaution.’
‘Mr Challon booked me a room here for the night,’ Amelia offered. ‘He called on me the other day and asked if there was anything he could do to help.’
‘That was very kind.’
‘He and Mr Randolph have been extremely good to me,’ she replied artlessly.
Probably because they both have a fancy for you, John caught himself thinking uncharitably.
Valentine squirmed uncomfortably in his chair at Miss Lambourn’s words, and the Apothecary took a good hard look at him. The handsome hawkish face was tired, almost drawn, and yet there was a gleam in Mr Randolph’s eye that gave its own messages. Aware of John’s scrutiny, he looked away. But not before their gaze had momentarily met and a flicker of understanding had passed between them. Mentally raising his eyebrows, the Apothecary stole a glance at Amelia, but she appeared utterly as would have been normal in her wretched circumstances. Pale but determined to present a brave face to the world, she sat with her eyes cast down and her hands folded in her lap, the very picture of unhappy innocence. She was either, thought John, an excellent actress or had spent an entirely blameless night alone in her bed.
‘A brandy, Mr Rawlings?’ said Valentine, rising. ‘I’m going to have one. What about you, Miss Lambourn?’
‘Yes, I will,’ she said. ‘I need to get my courage up.’
John nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’ He looked at his fob watch. ‘What time is the funeral?’
‘At twelve noon,’ the office manager answered. ‘We’ll need to leave here about a half hour before. St Matthew’s lies on the road back to town.’
‘It’s a new church, isn’t it?’ John asked.
‘Ten years old.’ Valentine smiled. ‘It was built to counter the increase of dissoluteness of morals in the younger and poorer sort.’
‘Well, that covers most of us,’ the Apothecary said, and laughed at the expression on his companions’ faces.
Fortified by the brandy the trio set forth some thirty minutes later. Miss Lambourn, who was travelling in a very smart rig, obviously a gift from Sir William, offered the two gentlemen a ride with her, a proposal which they gladly accepted. Sitting beside her as they bumped over the track, noticing how delicious was her profile, John felt that he could easily understand how anyone, of any age, might fall in love with her, and conjectured again about her relationship with Valentine Randolph, with whom he had caught her conversing in so animated a fashion. And this thought led him on to another. Had she happily decided to enter into marriage with an elderly man, secure in the knowledge that she had a lover in the background to keep her amused? And where, if anywhere, did the helpful Luke Challon feature in all this? As best he could, John decided to observe all three of them.
St Matthew’s churchyard was already full of mourners, presumably friends and neighbours, standing together in groups, chattering quite loudly for such a solemn occasion. Attempting to vanish into the background, John allowed Mr Randolph to offer Miss Lamboum his arm, while he stood well away beside a grave stone bearing the stark message, ‘He was a candle in the wind, Alas he’s been blown out’. Thinking how swiftly the end came for one and all, John shuddered as in the distance, turning off the track and down towards the church, he caught his first glimpse of the funeral procession.
Walking tragically slowly, clad in dark clothes from the top of his small frame to his barely visible boots, came the fragile figure of the undertaker’s mute, leading the dead to his final resting place. Behind him followed the hearse, drawn by two gleaming horses the colour of jet, emblazoned with emblems and nodding black plumes, the coffin containing poor Sir William’s earthly shell clearly visible through its glass sides. Behind it followed a cortege of unwieldy black coaches, bearing the family who, even at this distance, could be seen sitting bolt upright, an unkindness of ravens indeed. Remembering that he had had this very thought on the day of the wedding that never happened, John felt a sense of familiarity. Coming to a halt outside the church door, the coffin was shouldered out of the hearse and into the house of God by the male members of the family. Roger, white as a sail and sweating copiously, led the way, with a tanned thin crisp individual who could only be Hugh, on the opposite corner. Behind them walked Julian, in tears, and Luke Challon, his expression bleak beyond belief. Two professional pall bearers bore the rest of the load.
John watched the coffin go in, then turned to glance at the bereaved and nearly laughed aloud, an inexcusable action. Escorted by Sir Gabriel Kent, resplendent in a sable trimmed black cloak which swept the ground as he walked, came Lady Hodkin, appearing mightily pleased with herself and more than a little besotted. Hesther, very pink, was her usual step behind and hurrying a little. Yet as she drew level with him the Apothecary thought that sombre colours became her, for she looked more comely than he had ever seen her. Catching his eye, Miss Hodkin gave a tentative smile.
Lydia, a woman whom John presumed to be Maud, and Juliet, the last quite ravishing in a large black hat, followed in next and behind them poured all the other grievers in a body. The Apothecary’s heart bled for poor Miss Lambourn who, whatever her faults, whatever her antecedents, would have led the mour
ners this day had not the hand of a murderer struck her intended husband down. Now she was left like the meanest servant to go in last, a pathetic little figure, already in tears. Even though she was being supported by Valentine Randolph, John took her other arm and walked in beside her.
It truly was the wedding party gathered together all over again and seeing them like this gave the Apothecary the chance to flash that other portrait from St Paul’s, Shadwell, into his vivid memory. Comparing the two, he saw that Lydia had not lied, for she had not been present on the first occasion. And though Maud had been in church, Hugh had not, probably telling the truth about being out of the country. As to the rest, they had all been present at the wedding, looking as glum as they did now, with the exception of Lady Hodkin, who on this occasion seemed to be positively cheerful.
John let his mind wander over certain possibilities. Despite her claims to be aged and weak, the old beast was more than capable of wielding a stick, he had seen that for himself. It was Hesther who had received the brunt of that blow, but would Miss Hodkin be capable of striking one herself? Had unrequited love for her brother-in-law driven her into a frenzy, a frenzy which had led to his death? And what of Lydia, so dark and strong and handsome, had she some secret, something he had yet to unearth, which could have caused her to shut Sir William’s mouth for ever? Or was it greed with all of them? Had the thought of a vast inherited fortune been the trigger? As far as Maud was concerned, John did not know enough about her to be aware of any other reason. And then he remembered the twins calling her prim. Could she be so fanatically pure that Sir William’s adultery had driven her to kill? Or was her prudery a pose? Did it, in fact, mask a life of sin and dissipation?