by Deryn Lake
Reluctantly, John turned his attention to Julian and Juliette. In the young man’s case, of course, his addiction to gambling and his debts might well have given him sufficient reason to want his father out of the way. But as for the girl, how could such a shining beauty be associated with anything so brutal as murder? Then the Apothecary mentally took himself to task. It had been his mistake in the past not to equate loveliness with wickedness, yet he knew perfectly well that one did not preclude the other. Perhaps Juliette felt so protective about her twin that she would have killed for him. The two of them certainly acted as if they were in a conspiracy of some kind. But twins were often like that, particularly those born identical, John thought. Yet even though Julian and Juliette were not in that category, being of different sex, they had still shared together the dark secret waters of the womb, a bond between them that no one could ever break.
The service was beginning but John found it hard to concentrate his mind on it, so taken up with the notion that one of Sir William’s family had struck the fatal blow and puzzling over which one of them it could have been. And then he heard the door at the back of the church open and a pair of large feet attempt to tiptoe in. Turning to have a look, the Apothecary was both delighted and astonished to see that Samuel Swann had arrived to pay his last respects and was taking his place in a rear pew.
They met at the graveside, or rather in the queue leading down the path towards it, and shook each other most heartily by the hand. ‘My dear fellow, how is it all going?’ asked the Goldsmith, in the hushed tones of one who is dying to hear the news but simultaneously trying to keep a sense of occasion.
‘In the most complicated manner possible. I am supposed to be investigating Sir William’s family but have been barred the house by his harridan mother-in-law. Therefore, my father has been sent in, posing as a hapless traveller …’
‘What!’ exclaimed Samuel loudly.
‘To try and unravel the skeins of their devious lives. He is here now, even as we speak. Should he pass you, pretend not to know him.’
The Goldsmith rubbed his hands together. ‘This is tremendous! I’m so glad I came. If I had not called on Mr Fielding last night I would have known nothing about it.’
John gaped at him. ‘Last night? But I was there. What time did you go to see him?’
‘About a quarter of an hour after you had left to visit Serafina and Louis. Anyway, the Beak caught me up with as much news as he could. And told me that the funeral was today. I thought as you had found the poor man’s corpse it would be only fitting to pay my final regards. But in view of all the intrigue, I am delighted I did so.’
‘And well you might be. We stand on the threshold of a great secret, I’m sure of it. Now, how did you get here?’
‘By postchaise. It put me down at a place called The George and I walked the rest of the way.’
‘I came on Godiva, whom I’m due to take back later today. So I suggest that we return to The George as soon as we can, and meet again later this evening, near the Middle Temple.’
‘What will you be doing there?’
‘Hearing the details of Sir William Hartfield’s will. It is being read this afternoon at Kirby Hall but Mr Fielding has asked the lawyer to reveal the contents to me tonight.’
‘Surely the main beneficiary is going to be Amelia Lambourn.’
‘That we must wait and see.’
‘But if she is, does it give her a motive for murder?’
John looked thoughtful. ‘I would have thought not. But there is certainly something odd about the girl. High on my list of things to do is pay a visit to Islington Spa where Sir William originally met Amelia, and find out what is known about her there.’
‘And when do you intend to do this?’
‘Probably tomorrow afternoon. Is there any chance you could join me?’
Samuel beamed. ‘I should be delighted. I feel that I haven’t given you my usual help with this latest quest …’
John smiled within.
‘… so I shall leave the shop in the hands of my apprentice and go with you.’ He looked anxious. ‘But what about you? Do you have an assistant to look after things?’
‘I have acquired a young fellow through the good offices of Mr Fielding. My father and I think highly of him but I would like you to meet him and give me your opinion. He is called Nicholas Dawkins and is reputed to be of noble Muscovy descent.’
‘How exotic.’
John grinned and nudged his friend in the ribs. ‘Did you think I’d choose anyone less?’
But at that point their moment of bonhomie abruptly ended. A shriek pierced shrilly from the graveside and looking down the length of the line of mourners, the Apothecary saw that Amelia Lambourn, whose turn it was to throw earth upon the coffin, was swaying in a faint on the very edge of the yawning chasm. Indeed she would have fallen in backwards had it not been for Roger, of all the unlikely people, who with a burst of quick thinking, seized the unhappy girl round the waist and pulled her back to safety.
‘How extraordinary,’ murmured John.
‘What?’
‘That he of all of them should have had the presence of mind to save her.’
‘Why? Is he a puff?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He looks it, though that means nothing of course. Who is the fellow?’
‘Roger Hartfield, Sir William’s first-born.’
John continued to stare in the direction of the grave and saw that despite the beau’s somewhat feeble ministrations, Amelia had lost consciousness. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, and pushed past the curious crowd to her aid, knocking into his father as he did so and saying, ‘Oh, beg pardon, Sir,’ in a highly affected voice. At the same time, Luke Challon appeared as if from nowhere, practically hurling people over in his anxiety to get to the fainting woman’s side. It was all, John thought, very interesting indeed.
Despite Lady Hodkin’s cries of, ‘There’s that horrible young man!’ the Apothecary finally managed to get some sal volatile beneath Amelia’s nose and raise her from where she hung limply in the crook of Roger’s arm. After a moment her eyes fluttered open and she looked round, saw the greedy-mouthed grave, and swooned once more.
‘I’ll take Miss Lambourn to her carriage,’ offered Luke.
‘Permit me to assist,’ said Valentine Randolph.
‘Really!’ interrupted Roger petulantly. ‘Allow one member of the family to show a little decency. I’ll get her there myself.’
And he minced off on his high-heeled shoes, practically dragging the poor girl with him, leaving the rest of the family to stare at his retreating back, their expressions ranging from downright fury to one of total disbelief.
It was dark when John got back to London and late when he returned Godiva to her stables in Dolphin Yard. But, having hurried into his house to wash the dust of the journey from his face and hands, the Apothecary was out again within twenty minutes, running down into Piccadilly where he hired a hackney coach to take him to the lawyer’s office in Middle Temple Lane, the address given to him by Joe Jago before he had left Bow Street on the previous evening.
Afraid that a late arrival might persuade Mr Josiah Bradshaigh, tired by having read the will once that day, to close his office and make for home, none too happy, no doubt, at having to comply with a request issued by the Public Office, John urged his driver on. But in the event he need not have worried. Lights burned in the second floor office and as he made his way up the tottering wooden staircase, he could hear the sound of voices. Somewhat tentatively he knocked on the door with the head of his great stick and was amazed when it flew open straight away.
‘John Rawlings, here on behalf of Mr Fielding,’ he said, producing his letter of authorisation.
‘Come in, come in,’ called a voice from within, and John found himself being ushered by the shrivelled clerk who had answered the door, into the inner sanctum.
There were papers everywhere. Standing in piles on the floor, p
erched precariously on shelves, heaped high on the desk, most of them tied with pink string and nearly all covered with an amazing amount of dust. Behind this mountain of documents, the Apothecary could vaguely glimpse a figure who waved a hand round one of the heaps and silently motioned the visitor to sit. Springing forward nimbly, the clerk cleared the only available chair of yet another heap of parchment and cleaned it off with the bottom of his coat. Very carefully, the Apothecary sat down.
The waving hand pushed several piles round the desk, rather like moving chess pieces, until there was enough room to peer at the newcomer, which its owner then proceeded to do, his eyes the glistening bright brown of those of a fieldmouse.
‘Young, eh?’ said a voice.
‘Rising twenty-four,’ John answered swiftly. ‘Does that offend you, Sir?’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ The lawyer growled a laugh. ‘We must all start somewhere.’ He pushed a pint jug in John’s direction. ‘Help yourself. I’ve got another one here.’
Staring down into the contents, the Apothecary saw that it was brimming with claret. ‘Do you have a glass?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Somewhere,’ came the answer. ‘Coombs, go and look.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the clerk, and begun to hunt round the room, a whistling sound coming from between his clenched brown teeth.
‘I’m Bradshaigh,’ said the lawyer, extending a hand between the documents which John solemnly shook. ‘Did I not see you at the funeral?’
‘Yes, I was there. But I can’t say I noticed you, Sir.’
‘Kept in the background. Could see the family bristling with anticipation every time I drew near, so kept my own counsel until I was forced to reveal all.’
The Apothecary felt a prickle of anticipation, knowing full well how very important the next half hour was going to be, and at that moment another heap of papers moved and John got his first good look at the late Sir William’s trusted lawyer.
It was a rubicund face, crimson and jolly, with a shock of silver hair above, which looked quite startling in contrast with the vividness below. The nose was very large, spreading across the features and bearing many pitted pores. While a confluence of broken veins added even more colour to the already reddened cheeks. In the midst of all this glow, the twinkling eyes looked small and somehow out of place.
‘Drat that clerk,’ said Mr Bradshaigh. ‘Can’t you drink from the jug, boy?’
‘I can try,’ John replied, and sipped cautiously.
‘That’s more like it.’ The lawyer drained half a pint at a single swallow, then wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Now, you’re here to hear the will, I believe. Do you want it all – or just the main bequests?’
‘For the moment, at least, just the bones of it. If Mr Fielding thinks otherwise then we will have to go through it again.’
Josiah Bradshaigh drained his jug then refilled if from a case of bottles standing by his side. ‘It’s a queer business, this,’ he said. ‘Very queer indeed.’
‘In what way exactly?’
The lawyer slipped a pair of spectacles onto his nose, then peered at the Apothecary over the top of them. ‘You are acting on the authority of John Fielding as you say?’
‘Yes, most certainly. Here is his letter authorising me to carry out enquiries.’ With some difficulty, John handed it over the desk.
Mr Bradshaigh examined it. ‘Yes, yes, that seems in order. But I had to make sure. For what I have to say to you is not only confidential but assumes a sinister connotation in view of the fact that my late client was done to death.’
‘Please continue,’ said John, twitching with impatience.
‘Sir William was due to be secretly married, as you probably know …’
‘Yes, I do.’
Mr Bradshaigh drained his jug, then refilled it. ‘Well, the fact is, in view of his forthcoming nuptials, my client had asked me to draw up a new will and was due to sign it on the eve of his wedding. It was arranged that he would come to this office at eight o’clock and append his signature to the document before two witnesses. But instead of Sir William one of his footmen arrived bearing a note, a note which I have here.’ His hand sought and found a particular piece of paper amongst the dozens on the desk.
‘What does it say?’
‘That he, Sir William that is, had been called away unexpectedly to attend to some urgent business and would contact me within a day or two. That is the last thing I ever heard from him.’
‘Is the letter genuine?’
Josiah Bradshaigh huffed. ‘Yes, most certainly it is. I would know my client’s writing anywhere.’
John drank from his jug, more deeply than he had intended. ‘Are you then stating, Sir, that because of Sir William’s non-appearance the old will still stands?’
‘Of course. No document is legal without a signature.’
‘Then may I hazard a guess that the second will is very different from the first?’
‘You may indeed, and you would be right. The second testament left the bulk of Sir William’s fortune to his affianced bride, the future Lady Hartfield, while the business was to pass out of the family and into the joint hands of Mr Valentine Randolph and Luke Challon. To his progeny, whom he considered would only fritter the money away, he left mere nominal sums.’
‘’Sblud!’
‘And ’zounds, I feel I might add.’ The lawyer smiled at his little joke and his eyes glinted merrily.
‘While the first divided everything between the heirs of his body, I suppose?’
‘Not quite. The houses and the bulk of the fortune were left to the first Lady Hartfield, with the proviso that should she predecease her husband which, of course, she did, the estate should be divided as follows. The St James’s Square house was left to Roger, Kirby Hall to Sir William’s sister-in-law, Miss Hesther Hodkin. The rest of the fortune was to be divided equally amongst Sir William’s children, with his daughter-in-law, Mrs Lydia Hartfield, receiving an equal share. Lady Hodkin and her daughter were not left money as such but, believe me, can live quite comfortably without a bequest. In view of the fact that the dead Lady Hartfield left most of her personal funds to her husband, this amount will now be added to the children’s share. So we are talking about an enormous sum, Sir. A truly enormous sum.’
‘What about the others? Servants and so on?’
‘Mr Challon and Mr Randolph were each left five thousand pounds. The retainers a few hundred, according to their length of service.’
‘I see. How about the business? How was that disposed?’
‘Left to the three sons, with the stipulation that Hugh, already a member of the firm as you probably know, became nominal head, and Mr Randolph continued as manager.’
‘And Miss Lambourn?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘Not one penny piece.’
‘But why?’
‘Because, my dear boy,’ said Mr Bradshaigh, tapping the sheaves of parchment in his hand, ‘Sir William did not even know the young woman when this original will was made.’
Without meaning to, John drained the jug in his hand. ‘Sir, please think clearly. How many people knew about the second will, were aware that Miss Lambourn was about to become virtually the sole heiress?’
‘No one was supposed to but these things have a way of leaking out, of course.’
‘Then, by God, we have a mighty motive here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That any member of the family, knowing that he – or she – stood to lose everything if Sir William signed the second will, might do anything in their power to stop him doing so.’
The red face on the other side of the desk flushed an even deeper shade, and the fieldmouse eyes became two points of brilliance as the significance of the words sunk in.
‘Including murder?’ asked Mr Bradshaigh gravely.
‘Oh quite definitely including murder,’ John answered with equal solemnity.
Chapter Twelve
To the north of Fleet Street, lying within the shadow of the great church of St Dunstan’s in the West, was a cluster of mean little alleyways and festering streets, so jumbled together that to venture into them was like entering a tortuous maze. Here, amongst these hideaways, in the darkness, it was not safe for a man to go unarmed or unprepared. Yet within this squalid labyrinth of alleys, like oases in a desert, lay squares and courts in which respectable citizens lived, though how they picked their way in and out to their dwelling places remained a mystery to the uninitiated. Also concealed in the confines of this tangle was a tavern of repute, a place in which it was possible to dine on an excellent supper, to say nothing of drinking the unusually good wine served to go with it. And it was to find this hostelry, delightfully named The Cheshire Cheese, that John Rawlings bravely headed off into the web of twittens, fervently hoping that he would not lose his way.
The information he had just been given in the lawyer’s office had stunned him. For in that surely lay the reason why Sir William had been done to death. And more than that, the time when the victim had vanished could now be pinpointed. Having seen Amelia Lambourn into her carriage at about half past six, following their wedding eve dinner together, the bridegroom had received a message which had caused him to alter his plans and meet somebody other than Josiah Bradshaigh. And that somebody had to be the last person to see him alive. Wondering if the note Sir William had received might still be in existence at St James’s Square, John decided to go there as soon as possible and make a thorough search. Meanwhile, though, he must locate The Cheshire Cheese and get some food, for various messages from his stomach were reminding the Apothecary that he had not eaten since midday, when he had hastily snatched a piece of mutton pie, consumed at The George following the funeral.
Turning down a blind alley, John cursed and retraced his footsteps, then heard a burst of laughter coming from his left. Light fell across the cobbles and there was more noise, including a clatter of plates. A door opened and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies, tallow, roasting meat, tobacco, ale and cheap perfume, attacked his nostrils. John hurried towards it. He had found his destination.