Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  In this way, fortuitously having run into Fred, who had somehow acquired what John could only think of as a coracle, a flimsy and dangerous craft which provided an extremely nerve-racking journey, the pair found themselves on the south bank, in Jamaica Inn in Jamaica Street, still officially part of Redriff though a considerable distance from the village.

  ‘Samuel,’ said John, remembering something that he had been meaning to ask but had forgotten until this moment. ‘Can you cast your mind back to the day we visited Islington Spa?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘What was it you said about Roger on that occasion?’

  The Goldsmith stared blankly. ‘I don’t know, what did I say? That he wore cutting fashions? That he looked worse than I remembered him?’

  ‘Yes, that was it! That he seemed changed. What did you mean exactly?’

  Samuel frowned. ‘Just that when he caught Amelia, stopped her falling into the grave, he appeared quite forceful. But when he came flapping over, all frills and flounces, he was exactly the opposite. It was odd.’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered slowly. ‘Very odd. And you’re quite right. He was different at that moment.’ The Apothecary sat in silence.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Samuel asked.

  ‘I’m not quite sure yet. There’s something bubbling inside my brain but it refuses to rise to the surface.’

  ‘It will,’ his friend answered confidently. ‘Now come on, sup your ale. There’s work to be done.’

  The river reached its lowest point at about two o’clock that afternoon, so that many of the things that had been thrown or fallen into its watery recesses now lay on the banks. Scavenging their way through all the extraordinary objects, which ranged from chamber pots, their contents, thankfully, long since washed away, to a rather valuable ring, John and Samuel still found nothing relating to the murder. Then, with the river at flood and the late March sun beginning to dip, they gave up the task as The Spread Eagle came into sight.

  ‘Hopeless,’ the Apothecary admitted. ‘I feel a fool.’

  ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Because I told Mr Fielding that we’d be sure to find something.’

  ‘Well, we’ve done our best. My back is breaking, to say nothing of my knees.’

  ‘Let’s get back to The Devil’s Tavern. Kitty is probably looking for us.’

  ‘Yes. I wonder where she’s got to.’

  But though John and Samuel waited for the oyster girl all the evening, staring round every time the door opened, there was no sign of her. Somewhere deep in the Apothecary’s consciousness an alarm bell rang.

  ‘I expect she’s gone up to Whitstable and still isn’t back,’ said Samuel, reading his friend’s mind.

  ‘I’m sure that’s it,’ John answered.

  Yet despite a determined effort to push away disturbing thoughts, he still did not sleep well and was glad when Samuel rose at dawn in order to take a wherry back to London and open his goldsmith’s shop at the Sign of the Crescent Moon in St Paul’s Churchyard. Having seen his friend depart, John paid his bill and packed his bag, then borrowed one of the boats moored at Pelican Stairs and rowed across to Redriff in the early morning light, determined not to leave Wapping until he had found Kitty Perkins.

  Certain that of all the people he had met it would be the mudlark who would know most about what was going on, the Apothecary headed upstream, staring at the bank as the spire of St Mary’s Church and the outline of The Spread Eagle came into view. Sure enough, about two hundred yards from the hostelry, the upturned boat, an eccentric but merry looking little dwelling, came into his line of vision and he pulled inshore, splashing through the shallows to attach his craft to a wooden stump.

  The tide was rising and Fred, taking advantage of the water creeping ever nearer to his home, was up and about his ablutions, which consisted of swimming naked through the swirling stream. He waved when he saw John, then shot into the hovel and came out again pulling on a pair of breeches.

  ‘Caught me,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Good morning,’ answered John. ‘I thought I’d come and visit you early because, all being well, I hope to go back to London today.’

  ‘Then step inside,’ Fred continued, still beaming a smile. ‘You won’t never have seen nuffink like this.’

  Bending low, the Apothecary stooped his way through the little door, then stood upright, his eyes widening at the sight of Fred’s home. The wherry, long since taken out of service as it obviously had been, still consisted of good strong timbers well able to cope with the ravages of wind and storm. In fact there was something quite cosy about it, and the smell of the river and the spars combined was pleasing to the senses. By way of furniture there was a rusty old bedstead, clearly plucked from the jaws of the Thames, an old sea chest which served for a table, a chair with a piece of timber where once one of its legs had been, and, incongruously, an ornate mirror which hung, amongst other salvaged trophies, over the two points of the prow. Beside the bed, vast and rather frightening, was a ship’s figurehead, this one depicting a bare breasted mermaid with staring eyes and curling yellow hair, a comb in one carved hand.

  Seeing the direction of John’s gaze, the mudlark said, ‘That’s the Sea Queen. She was beached after a storm. Reckon there’d been a wreck somewhere and she came in with the tide.’

  ‘I think I’d get a fright if I woke in the night and saw her looming over me.’

  ‘I like her,’ said Fred, with spirit. ‘She keeps me company, the Queen does.’

  John stared round him. ‘You’ve made yourself very comfortable here.’

  ‘All of it come out of the river.’

  ‘Including that chest?’

  And the Apothecary looked down at the beautiful piece of wood which, in its day, had been artistically decorated with scenes of ships and even the owner’s name, all painted on by hand.

  ‘Yes, even that. But I’m forgetting me manners. Would you like a tot of rum?’

  John shook his head. ‘It’s a little early, though thank you for asking.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I do? It’s me breakfast time, see.’

  And the boy produced from a basket, a great hunk of bread and cheese, a tin mug and a bottle of dark, powerful spirit.

  ‘Please go on,’ said John. His eye alighted once more on the sea chest. ‘What do you keep in there? Your treasures?’

  ‘Yes, everything that I find when I go scavenging.’

  ‘May I look?’ asked the Apothecary, and felt the thrill of premonition as he lifted the lid.

  It was there, just as he had felt it would be, lying on top of everything else, clearly the latest acquisition, its ornate handle gleaming in the shaft of sunshine coming through the little door. John gasped, not so much in surprise but with delight at the beautiful craftsmanship of the implement which had killed Sir William Hartfield. Whoever had shaped the solid silver fox’s head had been a master of his trade, while the dark glowing ebony, the wood from which the shaft of the great stick had been fashioned, was a tribute to the hands that had created it. In wonderment, John picked the cane up, silently offering a prayer of thanks, then he very carefully wrapped the head in his best linen handkerchief and tied the resulting package with a piece of string retrieved from an inner pocket.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked the mudlark softly.

  ‘It was washed up on the shore, just below here.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly. About two weeks or so.’

  ‘It wouldn’t by any chance have been the morning after you saw the two drunkards on Church Steps?’

  Fred stared at him suspiciously. ‘Now you come to mention it, yes it was. Why?’

  ‘Because I believe that this was the stick which killed the man I told you of. The one who was to have met Mr Randolph.’

  ‘Oh my lawk!’ said the mudlark.

  John gave him an apologetic look. ‘I’m going to have to take it away with me, I’m
afraid.’

  ‘But I scavenged it.’

  ‘Fred,’ the Apothecary said earnestly, ‘I will try to return the stick to you if you really want it. But be assured that it is vital I get this straight to the Public Office in Bow Street.’

  The mudlark’s freckles glowed. ‘But I like it, Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? It is a beautiful thing. But it is also sinister and murderous and has been responsible for snuffing out a man’s life.’

  Fred nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I still want the stick back, mind.’

  ‘Provided Mr Fielding agrees, you shall have it.’ John looked at his watch, thinking that the much needed stroke of good fortune had come his way at last and now he could head for home. Then he remembered Kitty and his worry about her, and his jubilant expression vanished. ‘Fred, do you know Miss Perkins, the oyster girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, she comes to sell in The Spread Eagle sometimes.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she lives?’

  ‘In a lodging house in Star Street, just by King James’s Stairs.’

  ‘What number?’

  Fred shook his head. ‘That I’m not sure of.’

  ‘Could you take me there?’

  ‘I’m to be at work at half past seven.’

  ‘That’s in three quarters of an hour. Please, Fred. I think it could be important.’

  They rowed back in the boat John had borrowed, the great stick lying safely on the bottom. But this time they did not moor at Pelican Stairs but went upriver to the next landing stage where the mudlark secured the boat, then jumped out.

  ‘This is King James’s. Come on, Mr Rawlings. The landlord will skin me alive if I’m late.’

  The boy had such a sense of urgency about him that John found himself breaking into a run and was panting slightly when they stopped before a tall, seedy-looking house, badly in need of a coat of paint. There appeared to be no street door to the place and John found himself following Fred down a small passageway and into a kitchen. Beside a miserable fire sat a thin sour-faced woman in a grey dress and apron, while a haggard and wretched girl swept the floor.

  ‘Morning, Mam,’ Fred said, clearly having encountered the landlady before. ‘This gentlemen come for Kitty.’

  The woman of the house shot John a knowing look. ‘Upstairs, first on the left,’ she said.

  ‘Is Miss Perkins home?’ the Apothecary asked anxiously.

  She mimicked his voice, ‘Is Miss Perkins ’ome?’ then roared with laughter. ‘How would I know? I ain’t seen ’er. Go up and try your luck.’

  ‘Come on!’ urged Fred.

  ‘Do you want to go back?’ John asked. ‘I can manage now.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ the woman said with a leer.

  He ignored her. ‘I don’t want to make you late.’

  ‘I can stay another few minutes,’ the mudlark answered, and led the way up a dark and dirty staircase.

  ‘Poor Kitty. What a terrible place to have to live in,’ the Apothecary said, staring round.

  ‘It’s cheap, Sir. Probably only a shilling a week.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said John with feeling.

  The landing was as dingy and foul as the stairs, and it was with some difficulty that John located the first door on the left, feeling his way along in total dimness. But eventually he identified Kitty’s room and gave a tentative knock. There was no reply.

  He turned to look at the mudlark, whose orange hair seemed to glow in the darkness. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Go in. She might be asleep.’

  ‘Yes, she could be.’

  ‘She won’t mind you having to wake her, honest.’

  Feeling like an intruder and not relishing his actions, John turned the doorknob and went in. Then he let out a breath of relief as he saw that Kitty was there, lying on a crude truckle bed, sleeping as Fred had predicted. Her back was turned to him and her dark hair was spread like black lace over the heap of shawls that served as a pillow.

  ‘Kitty,’ John called softly, ‘wake up. I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m about to return to London and wanted to have a talk before I went.’

  She did not stir and the Apothecary felt, rather than saw, the mudlark stiffen beside him, then cower in the doorway. Walking quietly, John approached the bed and put a hand on the oyster girl’s shoulder. She turned beneath his touch, then fell back heavily so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Or would have done, had it not been for the fact that though her eyes were open, Kitty could no longer see. A trickle of dried blood ran from the corner of her mouth down to her chin, obscenely dark against the snowdrop whiteness of her skin. And round the oyster girl’s neck, twisting like a thin black serpent, was the piece of knotted cord that had put an end to the life of Kitty Perkins.

  Chapter Twenty

  The day that had started in the glow of early sunshine had by now turned into a nightmare. Only wishing that the Public Office had been near at hand but knowing that he would be failing in his duty if he delayed reporting his ghastly find, John had sent Fred running to fetch the constable. Then, left alone with Kitty’s corpse, he had set about the grisly business of examining it. This was the first time in his experience that the Apothecary had been forced to study the body of someone who had been a friend, albeit of only short duration, and he found the experience grim and distressing. Yet look he must, for Mr Fielding would want to know everything there was to tell about the way the oyster girl had died.

  Hastily and hating it, John sought for evidence of sexual molestation. But there was no ripped clothing or bruising of the privy parts, and his guess that Kitty had been killed in order to silence her, became a conviction. Oddly, there was no sign of a struggle of any kind, which led the Apothecary to conclude that the girl’s attacker must have crept in while she was asleep and that poor Kitty would have woken to find the life already being choked out of her, too late to defend herself.

  As soon as he had touched the body, John had discovered fully established rigor mortis, and from this had concluded that the oyster girl had met her death during the previous evening or, possibly, late afternoon. Had Kitty returned from fishing and taken a short rest before going to meet himself and Samuel? And during that sleep had either one of the five men involved in the fist fight in The Devil’s Tavern or someone they had been able to warn, come creeping back to close her mouth for ever? Cursing the fact that he had not gone searching hours sooner, the Apothecary wept in the silence of the death room, a tear splashing down onto Kitty’s cold cheek as he kissed her a final farewell.

  Realising that he could now get caught in the spider’s web of officialdom, John instantly informed the constable, who arrived puffing and harassed after an hour had elapsed, that he was working for John Fielding of Bow Street and was in the area investigating another death. He failed to mention, however, that he believed the two murders to be connected, fearing infinite complications and hours of delay might well result if he did.

  ‘So how was it you come to be in this house, Sir?’ the constable asked, showing a certain flair for the job, considering that he was a fishmonger reluctantly chosen by rote to fulfil the office for a year.

  ‘I had arranged to meet Miss Perkins last night in The Devil’s Tavern, where I have been staying with a friend. When she did not make an appearance I decided to come and look for her, but unfortunately too late to rescue her from her killer. By the way, I was in that friend’s company throughout the evening and he can vouch for me completely.’

  ‘And what makes you think she was murdered then and not this morning?’ the constable asked.

  ‘The body is cold as ice and completely stiff, suffering that condition known as rigor mortis. As rigor takes roughly twelve hours to wear on and lasts another twelve once it is established, I think it is safe to conclude that she was killed early last evening.’

  The constable looked extremely surprised. ‘Well, well! Are you a medical man, Sir?’

  ‘In a manner of spea
king. I’m an apothecary. Now, do you wish me to give you a statement about how I found her?’ John asked wearily.

  ‘I’m sure the Coroner will want to know. And you, boy, what’s your name, you’d better make one as well.’

  ‘I can’t sign me signature,’ said Fred, alarmed.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to put a cross, won’t you. Now, I’d best get this poor creature taken to the mortuary before she starts to rot.’

  The constable ushered them out but John turned in the doorway for one last look at the oyster girl, reflecting on her death in such squalid surroundings, and, indeed, her life in them as well.

  ‘Fred,’ he said impulsively, ‘you must try and make something of yourself. Get away from here. Don’t get caught in Kitty’s trap.’

  The mudlark stared at him blankly. ‘But I’m happy as I am and so was she. She weren’t trapped.’

  ‘But this terrible place. How could she stand it?’

  ‘She only slept here,’ Fred stated simply, as if he were explaining to a child. ‘When she got up every morning she went straight to the river. Then she was all right again. We’re water folk, see?’

  John smiled harshly. ‘Perhaps I do,’ he said.

  In the end, with the wretched business finally concluded, he had left Wapping in the late afternoon, by which time the Apothecary had descended into a state of deep depression. Disregarding cost, he had ordered the wherryman to row him all the way to Hungerford Stairs, from which The Strand was but a moment’s walk. From there, John took a hackney coach to Shug Lane, determined to have a few minutes alone and, even more importantly, to mix himself a potion to cure his mood of melancholia. Indeed, so dark were his thoughts, that the Apothecary had quite literally forgotten about Nicholas Dawkins and was momentarily surprised when he went to let himself into his shop, only to find the door unlocked.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called suspiciously, and felt every kind of a fool when Nicholas’s pale face looked up at him from beyond the counter.

  ‘Mr Rawlings!’ the boy exclaimed. ‘We were getting worried about you, Sir. You were away longer than you said.’