Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  Sir Gabriel raised a brow. ‘Oh? When was that?’

  Frederick looked decidedly flustered. ‘Well … er …’

  ‘Don’t worry, everything you say will be treated as confidential,’ Sir Gabriel answered soothingly. ‘I am an old friend of the family. Tell me, do our fears have any foundation? Does the lady have a weakness for drink?’

  Mr Bull turned puce but said nothing.

  ‘No blame will be attached to you, my good man,’ Sir Gabriel forged on. ‘You are in the business of selling a product. Who buys it is not your concern.’

  ‘Then, to tell you the truth, Milord, Lady Haitch does have a leaning that way. Many a night she comes in here through the back door and goes into the Ram, one of our small private rooms, and there has her nightcap.’

  ‘Lady Hodkin does this regularly?’

  ‘No, only when she’s been out visiting, Milord. Or so she tells us.’

  ‘How very interesting.’ Sir Gabriel passed Bull a coin. ‘Pray, have some ale with me. I am most grateful to you. I will consider carefully all that you have said.’

  ‘You won’t mention my name?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Sir Gabriel climbed back into his equipage, thinking that he had learned little new, yet wondering if Lady Hodkin’s missing hour on the night when her son-in-law had been murdered might, in the light of what he had just been told, have a possible explanation. And he was still turning this over in his mind when a few minutes later the black coach with its team of snowdrop horses turned through the gates of Kirby Hall and set off down the drive.

  A nervous looking servant answered the door and ushered Sir Gabriel into the small waiting room leading off the hall. To forestall any such terrible eventuality, the visitor assured the footman at once that he had absolutely no need of the private facilities and was perfectly comfortable and happy to wait until Miss Hesther could see him.

  ‘Ah, there lies the trouble, Sir,’ answered the man in an anguished tone.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lady Hodkin is indisposed and Miss Hesther is somewhat preoccupied with nursing her.’

  ‘Then pray tell them that I have called. Who knows but that a new face might cheer the invalid in her hour of sorrow.’

  ‘Very good, Sir.’

  The footman bowed and left the room, bearing Sir Gabriel’s card on a silver tray. A few moments later he reappeared, looking decidedly relieved.

  ‘Lady Hodkin says that you are to go up, Sir. She will receive you in her bedchamber.’

  ‘How delightful,’ answered the visitor, and inclined his head with its daunting wig in a gesture of acknowledgement.

  They climbed the grand staircase, the footman leading the way, and solemnly proceeded down the landing, Sir Gabriel’s features composed into the stern expression of one whose duty it is to visit a sick room. Yet the voice that answered the gentle knock seemed hale enough.

  ‘Come in,’ Lady Hodkin bellowed.

  ‘Gladly,’ Sir Gabriel replied, and strode through the doorway manfully, then froze for a moment, greeted by a sight that might well have frightened a lesser mortal.

  Lady Hodkin sat propped on pillows in the middle of an ornate four-poster bed, complete with ostrich feathers above its canopy, hastily applying carmine to her lips. Beside her lay the pug, wheezing. On her other side, looking horribly lifelike, rested a wig, which Lady Hodkin hastily snatched up and slapped onto her balding pate, where it alighted slightly sideways. Sir Gabriel’s eyes ran over the table by her bed, which groaned beneath an array of provisions: a bowl of comfits, another of marchpane, a decanter of brandy, some vintage port, several oranges, a selection of bonbons, and a large pink blancmanger, as yet in its virgin state and quivering slightly as if in anticipation of being gobbled down by the invalid.

  ‘My dear Sir Gabriel,’ Lady Hodkin gushed. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Do please forgive my state of déshabillé. I’ve been quite cast down with my nerves of late. All this talk of murder ain’t done me no good at all.’

  ‘I’m quite sure,’ her visitor murmured, spreading the skirts of his coat and taking a seat by the bed.

  ‘Further, t’ain’t right all this questioning and probing. That upstart Fielding should be horsewhipped in my view. Why, it’s obvious that slattern of William’s took a knife to him in order to get her hands on his money.’

  ‘I thought she hadn’t been left anything,’ Sir Gabriel answered mildly. ‘And wasn’t he clubbed over the head?’

  Lady Hodkin snorted. ‘Be that as it may, she’s responsible, mark my words.’ She leaned forward, displaying teeth the colour of sulphur. ‘Now, would you like a glass of French brandy, my dear Sir? Or some fine sherry from Spain? You will stay and chat a while, I trust. I can’t tell you how pleasant it is to have some intelligent company at last. Hesther’s so damnably dull, poor thing.’

  Without waiting for her visitor’s reply to this, the invalid picked up a handbell from beside the bed and rang it manically. ‘Hesther!’ she screamed. ‘Come here at once.’

  Sir Gabriel, who rarely allowed his temper to stray an inch, felt indignation on Miss Hodkin’s behalf begin to rise in him. ‘Really, there is no need for that,’ he remonstrated.

  ‘There’s every need,’ the beldame retorted. ‘The wretched creature’s taken my glass away, and besides I require another for my company. And what charming company it is, too.’ She shot Sir Gabriel a roguish glance which made his blood run cold, then gave a peal on the bell that would have woken the dead. A moment later, Hesther appeared in answer to this summons, out of breath and looking totally exhausted.

  ‘What is it now, Mother?’ she asked wearily, then noticed Sir Gabriel, who had risen and was making an intricate bow. ‘Oh, my dear Sir. I did not realise you were here. How very nice to see you again.’ She curtsied.

  ‘I want two glasses,’ Lady Hodkin stated, with such a nasty edge to her voice that it occurred to Sir Gabriel she resented her own child. ‘My visitor requires refreshment, as do I.’

  ‘But your physician said …’ Hesther protested.

  ‘Damn my physician. Get me some glasses.’

  Sir Gabriel fought to keep in control of an ice-cold fury that now threatened to possess him. ‘You will be joining us of course, Miss Hesther?’ he asked courteously.

  The poor woman coloured up as he had so often seen her do before. ‘Well, that would be very pleasant.’

  ‘Pleasant for you but not for us,’ snapped Lady Hodkin. ‘You’re dull company, my gal, not to mince words.’

  ‘This is outrageous,’ said Sir Gabriel, cracking. ‘No mother should speak to her daughter as you do, Madam. Indeed, I’ll go so far as to say you should apologise immediately.’

  The harridan gaped in pure astonishment, making it perfectly clear that no one had ever spoken to her like that in her entire life. Then she got a grip on herself and her manner turned from one of waggish coquetry to that of glittering malice.

  ‘Get out, Sir,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you insult me in my own house? And how dare you interfere in matters that are no concern of yours? I’ll talk to my daughter exactly as I please. Be damned to you.’

  There was a quivering silence during which Sir Gabriel drew himself together in order to make a dignified exit. Then Hesther spoke.

  ‘No! Be damned to you, you horrid old woman. You long ago forfeited any right you might have to be paid the respect a mother should. So I’ll bear no more of it. From this moment forward I am finished with you.’

  ‘Bravo!’ exclaimed Sir Gabriel, forgetting himself and clapping his hands.

  ‘And further,’ Hesther continued, ignoring him, ‘I am leaving you to fend for yourself. I shall depart tonight for St James’s Square and from there I shall make arrangements to find lodgings of my own.’

  ‘Madam,’ said Sir Gabriel, bowing deep, ‘may I offer you the protection of a place in my home while you make your plans?’

  ‘Ha ha!’ shrieked Lady Hodkin triumphantly. ‘A sinful
liaison! I might have guessed. You have abused my hospitality, Sir. You have seduced my daughter whilst lodging beneath my very roof.’

  ‘Alas, that pleasure was not mine,’ Sir Gabriel answered smoothly. He offered Hesther his arm. ‘Miss Hodkin, my carriage awaits outside. Pray do me the pleasure of accompanying me to town.’

  She flashed him a smile more brilliant than he would have thought her capable of giving. ‘Delighted to do so, Sir.’ Hesther turned to Lady Hodkin. ‘Goodbye, Mother. You can get a paid servant to fetch and carry from now on, and for all I care you can drink until you rot.’

  ‘How could you leave a poor old defenceless woman on her own? Have you no heart?’ whined her mother, suddenly changing her act to that of cringing supplicant.

  ‘Absolutely none at all,’ answered Hesther lightly, and putting her hand on Sir Gabriel’s arm, swept from the room without a single glance backward.

  They turned out in their dozens to honour the memory of Kitty Perkins, called to leave the world long before her time was due to do so. The people of Wapping, the river folk, the fishermen, the oyster women, the wherrymen, the mudlarks, packed into the church of St Paul’s, Shadwell, until there was only room left to stand at the back. Then they formed into a long and solemn procession and accompanied her simple coffin to its final resting place, showing by their sheer weight of numbers how much they had loved and respected the good-hearted girl who had been born and brought up amongst them, and who had never done a day’s harm to anyone in her life.

  Walking amongst their number, John pondered the cruelty of death, withheld from those who suffered agonising illness, forced upon those too young and good to leave their loved ones behind. His thoughts became dark and bleak and he would have fallen into a mood of bitter introspection, had not an unexpected tap on his shoulder dragged his attention back to the present. Valentine Randolph was standing beside him, an anxious expression on his face.

  ‘About the great stick,’ he said without preface.

  The Apothecary stared at the office manager blankly, his mind a million miles away.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Valentine continued.

  John snapped to attention. ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘The great stick. The one you showed me.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place, you foolish man?’

  ‘I thought it might incriminate me. It seemed you had enough suspicions of my whereabouts that night without adding anything further to them.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ John answered angrily. ‘We’ll never get at the truth at this rate. Tell me from the beginning.’

  ‘The stick used to belong to Sir William but I so admired it that he gave it to me. Then one day I left the thing in the office and never saw it again.’

  ‘Are you saying it was stolen?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Valentine, a note of desperation in his voice.

  ‘Very well. But if that is the case why did Luke identify it to me as Roger’s?’

  ‘Possibly because he doesn’t like Roger and would gladly see him in trouble. Or maybe because the beau has one very similar, having admired his father’s greatly and causing a copy to be made.’

  ‘Are these the real facts?’ asked John through gritted teeth.

  ‘They are. I swear it.’

  ‘Then the field is narrowed to someone who had access to Sir William’s office because, sure as fate, that stick was used to kill him.’

  Valentine turned pale. ‘But they have all visited the office at some time or another, even Lady Hodkin.’

  ‘I know,’ said John morosely, wondering how much deeper the puzzle could get. With an effort of will he changed the subject. ‘Which of the people here are Kitty’s parents?’

  Valentine made an effort to recover himself, swallowing hard before he said, ‘She had none. She was an orphan.’

  ‘Then who organised all this?’

  ‘Her uncle, her only living relative. She used to sail on his fishing boat to get her oysters.’

  ‘I think I’d like to have a word with him. Which one is he?’

  ‘The dark, gypsy-looking man standing by the grave. He’s known as Unkle, by the way. He spells it with a “k”.’

  ‘Can you introduce me?’

  ‘I’ll do so at the wake.’

  ‘Which is to be held where?’

  ‘In The Devil’s Tavern.’

  ‘Where it all began,’ John answered harshly, and turned away to hide his tears as Kitty’s small, pathetic coffin was lowered into the earth to vanish for ever from his sight.

  It seemed that even death itself was subject to the rule of the mighty Thames. As the tide began to turn, so the riverfolk left the wake to proceed about their business; to row the people of London to their varied destinations, to go fishing, to head for the sea, to scavenge before the water level rose too high. And it was then, with the crowd thinning, that John Rawlings finally got his opportunity to shake the oyster girl’s uncle by the hand and tell him how saddened he was by Kitty’s death.

  ‘I offer you my heartfelt condolences, Unkle.’

  ‘I swear to God her killer must swing for this,’ answered the gypsy. Then casting his eye over Benjamin Rudge, who had hovered discreetly in the background throughout the funeral, he added, ‘The gossip is that that fellow is a Runner working for the Blind Beak, come here to search the villain out. Is it true, Sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about you? Are you also present to bring a murderer to justice?’

  ‘It is my avowed intent to do so.’

  Valentine Randolph interceded. ‘Unkle, this is Mr John Rawlings who does indeed work for the Public Office at Bow Street.’

  ‘Then how can I help you find the man?’

  John frowned. ‘It’s difficult really, because she probably said nothing. But I can’t help wondering if Kitty mentioned anything to you about seeing someone in an unexpected place, somewhere that she wouldn’t have anticipated that person to be.’

  Unkle stared at him, his dark Romany eyes glowing. ‘Yes, she did that right enough.’

  John’s heart leapt in his chest. ‘Who was it? Did she say?’

  ‘Alas, no. But I can tell you where it happened. In Gravesend.’

  ‘Gravesend?’

  ‘Yes. We had to hole up there one night because of a storm at sea that gave us a bit of a knocking about. Anyway, after we moored, Kitty went for a walk into the town, to visit The Belle Sauvage it was. Wanted to have a drink and sell some oysters. We’d been at Whitstable, you see.’

  ‘The Belle Sauvage,’ John repeated wonderingly, remembering his laudanum induced dream.

  Unkle stared at him. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘But you’ve no idea whom she saw there?’

  ‘None. She come back laughing and muttering about “up to no good”.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Unkle scratched his head. ‘Can’t really remember. About three or four weeks ago. Somewhen round then.’

  ‘That fits with the killing of Sir William,’ said John excitedly. ‘Listen, will you take me there?’

  ‘To Gravesend? I’m not bound in that direction.’

  The Apothecary looked disappointed. ‘But I thought you wanted to help me catch Kitty’s murderer.’

  ‘Do you think the person she saw is him or her, then?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘In that case I’ll change my plans. Can you be ready to sail in ten minutes?’

  ‘I’m ready now.’ John turned to look at the Runner. ‘Mr Rudge, would you return to Bow Street and inform Mr Fielding of this development.’

  ‘But he told me not to leave you.’

  ‘I can’t help that. It’s most important that he knows what is happening.’

  ‘Very well,’ Rudge answered with resignation. ‘But don’t you get into no trouble, mind.’

  ‘As if I would,’ said John, his spirit of adventure
soaring.

  ‘Yes, as if you would,’ the Runner repeated, and sighed.

  As they went down to the sea, past the great shipyards of Deptford and Woolwich, the rain began to die away and a watery sun appeared, which grew stronger and stronger as the afternoon wore on. Then the river widened, as did John’s eyes at the sight of so much vigorous waterlife. Sailing past Unkle’s fishing boat were merchantmen, rigged with billowing clouds of canvas, bound for the Indies or other ports of exotic location. Whilst proceeding into London at a pace came their poor relations, fleets of colliers loaded with Newcastle coal for the fires of town. From the Kent coast, from Deal and from Sandwich, headed hoys loaded with local produce, while from Essex hurried smacks abrim with mackerel. On the port side, the common tilt boat went by, the ferry which took travellers from Gravesend to London at the charge of tenpence a head. As he saw it pass, loaded with sixty or so passengers, a thought struck John which refused to go away and instead grew like a seed in his mind.

  The chalk-pits and marshes which lined the bank had given way to villages and shipyards, whilst midstream rode a queue of vessels, outgoing ships waiting for a final visit from Customs officials before they put to sea. Peering ahead, the Apothecary was at last able to glimpse their destination, a neat little town of fisherfolk’s houses, perched prettily on the riverside.

  ‘How long does it take from Gravesend to London in the ferry?’ John asked Unkle, whose dark face was frowning with concentration as he navigated his way through the shipping lanes.

  ‘Four hours with the tide in your favour. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Curiosity, that’s all. I don’t really know this area, you see.’

  Unkle gestured to a church spire, visible through the forest of masts. ‘Then you won’t know who’s buried there.’

  John shook his head. ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘A Red Indian princess called Pocahontas. She died in Gravesend of fever on her way back to America, having married a Virginian settler, a John Rolfe, who brought her to this country. The inn Kitty visited is named after her.’

  ‘The Belle Sauvage. Of course!’

  ‘That’s it over there.’ And Unkle pointed to a hostelry not far from the water’s edge.