by Deryn Lake
Aidan Fenchurch bowed deeply to his host, inclined his head to the apprentice, then having looked closely up and down the street, scuttled off fast in a way most reminiscent of a crustacean heading for the sea.
“It occurs to me,” said John, looking at his wife with both a professional and husbandly eye, “that you could well benefit from a few days in the country. You are very pale.” And also very enormous, he thought but did not add.
Emilia Rawlings, not a tall girl and at the best of times quite small in physique, now resembled a grape ready for the wine harvest. The child that she was carrying had dropped low, so much so that the Apothecary’s wife had taken to waddling rather than walking, an unattractive mode of gait of which she was more than painfully aware, being naturally rather graceful.
“I would love to get away but could your father cope with a woman in my condition?”
“He’s seen it all before. My mother was pregnant with his child, remember.”
“The one that died?”
“Yes.” John could have added, ‘As did she,’ but held his peace, considering his wife’s condition and not believing for a moment in deliberately frightening women who were about to give birth.
“Should we not write and ask his permission?”
“I’ll do that tonight and send Irish Tom with the letter first thing tomorrow morning. He is immensely idle at the moment as you are not going out and about.”
“He’s thoroughly enjoying himself, though.”
“That is not what I pay for him,” the Apothecary answered primly, only to hear Emilia peal with laughter.
“Don’t put that face on. Trying to be respectable simply doesn’t become you.”
“But I am respectable, very respectable indeed. People trust me with their life stories. Which reminds me…” And John told her of the extraordinary incident in his shop earlier that day.
Emilia listened, round-eyed. “You mean that this woman, this stalker, this shadow, continues to follow him about?”
“Yes.”
“How cheap. What does she look like? Is she handsome?”
“I suppose she was once. But now she relies on a powerful personality, which would be perfectly fine if it were pleasant.”
“And what about him? Is he worth all this attention?”
John leant back in his chair and laughed. “Frankly, no. He is small of eye, large of gut, and with a suspicious, florid countenance that can look quite crabby, in every sense of the word.”
“A fine couple indeed.”
“As you say. Apparently they once mated in the bath.”
“Difficult,” said Emilia, “given his physical attributes.”
The Apothecary laughed again. “You might see him if you leave for Kensington the day after tomorrow.”
“I think I will forgo the pleasure. As soon as Sir Gabriel invites me, I shall take my leave of London. Thank God it isn’t hot. Oh John, I don’t know how a woman could bear to be enceinte in the summer.”
“How long will you stay away?”
“Only a week. The baby is due in a fortnight remember.”
“How could I forget? You have been marking off the days.”
“Is it very boring of me?”
“On the contrary, it is very, very exciting.”
“Then I’ll hurry back. I don’t want you to miss anything.”
“Of course,” said the Apothecary, but his mind was not with his words. Much as he loved Emilia and was looking forward to the birth of their first child, his thoughts were going down other paths. He saw again the stricken face of Aidan Fenchurch, the faded mirthlessness of Mrs. Bussell’s smile. Was she a potential killer? John wondered, contemplating those he had known who had committed that most heinous of crimes. Without doubt the answer came back with a crystal and unnerving clarity. Ariadne Bussell would be more than capable of taking the life of anyone who in her belief had thwarted her wishes.
At daybreak Irish Tom, John Rawlings’s idiosyncratic coachman, left for Kensington, the home village of Sir Gabriel Kent, the Apothecary’s adoptive father. Within three hours he was back with an invitation for Emilia to remove herself to the fresh country air and not endanger her child by breathing in stinks.
“I shall be down on Saturday to dine,” John said, as he assisted her to clamber awkwardly into the coach.
“I shall miss you and would stay if I didn’t feel quite so heavy.”
“Make sure you eat and rest well. Labour is hard work.”
“I shall be ready for it,” Emilia answered with a definite look of panic in her eye.
“You’ll sail through,” her husband answered reassuringly, and kissed her as she leant her head out of the coach’s window, then waved farewell as Irish Tom cracked his whip, called to the animals, and the carriage set off in the direction of Kensington.
Still preoccupied with thoughts of Aidan Fenchurch and the Shadow, half wondering whether the man had exaggerated the position and was only imagining the threat that Mrs. Bussell posed, John set off to visit various patients, particularly enjoying a visit to a young woman much plagued with the illness red-eye. After trying various remedies, the Apothecary had finally decided to use bruised leaves of that most dangerous of plants, hemlock. Well aware of its deadly quality as a poison, John had insisted that his patient had put the substance nowhere near her mouth and now after a week of laying the bruised leaves on her forehead, results could be seen. The redness of the eyes had vanished and the swelling round the woman’s lids had gone.
“Well, Apothecary, you have cured me,” she said, much pleased.
John shook his head. “Let us be careful. Red-eye has a nasty habit of returning if you stop the treatment too soon. Another week of applying the leaves, I think. I’ve brought you some fresh and I want you to continue using them until I call again. Not for internal consumption, remember.”
“What would happen if I did?”
“You would be very ill and might well die. Hemlock and some of the members of its family are amongst the most deadly poisons known.”
“What are the others?”
“That,” said John, grinning at her, “would be telling. Now, I shall see you next week and expect to pronounce you recovered.”
“It will be my pleasure,” the young woman answered demurely, and dropped a somewhat flirtatious curtsey as she escorted him to the door.
The Apothecary worked on, carrying his bag himself and leaving Nicholas in charge of the shop, finally stopping and walking back to Nassau Street long after the hour to dine had officially arrived. The house was quiet with Emilia gone and John felt pleased that he had invited Aidan Fenchurch to join him for the evening. Accordingly, he had the library prepared for receiving and went to sit by the fire and read the newspaper until six o’clock came.
Sir Gabriel’s longcase clock, which played a tune upon every quarter of an hour, had been removed to Kensington, but his adopted son, missing the sound, had bought another one to replace it. Though not nearly as fine, only chiming the time rather than a melody, the Apothecary listened to it with a small part of his brain while he read, and was quite surprised when it sounded half-past the hour and there was still no sign of his guest. He rang the bell.
“Yes, Sir?” said the footman who answered.
“Nobody has called have they?”
“No, Sir. It’s very quiet in the street tonight. Only one carriage has been past all evening.”
“Well, I’m expecting a Mr. Fenchurch who is now half an hour late. Can you show him in at once. Don’t bother with his card.”
“Very good, Mr. Rawlings.”
The Apothecary read on, then, tiring of his own company, sent for his apprentice who, by custom, would not join his master unless called upon to do so.
Nicholas appeared in the library doorway. “Yes, Master?”
“Nick, sit down. I’m waiting for Mr. Fenchurch but he hasn’t yet appeared so I thought we might play chess.”
“Wasn’t he due at six?”
“Yes, and he’s now an hour late. I’m beginning to get rather concerned.”
“You don’t think Mrs. Bussell has struck, do you?” asked the Muscovite, laughing.
John regarded him seriously and the atmosphere in the room changed very subtly. “I don’t know.”
“But surely he was deluded about that. She looked formidable but she did manage to smile at me.”
“I think she smiled too much,” the Apothecary answered.
“But, Master, she was furious with you. She glared.”
“Until the moment when she decided to become winsome.”
Nicholas was silent, his amusement gone. “So you think something has happened to him?”
“I don’t know. He was an odd sort of man but not the type to be late for an appointment I would have thought. Besides, he wanted to entrust papers to me.”
“Oh dear, it doesn’t bode well, does it.”
“No,” John said. He pulled out a small table. “Let’s play. There is nothing we can do till the morning.”
“But even then what? Do you know his address?”
“No,” admitted the Apothecary with a certain reluctance. “In all the hurly-burly I forgot to take it.”
“Then,” said Nicholas solemnly, “I’m afraid we’ve lost him.”
Chapter Two
They hadn’t lost him at all, of course. As soon as John entered the shop on the following morning, he went straight to an old copy of Pigot’s Street Directory and there, listed as an importer of fine wines and spirits, was Anthony Fenchurch. The address given was Elbow Lane in the City of London.
“But I wonder where he lives,” said Nicholas, peering over John’s shoulder.
The Apothecary handed him the book with a crooked grin. “Look through, my friend, street by street. He’s sure to be somewhere.”
“But what about my work?”
“I shall take care of that.”
It was a slow day with few customers and those that there were demanding very ordinary physicks. The high spot came in a call from a salesman representing a warehouse where sheaths or cundums were manfactured. The name, of course, came from the deviser of this form of birth control. Colonel Cundum of the Guards, though the great Venetian, Casanova, also laid claim to having invented this boon to man - and woman - kind.
“Note the delicacy of the sheep gut and the satin tying ribbons, Apothecary,” said the salesman. “These sheaths - which have all been tested by blowing therein - are designed for persons of quality, no less.”
“I’ll take two dozen,” answered John, who was realistic about the need for such things. “And also some of your cheaper variety.”
“The linen soaked in brine tied with mere strings?”
“The very same.”
“Don’t forget to warn the purchaser to wash them thoroughly between uses.”
“I always do,” John replied solemnly.”You are a learned man. Apothecary.”
The salesman laid the goods upon the counter and John settled the account with money which he fetched from his strong box. As he went into the compounding room, his apprentice said, “Got him at last, Master. Here we are. Anthony Fenchurch, Five, Bloomsbury Square.”
“A good address.”
The salesman having taken his money and his leave, the Apothecary returned to the back and lifted the street directory from Nicholas’s hand.
“Yes, that’s him, all right. There can’t be two with a name like that.”
“Are you going to call, Sir?”
“I might well. I have every excuse.”
“Indeed you have. When will you go?”
“Now,” said John, on a sudden whim.
“But won’t he be at his office?”
“Even if he is, I can always leave my card. That should remind him of his broken engagement. Besides, I want to see what splendour this rich merchant lives in.”
“Do you want me to get you a chair, Master?”
“No, I’ll go to Piccadilly and pick up a hackney. I don’t want to spend long over there. I intend to be back before the hour to dine.”
“Very good, Master,” Nicholas said, and helped John into his coat.
It was an enjoyable ride, the April sun, weak but sharp, lighting The Hay Market, then The Strand and finally Fleet Street and Drury Lane, from where the carriage picked its way through the familiarity of Bow Street to Bloomsbury Square, built round a delightful garden and lying close to two great mansions, Montague House and Bedford House. John alighted from the hackney and took a turn through the beautifully pathed and kept garden before he made his way to number five.The house was large and imposing, that much he could see as he approached. But as he drew nearer, John suddenly stopped in his tracks. The curtains of every window were drawn closed and the brass streetdoor knocker was swathed in black flannel. These were the outward signs of a house in mourning and the Apothecary was seized by a terrible and constricting premonition. The need to get at the papers that Mr. Fenchurch had been due to deliver to him suddenly became of paramount importance. Despite the fact that he felt intrusive and rather lacking in good taste, John Rawlings climbed the steps and pealed the bell.
A footman answered. “Yes, Sir?”
“Forgive me for calling at such a time but I am seeking a Mr. Fenchurch. He was due to visit me last night but did not make an appearance. I can only trust and pray that no ill has befallen him.”
The footman looked angry and sad simultaneously, no mean feat.
“May I enquire who you are, Sir?”
“My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings.” And the Apothecary produced a card.
The footman took it. “I will show it to Miss Evelina, though I can tell you now that she is not receiving,” and he started to close the door in John’s face.
“One moment,” the Apothecary demanded. “At least pay me the courtesy of telling me who has died.”
The servant opened the door a crack and shouted through it. “Why, Mr. Fenchurch of course. He was set upon by two cut- purses just as he was entering his carriage. They bludgeoned him to death but ran off as they heard the watch approach. You are standing where he fell.”
The door closed firmly and John was left to look down in horror. Sure enough the cobbles had been recently cleaned, but not sufficiently. Traces of blood still lingered and there were splashes on the steps leading up to the house. Dropping to one knee, the Apothecary saw that the spray covered a wide area, consistent with a violent attack to the head. Not quite sure what to do next, he stood up again and dusted his clothes with his hand.
Devastated by what he had just heard, John stood helplessly, staring at the closed door. Even though his acquaintanceship with Aidan Fenchurch had been of the briefest, he was cut to the quick by the shocking way in which the poor man had died. What a simply tragic end. And then Aldan’s words came back to him. ‘She’ll finish me yet.’ Suddenly full of suspicion, John looked at his watch, mulling over the idea of walking to Bow Street and putting the whole thing before Sir John Fielding, one of the sharpest brains in London even though he had been blinded in an accident at the age of nineteen, an event that might have made many people retire from public life.
His very indecision gave the Apothecary the answer. Bow Street it was. The whole story of Mrs. Bussell’s obsession and her ex-lover’s mysterious death at the hands of common thieves must be related at once.
The court had risen, it being four o’clock and the time to dine, and John was shown immediately into Sir John’s salon on the first floor of the tall house in Bow Street. The downstairs rooms had been given over entirely to the work of the Public Office, and the Magistrate and his family, namely his wife Elizabeth and their adopted daughter, Mary Ann Whittingham, who was Lady Fielding’s niece, lived above. This custom had been started some years previously by a former magistrate, Sir Thomas de Veil, a sexually robust and somewhat scandalous figure, who had first taken up residence in Bow Street, thus setting the trend for others to follow. Now, as alwa
ys, John bowed low as he came into the room, forgetting momentarily, as he frequently did, that Sir John was not sighted.
“Mr. Rawlings?”
It was an incredible trick for a blind man and one that he explained away by saying that he could smell the essence of his visitor and that each scent was individual to its owner.
“Yes, Sir John.”
“My dear friend, I haven’t spoken to you in an age. Not much, indeed, since that very sad affair which began in St. James’s Palace. How are you keeping? I take it Mrs. Rawlings has not yet given birth or we would have heard of it.”
“The child is due in approximately two weeks so Emilia is in Kensington at the moment with my father. I want her to get as much fresh air as she can before her confinement.”
Sir John sighed, perhaps because of his own lack of offspring. “Exciting times. Your life will never be the same again, you know.”
The Apothecary smiled a little ruefully. “I am fully aware of that.”
The Magistrate rumbled a laugh, then said, “But I forget myself. Sit down, my friend. I trust you have not dined.”
“No, Sir.”
“Then you must join us. I insist. But first we will have some wine and converse privately. There is something in your manner that suggests to me you have a story of importance to impart.”
Marvelling yet again at his mentor’s perception, John took a seat. “There certainly is. I am greatly in need of your advice.”
Waiting until a servant had brought a rich red claret and two glasses and they were once more alone, Sir John Fielding said, “Now, what is troubling you?”
Without hesitation, the Apothecary began his story with the arrival of Aidan Fenchurch in his shop, the pursuit of her former lover by Ariadne Bussell, the arrangement the two men had made for John to take possession of Aidan’s papers, the missed appointment, then finally the discovery that the man had been murdered by common cutpurses on the very night he was to have seen the Apothecary.