by Deryn Lake
‘He’s back,’ he gasped. ‘Sir Vivian has returned. He must find neither of you here. Jack, out of the window and leg it to the coach house. John, into this cupboard and don’t make a sound.’ And without ceremony he bundled the Apothecary into a cupboard containing candlesticks and candles, where he crouched uncomfortably beneath the bottom shelf.
There was the sound of someone else coming in and approaching the chair into which Orlando had thrown himself, picking up a book at random.
‘My dear,’ said Sir Vivian’s voice, ‘you seem out of breath. Have you been running?’
‘I hurried back from the grounds when I saw your coach coming through the gates.’
‘Taking the air? How very unlike you.’
‘The weather is oppressive, don’t you think? I stepped outside in order to breathe more freely.’
There was something sarcastic and sharp about the way in which Sir Vivian addressed his nephew, almost as if he didn’t believe a word he said. With a sinking heart, John hoped that Jack hadn’t been seen sprinting towards the coach house.
Orlando spoke again. ‘I had not expected you back, Uncle. I thought you had gone to dine in Bristol.’
‘That was cancelled, my dear, and so I would have informed you had you been good enough to put in an appearance at breakfast this morning. But I was told when I enquired of your valet that you had risen with the lark and gone into Bath to take the waters. Such strange behaviour I can hardly credit. It is almost as if you have reconsidered your avowed intent to kill yourself by the time you are twenty-five.’
There was a noise from the chair, and through the door crack John saw that Orlando was stretching and yawning in his usual languid pose. ‘Damme, no. Nothing will shake me from that resolve. If drink don’t get me, then the pox surely will.’
‘You bloody little fool …’ Sir Vivian started, but Orlando cut across him.
‘Don’t worry, Uncle dear. I haven’t got it yet. The creatures I corrupt are still as pure as snow.’
Sir Vivian breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘Make sure it stays that way.’
‘You can count on it.’
The beau got up and disappeared from John’s eyeshot, but he heard him move across the room.
‘And what would my beloved uncle like to do now that he finds he has the afternoon to himself?’
There was a reply but the words were uttered in such a low tone that John could not hear them.
‘Very well,’ Orlando answered with just the slightest edge to his voice. ‘If that is your pleasure.’
‘It will be a pleasure indeed,’ Sir Vivian said glutinously. ‘It is quite some considerable while since we went there.’
‘Then allow me to escort you,’ Orlando replied, and John heard him lead the older man from the room.
The Apothecary cautiously opened the door and, seeing the window through which Jack had departed still open, stepped through it and into the garden. Then, by means of dodging from tree to tree, he made his way to the gates, only stopping once to listen to the distant sound of voices coming from a little temple which stood in the gardens. But he was too far away to identify who was speaking, and as thunder was now rolling overhead, the Apothecary decided that to make a hasty retreat was the wisest course. Indeed he did not stop again until he had reached the city of Bath.
Chapter Eleven
Much put out that there was no seat available on the overnight flying coach to London, John was forced to take a place on the slower conveyance which stopped for the night at The Pelican near Newbury. Setting off again after breakfast, a hearty affair which he much enjoyed, the Apothecary finally arrived at St Paul’s late in the afternoon, irritated that the journey had taken a full twenty-four hours but pleased that he was not exhausted through lack of sleep. Taking a hackney coach, John went straight to the Public Office in Bow Street to report his somewhat extraordinary findings to Mr Fielding.
The court was still in session, and John stood at the back of the public seats to hear the final cases, one in particular catching his attention. Mr Fielding was evincing every sign of not being trifled with by a thickset young man who stood at the examination bar staring truculently around him.
‘This is a pack of lies,’ he shouted, even before Joe Jago had opened his mouth.
The Magistrate ignored him. ‘Read the charges,’ he boomed, his voice drowning all other sound.
Joe cleared his throat and with a long finger scratched the red curls that peeped out from beneath his wig.
‘That the prisoner, William Barnard, a former employee of the Duke of Marlborough, did make threats against the person of the Duke and sent him threatening letters. Further, he called upon several occasions at the Duke’s London residence where he threatened the male servants and made indecent proposals to the female.’
There was a stifled giggle which the Blind Beak quelled simply with a movement of his head.
‘Is the Duke in court?’
‘No, Sir. He made a verbal charge to the Public Office which I have here in the form of a statement.
‘That will suffice,’ replied Mr Fielding, which surprised John, who knew how particular the Magistrate normally was about the complainant being present at the hearing. The Beak turned his eyes, hidden by the familiar black bandage, in the direction of Barnard. ‘How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty. The old fool bears a grudge against me.’
‘I would rather take the word of a peer of the realm to that of someone who is not even a gentleman,’ John Fielding answered in a highly elitist manner. ‘Six months in Newgate.’
Somewhat startled by the peremptory fashion in which the Beak had administered justice, John turned his attention to the final case.
A complaint had been lodged by an extremely brave member of the public, a young man called Joshua Merryweather, who openly admitted to frequenting brothels, against Mother Cocksedge, an infamous brothel keeper with an equally disgusting nickname, always used because nobody knew what she was actually called. Mother had premises right next door to the Public Office and, as if this weren’t enough, it was now alleged that she had employed a girl of eleven as a prostitute, and by doing so had broken the law.
‘And you admit to seeing this child while you were actually in the brothel?’ asked Mr Fielding in ringing tones.
‘I not only saw her, Sir. I witnessed her going to a room with a man for the purposes of having sexual intercourse.
There was a stunned silence in court which John felt certain was hypocritical in many cases. Children were exploited ruthlessly by parents too poor to keep them. The sons were turned out of doors to become pickpockets, the daughters whores. He was absolutely certain that there was not one person present who did not know it, and further that many of the men in court had taken advantage of under-age girls.
‘This kind of criminal activity must stop,’ replied Mr Fielding sombrely. ‘Half the females working in brothels are aged between twelve and eighteen. As some members of the public here present may well be aware, the appeal for support of my plan to set up a refuge for these defenceless creatures is under way. In fact the first batch of youngsters was admitted to the Female Orphan Asylum on July fifth this year. I ask anyone present who would care to make a subscription to this worthy cause to contact the Duchess of Somerset, who heads the list of benefactors.’ The Magistrate paused in order that his words might sink in, then he turned once more to young Mr Merryweather. ‘I must ask you one final question, Sir.’
‘And what is that?’
‘How did you know the girl was under twelve years old?’
‘Because Mother Cocksedge had offered her to me, Mr Fielding, but thinking she looked so terribly young I asked the child her age, and she told me eleven.’
‘Remember, Mr Merryweather, that you are on oath.’
‘I do remember, Sir. Indeed I do.’
The Magistrate turned his blind gaze on Mother Cocksedge, who stood where young Barnard had, facing Joe Jago and John Fielding, the
Beak raised above her on a dais. ‘What have you to say for yourself, woman?’
‘I didn’t know her age, I swear it. Why, she said to me she was fifteen.’
‘I don’t believe you. If the child told Mr Merryweather the truth why should she not tell you?’
‘Because she wanted the work, see. These girls will say anything to get into a comfortable establishment like mine.’
Mr Fielding lost his temper in a spectacular manner. ‘How dare you utter such words. It is you and your evil kind who are ruining these children. Whether the girl is eleven or fifteen makes no difference whatsoever in this sordid case. You should not have employed so tender a creature in the first place. Now, get you gone to Newgate for a year. You are not fit to walk the streets with decent citizens.’
A Runner moved forward to take the woman down, but not before she had shot one contemptuous look at the public gallery and shouted, ‘How fine, Mr Beak, to punish me for the sins of all those gallant gentlemen sitting there. Why, if they were not so obsessed with the delights of young flesh I would not have to cater for their lewd and jaded tastes by providing it.’
There was so much truth in what she said that John, brim full of all the things he had recently heard, shivered. But Mr Fielding would have none of it. Rising to his full height of over six feet, he shouted, ‘Take that woman below.’ Then he swept from the court, clearly indicating that the day’s business was concluded. Joe Jago, looking somewhat flustered, announced officially that the court had risen, while the spectators, excited by all the scandal and drama, hurried out in a throng, jamming the doorway. John, thinking better of reporting to the Magistrate in his present state of mind, followed on behind, wondering what he ought to do next.
The urge to chat to someone was strong, and the urge to see Coralie Clive even stronger. Almost acting of their own accord, the Apothecary’s feet set off down Bow Street in the direction of The Strand and the house in Cecil Street that Miss Clive shared with her famous sister, Kitty. Not wishing to arrive empty-handed, he called into a shop famous for its chocolate and there procured some sweetmeats to take with him.
Quite the lovelorn suitor, he thought to himself, and had to smile at the memory of the number of years he had spent hankering after the actress, even though there had been dalliances in other directions in the interim. Rather sadly remembering his last liaison, an affaire with a girl who had lived close to the Romney Marsh, John felt an overwhelming desire to make love to Coralie, then wondered how he was ever going to achieve so difficult an objective.
The individual houses of Cecil Street differed somewhat in date, though most appeared to have been built within the last fifty years. At the bottom of the street was an archway, from which a flight of steps led to a passageway running down to the river. The last house but one before the arch, on the left-hand side as one walked down from The Strand, belonged to the Clive sisters, and was one of the oldest in the row. Built during the reign of William and Mary, it was recognisable by its mellow brick facade, its wide square windows, and the generous proportions of its front door.
A footman answered the bell, not the usual glum kind but quite a friendly chap, who looked as if he might at one time have been an actor, perhaps not too successfully, and had therefore decided to cut his losses and become the trusted servant of two young actresses. He also had the appearance of someone perfectly used to dealing with admirers hopefully calling to visit one or other of the beautiful and talented sisters Clive.
‘Yes, Sir?’ the man said cheerfully.
‘I wondered whether Miss Coralie was at home. I am an old friend of hers, John Rawlings.’
‘Is she expecting you, Sir?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I just wanted to have a brief word with Miss Coralie and give her these.’
And John rather lamely held out the box of sweetmeats.
The servant inspected them with a practised eye. ‘Miss Coralie is at home, Sir, but might well be resting. I shall go and make enquiries. Do kindly take a seat in the anteroom. You will find a copy of today’s newspaper to look at.’
He gave John an extremely knowing smile, took his card and placed it on a silver tray, then ushered him into a small room, comfortably furnished and with copies of various journals scattered about upon a table. The Apothecary took a seat, wondering how many other gallants had sat there before him, nervously turning the pages of The Gentleman’s Magazine, and imagining themselves in love with either Kitty or Coralie. For it was an irresistible combination; two beautiful women, gifted and famous, adored by the theatre-going public, and neither of them married.
The manservant returned, dark eyes twinkling. ‘Miss Coralie will see you in the upper salon, Sir. Miss Kitty will join you later.’
‘I am honoured,’ John answered, meaning it, and followed the footman up a flight of gracefully curving wooden stairs.
The interior of the house was charming. Wooden floors glowed with wax, and the Clive sisters had decorated with a great deal of style. The room in which Coralie awaited him had been painted a charming shade of deep blue, its furnishings, other than for the wooden pieces, harmonising in a darker shade of the same colour. Almost as if she had done it deliberately, the actress was dressed in iris-blue satin, a colour that enhanced her dark beauty to the point where John could have made a fool of himself and declared his feelings there and then. Instead he bowed formally.
‘How kind of you to receive me. It was unpardonable of me to call without an appointment but I just happened to be passing your door.’
Coralie laughed and indicated the chair opposite hers. ‘Really? What a happy coincidence, for I was on the point of writing you a letter.’
John’s face lit up. ‘Were you? What was it going to say?’
‘That as it is Bartholomew Fair fortnight and the theatres are consequently closed, I felt like a little frivolity and wondered whether you would care to escort me out on the town.’
‘Gladly, Madam. Where do you wish to go?’
‘Why, to the fair itself. Kitty is acting there at Mr Timothy Fielding’s booth. Mrs Cibber will also be taking part.’
‘She was in Bath a few days ago.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Do I take it that that means yes?’
‘Of course it does. I’m sorry, I wandered off at a tangent. I have just returned from that city.’
‘Where you had travelled at the behest of the Blind Beak. Am I right?’
‘Perfectly. By the way, is Timothy Fielding any relation?’
‘A cousin, I believe. Now, may I offer you some refreshment?’
‘I would adore a sherry. A crisp, pale, nutty sherry.’
‘Then you shall have one,’ said Coralie, and rang the bell.
The empathy between them had never been better. So much so that John felt yet another rush of relief that, despite the actress’s many denials that there had been a tendresse between herself and the Duke of Richmond, the attractive young peer was safely wedded and bedded and no longer posing a threat. It was at that moment in his deliberations that Kitty Clive, as dark as her sister but with brown eyes rather than green, entered the room, expressing surprise that her sibling had a visitor, though John had a strong suspicion that the redoubtable manservant must already have informed her.
She swept a curtsey that would have done credit to the stage at Drury Lane. ‘My dear Mr Rawlings, how very nice to see you again. What brings you to our home?’
‘John is taking me to Bartholomew Fair, Sister. We are resolved to see how you proceed in Mr Fielding’s booth.’
Kitty gave a tinkling laugh, the kind that sounded as if it had been practised long and hard. ‘Timothy’s booth, let me hasten to assure you, is lined with green baize and lit by many lamps. It is a superior place of entertainment and not some cheap fairground stall.’
‘I spoke in jest,’ said Coralie soothingly. ‘It is a well-known fact that the main attraction at the fair is the theatrical performances. They alone draw the town.’
‘You are
a silken-tongued flatterer,’ Kitty answered, and once more laughed charmingly.
She was behaving delightfully, but all the time John had the feeling that she was regarding him shrewdly, ready to tell her sister exactly what she thought of him when they were alone together. Longing to make a good impression, John said, ‘I am currently working with Mr Fielding, investigating a mysterious death which took place at the Peerless Pool.’
Kitty arched her brows. ‘How unfortunate. Did somebody drown?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘The woman concerned was weighted down and thrown into the Fish Pond while she was still alive.’
The actress shuddered. ‘How frightful. I simply don’t know how you can bear to delve into these sordid cases, Mr Rawlings.’
Slightly impatient with her attitude, John answered, ‘Because I like to see justice done, Madam. And if I can be instrumental in bringing a villain to book, then I will gladly give my services.’
‘That is all very noble,’ Kitty answered with just the slightest note of acerbity, ‘but what of the danger? When my poor sister offered to help over that unfortunate affair at The Beggar’s Opera, she nearly met her end at the hands of a madman.’
‘John saved my life on that occasion,’ Coralie put in quietly.
Kitty persisted. ‘Indeed you did, Sir. But if you had not been there, what then? I truly believe that Mr Fielding should use his Runners to search for thieves and murderers and not involve ordinary members of the public like yourself.’
‘Even though it is my wish?’
‘Even though it is your wish.’
John gave one of his eloquent shrugs. ‘Then there is nothing more to be said.’ He turned to Coralie. ‘May I take you to dine before the fair?’
‘No, let us eat there. It will be amusing to observe who is present, despite their protestations that it is not the place to be seen at.’
‘Quite so. Then let me suggest we leave shortly so that we can get ourselves a good table.’