by Deryn Lake
‘I could use you tonight, however,’ John answered, and Samuel’s face lit into a grin bright as a full moon.
‘What for?’
‘At the end of the evening I must call in to Drury Lane. That pathetic boy had something to tell me and the sooner I find out what it is, the better.’
‘And you want me to go with you?’
‘To be honest it’s an eerie place after dark.’
Samuel chuckled. ‘Not afraid of Jasper Harcross’s ghost, surely?’
John shook his head. ‘Probably just afraid would be nearer the truth.’
At this juncture Serafina interrupted their conversation. ‘Dear friends, let us go in to supper. Afterwards we shall play cards and await the arrival of Miss Kitty Clive.’
‘I hope you’re going to be easy on us, Comtesse,’ said Samuel jovially.
Louis interposed. ‘If she were not she could bankrupt us all in a night.’ But he smiled fondly at his wife and briefly kissed her for all his words. John, observing, felt enormously happy for them that all their earlier difficulties had been resolved. Then, looking up, he caught Coralie’s eye upon him and studiously ignored it.
It was occurring to him, ever more strongly, that the young lady was as full of temperament as every actress was reputed to be and that he, for one, had no intention of playing her silly little games of personal power.
The evening continued in this fashion, John talking to Samuel, despite the fact that he was placed next to Coralie at table, she devoting her attention to her hosts. And it was not until they had sat down to cards that she finally spoke to him once more.
‘Mr Rawlings,’ she whispered, close to his ear, ‘I believe you are not best pleased with me.’
The Apothecary turned on her a cool look that he did not even know he possessed amongst his repertoire of differing expressions.
‘That is because, Miss Clive, you continue to dig at me for the role I have been given as one of the Blind Beak’s co-opted Runners. Let me assure you that from all I have learnt about the murder victim his killer deserves a medal, yet that will not detract me one whit from keeping my promise to Mr Fielding. And if this leads you to take offence, then so be it.’ And he laid a negligent card.
‘Bravo,’ murmured Serafina, though whether she was cheering his choice of words, quietly spoken though they had been, or his method of play, he was not certain. Further speculation on this point being precluded by the arrival of Coralie’s glamorous sister, John decided to forget all about the younger actress and concentrate on the elder.
She was certainly an attractive young woman, like Coralie in many ways except for the fact that she had light blue eyes. Mr Garrick considered her one of the finest actresses of the day, and it was a fact that when she played Portia, as she had been doing tonight, she invariably reduced the house to hysterics during the trial scene by her portrayal of various well-known living advocates. Her ear was sharp, her mimicry cruel, her talent undoubted; both John and Samuel thought her absolutely fascinating and made the fact quite clear.
Just as Louis de Vignolles had promised, his wife was kind to her guests and allowed them to win on several occasions. Only once did she show her true mastery, and then with such a breathtaking display of play that everyone applauded and did not resent her in the least.
‘You are brilliant, Comtesse,’ said Kitty in genuine admiration. ‘But then, of course, you were the famous Masked Lady, were you not?’
‘Until Mr Rawlings uncovered my true identity, yes.’
John was aware of Coralie’s eyes upon him.
‘He must be very clever,’ Kitty continued, smiling. ‘Are you, Mr Rawlings?’
‘Sometimes I make lucky guesses, let me put it that way.’
‘You are too modest,’ Serafina said, then added wickedly to Coralie, ‘Never try to keep a secret from him, my dear. He’ll find it out for sure.’
‘Why are you all talking about me as if I weren’t here?’ asked John. He pinched himself. ‘I am still visible, aren’t I?’
‘Only just,’ Samuel answered, and guffawed at his own joke.
From downstairs came the sound of the great hall clock striking once and Serafina cast her eyes in the Apothecary’s direction. ‘Are you working tomorrow?’
‘No, but I have to attend the Public Office early. Mr Fielding will no doubt have some tasks for me, so unfortunately I will have to take my leave.’
‘And I,’ Samuel said, springing to his feet surprisingly steadily for one who had consumed a great deal of champagne, to say nothing of wine and port.
‘Ladies, do not desert us please,’ pleaded the hostess, but Kitty was already shaking her head.
‘I have a ten o’clock rehearsal tomorrow so, sorrowfully, we too must go. Gentlemen, may I offer you a lift in my carriage? It awaits outside.’
‘Actually,’ said John, ‘we are going to Drury Lane. I have to see Will.’
‘What about?’ asked Coralie, surprise in her voice.
‘He came into my shop earlier, obviously wanting to speak to me. But it was very crowded and he went away again. He looked worried about something so I thought I would try and see him tonight.’
‘He’ll be asleep,’ the actress answered.
If they had been alone together privately, John would have challenged her, asked her why she didn’t want him to talk to the child, but as it was he let the matter pass.
‘I shall visit you in Shug Lane very soon,’ said the Comtesse as she kissed him goodbye.
John’s mobile eyebrows rose in query, but Serafina merely laughed at him and turned to her other guests. And then they were outside in the bitter cold, clambering into Kitty Clive’s splendid equipage and driving down Piccadilly towards The Strand.
‘We’re taking you out of your way,’ said Samuel, not so much apologising as commenting when the driver struck out in the direction of Covent Garden.
‘Not at all,’ answered Kitty, ‘but we won’t wait for you if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ John put in. ‘Samuel and I will hire a hackney home. He can spend the rest of the night in Nassau Street.’
Coralie spoke out of the darkness. ‘I haven’t behaved very well recently, have I?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Kitty.
‘Mr Rawlings knows.’
‘And Mr Rawlings forgives,’ answered John, as the coach drew to a halt before the dark shape of the deserted theatre.
‘Do you?’ Coralie asked wistfully as the Apothecary descended the two steps down to the street, Samuel immediately preceding him. For answer John remounted the bottom step and leant into the carriage. ‘Come here,’ he said.
She leant forward, imagining he had something to say to her. But John was beyond words. Instead he kissed her, full on the mouth, letting his lips linger for several sensual seconds before he bowed, said, ‘Good night,’ stepped down to the street and closed the carriage door.
‘Hare and hounds!’ exclaimed Samuel. ‘That should give her something to think about.’
‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘You’ve got your nerve, you know.’
‘She drove me to it.’
Samuel chuckled. ‘I rather thought you two didn’t like one another.’
‘That,’ said John with a sigh, ‘remains to be seen.’
Chapter Thirteen
It had not occurred to the Apothecary, or to Samuel Swann for that matter, that gaining entry to Drury Lane theatre might be difficult. Despite the lateness of the hour both had expected the stage door to be open and Will not yet abed. But it seemed that there they had miscalculated. Everything was locked and shuttered and the place in total darkness, not so much as the glow of a candle lighting the interior.
‘Now what do we do?’ Samuel asked, aware that with their conveyance gone they might well have to face the prospect of walking home through London’s dangerous streets.
John frowned. ‘I would say forget the visit until tomorrow were it not for a strange
feeling I have. Something caused that boy to take fright and run off, though I can’t for the life of me think what it could have been. Now I believe he dearly wants to speak to me.’
‘Perhaps it was the sight of the fat lady,’ said Samuel.
‘What?’
‘Perhaps he mistook the large woman for Mrs Martin.’
John gazed at him in the faint winter moonlight. ‘God’s wounds, but you’re right! Why didn’t I realise it before? He must have glimpsed her disappearing into the compounding room and made a mistake.’
The Goldsmith’s honest features took on a look of concern. ‘From what you say, Will must be very frightened indeed. I think we should try and effect an entry.’
‘By force?’
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘Good,’ said John, the wild side of him relishing the adventure, and beckoned his friend to walk round the theatre in order to try all the entrances.
Fortunately, one of the scenery doors had not quite caught on its latch and by careful insertion of his herb knife, the carrying of which was a patent affectation in the heart of London but one that the Apothecary refused to give up, it swung silent back on its hinges.
‘It’s damnably dark inside,’ whispered Samuel, peering into Drury Lane’s fathomless depths.
‘Very,’ agreed John, and a most unpleasant feeling, practically one akin to horror, crawled the length of his spine.
‘I wonder if there’s a candle anywhere,’ Samuel went on, taking a few tentative steps into the abyss.
‘We’ll never find it even if there is.’ John raised his voice a little. ‘Will, don’t be afraid. It’s John Rawlings, the apothecary, come to see you. Where are you?’
There was no reply and John had the odd sensation of hearing his words come back to him through layers of muffling cloth. The curtains were obviously drawn across the stage, adding to the impenetrable dusk.
‘Where can he be?’ asked Samuel.
‘Probably asleep. He sleeps very soundly, sometimes aided by some sort of opiate in my opinion.’
‘I hope he’s all right,’ the Goldsmith continued, and suddenly there was a note of genuine fear in his voice.
‘William,’ John called again, this time more urgently, but still there was no answer, only the unnerving echo of his own disembodied tones.
They had been standing in the dark for several minutes now and slowly, as their eyes adjusted, vague shapes began to rear out of the shadows. It was apparent that they were in one of the scenery bays, those roomy areas backstage where flats and other theatrical contrivances are stored when not in use. To their left was the great expanse of the stage itself, still set for The Merchant of Venice and strangely haunted-looking because of the fact that the auditorium was blocked off by drapery. To the right were the scenery doors, a chink of moonlight glinting through. Beyond the stage, invisible in the blackness, lay the staircase leading to the dressing rooms and, on stage level, the properties and costume rooms, together with the Green Room and various other bits of storage space.
‘The child told me he had a bed in the properties room,’ John said to Samuel, finding that his voice had dropped to a nervous murmur.
‘Then we had better go and look for him. It shouldn’t be too difficult once we’ve crossed the stage,’ Samuel answered, bravely striking out and instantly tripping over some furniture and falling flat, then rising again amidst a great deal of cursing.
What, when the theatre was lit and the audience assembled, was normally a haven of pleasure now seemed a pit from hell. As uncertain as blind men, the two friends stumbled and felt their way across the arena of Drury Lane Theatre until at last they entered the opposite wing. Here they were helped by a small amount of moonlight coming through a barred window next to the stairs, and it was by this pallid illumination that they crept along the corridor from which doors led off to the various rooms.
‘Which is the properties room?’ Samuel asked quietly.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been in there. This is the Green Room for sure,’ John answered, opening and closing a door after staring into the dimness beyond.
‘But where’s the boy? Surely he should have heard us by now?’
‘As I said, the poor thing sleeps deeply.’
But even as the Apothecary spoke the words, alarm plucked the strings of his heart and the spine-freezing hand of fear laid itself upon him once more.
‘There’s something wrong,’ he exclaimed involuntarily.
‘I know,’ Samuel answered.
They stared at one another in the sickly moonlight and then, with one accord, began wrenching open doors and calling the child’s name. As is always the way in awful situations, the properties room was the very last they came to, even though they instantly recognised the place for what it was by the ceiling-high pile of everything from Roman armour to Macbeth’s great chair of state.
‘Will,’ called John loudly, striding in. ‘Will, where are you?’
No sleepy little voice answered from the pile of bedding clearly visible beneath one of the two windows, and no ugly-faced child got to his feet, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
‘Where is he?’ asked Samuel, clutching the Apothecary’s arm in panic.
‘Not here, certainly.’
‘Then what …’ The Goldsmith’s voice died away as his attention was caught by something else. ‘My God, isn’t that the gallows over there?’ And he pointed with a broad finger, now visibly trembling.
Caught by the rays of watery moonshine, John looked across to where the mobile, the contraption on which Jasper Harcross had met his death, had been pushed into a corner. It loomed, dark and somehow threatening, in the place to which it had been removed once Mr Fielding had given permission for it to be taken from the stage.
‘I would like to chop the vile thing up for firewood,’ Dick Weatherby had told John in confidence. ‘But, alas, the Blind Beak said it would be destroying evidence.’
‘And so it would,’ the Apothecary had answered.
Obviously, the fate of the murder platform had been to store it in the properties room, from whence it could be retrieved should further examination prove necessary. But none of this was in John’s mind as he stared in growing horror at the evil piece of stage machinery. For it seemed to him in the blurred and imperfect light that Jasper’s body still dangled from the noose, lifeless but swaying slightly in the draught created by the open door. But just as John remembered that there was no noose, that it had been cut down, still round the actor’s neck, he saw Samuel spring into action.
“Sblud, John, there’s someone hanging there! Oh God help us, there’s been another murder!’
As if released from a dream, realisation came to the Apothecary at exactly the same moment, and he and Samuel sprinted forward, knocking things flying as they went.
‘It’s the child!’ screamed the Goldsmith, more agitated than John could ever remember him. ‘It’s the poor, innocent boy.’
‘We must cut him down!’ John yelled, his voice rising to a note of hysteria. And with that came the memory that he had used virtually the same words about Jasper.
But here all similarity ceased. As Samuel, with his commanding height, slashed through the rope with Macbeth’s dagger, unusually sharp for a stage weapon, and the pathetic body was lowered into John’s arms, the Apothecary realised that Will and Jasper Harcross had been doomed to die in entirely different ways. Whereas the actor had been spared the agony of slow suffocation, the theatre boy had not. Wretched, tragic Will, who had started his life abandoned outside the Foundling Hospital, had met his dismal little end in pain and suffering. His callous killer had strung him up and left him there to die.
But for all that, the Apothecary tried every skill at his command to restore life. He had supported Will carefully as he was lowered, in order to put no further strain on the neck, and now that the noose was within his grasp he loosened and removed it. Then he pumped fiercely on the heart and blew into the child’s mouth, a str
ange technique which he had been taught by his Master, and which still needed some form of perfecting in order to succeed properly. Yet though he worked for a full quarter of an hour, willing that small, sad heart to start its beat beneath his hands, poor Will remained lifeless.
‘It’s no use,’ said John, his face white as lace in the moonlight. ‘I can’t save him.’
‘By God,’ answered Samuel fiercely, ‘this man has to be caught! To kill Jasper Harcross is one thing, but to take the life of a blameless child is entirely different. Who could possibly do such a thing – and why?’
‘Perhaps because the poor little wretch remembered something,’ John replied slowly. ‘I told him when I questioned him that if he were to recall anything further about the night before the murder, he was to tell me at once.’
‘But even if he had remembered something vital, how could anybody else have known that?’
‘Because he obviously confided in another, and that person was the wrong one to speak to. Will was silenced before he could get to me, don’t you see?’
‘I see only too clearly,’ Samuel answered grimly. ‘If he had spoken to you in the shop, if the fat lady hadn’t frightened him off, all this could have been avoided.’
‘Oh don’t, don’t,’ John said wretchedly. ‘I cannot bear even to think about it.’
‘You must not take that guilt on yourself,’ was Samuel’s sensible reply. ‘What happened, happened. The child ran away and that was that.’
John looked thoughtful. ‘He must have hastened back to Drury Lane and bumped into someone and decided to tell them everything. Now who could have been in the theatre at that time?’
‘Any of ’em,’ his friend answered morosely. ‘It seems to me that they are always hovering round the place, rehearsing and so on.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ In the gloom the Apothecary stared at his watch. It was half past two in the morning. Samuel, reading his thoughts, said, ‘Is it too late to rouse the Beak?’