Death at the Beggar's Opera

by Deryn Lake

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘That there is still such a lot of living left for you to do, both you and she. You have met too soon. It would have been better in ten years’ time.’

  ‘Yet I feel attracted to others too, that’s the devil of it. There’s a funny little seamstress with a mouth that beggars description, so beautiful and so savage that I long for its touch. Then there’s Amelia Verity who runs a hat shop in New Bond Street. What a neat and charming girl – with a business to match.’ He turned to the Comtesse in genuine bewilderment. ‘What is the matter with me, Serafina, that I like them all?’

  She held his face between her hands. ‘You are a perfectly normal young man, John. That is all that is wrong with you. If you do not believe me, ask your father.’

  ‘But what of Coralie? Is she the heartless wretch I sometimes believe?’

  ‘She is probably in exactly the same predicament as yourself, not knowing which way to turn. Remember that the affair with Jasper Harcross must have hurt her badly.’

  The Apothecary sighed. ‘Yes, you are right, of course …’

  But he could say no more, his next words drowned by a terrible commotion in the street outside. Wheeling round, both he and the Comtesse stared in amazement at the scene. Approaching his shop at great speed, not so much running as galloping, came Jack Masters of the craggy face and pipe. Right behind him, loping like a gazelle, came the tall red-headed figure of Melanie Vine. Bringing up the rear, puffing and crimson-faced and groaning with the exertion, was the rotund form of Tom Bowdler, fanning himself with his hat as he ran. Even while John gazed in astonishment, Jack shot inside.

  ‘You must come at once,’ he panted. ‘There is not a moment to lose.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked John, automatically reaching for the bag he used when visiting the sick.

  ‘It’s Clarice Martin, she’s dying. We don’t know what to do.’

  ‘What are her symptoms? You must tell me so that I can bring the right things.’

  ‘She’s been poisoned,’ gasped Melanie, hurling herself through the door. ‘We called round to see her and when we got there she was unconscious on the floor, cold as ice but in a terrible sweat.’

  ‘Has she vomited at all?’ John demanded, throwing medicaments into his bag.

  ‘Oh no,’ puffed Tom. ‘If she had I would have known at once. Can’t stand the smell.’

  ‘You should have called a local physician,’ John said frantically as they piled into a hackney obtained by Serafina from Piccadilly. ‘It’s a fair stretch to Portugal Street. She may be dead by the time we get there.’

  ‘We felt no one else should know.’

  ‘God’s great wounds! This is no time for sensitivity.’ And John groaned in despair as the driver hurled them through Leicester Fields, down Bear Street and through all the back alleys of Covent Garden in order to get them to their destination before a woman’s life came to its untimely end.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Afterwards he never knew how he had saved her. She lay on the floor, billowing like a sail, but as still and white as a ship becalmed. Kneeling down beside Mrs Martin’s body, John sniffed her breath and thought he detected, beneath the brandy fumes, the sweet smell of an extract drawn from the unripe seed capsule of a poppy. He, himself, had compounded it many times to help those in pain or who could not sleep. But it seemed that in this case a fatal dose had been administered which, together with the effects of alcohol, had all but done for Clarice Martin. To confirm his diagnosis John raised her slumberous eyelid. The pupil of the eye was minute, a mere pinpoint, while the breathing was so depressed as to be almost non-existent. Desperately, John turned to Melanie Vine, who hovered beside him like an anxious dragonfly.

  ‘She must get rid of the poison, it’s the only way. Where is her kitchen?’

  ‘Out there.’

  ‘Then bring me a bowl, a cup and a kettle full of warm water. Go on, hurry!’

  He had brought common salt, that great cure-all, with him and now he prepared to make the emetic while poor Melanie, having found the things he wanted, wept nearby.

  ‘It’s not so much that I was fond of her, in fact she was really quite terrible at times, but for all that she had a good side, a generous side. Besides, I have known her for years and I don’t like to lose my old acquaintances.’

  ‘She’s not gone yet,’ John replied grimly, administering a feather to the back of Mrs Martin’s throat.

  ‘Is this an accident or has the murderer struck again?’

  ‘It may be neither.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But John could not answer as his wretched patient began to rid herself of the fluids that were killing her, barely conscious though she was.

  An hour later it was all over. The contents of her stomach were gone and Mrs Martin had been put to bed by all four of the rescue party, lifting as one. She lay against the white sheets, totally drained of strength, still fighting for survival, for the poisonous combination of brandy and opium would by now have entered her system and there was little further that anyone could do. For all that, John sent Jack Masters, the fastest on foot, to fetch a physician.

  ‘Will she live?’ asked Melanie, taking Tom’s hand for comfort.

  ‘She might. It really is too soon to say.’

  ‘What exactly were you trying to tell me earlier when you said it might be neither accident nor murder?’

  ‘It could be a suicide attempt, Mrs Vine. I shall know a little more when I have looked at the various bottles and glasses.’

  And certainly, John thought, as he examined the brandy decanter, if this had been an attempted murder it was a very clever one. No opium had been added to the brandy, that was clear from the smell. And a patient search of the bedroom revealed an apothecary’s bottle which Mrs Martin had obviously purchased in order to help her sleep. Yet another could have been present, a person clever enough to pour a dose in Clarice’s glass while her back was turned, then wash his own and put it away. Very carefully John put the stopper back in the decanter and, together with the actress’s medicine, placed them in a cupboard which he locked, slipping the key into his waistcoat pocket. This done, he awaited the arrival of the physician, who listened to his story gravely, examined the patient, gave instructions that she should be kept warm and that he should be sent for immediately if she either regained consciousness or died, and went.

  ‘What about James?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I think he should be sent for,’ answered Jack.

  ‘I’m not certain,’ said Melanie.

  John spoke up. ‘Whatever their quarrel he might be deeply upset if you don’t at least give him the chance to see her. Why doesn’t one of you go to The Hercules Pillars and tell him?’

  They could not agree and the Apothecary left the trio of lovers arguing quietly amongst themselves, voices lowered out of respect for the patient, who still lay in that deep unnatural sleep which bodes no good.

  ‘If there is any change in Mrs Martin’s condition I’d be obliged if you could let me know,’ he said, picking up his bag and hat. ‘But for the love of God fetch the physician first this time.’

  Jack Masters got to his feet. ‘What about your bill, Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘I intend to waive it.’

  ‘I’ll hear of no such thing. You’re to send it to me, d’ye understand?’

  ‘Very well. It shall be as you say.’

  He had left Serafina to lock up his shop for him, then return the keys to Nassau Street. So now, with Bow Street so near by, the most sensible thing seemed to be to call on Mr Fielding and inform him of developments. Aware that the court would be sitting at this time, John squeezed his way into the back of the public gallery in order to listen.

  As usual, the courtroom was packed with spectators, it being considered de rigeur by the beau monde to visit the Public Office at least once a week and there enjoy the diversion of watching a blind man administer justice. And today was no exception
, for there was an exciting case to be heard. The highwayman, William Page, had been apprehended and was about to be sent for trial at the Old Bailey. Rather glad that he had chosen this occasion to make a visit, John crushed into the only space left, a minute gap between two ladies.

  William Page was an unusual robber, to say the least of it. Tall, handsome and of impeccable appearance, his game was to drive about in a phaeton and pair posing as a man of fashion. He would then disguise himself with mask and wig, unharness one of the horses, hold people up, and finally return to his other persona of perfect gentleman in order to escape undetected. John had to admit that he had a sneaking admiration for the man’s coolness and daring, and in company with the entire assembly rose to his feet to get a better view as Page was led in.

  The rogue was attractive enough to enthrall any woman, that was obvious from one quick glance at him, and there were shrieks and moans from the fair sex as he was led to the bar. Acknowledging this with a nod of his head, Page smiled directly at a woman sitting in the front row, near enough to touch him, and at this she grew faint and leant heavily on her male companion. Hoping desperately that no one in his vicinity was going to swoon, John tried to concentrate on Mr Fielding’s opening remarks and so was totally unprepared for what happened next.

  The Magistrate was just telling the accused to state his name when Page slumped forward, groaning and clutching his chest. Somewhat nonplussed, Mr Fielding, hearing the uproar, leaned over to ask Joe Jago what was going on. Even while the clerk was whispering, Page groaned again and crashed to the floor, apparently unconscious. The like of it had obviously never been seen in the magistrates’ court before. Mr Fielding, judging by the uproar all around him and the continued frantic murmurings of his clerk, realised that everything was far from well and called out, ‘It would seem that the prisoner is ill. Is there a physician in the court?’

  John stood up in his crowded stall. ‘I am an apothecary, Sir.’

  The black bandage turned sharply in his direction. ‘Is that Mr Rawlings’s voice I hear?’

  Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Then pray come round and deal with the situation, if you would be so good.’

  As John was sitting in the upper gallery, his exit was far from easy. Pushing past an inordinate number of hooped skirts, to the enormous irritation of their inhabitants, he finally managed to extricate himself, sprint down the staircase behind the raised area and enter the court through the lower door. Not hesitating a moment, John ran to the inert figure of William Page and turned him over to start his examination.

  Everything that happened after that was so quick that it was difficult to recount the sequence of events. As far as John could recall, one of Page’s eyes opened and stared into his. It was a brilliant eye, the colour of farm-brewed Somerset cider. Just for a moment this eye held his own and the Apothecary saw the highwayman mouth the words, ‘Thank you.’ Then followed a crunch on the jaw that defied belief, apparently being rendered by a fist made of iron. John just had time to say ‘What …?’ before stars flew before his eyes and the world went dark.

  He recovered consciousness in Mr Fielding’s private quarters, laid upon a neat white bed with neat white drapery in a room in which it was already growing dusk. Sitting by the bed, staring anxiously into his face, were Joe Jago and Elizabeth Fielding, the Magistrate’s wife sponging his brow with a cool cloth.

  ‘Well, that was a rum do,’ said the clerk as John’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘What happened? Did he escape?’

  ‘Of course he did.’ Jago chuckled. ‘For all he’s a rogue and a rum cove he’s a duke padder and no mistake.’

  Elizabeth looked at him reproachfully. ‘That really is no way to speak of a man who has just eluded the confines of the law.’

  The foxy-faced clerk looked as remorseful as was possible for someone with his scampish set of features. ‘Beg pardon, Madam. It’s just the sheer bravado of the man impresses me.’

  John sat up slowly, nursing his aching jaw. ‘I’ll give him bravado if he ever crosses my path again.’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon, Mr Rawlings. He just might for all that.’

  ‘One never knows.’ John looked round him, taking in the fact that it was nearly dark. ‘Is the court still sitting?’

  Jago chuckled again and earned another reproving look from Elizabeth. ‘It broke up in disarray, my friend. There were ladies fainting and gentlemen drawing swords wherever one looked. ’Twas like a scene from Hockley Hole, I can assure you. Mr Fielding banged his gavel and called for silence, threatening he would hold them all in contempt. But it was to no avail. As the villain flew out the door and into the street, so those nearest charged after him. I was so afraid you might be crushed to death in the stampede that I jumped down and picked you up myself. It took the Brave Fellows ten minutes to quell the riot.’

  ‘But how did Page escape? Surely he would have been noticed, flying full pelt down Bow Street?’

  ‘The Runner on the door said a coach was drawn up and waiting for him. He hopped in neat as you please. It was all planned, Sir. You just happened to get yourself into the middle of it.’

  John smiled painfully. ‘I agree, one has to admire the audacity of the chap.’

  ‘Now, that will be enough,’ said Mrs Fielding firmly. ‘My husband is downstairs with Miss Clive. Do you feel well enough to join them?’

  ‘I think so,’ the Apothecary answered, but was still glad of Joe Jago’s arm as they descended the bending staircase.

  It was a strange evening, for John, whether through his exertions of that morning or as a result of the fist in his face, felt in an oddly silent mood. Indeed, it was with difficulty that he recounted his story of being summoned to Mrs Martin’s side, and his fight to save her life. And even though his audience were all sympathy he longed to be out of their presence, to walk on his own and catch his breath after everything that had taken place that day. Even Coralie’s sparkling emerald gaze could not beguile him and, eventually, not knowing whether the actress had agreed to Mr Fielding’s plan or not, he begged to take his leave.

  ‘Let me get one of our carriages to take you back,’ said the Magistrate, clearly concerned.

  ‘No, I would rather walk, Sir. If Mr Page ever ceased to ride as a highwayman he could certainly make his living as a bare-knuckle fighter.’

  Coralie laughed, but sympathetically. ‘Poor Mr Rawlings, what a terrible day you have had.’

  ‘The morning was good,’ he replied enigmatically, and with those words made his departure.

  It was cold again, with the same freezing fog that had pervaded the capital the previous night. Pulling his cloak round him, John hurried along bemoaning the lack of linkmen, then realised that he must have taken the wrong turning off Drury Lane and instead of heading towards Nassau Street was going in the direction of the Seven Dials. Swearing volubly, the Apothecary was just about to change course when a figure that seemed somehow familiar came towards him out of the mist. Compelled by the notion that he must hide, John slunk into a doorway and watched as the woman went by. She had a linkman with her and, as they passed, the light of his lantern lit her features. John gasped audibly in surprise. He was looking at the saddened, but once beautiful face of Mrs Jasper Harcross.

  She must have heard him for she paused momentarily and called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘’Tis only a rat, Mam,’ answered her escort, ‘this part of London’s heaving with ’em.’

  ‘Oh God help me,’ she whispered and continued on her way.

  Any idea he might have had of following her was brought to an abrupt halt by a sudden weakness in John’s knees. Cursing the name of the debonair Mr Page, the Apothecary had no choice but to get back as best he could to the main thoroughfare, there to seek a hackney coach. But even this scheme was to be thwarted. Suddenly overcome by a feeling of nausea, John clutched at a nearby wall for support and would have fallen to the cobbles had not somebody caught him and set him back on his feet.

 
‘Mr Rawlings,’ said a startled voice, ‘whatever are you doing out this way? You haven’t come to see me, have you?’

  It was Dick Weatherby.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next hour had passed in something of a blur and John had not come fully to his senses until he had looked around him and seen that he was in his own room, in bed, with Sir Gabriel, en déshabillé in gown and turban, sitting in a chair near by. The fire had been lit and a physician hovered beside him, administering a filthy tasting potion which, for all its foul properties, seemed none the less to have restored him to a modicum of normality.

  ‘My dear child,’ said his father, ‘thank heavens to see you stirring. A message came from Bow Street that you had been involved in fisticuffs with a highwayman. God’s truth, whatever next, I ask myself.’

  The physician smiled a dry smile, somewhat typical of his profession. ‘You have certainly been struck very hard, Master John. Dear me, such pranks.’

  Not having the energy to discuss what had happened, the Apothecary simply asked, ‘As a matter of interest, what was in the potion?’

  The doctor tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah ha! A little secret remedy of my own. Not to be shared with anyone. Now, my boy, it is bed rest for you for at least a day.’

  ‘But I have to go to Chelsea tomorrow,’ John insisted. ‘It is most urgent that I do.’

  ‘You are quite definitely not to undertake any long and arduous journeys,’ and the physician shook his head.

  ‘I really must get up,’ John persisted. ‘It is imperative that I visit certain people in town at the very least.’

  ‘He’ll fret if you don’t say yes,’ Sir Gabriel assured the medical man. ‘I know him of old.’ And he smiled at John the rare and lovely smile which always warmed the Apothecary’s heart.

  The physician sighed. ‘Oh, very well. It will do you twice as much harm to lie in bed worrying as it will to exert yourself. But no visits to Chelsea, mind. You may take a carriage round the centre of town but that is all.’