Death at the Beggar's Opera

  Table of Contents

  Also by Deryn Lake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Historical Note

  By Deryn Lake

  The John Rawlings Mysteries

  DEATH IN THE DARK WALK

  DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA

  DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S TAVERN

  DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH

  DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL

  DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES’ HALL

  DEATH IN THE WEST WIND

  DEATH AT ST JAMES’ PALACE

  DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS

  DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN

  DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER

  DEATH IN HELLFIRE

  DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID

  DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST

  DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA

  A John Rawlings Mystery

  Deryn Lake

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain by

  Hodder and Stoughton 1995

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  Copyright © 1995 Deryn Lake

  The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0077-8 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  In memory of

  Shirley Russell,

  friend and agent,

  who once lived down Drury Lane.

  Chapter One

  It being an inclement day, plagued by needle-sharp rain and whipping winds, John Rawlings, after first safely locking up his shop in Shug Lane, hurried home beneath the protection of an umbrella, that useful invention from the Orient considered by many as too effeminate for a man to carry. Jumping between the puddles and avoiding the gutters, awash with indescribable and unspeakable items, John none the less considered that much as he disliked the prevailing conditions they had brought about some excellent business. As downpour after downpour had descended upon London, so had the door of his apothecary’s shop swung open, a bell attached above it ringing a warning that someone was present. And though most of this flurry of custom had come in simply to gain shelter, all had gone out holding a package of some kind; a bottle of perfume, some tablets for the gout, a cure for the clap, some carmine for a lady’s lips. Reflecting on the truth of the proverb ‘’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good’, John Rawlings hastened through the rain towards his home in Nassau Street in the parish of St Ann’s, Soho.

  The time being shortly after four o’clock on that raw autumn afternoon, the candles of number two had already been lit, and as John turned the corner of Gerrard Street and saw the welcoming glow, he ran the last short distance to his front door. Hurrying up the steps, he closed the unfashionable umbrella, handing it to the footman who answered his knock, then bounded into the hall with one of his characteristic hare-like movements.

  ‘John?’ called a voice from the library, and only stopping to remove his dripping broadcloth coat, the Apothecary went to join his father.

  This night Sir Gabriel Kent, who had adopted John Rawlings when the child had been but three years old, and was therefore a father to him in every sense but the actual, sat resplendent in a high-backed chair before a gleaming wood fire. Casually dressed, for he obviously did not intend to go forth on so foul an evening, Sir Gabriel was still wearing the black satin suit, heavily laced with silver decoration, in which he had dined. However, he had removed his high storeyed wig, an old-fashioned affair more reminiscent of the reign of the Stuarts than that of the Hanoverians, and had on his closely cropped head a black turban of particularly fine quality. As it was Sir Gabriel’s habit to affect black and white during daylight hours, black and silver for evenings and festivities, the only ornament in this striking headpiece was a silver brooch bearing a Siberian zircon, which glittered in the candlelight like a pool of iridescent water. Looking up from his book as his son entered, Sir Gabriel smiled and motioned to the chair opposite his, pouring a glass of pale sherry as he did so.

  ‘You’re home early, my dear,’ he said.

  John took the offered glass from his father’s long fingers. ‘I’m going to the theatre with Serafina and Louis, had you forgotten? She has asked me to dine with them first, so I was obliged to close the shop promptly.’

  ‘Did you do good trade today?’

  ‘Very. The world and his wife, to say nothing of a few lovers, came in to avoid the rain and not one of them left without buying something.’

  ‘Were you called out at all?’

  ‘Only to attend a rakehell who had indulged too well. He lay festering in a darkened room wishing to die.’

  Sir Gabriel laughed drily. ‘And what did you prescribe?’

  ‘I gave him a dose of salts fair set to glue him to his privy pan.’

  ‘Lud, how the world goes on!’ exclaimed John’s father, and laughed once more. ‘Now, to speak of more pleasant things. What is it you are going to see tonight? Pray remind me.’

  ‘A new production of The Beggar’s Opera, complete with special scenic effects, and mounted at Drury Lane no less.’

  Sir Gabriel closed his eyes. ‘Ah, that sweet theatre! How many happy memories I have of it. Why, it was the very first place of entertainment into which your mother ever stepped. We saw The Way of the World and she remarked afterwards how very disagreeable all the characters seemed.’

  ‘A strange comment from one who once had to exist on the streets of London.’

  John’s father sighed reflectively. ‘Despite her terrible struggles, Phyllida maintained a freshness and directness of manner which was most endearing. You have inherited something of that characteristic.’

  The Apothecary smiled naughtily, half of his mouth curving upwards in what could only be described as a crooked grin. ‘Except when I am forced to dissemble, that is.’

  ‘That apart,’ answered Sir Gabriel with a twinkle in his eye,
and put the tips of his fingers together.

  It was almost with reluctance that John Rawlings left the library, some fifteen minutes later, and made his way upstairs to change for the evening’s entertainment. Anxious though he was to meet his friends and go out with them, he never tired of his father’s company nor, indeed, of conversing with the handsome older man, whose golden eyes were so full of wit and intelligence and whose keen brain had not been dulled one whit by the passing of the years.

  As he put on his twilight clothes, John considered that of all his weaknesses his love of fashion was paramount. Indeed, had he had any other calling he would have dressed flamboyantly at all times. But the fact was that by day he must adopt sober black, for an apothecary not only made up prescriptions for doctors and surgeons but was also called upon to give medical advice and attend the sick in their homes, and for this reason could in no manner appear dandified. Therefore, at night the young man glittered like a bird of paradise by way of compensation. And this evening, knowing that he was to be in company with the exotic Serafina and her handsome French husband, John chose a suit of mulberry satin trimmed with gold, his waistcoat a riot of golden flowers and sparkling radiants.

  ‘Very fine,’ commented Sir Gabriel as his son came to bid him good night.

  ‘Too much for Drury Lane?’

  ‘Not at all. Did you not say Louis intends to have a stage box?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you will be as closely observed as the performers. Now send one of the footmen to call you a chair. You must not get so much as a drop of rain on such choice apparel. And you are most certainly not to take that terrible umbrella of yours. It would ruin the entire effect.’

  John burst out laughing. ‘Why are you so prejudiced against it? It is a very sensible piece of equipment.’

  ‘Fit for nothing but to keep the sun off dusky maidens and Eastern potentates. You would never see me abroad with such a thing.’

  The Apothecary kissed him on the cheek. ‘You would rather get soaked I suppose. Though, on second thoughts, I doubt the rain would have the temerity to fall on you.’

  And with that he made a hasty exit into the small but elegant hall of number two, Nassau Street, where he put on his cloak, before stepping outside and into the waiting sedan chair.

  It was a dismal night, dark and chilly, and after a few seconds of peering out of the chair’s window, John pulled the curtain across it and contented himself with thinking about the evening ahead, cheerfully contemplating the prospect of good company, an excellent repast and a fine theatrical performance. However, it was at that moment, just as he thought of Drury Lane, that the Apothecary felt a faint thrill of unease, which he instantly thrust aside. And yet, ignore this feeling as he might, it cast a shadow over him and he was glad when the chair was set down outside the gracious entrance to number twelve, Hanover Square, the home of the Comte Louis de Vignolles and his entrancing wife, Serafina.

  They were waiting for him in the first floor drawing room, a beautiful couple in such harmonious surroundings that John felt a catch in his throat. Once they had been at war with one another, these two people, and it had been partly through his intervention that they had come together again. So it was with extra warmth that he kissed Serafina’s hand and made his formal bow to the Comte.

  ‘My dear John,’ said the Comtesse, embracing him fondly, ‘we are so very pleased to see you. What a delight this evening is going to be, with all of us old friends together once more.’

  Again, unbidden, came the feeling of disquiet, something of which must have shown on the Apothecary’s face, for the Comtesse continued, ‘You seem anxious. What is the matter?’

  John shook his head. ‘Nothing, I assure you. Nobody could be looking forward to the occasion more than I.’ And he squeezed her hands to emphasise the point.

  A few months previously, in the summer of 1754, he had believed himself in love with her. Now he had come to his senses and simply rejoiced in the warmth of Serafina’s friendship, a far more comfortable relationship all round. None the less, this did not prohibit him from appreciating her beautiful bone structure and supple physique. Indeed, the first time he had ever seen her, John had thought of the Comtesse as a delicate racehorse of a female and his opinion had not changed during the period of their acquaintanceship.

  Kissing her hand once more, the Apothecary said, ‘You are in fine beauty tonight, Madam. So is it your intention to conceal your face with a mask?’

  Serafina touched her husband lightly on the arm. ‘Louis likes me to do so, in fact it amuses him enormously. Anyway, it is considered de rigeur at the theatre these days.’

  ‘A fashion started by yourself, no doubt.’

  The Comtesse shrugged elegantly. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’m certain of it,’ her husband put in. ‘Now, John, a glass of champagne?’ And he motioned a hovering footman to pour.

  It was at that moment that there was a knock on the front door, which opened once more. The sound of another arrival could be heard in the hall below and John knew by the very stamp of the feet and exclamations about the inclemency of the night that his old friend Samuel Swann had come to join the party. The heavy running footsteps on the curving staircase confirmed this belief, and a second or so later the great windmill of a young man burst into the room and heartily pumped the Comtesse’s hand.

  ‘Delighted to see you again, Ma’am. And you too, Sir. What an excellent notion of yours to meet like this. John, my dear fellow, how are you? It’s been an age.’ And he clapped the Apothecary on the shoulder with an embrace that rocked him on his feet.

  ‘Leading a somewhat quieter life than when I last saw you,’ said John, readjusting his coat, which had slipped down his back at the enthusiasm of Samuel’s greeting.

  ‘I should hope so indeed. But for all that it was an exciting summer, wasn’t it?’

  ‘A little too exciting,’ answered Louis, with feeling. He slipped his arm round his wife’s waist. ‘Would you agree, my dear?’

  She shook her head. ‘There can be no such thing. I love playing dangerous games.’

  ‘As we all know only too well. Now, Serafina, come back to earth and lead the gentlemen in to dinner.’

  The Comtesse smiled at her husband. ‘I can certainly obey one of your commands, but as to the other …’

  Louis shook his head. ‘I know. We shall have to wait and see.’

  Much to the annoyance of the beau monde, the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket had recently announced its intention of opening at half past seven, an hour considered very late and uncivilised and generally unacceptable. Covent Garden and Drury Lane, however, were still in favour with polite society for starting their performances at seven o’clock. It being the done thing to view the audience just as much as the play, the secret of a successful evening was to send a footman on ahead in order to obtain a box upon the stage. From this much sought after vantage point one could clearly see everyone else present and at the same time have a close-up view of the actors. Furthermore, the eyes of the rest of the world were, quite naturally, drawn to those who sat, as it were, behind the scenes, and it was a splendid opportunity to show off one’s latest gown and jewellery. There were even those so vulgar as to allow their servants to remain in the box throughout the first two acts, before finally entering during the interval to display themselves and enact the pantomime of waving at and making curtseys to all their acquaintances, all the while talking and laughing at the very tops of their voices.

  John had, in the period of one intermission, observed a beau cover and uncover his head twenty times, then wind his watch, set it, check it, take snuff so that his diamond ring would flash upon his finger, sneeze violently, dangle his cane and fiddle with his sword knot, all in fifteen minutes flat. Louis de Vignolles, however, was a man of sterner stuff and had only secured such a desirable position in order to exhibit his beautiful and somewhat notorious wife.

  There were fourteen of these stage loges at Drury Lane theatre,
arranged in two rows on either side of the stage. The rows nearer to the audience contained four boxes, the others three, with a high peephole above for those unafraid of heights. And it was to the bottom box on the left-hand side that the Comte, having paid five shillings for the privilege, led his dinner guests, sending the footman who had secured it for them up to the gallery to join his peers. In common with all the boxes, entry to the stage loges was obtained via a door at the back, through which the group now passed. This despite the fact that the parapet separating its occupants from the stage was so low as to allow the ill-mannered to step straight over, a custom much indulged in by young bloods. To the relief of Louis’s party, each of them obtained a place on a little chair, there being only four present, so no one was forced to stand behind, a most uncomfortable proceeding. Drawing his seat close to the front, John looked around him.

  Even though it was still ten minutes before seven, the theatre was already packed, the boxes, stage and otherwise, all being spoken for either by audience or servants. Most of the neighbouring loges, the Apothecary noted with dry amusement, were filled by ladies, obviously there to see Mr Jasper Harcross, without doubt one of the most handsome men alive, and tonight playing the part of Captain Macheath. In the front rows of the pit sat the critics, for this was a new production and as such would be written about in the newspapers. Behind them were congregated the true theatre lovers; merchants of rising eminence, barristers and students of the Inns of Court, mostly well read in plays, whose judgement was in general worth attending to. In the lower two galleries, for which an entry fee of a shilling and two shillings was charged, sat the middle classes in ascending order of status. While the top gallery itself was packed with servants and those of a similar stamp, who rained half eaten oranges and apples below and indulged in a fearsome volley of cat calls. As ever, John was amused to see that the Tories sat to the right of the theatre and the Whigs to the left, and felt that he could well hazard a guess as to the political leanings of Comte Louis de Vignolles.

  ‘I do believe I am being observed,’ said Serafina, close to his ear, breaking his train of thought.