Death at St. James's Palace Read online

  Digby was silent a moment, considering. Then he said, "About sixteen, seventeen at the most."

  John nodded. "Thank you. An interesting age indeed. Exactly the same as our missing Lucinda."

  By this time it was far too late for the Apothecary to go to Shug Lane, a fact for which he was extremely grateful, so instead he decided to wait for Nicholas Dawkins to come home, then to hold a conversation with him before Emilia became involved. In the event, it couldn't have worked better. His wife, tired by the excitement of the day, retired to bed early and John was left to snooze before the library fire, waking as Nicholas, who as a trusted apprentice had a key to the house, let himself in through the front door.

  "Nick," called his Master, "come here and have a sherry. There is much to talk about."

  The Muscovite appeared a second later looking somewhat apprehensive. "Sir?"

  John came straight to the point. "Lucinda's gone, run away from the house. Apparently a member of her family is ill. Tell me what you know about it." He poured a substantial glass and motioned his apprentice to a chair.

  "It's her brother, Master."

  "I thought as much. He's very sickly I believe."

  "Very. He attends the school that she fled from. But now she has risked all and gone there to be with him."

  "Oh my God. I'm sure that headmaster will force her back if he can."

  "She says she will invoke her mother if she has to."

  John refilled the Muscovite's glass. "Nick, who is Lucinda's mother? Do you know? If so I enjoin you to tell me. It would make things so much easier for the girl."

  The apprentice shook his head. "Master, she has never confided in me, being determined to keep the secret. But I have taken a guess."

  "Who? Who do you think it is?"

  "Miss Chudleigh," Nicholas answered.

  The Apothecary almost dropped his sherry. "Miss Chudleigh?" he repeated, astonished.

  "Lucinda said that her mother was close to the court and had aristocratic connections. It is also widely rumoured - I have heard great ladies in the shop discuss it - that Miss Chudleigh, in the past, gave birth to a child, or two, which she kept utterly concealed from the world in general."

  "Good gracious! But I must admit it would make an awful kind of sense. Even the close proximity of the school takes on another meaning."

  "That is how I reasoned it," said Nicholas enthusiastically.

  "Did you put this to Lucinda?"

  "No, she is so vehement about protecting her mother's identity that I thought it would only provoke an argument."

  "Urn."

  The Apothecary was silent, remembering something. How Emilia, whilst in Miss Chudleigh's house, had spoken of women who abandoned their babies and how George Goward had waved his fingers at the hostess and made a remark that some mothers put their newborn infants out to cruel guardians. Then another memory came. Of two people speaking in The Hercules Pillars, of the woman accusing the man of betraying her secret and saying that, if pushed, she would not hesitate to betray his. The Apothecary had seen the back of them as they left. Surely he would not be fanciful in thinking, in hindsight, that they might well have been Elizabeth Chudleigh and George Goward.

  "Do you know, Nick, I think you might well be right," John said now.

  "About what?"

  "About Miss Chudleigh being Lucinda's mother. I think I shall have to call when I go to Kensington tomorrow."

  "You are going to fetch Lucinda back?"

  "I am going to see how I can help her, yes."

  The Muscovite looked terribly eager. "Sir, may I come with you?"

  "No, my friend, you may not. You would only complicate the issue further. Besides, the shop must open and only you are there to do it."

  Nicholas shifted in his chair, "But I am so worried about her."

  "I understand that. But I really think that this problem would be best left to me. Now, go and get some supper. You must keep your strength up if we are to succeed."

  "But, Master..."

  "No further argument, Nick. My mind is made up."

  With every sign of reluctance, his apprentice left the room, while John settled himself to read for a while before he went to bed. But yet again he was to be thwarted. The doorbell pealed once more and a hearty laugh in the hallway as the visitor was let in announced that his old friend Samuel Swann had called. John put the book aside and rang a bell for port to be brought up from the cellar, mentally preparing himself for a possible late night.

  "My dear chap," said the Goldsmith, coming into the room like a boisterous dog, "how good to find you in. I have just come directly from the Public Office." He looked important.

  "Really? Do tell me," John answered, masking a smile, for it was obvious that Samuel was simply bursting to reveal all.

  "I called on Mr. Fielding - I mean Sir John. As you know. I've offered my services to help with the current case, and he has finally found something for me to do. Apparently there are two witnesses - a brother and sister called Witherspoon - who live in Islington. As you know, my dear papa lives there and Sir John thought that visiting him would provide a splendid excuse for you and I to bump into them, accidentally but on purpose if you see what I mean."

  "He wants me to be with you?"

  "Yes, indeed. I don't think he completely trusts me to handle them on my own, more's the pity." Samuel laughed robustly.

  "And when does he want us to go?"

  "As soon as possible. They were standing on the stair quite close to George Goward, or so it seems."

  John felt very fractionally irritated. "Yes, I know. Miss Chudleigh told me of them. She says that their relationship is quite possibly incestuous."

  Samuel's honest countenance looked deeply shocked. "Oh surely that can't be true."

  "Well, we have yet to meet them. Perhaps they are riddled with corruption and vice and capable of doing anything."

  "Oh dear."

  "Anyway, my old friend, they must wait a day or two. I have another crisis on my hands. Lucinda has run away." And the Apothecary explained, while the port was poured and Samuel settled himself comfortably, all that had been going on, even down to the extraordinary fact that there had been thirteen pages-of-honour present on an occasion where normally there should have been only twelve.

  The Goldsmith listened, very nearly open-mouthed when it came to the description of the incredible Jack Morocco. "Damme, what a character. Is he then a Moor?"

  "No, African I imagine. The name is probably a jest on the Duchess's part."

  "D'ye know. I've heard of him. I believe he teaches riding and fencing at a school for young bloods."

  "He does at that. Not that he spends a lot of time there. He had a very beautiful girl with him this morning and appeared more devoted to her than to giving his lessons."

  "From what I hear, she is just one of a string. And I believe his extravagant parties are the talk of town. He seems to lead an enchanted life."

  "What a lucky man he is," said John. "For it occurs to me that the ultimate cruelty meted out to the majority of black boys is that after a life of pampering and cosseting, as much loved as a pet dog, they are sent back to slavery and degradation as soon as hairs begin to sprout upon their body."

  "It doesn't seem very fair."

  "Fair! It's downright evil. Better to go straight into servitude than be shown kindness only to have it snatched away for the sin of growing up."

  Samuel sighed. "There's little we can do about it. Anyway, about Morocco. You say he was standing on the staircase, close to where George Goward fell?"

  "Yes, and there's something he wants to tell me. That much was obvious when we met at Ranelagh."

  "Will you seek him out?"

  "If he doesn't come to me first."

  Samuel shifted his large frame. "I take it you're intent on finding this girl before you see the Witherspoons."

  "I think she could be in danger."

  "Then allow me to accompany you, my friend. I promised Sir Jo
hn that I would help and I have no wish to delay longer."

  There was no way in which Samuel could be dissuaded without hurting his deepest feelings and loving his old friend as he did, the Apothecary had no intention of doing that. However, there was a possible way out.

  "I intend to leave for Kensington very early tomorrow morning. What about your shop?"

  "My apprentice can manage for a day or so. May I beg a bed for the night?"

  "Of course," John said with resignation.

  "Then it will be just like the old days," Samuel answered cheerfully, leaving the Apothecary to smile to himself and wonder when, if ever, his old companion would finally grow up.

  Despite Nicholas Dawkins's pleading looks, John did not waiver but sent his apprentice off to Shug Lane even earlier than usual. Then, deciding that they would breakfast at The Hercules Pillars, he and Samuel set off.

  It seemed that the world and his wife were out that day, for the coaching inn was packed with a wonderment of characters. Two stages had arrived simultaneously, pouring their contents within, and at the same moment a private coach had disgorged its elegant passengers, very finely dressed in shades of crimson and puce, all these varied people rubbing shoulders together in the confined space inside. Lawyers and countrymen, aristocrats and actresses, excited children, a crying baby, tripped over one another in the fight to get fed and watered. In the midst of all, the same dog lay on its back, farting as it slept. A thin-boned woman with a myriad of red veins in her cheeks, dressed in the most unfortunate shade of pea green, decided to have an hysteric because of the crush and crashed down upon the unfortunate animal, forcing it to howl loudly in shock. John looked at Samuel.

  "Shall we move on? This place is a bear garden."

  "Worse. We'll eat somewhere else."

  But at that moment, into the view of both of them, running her fine eyes over the assembled masses, tall and elegant, giving not an inch as she progressed, even though the osier hoops of her gown struck all those she passed, came Elizabeth Chudleigh.

  "We stay," said John and Samuel in one voice.

  "Attract her attention," instructed the Apothecary, and Samuel's vast height and windmill arms swept into action. Snatching his hat from his head, he waved it aloft like a flag.

  "Miss Chudleigh," he boomed. "Over here, Ma'am."

  She turned her head, her high hair crowned with a brimmed creation making an arc of colour as she did so. "Gentlemen, good morning," she called.

  "Allow us to escort you to the dining parlour," shouted John.

  "Gladly. But how to get through this melee?"

  "Allow me," said Samuel and charged through the crowd to where she stood, sweeping her into his arms, osier hoops rising to preposterous heights above both their heads, then carried Miss Chudleigh as best he could towards the hall from which the dining parlours led.

  "Oh Mr. Swann," she said, and fluttered girlishly, leaving John to think that his friend was not, after all, without his uses.

  Once seated at the breakfast table, a difficult feat which had involved bribing a waiter, some semblance of order was restored.

  "I'm on my way to Kensington, of course," Miss Chudleigh announced. "I take it that that is where you are heading, Mr. Rawlings."

  "Quite correctly, Ma'am. I have a small errand to perform." He omitted to say what it was and a slight pressure to Samuel's elbow indicated that he should do likewise.

  "Well, I am returning home for a few days, partly to oversee the building work, partly to get away from all this horror. It is now commonly spoken of that George Goward was pushed to his death but no one seems certain who could have done it. I believe it was his wife, of course."

  "Why?" asked Samuel, genuinely interested.

  "Because he had had several mistresses, including one particularly immature one, I believe, and Mary knew it."

  "Really?" said John, eyebrows flying. "Who was the young lady?" Miss Chudleigh frowned, her beautiful face suddenly severe. "That's the problem. I don't know. Nobody did. The beau monde discussed it for a while but as no-one could come up with the answer they lost interest and went on to the next scandal."

  "But surely Lady Mary must have realised who it was"

  "Very probably. Perhaps she intends to kill her next." Miss Chudleigh's eyes sparkled and she warmed to her theme. "That may well be it, you know. She lost patience with the entire situation and is hell-bent on revenge."

  "Did you know that George Goring had a daughter by his first wife?" John slipped his key question in quietly.

  Elizabeth fell into the trap. "Oh yes, though he tried to keep the matter well concealed."

  "So not many people were aware of it?"

  "Not many."

  John's pictorial memory switched back to that other occasion in The Hercules Pillars. Digby Turnbull, the dog voiding wind, the unseen couple and the words they had uttered: "Guilty conscience and guilty conscience alone," the man had said. To which the woman had retorted, "You bastard! Never forget that you are not without guilt." As they had gone out they had looked familiar. Had it been Miss Chudleigh and George Goward? Had it been they who had discussed terrible secrets. Had one of those secrets been that he had a hidden daughter? Or was it possible that both of them had daughters they wished to conceal?

  "Does the name Lucinda Drummond mean anything to you?" John asked suddenly.

  The wide eyes grew wider. "No, I don't think so. Lucinda Drummond..." Miss Chudleigh repeated. "No, I do not know her."

  She was either a consummate actress or telling the truth.

  "So she's not Goward's daughter?" John persisted.

  "No."

  "What is his child's name then?"

  The great eyelids drooped, disguising the pupils beneath. "I believe she was named Georgiana after her father."

  "Is she in London these days?"

  Miss Chudleigh rallied. "Now how would I know that, Sir? George once told me that he had a child which was being brought up by relatives who lived not far from Chudleigh, a village named after my family, don't you know? As far as I am aware the girl is still breathing the fresh Devon air, a county famous for the beauties it produces."

  She made a coy moue which John felt belittled her.

  "So how old would the girl be now?"

  "Again you ask me things I do not know. I imagine about sixteen or so - but that is only a guess," she said, confirming exactly what Digby Turnbull had said.

  "So it is possible the beauty has left the county and come to London to make her way."

  "One would hope not. Town is no place for a child. I was twenty before I first came to London, chaperoned by my mama, of course."

  "Of course."

  Miss Chudleigh shot the Apothecary a very direct glance to see whether he was mocking her but was met with an expression of straight-faced sincerity.

  "Perhaps," said John thoughtfully, "Lady Mary Goward will know something of the girl's whereabouts. After all she is the child's stepmother."

  Miss Chudleigh burst into a peal of tinkling laughter. "Oh my dear young friend, how little you understand of the ways of the beau monde. Lady Mary, I'll have you know, has absolutely no idea that her husband's offspring even exists."

  "Mr. Sebastian will not see you," said the servant, "and that, Sir, is final."

  "Then you can tell him from me that I shall report the matter to Sir John Fielding himself."

  "I doubt that will be of much concern to him, Sir." And the door of the Brompton Park Boarding School was banged shut in the faces of John Rawlings and his companion Samuel Swann.

  "God's mercy," said John, angrily banging his great stick on the ground. "Now what do we do?"

  "Find a pupil," answered Samuel solemnly.

  The Apothecary stared at him. "What do you mean?"

  "What I say. Wait until evening when they all climb out over the walls, as you tell me they do, then nobble one and bribe it."

  "You make them sound like chimpanzees."

  "Well, they act little bette
r, do they not?"

  John nodded. "Not a great deal, it's true." He frowned. "But I wanted to get home. Emilia does not care for nights alone in her present condition."

  "Well, as soon as we've caught one we can go."

  "But that may not be until late. No, I'll send Irish Tom home and tell him to call for us in the morning. I think a night with my revered father is indicated."

  "Oh good," said Samuel, rubbing his hands together. "It is always a pleasure to be in Sir Gabriel's company."

  And the Apothecary had to admit that the thought of spending time with his father, to dine with him and perhaps play cards, was enormously pleasurable. He wondered, very far from the first time, whether he was a suitable sort to be a husband and could only console himself with the fact that he was doing his best.

  "So where to now?" said Samuel.

  "Straight to Church Lane. It is just possible that Sir Gabriel might have picked up some information. He gets around the great houses playing whist and is bound to have heard gossip of one kind or another."

  "Excellent," Samuel answered.

  But this plan was to be thwarted. No sooner had Irish Tom turned the equipage in the direction of Kensington than they cast a wheel and the two passengers plus the coachman were forced to disembark.

  "Now where?" the Goldsmith asked uncertainly.

  "The Swan," John answered. "It's a coaching inn so they'll be able to tell us where the nearest wheelwright is placed and meanwhile we can sit down and take our ease."

  "And listen to other people's conversations in case we learn something?"

  "Certainly."

  But as it turned out, in contrast to The Hercules Pillars, The Swan was almost empty, the stage and flying coaches having just left. So empty indeed that Irish Tom, having discovered the whereabouts of the wheelwright, asked in a jocular way whether there was a plague upon the place.

  The landlord fortunately took this remark in good humour. "We have several visitors in the snugs, Sir. The Duke of Guernsey himself is in The Ram, entertaining his brother to breakfast."

  John turned to Samuel. "Now where have I heard that name before? And recently at that."

  "I've no idea."