Death at Apothecaries' Hall Page 15

  ‘Father,’ said John, and went to sit down opposite him, removing his hat and cloak as an afterthought.

  Sir Gabriel looked up. ‘My boy, you appear somewhat rough. Why, I do vow and declare that you have not shaved.’ The golden eyes narrowed. ‘But there is a definite air about you, what escapades have you been up to?’

  ‘I went to Chelsea last night,’ said John, carving a piece of ham that would have daunted an ogre.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And there I questioned the family of the late Master Alleyn.’

  ‘Remind me again who they are.’

  ‘Well, the widow, of course. A kind and comfortable woman who thinks highly of me, at least I believe she does. There are also four sons, two of whom are married and no longer at home, and twin boys, still in residence, together with the daughter, Emilia.’

  ‘Of what age might she be?’

  ‘She is twenty-two, Father.’

  ‘And still unwed?’

  ‘She has had two rather unfortunate love affairs, one of which is connected to the case currently being investigated by Mr Fielding.’

  And John spoke at some length about Garnett Smith, about Andrew, about Emilia, and finally about Francis Cruttenden.

  Sir Gabriel put down his newspaper. ‘You mentioned this man to me before and said we ought to engineer a meeting. I now think this becomes imperative. I don’t like the sound of him at all.’

  The Apothecary drank two cups of coffee. ‘Sir, it is about Emilia that I wish to speak to you.

  His father smiled, a wonderful, worldly smile. ‘My son, there is a softening about you this morning. You are alive as I have never seen you before. Is it possible that you have met the right woman at last?’

  ‘But Coralie, Father. I love her. What am I doing? I think perhaps I have lost my senses.’

  ‘Lost and found, John. You have been Coralie’s devoted slave for many years. Oh, I know there have been indiscretions along the way but you are young and fit, what man would not take them? But these last few months you have offered her your hand and heart and she has refused them because she has a greater love.’

  ‘The theatre?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘But that is the understanding on which our relationship began: that she would come to me when her ambition was finally fulfilled.’

  ‘Alas, time changes everything. No situation, no one of us, is static, even from day to day. An agreement made some while ago must now be measured by today’s circumstance. I do believe, my child, that you have outgrown the relationship that Coralie offered you.’

  ‘But I love her,’ John repeated. ‘I have always loved her.’

  ‘On her terms, not on yours.’

  The truth of that hit the Apothecary like a body blow.

  ‘She had her chance with you,’ Sir Gabriel continued, ‘but she misjudged your patience. She would like your situation to drift on for years, maybe for ever, but you are not done with the world, are questing after whatever is to happen next. You must face her with the facts, my son. And move on.’

  The Apothecary wept, over his ham and into his coffee cup. He was a child again, vulnerable and silly and sad.

  ‘She meant so much to me.’

  ‘And maybe always will, but take your happiness while you can, John. If Emilia Alleyn is to be your destiny, then follow your star. If she is not, then at least you have progressed. I believe that your liaison with Coralie was beginning to go down a road to nowhere, except where it suited her.’ Sir Gabriel picked up his paper, the conversation at an end.

  Getting to his feet, the Apothecary made his way to his bedroom where, somewhat tired after the fitful sleep of the night before, waking every hour, terribly conscious of Emilia slumbering in a room not far away from his, he lay down on the bed and fell deeply unconscious.

  He woke an hour later and looked at himself in the mirror. He was haggard, admittedly, but he radiated something that was difficult to put into words. The Apothecary supposed that he was in love for the first time and that everything in the past had been a snare and a delusion, yet it was hard at that moment to distinguish one from the other. Perhaps he had loved all the girls who had meant something to him, he thought. Perhaps love was like a staircase and with each step one drew nearer and nearer to the ultimate. Perhaps, John Rawlings decided very wisely, love was such a complex emotion that it was impossible to work it out. So determining, John washed, then cleaned his teeth and prepared to face another day.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He spent the morning being brisk about his shop, dealing with customers, including the most petulant and grumpy in town, or so it seemed to John, then rushing out to help a child in the street with a piece of apple caught in its throat. Nicholas came with him and watched with admiration as the Apothecary swung the girl upside down, then hit her on the back hard until the apple dislodged and fell out on the cobbles. The mother, duly grateful, wept copiously, her voice combining with that of her wailing daughter.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ asked the Muscovite, astonished. ‘Your child is no longer choking. Mr Rawlings saved her.’

  ‘It’s the thought of what might have happened,’ the woman answered, and pressed a very small coin into John’s hand, which he took to maintain her dignity.

  As they went back inside, the Apothecary turned to his apprentice. ‘She’s right you know. I have heard of a child choking to death on a piece of apple. It’s not always possible to remove it.’

  ‘You struck her very hard.’

  ‘My Master told me that you cannot be hard enough, the situation is so dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  The rest of the hours they spent together were not nearly as dramatic, but for all that very concentrated. Physicks and pills were compounded, and John spent a considerable time with his new machine for making suppositories, an excellent invention, recently arrived from the manufacturer. Finally, and with some regret, the Apothecary handed over his prize acquisition to Nicholas, panting to have a try at rolling and pressing, and set off for Bow Street. The court was still in session, and every seat being taken, John stood at the back and watched justice being administered by the famous Magistrate.

  It was partly the fact of John Fielding’s blindness that drew the beau monde to the court in droves – this, coupled with the widespread belief that the man could recognise over three thousand villains just by hearing them speak. Such legendary behaviour, to say nothing of the Blind Beak’s dramatic entrances into and exits from the courtroom, a switch twitching before him to guide his path, had led the Principal Magistrate to become one of the main attractions of town. Vowing to get to court early one day in order to obtain a seat, John resigned himself to standing for the rest of the session.

  Today the Beak was in a sombre mood, listening carefully and questioning down to the last detail before delivering sentence. The Apothecary wondered whether this had anything to do with the fact that Mr Fielding was himself currently being pursued through the courts. Earlier in the year he had committed a young man named William Barnard to prison simply on a verbal charge made by the Duke of Marlborough, namely that Barnard had made a nuisance of himself to the Duke’s household. This sentence had so incensed the boy’s father that he had laid an information against the Blind Beak for committing his son without due evidence. Judgement in the affair Rex v. Fielding was yet to be reached, but all of London society knew about it and was gossiping to its heart’s content.

  Sad for his friend, John listened to the cases of the day. A group of sky-farmers, some twenty in all, stood squeezed into an overflowing dock, glowering at all the fancy folk sitting agog in the galleries, hanging on every word the Principal Magistrate uttered.

  ‘Sky-farmers,’ Mr Fielding was saying, ‘execute their schemes in the following manner. One of them dresses himself extremely genteel, and takes upon himself either the character of a private gentleman or reputable tradesman. He is attended by two men in the character of country farmer
s, with clumsy boots, horseman’s coats and so on. The objects pitched upon for imposition are good old, charitable ladies, to whom the trickster tells a dreadful story of losses by fire, inundation, etc., to the utter ruin of these two poor farmers and all their families – their wives are big with child, their children down in the smallpox, or other dire diseases. A book is then produced by the trickster, who undertakes this disagreeable office purely out of good nature, knowing the story to be true. In this book are the names of several of the nobility and gentry set down by himself, who have contributed to this charity; and by setting out with false names, they at length obtain real ones.’

  Cries of ‘Shame’ rang out, particularly from those present entitled to wear a coronet.

  ‘Therefore,’ Mr Fielding continued, ‘being faced by a whole gang of such villainous fraudsters, apprehended by the diligence and fortitude of the court Runners, I have no option but to pass the severest sentence on them all. One year in Newgate, and the press gang to be waiting at the door on the day of their release.’

  ‘That’ll show ’em,’ said a high-voiced little fellow, beautifully painted and dressed as any butterfly, fanning himself as sentence was passed.

  A scuffle broke out as one of the sky-farmers, furious at his words, broke free from the warders, rather too few in number to be effective, and not only lunged at the butterfly but started to beat him with his fist. There was a scream and women began to climb on chairs as the officials rushed to stop the affray, thus leaving the rest of the gang unattended. At this there was general chaos as the sky-farmers started to charge round the court forming a knot into which Joe Jago, tossing his wig high, plunged head first in the manner of a high diver. John, somewhat reluctantly as he was giving a dinner party that night and had no wish to return home battered, joined in and threw a punch at a sky-farmer.

  ‘Silence! Order!’ bawled Mr Fielding, but nobody took any notice.

  Dodging a hand big as a ham, the Apothecary managed to weave his way towards the beau who was bleeding from the lip and nose and weeping with the pain of it. His carefully applied macquillage was by now streaked with blood, and he looked at John from eyes around which the kohl had started to run. ‘Help!’ he called shrilly.

  ‘Here,’ the Apothecary replied, and snatching the beau’s lace handkerchief applied it to his dripping wounds.

  ‘Blood!’ shrieked the little man, glancing down, and passed clean away in the Apothecary’s arms.

  ‘Oh, good God,’ said John with much feeling.

  Over the tumult he could hear Mr Fielding bellowing instructions. ‘Runners, take the prisoners below. Clear the court. I’ll have you all for contempt.’

  But it was Joe Jago, his hair like fire as he swung fists and feet, who finally put a stop to it. Lean he might be, but strong he most certainly was. Picking up three sky-farmers by their collars he practically threw them at the warders, who chose the heaviest of their number to sit down hard on all three. This released the others to go after the rest of the gang who were heading for the doors, hoping to make an escape. Aided by several members of the public who liked any excuse for a good mill, they were all tackled to the floor before this could be achieved. John, meanwhile, wandered round aimlessly, carrying his patient, who lay limply in his arms.

  Eventually some sort of calm was restored and Mr Fielding’s words rang out. ‘Joe, what is happening?’

  ‘The prisoners are retaken, Sir. The public have assisted. Don’t think it would be right to charge them with contempt.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said an older female, scrambling down from her chair.

  ‘Silence,’ boomed the Beak in her direction, and she subsided, even though wobbling with annoyance.

  ‘Is anyone injured?’ Mr Fielding continued.

  ‘Several,’ said Joe succinctly.

  ‘Is there a physician in court?’

  ‘I’m here, Sir,’ called out John, making his way to the front with considerable difficulty, the swooning young man still in his grasp.

  ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings. In for the sport as usual.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ John answered drily.

  ‘Patch ’em up if you will, there’s a good fellow. You can use the Public Office as a surgery. There’s water near by and someone will find you bandages.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to help, Sir, although I actually came for a word with you.’

  ‘Can that wait?’

  ‘Not really. I have guests for dinner tonight, so am somewhat pressed for time.’

  ‘Um. I shall remain in court till you are done, then we shall converse briefly. To make amends I shall send you home with the two Brave Fellows, that will save a half hour.’

  During the last part of this conversation the beau had been making mewing noises and now opened his dark-ringed and very messy eyes, a look of amazement in their depths. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘An apothecary,’ answered John, setting him on his feet.

  ‘Don’t put me down, I’m poorly.’

  ‘You’re perfectly all right. Let me have a quick look at your nose and mouth.’

  The beau, giving a simply fearful grimace, presented them for inspection then parted his carmined lips in a winsome smile. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘John Rawlings.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Just keep still.’

  ‘You’re very masterful.’

  John groaned aloud. ‘The last thing I need is you trying to flirt with me. Just hold your tongue.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold it for me.’

  ‘Oh go away,’ said the Apothecary, much aggrieved.

  The rest of the patients were far more straightforward; bruises, cuts and one badly damaged nose which John sent straight round to the physician who dwelt near by. Then it was finished, though he glimpsed the beau, hat pulled well down over a rapidly bruising eye, loitering in the doorway. With firm tread, John headed back into the courtroom and closed the door behind him.

  Mr Fielding still sat in his high chair, his eyes, as ever concealed by a black bandage, turned towards the sound of the Apothecary coming in. Beside him, Joe Jago said, ‘Mr Rawlings is here.’

  ‘My very dear friend, how can I ever thank you enough? What a fracas. Alas, as ever we are underfunded. I need more trained men about me.’

  The Apothecary nodded. ‘Indeed, Sir, indeed.’

  ‘Now what is it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘You received my letter? The one in which I reported that the watchman had gone missing.’

  ‘Yes. I sent a Runner straight away to make enquiries both at the lodging house and at Timber Wharf. There’s no sign of him.’

  ‘I fear that he has been disposed of,’ John stated grimly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s my contention, Sir, that whoever poisoned the flour either bribed the man to keep silent or stole into Apothecaries’ Hall then realised that Griggs had awoken and was observing him.’

  ‘Are you saying that he has been murdered?’

  ‘Yes, I believe I am. I think he knew the identity of the poisoner and, with the chase beginning to warm up, was proving dangerous and had to go.’

  The Blind Beak leant forward, his bandaged eyes only an inch away from John’s own. ‘Have you any idea who perpetrated this crime?’

  The Apothecary sighed. ‘No, Sir. There were three obvious suspects which I have now whittled down to two. Yet Tobias Gill does not quite fit the bill. As for Garnett Smith, I really don’t know. He has family connections with Master Alleyn which do indeed make him highly questionable.’

  ‘What are these connections?’

  ‘Garnett’s son Andrew was betrothed to Alleyn’s daughter, Emilia. Because of this, it was Master Alleyn who treated the boy before he died. I believe that Smith still blames him for his son’s death.’ John paused, then said, ‘It is very odd that it should have been Master Alleyn who consumed a fatal dose, when he is the object of so much hatre
d.’

  There was a long silence, during which the Magistrate sat so still he appeared to be frozen. Neither John nor Joe spoke, knowing that the Blind Beak was actually deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘Is it possible that Master Alleyn was the intended victim all along?’

  ‘But how could that be?’

  ‘Perhaps the Liveryman sitting beside him slipped additional arsenic into his food.’

  ‘But everybody was taken ill.’

  ‘Indeed they were, although that could have been a deliberate ploy. Were we meant to think that a maniac with a grudge tried to poison all the apothecaries, when really the fatal dose was just meant for one?’

  ‘Then how was it done?’

  ‘The poisoner crept into Apothecaries’ Hall the night before the dinner. I think you have established that beyond doubt, Mr Rawlings. Then, the next day, at the Dinner itself, he contrives to put extra poison into Master Alleyn’s portion.’

  ‘Um. I’m not happy about that. Supposing he were caught in the act?’

  Mr Fielding nodded solemnly. ‘I agree with you, my friend. The argument is flawed, but for all that, I think we should now begin to look at this case from a different viewpoint.’

  ‘But it would mean questioning absolutely everyone present at the Dinner,’ John said unhappily.

  ‘I would not expect you to take on such a thing. You would never get any work done at all. I shall put the Runners on to it, three of them, I think. Meanwhile, Mr Rawlings, I would like you to concentrate on the others – Mr Clarke and Apothecary Gill, imagining for the sake of argument that the mass poisoning was a bluff, that Master Alleyn was the one chosen to die.’

  ‘What about Garnett Smith?’

  ‘You must visit him again with the same premise.’

  ‘But if the murder was committed at the Dinner that would automatically rule him out.’

  ‘Not if he were acting in league with someone.’

  John struck his forehead with his hand. ‘This is becoming truly complex. Are you suggesting a hired assassin?’

  ‘Anything is possible.’

  ‘I am daunted by the whole prospect.’