Death at Apothecaries' Hall Page 2

  Conscious of the fragility of the older man, John helped Master Alleyn down the wet and slippery surface of the steps.

  As they reached the bottom, John said on impulse, ‘I would like to go with you, Sir. That is, if you permit.’

  The Liveryman was about to answer, presumably in the negative, when he was sick once more, fortunately missing the steps and the wherries immediately beneath. ‘I … I …’ he gasped.

  John became terribly firm. ‘I’m sorry, Master Alleyn, but no protest will sway me. Short of you actually forbidding me to board your vessel, I intend to escort you to your home.’

  The old man was beyond arguing. So weak that the Apothecary almost had to carry him, he made no demur as they struggled aboard his barge.

  ‘Your master has been taken ill. Please head for Chelsea as quickly as you can,’ John explained to the tillerman as he assisted Master Alleyn into the small cabin.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  And with that, the Apothecary had to be content as the oarsmen struck out for mid-river and began the long haul back to Chelsea.

  There was little space in the interior, but John made the best of what there was, laying Master Alleyn down on one of the two bench seats and placing a chamber pot conveniently close to his head. There was little more he could do except dip his handkerchief in the river and put it on the poor fellow’s brow. Cursing that he did not have his bag with him, John watched helplessly as Master Alleyn was violently ill once more.

  His sense of ineptitude caused the journey to take on a nightmarish quality. John stared moodily out of the window as the barge drew level with the Venetian-style bridge over the River Fleet, then passed the swinging wooden cranes unloading timber and coal, and the warehouses storing beer and dyes and limes. But with the tide in the barge’s favour, the commercialism of these ugly wharves was soon replaced by The Temple, where sweeping lawns and legal chambers formed an open quadrangle to the river. This was the furthest point reached by the Great Fire of London, and though many of the lawyers’ buildings had been destroyed in the blaze, Middle Temple Hall and the round church of the Knights Templar still stood intact and visible.

  A slight gasp from Master Alleyn made the Apothecary swiftly turn to his patient, whom he was reassured to see had fallen into a doze. Wondering how he would ever get home this night, John continued to contemplate the river in the rapidly fading light of a cold November evening.

  They were drawing level with The Strand, and his thoughts turned to his mistress, Coralie Clive, who lived in Cecil Street, one of several thoroughfares leading between the main road and the river. She was as beautiful as night with ravishing dark looks and emerald green eyes. She was also passionate and clever, witty and wise. Indeed, Coralie was everything that he had always dreamed a woman should be, for the Apothecary was not an admirer of loveliness alone. If there were a flaw in the diamond, however, it was that Miss Clive, like her sister Kitty before her, was a committed actress with absolutely no desire at this stage of her life to become anyone’s wife.

  ‘I love you but don’t push me too far,’ John muttered beneath his breath as he considered their relationship, and the wretched Liveryman stirred in his sleep at the murmured sound.

  The light was fading fast now and the Apothecary could barely glimpse the Water Tower, the most impressive gateway to the river, built to the east of the Duke of York’s estates. And it was fully dark by the time the barge drew level with the Duke of Richmond’s beautiful riverside home. The Duke, though the Apothecary saw little of him these days, had always been friendly to John, who, for his part, had been ridiculously jealous of the young aristocrat’s flirtation with Coralie, a false alarm as things turned out.

  Braving the cold, the Apothecary went on deck to wet his handkerchief once more and cleanse the chamber pot, shivering as the chill river wind cut through to his very bone. Hoping that he would be offered a bed in Master Alleyn’s household, he spared a thought for all the other Liverymen who had been at the Dinner earlier that day, wondering whether they, too, had been taken as ill as the poor old fellow lying so miserably in the cabin below.

  In common with all those who owned houses of substance near the fishermen’s village of Chelsea, Master Alleyn had his own private landing stage. And it was with much relief that John finally felt the barge head for the shore, where two servants waited on the lantern-lit jetty, obviously alerted to their employer’s arrival by the lights of the homecoming craft.

  Leaning over the side he called in an urgent voice, ‘Run to the house and have a bed prepared for your master. He has been struck down with food poisoning and needs immediate treatment.’ The two stared at him foolishly, clearly unused to emergencies. ‘One of you catch the rope, the other go,’ he instructed. Finally the younger of the two, a mindless-looking boy of about fifteen, sped off on spindly legs. Returning to the cabin, John, assisted by the chief waterman, who had put his oar to rest now that they were berthed, carried Master Alleyn out of the barge and up the path, which was lit by flares placed at intervals in the ground. Ahead of them lay the house, a generously proportioned place from what John could see in the torchlight, and coming towards them down the track was someone of equally generous proportions. Mrs Alleyn was running to meet them, an expression of fearful anxiety on her face.

  ‘What has happened? What is going on?’ She stopped short on seeing John. ‘Who are you, pray?’

  As best he could with her husband’s head and shoulders in his grasp, John bowed. ‘An apothecary, Madam. I happened to come across Master Alleyn as he attempted to board his barge. He had already been taken ill. I fear that he may have suffered food poisoning caused by the Livery Dinner.’

  ‘They should be ashamed of themselves,’ she answered roundly. ‘What are things coming to? That anyone should be poisoned in the Hall, of all places, is utterly ludicrous.’

  John assumed his honest citizen face, layering it with a look of immense sympathy. ‘A pretty pass indeed, but then I suppose even the Society’s Butler is not exempt from buying rotten provisions.’

  ‘She should know better.’

  The discussion was becoming pointless and a groan from Master Alleyn gave John the opportunity to change the subject. ‘With respect, Madam, I think we should talk of this another time. I believe our main concern must be to get your husband to bed.’

  ‘Of course. Come with me, my sweetheart.’

  Robust though Mrs Alleyn was, however, she could not support the dead weight of her husband, who appeared to have lost consciousness and was now pale as death, a sticky sweat about his ghastly features.

  If only I had my bag, John thought for the hundredth time, then hit his head with the palm of his hand as he recalled the other use of one of his recent purchases.

  The Liveryman’s wife looked at him sideways. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Madam, this afternoon I bought some herb true-love when I visited the Society’s shop. One of its benefits is against poisoning. If you will be so kind as to let me compound in your kitchen, I can extract from the leaves a tincture which should clear the poison from your husband’s system.’

  A pair of very round blue eyes surveyed him. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘John Rawlings, Madam. A Yeoman of the Society. My shop is in Shug Lane near Piccadilly.’

  The eyes grew very tight, an extraordinary sight in Mrs Alleyn’s somewhat moon-like countenance. It was perfectly obvious that even while she was helping her fainting husband bedwards she was summing up the stranger. Eventually her expression cleared. A decision had been reached and a half smile appeared, displaying a set of gappy teeth.

  ‘I thank you, Sir, for your concern. My husband is usually treated by Master Cruttenden, a fellow Liveryman, but it is somewhat late in the day to send for him, I fear.’

  ‘Further, if he also attended the Dinner, he might well be ill himself,’ the Apothecary pointed out.

  Mrs Alleyn’s chins fell. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You’d best compound your
tincture, young man.’ She paused. ‘It couldn’t make my husband worse, could it?’

  ‘Temporarily, perhaps, but once it has cleared his system of the toxins it will soothe any inflammation caused.’

  ‘You are very knowledgeable for one so young.’

  John bowed and looked duly modest, omitting to say that he had never heard of the remedy until that afternoon.

  At last they reached the bedchamber, which, like everything else in the house, was rather fine and large, echoing the status of its owner. Further servants appeared bearing bowls and towels and fresh white linen and, with relief, John handed his patient over.

  He turned to his hostess.

  ‘If I might use your kitchen …’

  She held up her hand. ‘Most certainly not. My husband has his own compounding room. Do not you?’

  ‘Only in my shop alas.’ John rather wistfully let his imagination dwell momentarily on a home he would own one day, where one of the first priorities would be a good-sized workplace in which he could not only experiment with herbs but continue his researches into water, an element that held an enormous fascination for him.

  Now he followed Mrs Alleyn down a corridor and watched as she threw open a door at the end of it. A gasp of spontaneous admiration escaped the Apothecary’s lips as he stepped inside the room that lay beyond. Scrubbed tables lined three of the four walls, each laid with pewter pans set over oil lamps, so that herbs might boil and bubble within. The shelves above stood crowded like an Eastern bazaar with retorts and distilling apparatus, alembics, crucibles and long necked matrasses. Jars of both glass and earthenware, filled with coloured liquids, interesting pastes and exotic powders, rubbed shoulders with vials of oleaginous oils. The remaining available space left was filled with leather bound books, which were crammed into every corner and even piled up on the floor.

  John sighed. ‘Paradise,’ he said.

  Mrs Alleyn smiled, her expression softening very slightly. ‘Well, here is your workroom, Mr Rawlings. Now go to and quickly.’ She paused in the doorway, turning back to see John already putting on a long apron. ‘Is Josiah’s life in danger? Can food poisoning kill a man?’

  He looked up, tying the strings behind him, his gaze dark. ‘Yes, Ma’am. It can be fatal.’

  The round blue eyes suddenly filled with tears and Mrs Alleyn’s dumpling cheeks bunched as she screwed up her face. ‘Oh save him, young man, save him.’

  ‘I’ll do my very best.’

  She rushed at him, pulling him off his feet in a frantic embrace. ‘God be with you,’ she said, then was gone from the room like an unhappy breeze.

  Half an hour later it was done: the tincture, dark green in colour like its mother plant, cooling in a cup into which John had poured a small amount of white wine in order to disguise the bitter taste. Taking a mouthful in order to test its strength, the Apothecary removed his apron and, picking up a candletree, made his way down the corridor, his curling hair, from which he had long ago snatched his wig, glowing cinnamon in the light of the flames. Pausing at the door of Josiah’s bedchamber, he wondered briefly what sight would greet him. But one glance at the great bed reassured him. Though white as linen and out of the world, the Liveryman still breathed.

  Mrs Alleyn looked up frantically. ‘Have you done it? Is the tincture made?’

  ‘It is, Madam. Now fetch me a spoon and let me give it to him, drop by drop.’

  It was no easy task to administer the antidote to someone as deeply unconscious as Josiah, but with his wife holding his head, a manservant keeping the Liveryman’s jaw open, and John patiently placing droplets of fluid into his mouth, the contents of the cup finally vanished.

  The Apothecary turned to Mrs Alleyn. ‘I think you should leave the room, Madam. Soon he will be violently sick.’

  Her round face glared at him angrily. ‘I wed Josiah when I was fifteen, Sir. There is nothing about him that I do not know, no experience that I have not shared. I shall stay where I am.’

  ‘Very well. Best order bowls and towels. The poison will quit him by the usual exits,’ John answered drily.

  It was over by midnight. Weak as a new-born babe, Josiah lay in a clean bed, the vomiting and purging finally at an end. His breathing had become regular and the colour was returning to his cheeks as the soothing effect of the herb began to take hold.

  John looked at a weary Mrs Alleyn, who had survived the ordeal like a seasoned soldier. ‘You did well, Madam.’

  The round face was like a pale pudding as she returned his glance. ‘So did you, young man. He’s out of danger, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Now all he has to do is rest and recover.’ The Apothecary stood up. ‘I think I can safely leave the room, so would it be too much trouble for your servants to prepare a bath? I feel a little stained.’

  Mrs Alleyn rose also. ‘There is nothing that I would not do for you after what you have done for us. A bath you shall have and some fresh clothes. What you are wearing must be taken away and destroyed.’

  John shuddered delicately, thanking his stars that he had been relatively soberly dressed for his visit to Apothecaries’ Hall for, addicted to high fashion as he was, the very thought of good garments being destroyed by flame was one that he did not care to contemplate.

  ‘It’s been a difficult night, Ma’am. To have come through with just a ruined suit is a small price to pay.’

  For the first time, Josiah’s wife smiled properly, her gappy teeth and apple cheeks suddenly youthful looking. ‘You shall be rewarded with enough to buy you several suits, my dear. And when Josiah is fully recovered I shall tell him to look out for your progress. You are a coming man, Mr Rawlings. I feel it in my heart.’

  Warming to her enormously, the Apothecary raised her hand to his lips. ‘You are very kind.’

  ‘Kind, fiddlesticks. It does no harm at all to have friends in high places. Now, to be practical. Shall a bed be prepared for you?’

  ‘I would like that very much.’

  ‘And in the morning you shall travel back in my husband’s barge.’

  ‘In that case I shall return to Apothecaries’ Hall. I need to replace herb true-love, and, much more than that, I want to find out how many others were afflicted by this mysterious poison.’

  ‘That,’ said Mrs Alleyn, nodding wisely, ‘would be very interesting to know.’

  Chapter Two

  The scene was an exact replica of the one that had taken place twenty-four hours earlier. John Rawlings stood in the shop at Apothecaries’ Hall, the November day gloomy outside, buying the herb known as true-love. The only differences being that on this occasion he wore different clothes and both he and Michael Clarke were buzzing with intrigue as they discussed the extraordinary outbreak of food poisoning which had stricken the Liverymen who attended the Dinner on the previous day.

  ‘My dear Sir, today has been utter chaos. Nothing but a stream of servants demanding remedies for their masters. Those who are well enough are prescribing for themselves, and those who are not are relying on me.’

  John looked pensive. ‘I do believe that Liveryman Alleyn might well have died was I not able to make him a tincture from herb true-love. Thank God you told me of the remedy.’

  ‘And that very afternoon at that. It was fate, Sir. Fate. It was obviously not meant that he should go.’ Mr Clarke’s eyes bulged.

  John shivered slightly. ‘What do you think could have caused the outbreak?’

  ‘Bad meat or fish, I presume.’

  The Apothecary fingered his chin thoughtfully. ‘But the kitchens in the Hall are so well run. I find it hard to credit the Butler would allow anything to be cooked that she had not examined personally first.’

  Michael gave a half smile. ‘The Butler, Sir, is in an hysteric. She says, most volubly I might add, that this is a slur on her reputation and is threatening all manner of things from resignation to suicide.’

  ‘And the Beadle?’

  ‘Remaining silent as all wise husbands do.’

&n
bsp; ‘Come now.’

  ‘I beg pardon, Sir. I had forgot your intended wife was of a different breed. Anyway, poor Sotherton Backler.’

  ‘A name to conjure with.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir, indeed … is not only suffering from his wife’s outbursts but is deeply distressed himself at this turn of events.’

  ‘Small wonder. Was everyone present poisoned?’

  ‘As far as I can tell from the reports I have received so far, all those who attended the Dinner were taken ill to varying degrees. Even the Master vomited.’

  John shook his head, overawed by the thought that someone as grand and as dignified as William Tyson could do anything so commonplace.

  ‘What did they have to eat, do you know?’

  ‘A winter menu. I believe venison was served as well as various other dishes.’

  ‘Perhaps it had hung too long.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we shall ever discover that,’ said Michael Clarke.

  ‘No,’ John answered, longing to make further enquiries into the mysterious affair but well aware that it was not his province to do so.

  ‘Well, at least you were able to help poor Master Alleyn.’

  ‘Yes, his wife was more than generous to me in payment for my services.’

  ‘Quite rightly so,’ replied Mr Clarke, his attention wandering as yet another servant came in with a written request for a cure for food poisoning. John stepped from the shop into the cold afternoon, a strange feeling about him. He had left Chelsea that morning, transported to Apothecaries’ Hall by Master Alleyn’s barge, but that had gone long since and now he had to make his own way home. Walking down to Black Friars Stairs, John hailed a wherry to take him over the icy waters to Hungerford Stairs, from whence a brisk walk across The Strand and up St Martins Lane would bring him to Leicester Fields, and finally to Nassau Street, where Sir Gabriel would be waiting to discover with his usual charm and tact, why his adopted son had not returned home on the previous night.

  Much as John had expected, the older man was sitting by the fire in his library. His old-fashioned three-storeyed wig, a quirk of Stuart fashion which Sir Gabriel had never abandoned, had been removed and presently rested on a mock head fashioned from wood which resided in his bedroom. In its place, as was John’s father’s custom, he sported a stiff black taffeta turban adorned with a short but stunning cockade of white feathers. Draped about his long lean frame, for this early evening Sir Gabriel was most definitely déshabillé, was a flowing black gown that would not have disgraced the most affluent of Eastern potentates.