Death at the Devil's Tavern Page 5

  ‘I examined the body, albeit in very poor light, and came to the conclusion that this particular man had not drowned, either by accident or his own hand. There was a mark to his head which had left a pattern of the object that made it. And can you guess what that mark was?’

  Mr Fielding’s clerk sat up straight. ‘No, Sir, I cannot.’

  ‘It was an ornamental fox’s head. Unless I am much mistaken, the victim was given a blow to the skull by a great stick bearing a handle of that design, then was thrown into the river, either dying or dead, in order to make it appear that he had drowned.’

  ‘Or hopefully to vanish for ever more,’ Joe said thoughtfully.

  ‘Or that too.’

  The clerk drew a piece of paper towards him and began to write on it, then looked up as a thought struck him.

  ‘Were there any identifying effects on the body, Mr Rawlings? What was in the dead man’s pockets?’

  John smiled grimly. ‘The victim’s rings and watch were missing …’

  ‘Anything that might fall off in the river does so, if you take my meaning, Sir,’ interrupted the clerk, smiling cynically.

  ‘Quite, but concealed in his pockets were valuable snuff and pill boxes.’

  ‘Did you remove them?’

  ‘I did not like to do so. Such an act smacks of grave robbing.’

  Joe Jago gave another wry grin. ‘Whether they are still on him when we go to look depends on the honesty of the mortuary keeper. You should have taken them, Mr Rawlings. They might have helped with the matter of identification.’

  John ignored the mild rebuke and produced his trump card. ‘I did, however, remove this.’ He took the paper from his pocket. ‘It is a marriage licence in the name of Sir William Hartfield. Acting upon it, I went to see the priest at St Paul’s Church, Shadwell, earlier today. From his description it is safe to assume that Sir William and the victim are one and the same man.’

  A look of admiration stole over Joe Jago’s features as he examined the licence to wed, then he gave a loud, appreciative guffaw. ‘Well, bless my cods, if that don’t beat all. We don’t need the Runners with rum dukes like you around, that’s for certain.’

  The Apothecary winked an eye. ‘To be honest, I had a sniff of it before I found the document upon him.’ And he explained to the clerk, who wrote it all down carefully, exactly what he had seen in the church on the previous day.

  ‘So it looks as if one of his family might have done away with the poor wretch in order to stop him marrying his pretty young bride,’ Joe said thoughtfully.

  ‘It is certainly possible.’

  The clerk scratched his head violently then readjusted his wig. ‘Tell you what, Mr Rawlings, I shall relay all this to the Beak as soon as he returns. No doubt he will be in touch with you straight away. Tomorrow, we shall send a Runner to the mortuary for the Wapping area to try to find the remains of Sir William.’

  ‘Will he be there?’

  ‘I am sure of it, Sir. Remember that the watermen do not get their reward until the body is delivered.’

  ‘And what will happen after that, do you think?’

  Joe Jago screwed up his ragged face. ‘I reckon someone or other will have to go to Sir William’s home and find out what’s what amongst that family of his.’

  ‘I see,’ said John, an ominous feeling coming over him.

  The clerk’s bright eyes glinted. ‘Course, who that someone is depends entirely on the wishes of the Principal Magistrate. It is he and he alone who will decide precisely how to deal with this particular case of murder.’ His grin broadened. ‘Well, Mr Rawlings, I reckon you’re going to be kept very busy. In fact it would be my guess that you’re probably going to be very busy indeed.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked John cautiously.

  ‘Now that you’ve been made Free, of course,’ answered the clerk innocently. ‘What else could I possibly be talking about?’

  Chapter Four

  Relieved that Sir Gabriel Kent was not entertaining friends to cards and supper, John Rawlings had gone to bed early that night, mixing himself a draught before he did so to ensure that he got a good ten hours’ rest. Then, feeling somewhat hypocritical in view of his recent remarks regarding Samuel and his sleeping habits, the Apothecary had retired at nine o’clock, the hour when the beau monde was customarily setting forth to seek its nightly entertainment.

  He woke the next morning in rather a fine mood, certain that Mr Fielding was going to ask him to assist in the investigation of Sir William Hartfield’s death, and pleased about the challenge. He was also pleased, though he would not admit it even to himself, that this would probably mean meeting the beautiful female twin and getting to know her better. In high humour, John tied his cravat with a large bow atop, and whistled his way down the stairs.

  ‘I see that you are quite restored from yesterday’s excitements,’ said Sir Gabriel as John arrived at the breakfast table.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ answered his son, ‘but will you forgive me if I do not have more than a cup of coffee with you? I am most anxious to get to my shop before the rumour goes round the neighbourhood that it has closed down permanently.’

  ‘A wise precaution,’ answered his father, and smiled to himself as John took a seat, decided to spread a piece of toast with a large helping of fruit conserve, murmured something about eating lightly but none the less took a second slice, then gulped down his coffee and departed.

  As was always his habit when the weather was fine, John walked the short distance between Nassau Street, Soho, and Shug Lane, Piccadilly, passing down Gerrard Street, then turning left towards The Hay Market, hurrying the last quarter of a mile in order to get to his shop. For whenever he stepped through its door, into his magic world of exotic bottles and jars, of alembics and crucibles, of pewter pans which shone brightly, and row upon row of herbs hung aloft to dry, then he was truly happy. And today was no exception. As the Apothecary put on his long apron and started to remove the dust covers from the counters of pills and perfumes, he felt the contentedness of familiarity come upon him. In fact he was so far away in thought, enjoying his routine and thinking of a brew he wanted to make for the cure of loose teeth, that he did not hear the tramping feet of two chairmen, nor notice that they had set their burden down outside his shop. It was not until the door opened and the bell rang, that John finally looked up, only to have his day made complete. Serafina de Vignolles stood radiantly in the entrance, holding out her hands to him.

  ‘My dear friend,’ she said, ‘how very nice to see you.’

  ‘Madam,’ John answered, and bowed, before taking her fingers between his and kissing them. ‘May I say that your beauty grows daily,’ he added, meaning it.

  Serafina grimaced slightly and put her hand to her body. ‘Something down here is growing daily. Why John, I resemble a grape. But it is kind of you to be so flattering. Indeed that is why I came. To hear soothing words from my favourite young apothecary – and to buy a remedy for heartburn.’

  They knew each other so well, John having met her during the dangerous summer of 1754 and fallen madly in love with the challenge of her, that now he took the liberty of surveying his visitor from head to foot, his expression professional. ‘On the contrary, Comtesse, you are carrying your child gracefully. And you are still one of the loveliest women in London, and always will be for that matter.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Why did I not take you for a lover when I had the opportunity?’

  The Apothecary smiled back. ‘We could never be the kind of friends we are now if you had.’

  ‘And talking of lovers,’ said the Comtesse with a glint in her eye, ‘how is Miss Coralie Clive these days?’

  John shook his head so that a curl of dark cinnamon-coloured hair appeared from beneath his wig. ‘I haven’t seen her since Christmas. Not since that time when we were all together at Sarah Delaney’s home, in fact.’

  Serafina raised her exquisite eyebrows. ‘Why is that?’

&nbs
p; The Apothecary turned away, busying himself looking for a bottle. ‘She is very occupied with pursuing her career as an actress. I believe it is her intention to become as famous as her sister, Kitty. Furthermore, I hear tittle-tattle that the Duke of Richmond is set to make her his Duchess.’

  Serafina allowed herself an undignified snort. ‘Oh, what stuff! For a start Richmond will marry another title, you can be sure of that. For a second, I do not see Coralie as the kind of girl who would sit around, incarcerated in his estates, doing nothing but stare at the wall. When she marries it will be to someone of enormous interest, not to a lecherous little Duke.’

  John chuckled. ‘How colourfully put. Let it be hoped that you are right.’

  ‘Of course I am. My dear, why don’t you write to her, invite her to meet you? She does not work in the theatre every night of her life surely.’

  The Apothecary found the bottle that he was looking for and took it down from the shelf. ‘Here you are, Comtesse. Drink this after each meal, warm and with a little sugar. Your digestive problems will vanish.’

  Serafina took the physic and stared into its depths. ‘What is in it?’

  ‘Star anise, camomile flowers, gentian roots, lemon balm, to name a few of the ingredients. All perfectly harmless, I assure you.’

  ‘There is no need. I trust you and your compounds more than I do those of any other apothecary alive.’

  ‘And you may call me that at long last. I was made Free the day before yesterday.’

  The Comtesse let out a cry of delight. ‘John, this is wonderful news. You must come and dine with us in order to celebrate. Louis will be so pleased.’

  ‘And how is your gallant husband?’

  Serafina rolled her eyes. ‘Preparing for fatherhood as if the condition were unique to him alone. No woman has ever been enceinte before, no man has ever sired a child. Why, if he had his way I would be lying at home on my duchesse en bateau and would not shift until the babe was born. It is all tremendously endearing and enormously trying.’

  ‘It sounds very like him.’

  ‘Yes. I have come to the conclusion that the greater the philanderer, the better the father. I’ll swear it is because they know the perils their child might fall in to.’

  John looked slightly startled. ‘Philanderer? But surely, Louis …’

  The Comtesse shook her head. ‘Don’t worry. He is completely cured of all that. It is as much as I can do these days to get him to leave my side, which is a pity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because occasionally, just very occasionally, I have this overwhelming urge to don a disguise and make for Marybone or some other gaming house, and there to gamble as once I used. Oh John, it was a dangerous life – but it was so exciting!’

  The Apothecary smiled. ‘The mysterious Masked Lady, the most enigmatical figure in the beau monde.’

  ‘And who was it who unmasked me?’

  John spread his hands and bowed. ‘I apologise.’

  Serafina kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘It was worth it in order to find the happiness I now enjoy.’

  ‘You’re sure? Promise me you aren’t bored.’

  ‘No, it is only a small wicked streak in me that wants to go back to the old life.’

  John nodded. ‘Talking of that life, did you ever come across a man called Sir William Hartfield during your travels?’

  Serafina frowned. ‘The name seems vaguely familiar.’

  ‘He was in his sixties, not bad looking for a man of his years. He owned a fleet of ships.’

  ‘Hartfield? Hartfield?? Serafina repeated. ‘Did he have a son called Julian by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘Because I took a tidy sum from that young man, a pretty fellow with flaming corkscrews of hair upon which his wig did not sit easy. He believed himself a regular gamester but did not have the flair to make his belief reality. He was in debt to many, the foolish creature.’

  ‘And were those debts honoured?’

  ‘Oh yes. And by his family I imagine. If this Sir William was his father, I pity him.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said the Apothecary reflectively.

  ‘Why do you ask? Has something happened? John, you have a certain look upon your face. Are you working with Mr Fielding again?’

  The Apothecary grinned, just a fraction sheepishly. ‘You know me too well. Madam. But the answer is no, not as yet. Though I expect the summons at any moment.’

  ‘And can I assume that this Sir William Hartfield is involved somehow?’

  ‘Indeed you may. The poor wretch was thrown into a watery grave, the river Thames to be precise. But he was dragged out and is now lying in the mortuary. The Blind Beak has just cause to believe that his death was in suspicious circumstances, I can assure you.’

  Serafina gazed at him, her face suddenly pale. ‘Be careful, John. If the Julian Hartfield I knew is part of the family, then there is a great deal of money involved. And a fortune makes people grow vicious, particularly when they want to get their hands on it.’

  Just for a moment John enjoyed the luxury of holding her close to him. ‘Don’t worry, I shall be a mere outside observer.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the Comtesse answered slowly. ‘If I know anything about you, my fine young friend, you will find it practically impossible to remain out of harm’s way for long.’

  The letter from the Principal Magistrate arrived during the course of the afternoon, written in the strangely neat hand of Joe Jago though the signature was John Fielding’s own, his pen guided for him. It read simply:

  ‘Mr John Fielding presents his compliments to Mr John Rawlings and has the pleasure to acquaint him of his desire that he should dine with the above at Bow Street this night at five. He remains Mr Rawlings’s most obedient servant,

  J Fielding.’

  It was somewhat quaintly worded and John smiled to himself, as he hastily wrote a reply and gave it to the waiting Runner.

  ‘Can you tell Mr Fielding that I may be a little late. I have to see to the closing of my shop.’

  ‘He will understand that perfectly, Sir. It is the Beak’s expressed wish that he should never interfere with your working life.’

  But he does, John thought, and just for a moment had a doubt about whether he should become involved in yet another of John Fielding’s investigations into violent death. Yet there was a fascination to it, a honing of the wit against that of the perpetrator, which no other pastime could satisfy. The Apothecary supposed that as Serafina was addicted in some degree to gaming, so was he to the art of catching murderers.

  So it was with mounting excitement that he closed his shop punctually at half past four and hired a sedan chair to take him to Bow Street. And it was with pleasure that John climbed the staircase to the private dwelling above the Public Office and allowed a servant to usher him to the doorway of the large airy room used by the Fieldings as their salon. It being a typical March evening with a sharp wind that had a hint of snow in it, the curtains had been drawn across the three large windows, while a log fire sent forth a comforting radiance. Seated in a chair beside this glow, the colour of it reflecting warmly on his face, was the man whom the population of London either greatly feared or greatly respected, according to the degree of honesty which they practised. John stood for a moment in silence, realising that John Fielding was not yet aware of his presence, and studied the Blind Beak.

  He was already something of a legend, yet the Apothecary knew for a fact that the Magistrate was very far from old, only thirty-four in fact, having been born in the winter of 1721. Tragically blinded in an accident at the age of nineteen, his desire for a career at sea had thus been brought to an untimely end but, with almost superhuman power, John had followed in his half-brother Henry’s footsteps and become a magistrate. Not only that! He had ably improved Henry’s scheme to employ the court’s officers as a law enforcement brigade, a body nicknamed the Beak Runners by the population at large. The policing of the lawle
ss capital had sprung into life at the hands of an author and a blind man.

  Hearing a movement in the doorway, the Principal Magistrate turned his head. ‘Is that you, Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘It certainly is, Sir.’

  ‘Then pray step inside and take the seat opposite mine. There is some punch keeping warm by the fire. If you would be good enough to help yourself.’

  John did so, bowing before he sat and wondering what it was about the Blind Beak that made everyone treat him as if he were sighted. But there was no time to dwell on it for the Magistrate was speaking again.

  ‘Joe Jago tells me that you were made Free of the Company on the day before yesterday. Many congratulations, my young friend.’

  ‘Thank you. I must confess it is a very satisfying feeling after all this time. I had half convinced myself that it would never happen.’

  ‘You certainly suffered from several set backs as far as that matter was concerned, some of which I fear may be my fault.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘That the pursuit of certain facts on behalf of the Public Office may have stopped you attending the Court of Assistants.’

  ‘I can truthfully assure you that is not so. It came near to it last December but I did get to the Court despite the difficulties.’

  ‘Then all is well.’ Mr Fielding held out his glass and John refilled it, then he drank and paused before he said, ‘And now it would seem that we are on the trail of a killer once more.’

  ‘Joe Jago told you the tale?’

  ‘Yes, all of it. Further, two of my men went by water this morning to the mortuary where the bodies found at Wapping are lodged. They returned with these.’ The Magistrate produced from his pocket a velvet bag and handed it across the space to John. ‘Are these the snuff and pill boxes you found upon the corpse?’

  John turned the contents onto his lap, the brocade waistcoat that he kept in his shop lest he should be invited out unexpectedly, reflecting in the silver snuff box decorated with its emerald from the Indies.

  ‘They are, Sir. So the mortuary attendant proved to be an honest man.’