Death at St. James's Palace Read online

  “So,” said Mr. Fielding, rising, “this is the moment, is it?”

  John, looking the length of the great room, saw that everyone was now standing in expectancy, including, at some distance from them, the sandy-faced George Goward and his abundant wife, still tightly corseted despite the Apothecary’s warning.

  “I think it is, Sir,” he answered.

  “Take my arm. Beak,” said Joe, using the word as a term of endearment. “Mr. Rawlings, you latch on to the other side.” He was starting to use cant phrases in his excitement.

  “So do I walk behind?” asked Mary Ann petulantly.

  “Yes you do,” Joe answered firmly. “You’ll mind your manners today. Miss Whittingham.”

  She looked at him, ready for confrontation, but withdrew at the steely look in the clerk’s eye. “Oh, very well.”

  “Mr. Anthony Fifield and party,” called the major domo, and the first three people, clearly a recipient and his guests, moved towards the staircase.

  John, looking ahead, saw that the pageboys had formed a guard of honour on either side of the stairs, a footman on every other step between them He gazed in wonderment, thinking that he had never seen quite so many servants gathered together in his entire life. Then he remembered that these boys were not servants at all, but young members of the nobility. Astonished that so many could be present at one time, he counted them, and was surprised to see that there were thirteen boys on the staircase an unlucky number for any occasion, he would have thought.

  But it was time to move. As the name, “Mr. John Fielding,” was called, Joe, John and the Magistrate stepped forward, and somewhat awestruck by the grandeur of it all, the two sighted men guided the blind one towards the great staircase.

  Chapter 6

  It must have been how salmon felt when swimming to the spawn, John thought as he made his way, right arm linked through Mr. Fielding’s left, up the staircase leading towards the state apartments. For on every side were people thronging happily upwards, the majority gazing about, quizzing glasses raised, to see the magnificence that surrounded them on every side. Moving more slowly as the Magistrate negotiated the stairs, John had a greater opportunity than most to study his surroundings.

  There were in fact two staircases, connected by a long balustraded balcony, the right hand one leading to private apartments, the left to the state. These stairways, though both made of marble, were, however, different in shape. Whereas the left had a small landing in the middle, dividing the two • flights, the right was steep and straight, not something to hurry down in the teetering heels of high fashion, John reckoned. From the staircase, he could see as he ascended, a great chamber lead off to the left, obviously the King’s private place, but ahead lay the most ancient and historic suite of rooms in the entire building. With his heart pounding at the sheer excitement of it all, the Apothecary stared, trying to commit every detail to his pictorial memory.

  The peacock crowd slowed as it entered the first room, gazing at the Tudor woodwork, somewhat hushed by the sense of the past, thinking, perhaps, as the Apothecary did, that the great hulk that was Henry VIII had once stalked his way through this very place. And there was further evidence of him in the next apartment. Over the Tudor fireplace, clearly visible on the left hand side, was the H & A monogram of that monarch and the woman for whom he had severed his connections with the Church of Rome, Anne Boleyn herself.

  The skinny pageboy reappeared at John’s side. “This is the Tapestry Room, Sir.”

  “But there’s no tapestry,” the Apothecary answered, somewhat amused.

  “It was sold by Oliver Cromwell. He wasn’t fond of beautiful things.”

  “No he wasn’t, was he,” John replied, thinking of the van- dalistic destruction of graceful buildings, the closure of theatres, and the general darkening down of any aspect of life that was light-hearted and pleasure-giving.

  “Some people are like that,” said the boy and vanished into the throng once more.

  “What was all that?” asked Mr. Fielding.

  “A page was saying that there are no tapestries in the Tapestry Room.”

  The Blind Beak stopped dead in his tracks. “Is that where we are?”

  “We certainly are, Sir,” Joe Jago answered.

  “Then we are indeed touching history,” the Magistrate stated solemnly. “For it was from this room that Queen Elizabeth and her advisers received news of the Spanish Armada and planned the response.”

  “I can just imagine her,” chimed in Mary Ann, “all orange hair and chalky face and a great ruff sticking round her neck.”

  “An unattractive word picture,” answered her uncle, and laughed.

  A voice spoke at the party’s side. “Mr. Fielding, Sir, we meet again.”

  It was George Goward not looking unalike Mary Ann’s description of the Tudor queen, though minus the neckpiece.

  “La, but the press of people is intense,” said his wife breathlessly. She was very flushed, the Apothecary noticed, and gasping as she walked. Indeed today she looked even sillier than she had when he first met her and her little-girl voice seemed more out of place than ever.

  “I hope you don’t feel faint, Madam,” John stated cautiously.

  “I feel as if I could pass clean away at any moment. I think I’ll stay close to you, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Oh brace up, Mary, do,” said George, as the Apothecary wildly searched for an excuse to get away from her. He found one.

  “Alas, Madam, today I walk with Mr. Fielding as his assistant. My first duty lies with him. I pray you seek another should ill befall.”

  “Indeed so,” said Miss Chudleigh, joining them. “May I be your guide, my dear?” She spoke to the Magistrate but the effect on Joe Jago was astonishing. His ragged cheeks filled with colour and he even went so far as to let go of Mr. Fielding’s arm as he bowed his very best bow. Observing, John felt quite certain that the clerk had a passion for her.

  Without waiting for a reply. Miss Chudleigh continued to speak. “It is from the balcony outside the windows of this hall that the accession of the new monarch is announced.”

  They had walked out of the Tapestry Room and the throng was now heading down, pressed quite closely together, towards a huge and magnificent room that lay at the end of the suite. John, looking to his left, saw the stone balcony, used only recently when the young King had come to the throne. He also saw Lady Mary Go ward start to wobble like a great jelly, her face a nasty shade of green. The Apothecary leant towards Mr. Fielding.

  “I don’t wish to hurry you, Sir - no, that’s not true, I do - but I think Lady Mary is about to faint so I really must escape.”

  They marched forward at increased speed, Mary Ann fluttering to keep up. Miss Chudleigh slipping her arm through Joe Jago’s right for support. Thus four abreast they made their way into the room especially designed for Queen Anne where, much to John’s surprise, Mr. Digby Turnbull, very sharply dressed, was marshalling the crowd into two groups, guests and recipients.

  The Apothecary gazed round at the resplendent interior, its late Baroque style quite stunning in its use of gold leaf and intricate moulding. He had never in his life been quite so overwhelmed by any room in any great house and he felt as if he could stay there for hours, soaking up the intense beauty surrounding him. And then he turned and gasped. The far door of the Queen Anne room was open and through it he could see out and beyond, in the manner of a Dutch painting. At the very end of his line of vision, dominating all, was the throne, canopied and raised, so impressive that it did not look real but like something from a stage presentation.

  “Well?” said Miss Chudleigh. Then she turned to Mr. Fielding. “John, we are standing in the Queen Anne room. It is probably one of the finest and most beautifully decorated in the kingdom.”

  “I would say,” Joe Jago answered, his head tilted to take in every detail of the ceiling, “that it is the finest.”

  But Digby Turnbull was calling for silence as the last of the assembl
age swept in. By now the Apothecary reckoned there were about a hundred people present and even that great room was full. As he turned back to the speaker, he saw Lady Mary Goward, the front of her dress suspiciously damp as if it had been sponged down, hobble in on the arm of the larger of the two pages who had overseen his arrival.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” Digby was saying, “as you will see we are dividing into two groups, recipients of an honour and guests. I would ask the guests to go through to the Throne Room and take their seats on the chairs provided. Recipients will wait in the Entree Room from which they will be called individually. Once you have received your honour, kindly make your way into the Long Gallery and await the end of the levee. When His Majesty enters the throne room everyone must stand.”

  These instructions issued, Mr. Turnbull held up a gloved hand and said, “Follow me.”

  The throng trooped forward in solemn fashion, more subdued now that the great moment was actually drawing near. Watching Mary Ann, the Apothecary saw her go through the Entree Room and into the Throne Room, taking her seat with a great show of adult composure. Then in the Long Gallery an orchestra, which had been tuning up while people processed, struck up a short selection of works by Mr. Handel played with a great deal of bravura. At the end of this rendition nobody applauded, as this would not have been considered seemly, and there was a moment’s silence before the music of the national anthem. In both rooms everyone got to their feet as - from a chamber situated behind the throne - the young King, a bodyguard on either side, entered the Throne Room. There was a great deal of bowing and curtseying which George acknowledged with a grave nod of his head. The major domo who had first seen the company in appeared at his side and without any further fuss the ceremony began.

  Names were called out and one by one the recipients made their way into the Throne Room, either standing or kneeling on a footstool to receive their honour. Seated as he was at the side of the Entree Room, John could only listen to what was going on, growing more anxious by the minute about the time it was going to take to get the Blind Beak across that empty space and kneeling before the throne. But there he had overlooked the court’s excellent organisation. A hand touched his shoulder and Digby Turnbull murmured, “Mr. Fielding will be after the next man. If you would like to get ready, gentlemen.”

  Joe was on his feet and pulling his skirted coat straight almost before he had finished speaking. Then he turned to the Magistrate. “I’ll just tidy you up, Sir, and then we’ll be all ready when your name is called.”

  John stood and together he and Joe adjusted the Blind Beak’s cravat and suit, checking that his long curling wig was straight. Then they linked their arms through his and waited.

  “Mr. John Fielding,” came the summons and the long walk began. Through the door of the Entree Room they proceeded, then down the length of the Throne Room towards the dais.

  John Rawlings’s thoughts flew, thinking that the King looked thoroughly pleasant, a modest fair-complexioned young man with steady, if slightly protruberant, blue eyes and a pleasing smile revealing strong white teeth. His Majesty smiled a lot in fact, and even though John Fielding not see him George seemed very touched by the picture of the great blind man making his way towards him and smiled all the more. The footstool was reached and Joe brought the Magistrate to a halt, then the three men bowed their heads before the two sighted helped the Blind Beak to kneel down.

  The time-honoured words of ceremony were spoken, the sword flashed into the air and came down lightly on John Fielding’s shoulders.

  “Arise, Sir John,” said the King, and then quite impulsively and most endearingly added, and may God bless you.”

  The Apothecary felt tears well in his eyes but knew that to reveal them would be out of the question, instead he took the new knight’s arm and together they made their way back to the Queen Anne room and out into the Long Gallery. Here all formality ceased and Joe flung his arms round the Beak and said in a rather strange, somewhat hoarse voice, “Well, Sir John.”

  “Well, indeed,” the Magistrate answered. “Recognition for the Public Office at long last.”

  “I think,” said the Apothecary, “that it is more likely recognition for you, Sir.”

  Sir John shook his head. “No, it’s for all of us. Everyone - and that includes you, Mr. Rawlings - who has given his time and effort to free our streets from criminals.”

  John and Joe blew their noses simultaneously, then laughed, and the emotional moment was over. In fact the atmosphere in the Long Gallery was now that of a jolly rout.

  The orchestra was playing for all it was worth, the place was packed with people who had just received honours and were in the highest of spirits. All it needed, thought John, was for champagne to come round on trays and the party would be complete. However, that had to wait till later, when each individual would go home and celebrate with his family.

  The Gallery, though very large, was filling with people as more and more recipients came through from the Throne Room. Finally, though, the crush was complete as the guests made their way in, rushing to their relatives and congratulating them. Mary Ann, with two high spots of colour in her cheeks, appeared and jumped on her uncle like a small cat.

  “Oh Uncle, Papa, whoever you are, congratulations. I thought you looked mighty. I was so proud.”

  He laughed, very delightedly. “Oh you foolish girl. Is the levee over?”

  “Yes.”

  But before anyone could say another word there was a stirring in the doorway and suddenly the King was there, passing from one end of the Gallery to the other, cutting a swathe through a hastily saluting crowd, heading for the private apartments.

  “His Majesty?” asked Sir John.

  “Indeed,” said Mary Ann, “and handsome into the bargain. Pity he’s married to such a monkey.”

  “Keep you voice down,” hissed the Magistrate.

  But nobody had heard her because the major domo had appeared in the far doorway, Digby Turnbull hovering behind. “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, the levee is at an endrlf you would proceed out of this doorway and down the far staircase, then make your way out through the lower corridor. Congratulations to you all.”

  The throng was on the move once more, traversing the gallery, making its way along the balcony to start going down the steep staircase.”Greetings, Sir John,” said George Goward, immensely pleased with himself and grinning like a ginger cat.

  “Greetings, Sir George. A remarkable day.” The Magistrate turned to Lady Mary. “Did you enjoy the ceremony, Madam?”

  She made a sickly moue. “Unfortunately, I am indisposed. I was forced to quit the room and find a closet so did not see my husband knighted.”

  “I saw him,” said Mary Ann, “he knelt well.”

  Sir George turned to her and John could not help but notice the way that Goward put his arm round her waist, pretending that she was nothing but a child, yet with lechery oozing from his very pores.

  “My dear, how sweet of you. You must allow me to buy you a doll.”

  “I am past the age of dolls, Sir.”

  He slowly ran his eyes over her. “So you are, my dear. So you are.”

  They had reached the top of the right hand staircase and John looked round. Once more, pageboys and footmen were stationed on each step to assist as heeled shoes started to clack over the marble. But as the procession began to make its way downstairs, all eyes were suddenly drawn upwards. >From out of the private apartments, proceeding along the balcony, by now quite free of people, and heading in the direction of the great room to the left of the entry stairs, came the King, leading by the hand the much talked-about, highly criticised. Queen Charlotte. Every head turned, every quizzer gleamed, as people craned to see if she was really as ugly as rumour had it. Poor thing, thought John, she truly is, just like a gloomy little gnome. And then a sudden terrible cry, quite close at hand, brought his attention back to his surroundings.

  In order to see Charlotte, everyone had ru
shed to the side of the staircase, leaving a clear path from top to bottom down which someone might fall. And indeed somebody was falling.

  !

  The Apothecary watched in horror as a figure in salmon pink tumbled downwards, gaining momentum as it descended, the stairs too steep for anything to break its plunge. Time seemed frozen, everything was still, nobody moved. Then the figure crashed to the hallway below and its wig flew from its head as blood poured over the whiteness of the marble.

  “My God!” exclaimed John, and began to hurry downwards as fast as his new heeled shoes would let him.

  He reached the hall below, saw that footmen had already gathered round, that a pageboy was running down the reception corridor.

  “I’m an apothecary,” he gasped, and a servant stood aside to let him through. John knelt by the prostrate figure and raised its copiously bleeding head. Then knew by the very feel of the neck that it was shattered and that life was already extinct.

  “My God,” he said again, and turned the head to look into its face. Parodied by death, the eyes staring straight into his, a terrible smile still upon the lips, was the ginger feline countenance of the newly knighted George Go ward.

  Chapter 7

  Chaos erupted. Those ladies standing nearest started to scream and there was a shriek from above as the ample Lady Mary passed out yet again. In the midst of all this clamour, the Apothecary alone remained silent, unbelievably shaken by the terrible thing he had just witnessed. He had hardly known George Goward and what little he had seen of him, John had not liked, but to die in such a terrible way, to fall precipitate and break one’s neck, was something that no man should have to suffer as an exit. Soberly, and with a hand that shook very slightly, John closed the staring eyes. Then there was the clatter of hurrying feet as a man hastened down and pushed him abruptly aside.