Death at Apothecaries' Hall Page 9

  The Beadle looked across at her, then pursed his lips, apparently on the point of speaking. John attempted an encouraging expression. Finally, Sotherton Backler cleared his throat. ‘No doubt it is common knowledge that the Master and I fell out on the morning of the Livery Dinner.’

  Realising how much it must have cost him to make such a statement to a mere Yeoman, John spontaneously shook the Beadle’s hand, then bowed. ‘I thank you for telling me, Sir.’

  ‘Had you heard the rumour?’

  ‘No,’ lied the Apothecary, saving all kinds of trouble.

  Sotherton Backler relaxed slightly, his tall, rather full-bellied frame easing its stance. ‘It was over a point of internal business. We did not see eye to eye about a certain administrative matter.’

  John nodded but remained silent.

  ‘To my shame I must admit that we shouted at one another and I believe that our voices carried.’

  ‘They did,’ said Jane succinctly.

  ‘But …’ stated the Beadle with emphasis, ‘… I most certainly didn’t conceive the idea of making the Master ill or of disrupting the Dinner. Such a spiteful act would be beneath me.’ His light blue eyes, dominated by a pair of bushy black and white eyebrows, stared at the Apothecary with an almost pleading expression.

  ‘I trust that my word is good enough, Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  ‘He’s telling the truth,’ said the Butler, flashing one of her gappy smiles. ‘Had he come into the kitchen and gone to the flour pot I would have seen him.’

  ‘Where exactly was the pot kept?’ John asked. ‘You mentioned something about a pantry.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t there. It was on the dresser. A big earthenware jar standing on the bottom shelf’

  ‘That would indicate that whoever did this knew precisely where it was stored.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I did indeed say to you, Mr Rawlings, that a stranger entering the Hall at night could most likely find his way to the kitchen area and from thence to the pantries.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Equally, if they were looking for something to which to add white arsenic, the flour sitting there on the dresser in a storage jar would prove exceptionally handy.’

  John stroked his chin. ‘Somehow I don’t think your theory is right, Mrs Backler. I believe that the person concerned knew exactly where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there.’

  She shivered. ‘I don’t like that thought.’

  ‘It is not a pretty one, but then murder rarely is.’

  ‘But was it murder?’ asked the Beadle. ‘Or was it simply the wish to wreak havoc?’

  ‘Whatever,’ John answered, ‘it has become a killing now.’

  Sotherton regarded him steadily. ‘How, in the name of heaven, are you going to track the guilty party down?’

  ‘By asking questions and observing, that is the only way.’ John changed his tone. ‘May I just enquire about something else while I’m here?’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Liveryman Francis Cruttenden. Is it true that he is very wealthy?’

  The Backlers exchanged a glance, and Jane spoke. ‘I believe he inherited a great fortune. He certainly lives in a grand house with many servants.’

  John went out on a limb. ‘Is he a married man?’

  ‘Why the interest in him?’ asked the Beadle.

  The Apothecary shrugged. ‘Nothing really. I met him when I tended Master Alleyn. Mr Fielding told you of that?’ Sotherton nodded. ‘I thought him quite an interesting character, clad all in grey and with an air about him smooth as silk.’

  Jane burst out laughing. ‘What a good description. Personally I can’t abide the fellow, but that is between these four walls. However, I believe the ladies adore him, particularly the younger ones.’

  ‘That’s idle gossip,’ said the Beadle severely.

  ‘Then he has no wife?’

  ‘Not he – he enjoys himself too much to be tied to one woman.’

  ‘What age is he?’ asked John curiously.

  The Butler answered him. ‘He’s prematurely grey, of course. Indeed I do believe he had grey hair when he became a Yeoman. I think he is not much over forty.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  Yet again, as she had several times that day already, Emilia Alleyn came into the Apothecary’s mind. The question was out before he could control it. ‘Do you know by any chance how many daughters Master Alleyn had?’

  Jane Backler gave him the oddest glance, but answered, ‘Only one. Four boys and a girl were his offspring.’

  John smiled. ‘I thought that might be the case.’

  ‘But what has that to do with his sad demise?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever,’ the Apothecary answered, and wondered why he felt a pang of disappointment that it was Emilia who had been in love with that grey shadow, Master Cruttenden.

  ‘’Zounds!’ said Samuel. ‘This is going to be one of your hardest enigmas to solve, my friend.’ He rubbed his hands excitedly. ‘What an excellent kettle of fish. A deranged poisoner stalking through Apothecaries’ Hall. Couldn’t be better.’

  John grinned at his old friend’s enthusiasm and poured himself a deep glass of wine. ‘I don’t recall mentioning the words deranged or stalking,’ he said from his place at Samuel’s table, where the remains of a hefty supper were still laid out.

  ‘But that’s what it amounts to, doesn’t it? Clearly anyone who goes in for a mass poisoning has to be crazed,’ responded the Goldsmith, tipping back his chair and thrusting his legs forward.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, a hatred for an entire group of people is hardly rational, is it?’

  ‘No, that’s true enough. And yet …’

  ‘What?’

  John shook his head, the idea that had just scurried through his mind gone again like a will-o-the-wisp.

  Samuel boomed a laugh. ‘You looked downright daunted then. I think you’re going to need my help.’

  The Apothecary winced, remembering all the occasions on which Samuel had made a gaffe with those who needed delicate handling. ‘I’ll let you know when I do.’

  Typically, his loyal friend mistook his meaning. ‘Don’t worry about keeping me from my business. Ezekial is more than capable of looking after things for a day or two. When can we start?’

  As ever, John groaned within but could not bring himself to hurt Samuel’s feelings. ‘Well, tomorrow I am going in search of Garnett Smith and Tobias Gill, the two who are known to bear a grudge against apothecaries.’

  The Goldsmith looked wise. ‘And what of the third, Sotherton Backler? Do you believe him to be innocent of trying to poison the Master?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, yes. Anyway, his wife thinks him to be so, and I imagine her to be a very good judge of character.’

  ‘Even about her own husband?’

  ‘It is possible to look at one’s spouse without prejudice.’

  Samuel’s mind made a grasshopper leap of such predictability that John almost laughed aloud. ‘Changing the subject, how is Coralie these days?’ he asked.

  ‘She is well.’

  ‘No nearer entering the married state?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ A desperate need to confide overcame the Apothecary and he drew his chair closer to Samuel’s, pouring another glass of wine for them both. ‘I sometimes wonder if she ever will be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I discovered something odd the other night. Apparently Kitty was married very young, just at the beginning of her career. She chose the theatre rather than her husband, and Coralie is terrified of making the same mistake. I believe it has affected her more deeply than she realises. She may go on and on until she feels herself to be ready for marriage, only to find that she has left it all too late.’

  An amazing range of expressions flitted over Samuel’s face.

  ‘Are you saying, John, that you won’t wait for her for ever?’

&n
bsp; The Apothecary sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘But you’ve always loved her.’

  ‘I know, I know. And I still do. It’s just that …’ The worst happened, rather as he had feared it would. A picture of Emilia Alleyn, sharp as reality, came into his mind. ‘Oh God, Samuel,’ John said miserably.

  ‘My dear old chap,’ answered the Goldsmith, putting an arm round his shoulders. ‘Tell me everything.’

  And with a great sense of relief, John did.

  When he had finished, Samuel breathed out gustily. ‘I had a feeling this might happen one day.’

  ‘That I would tire of the situation, do you mean?’

  ‘That, together with your meeting someone else.’

  ‘But I hardly know Miss Alleyn. We’ve been introduced, that is all.’

  ‘Your face when you speak of her is enough.’

  ‘But Sam, I really do love Coralie, you know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But still I have often wondered if she is the right woman for you.’

  ‘Because of her attitude?’

  ‘Precisely that.’

  ‘I think,’ said John very seriously, ‘I might drink rather too much wine tonight.’

  ‘If I were you,’ Samuel answered equally seriously, ‘I think I might too.’

  And with that they solemnly toasted one another and the ladies of the town and set about forgetting everything that was troubling them.

  It was, inevitably, a very grey dawning. It seemed to John, who had woken himself by snoring, that the fog which had lain heavily over London and its river all the previous day, had now entered his head. He came to consciousness through wads of it, struggling for air, and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror hanging by the bed, he nearly lost it again. To say he looked ghastly was an understatement. His hair, usually a curly, sprightly, springing mop, difficult to control unless kept short, hung limply round his face, which was an unattractive shade of whey. His eyes, frequently a dazzlingly bright blue, had vanished into two slits out of which peered ugly red marbles.

  ‘God!’ said John Rawlings, and stuck out his tongue at his image. It was yellow and he hastily put it back again.

  Equally loud snoring to his own, could be heard from the bedroom across the landing. Carefully getting out of bed, the Apothecary padded over and looked within. Samuel slumbered hugely, his large frame occupying the entire bed, his arms flung wide.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said John, and returned to his room and slept for another hour.

  When he woke again it was to hear cheerful noises from below. Peering down the stairwell the Apothecary saw that Ezekiel and Mab, the only servant Samuel could afford at this stage of his career, were chatting together in the passageway outside the kitchen.

  ‘Could you bring me some hot water?’ he called down to her. She looked up, round face startled. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Rawlings. I’ll fetch it directly, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. And could I have a cup of tea as well?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir.’

  From the kitchen came the pleasant smell of cooking breakfast, always reassuring to John, who considered it the most important meal of the day. As the door opened to allow Mab in, the Apothecary caught a glimpse of Samuel wielding a pan. It was very much an egalitarian household, with the Master and apprentice taking an equal share of duties with the maid, a concept that was a million miles from Sir Gabriel’s formal and fashionable approach, but one that John rather liked. Hurrying back to his room he dressed and, as soon as the ewer of hot water arrived, shaved and washed. He eventually went downstairs, feeling considerably restored.

  ‘Recovered?’ asked Samuel, serving a large mess of eggs.

  ‘Was I very drunk?’

  ‘You sang a great deal.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  ‘The songs were of an amorous nature.’

  ‘Oh, God save us.’

  The Goldsmith added a vast quantity of fried herrings to John’s dish. ‘You did not seem quite certain of the dedications.’

  ‘Could you explain that?’

  ‘Coralie and Emilia were becoming confused. In the end I think you were singing simultaneously to both.’

  The Apothecary rolled a regretful eye. ‘Let us be thankful that only you witnessed this.’

  Samuel adopted a solemn visage. ‘My advice, dear friend, is to be very careful when in the company of either young lady. It would not do at all for you to call her by the wrong name.’

  ‘Hold your peace, rum guts. It’s not going to come to that.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Samuel portentously.

  Chapter Eight

  A large breakfast consumed, somewhat surprisingly in view of his delicate state, John Rawlings left Samuel’s house on Puddle Dock Hill and, accompanied by his stalwart friend, went on foot into the City of London. The fog had rolled away in the night and though bitterly cold the day was crisp and clear with a fine wind blowing in off a waterway that only the night before had been wreathed with clammy tendrils of creeping mist.

  Looking towards the Thames from the street named after it, one of the longest thoroughfares in London, the Apothecary marvelled at the river’s wild reaches, bright blue beneath the sparkling sky, and planned that when he lived in Kensington he would make regular expeditions to Chelsea and there sit by the waterside and stare at nothing and everything as the day and the ships went by.

  On the previous evening he had learned from Sotherton Backler that the shop of Tobias Gill, the disgruntled apothecary who no longer wished to associate with the Worshipful Society, was situated in Pudding Lane, that most notorious of alleyways where on the first of September, 1666, the Great Fire of London had broken out. Not considered a good address, with such a stigma attached to it, it seemed that times were hard for Apothecary Gill.

  Thankful yet again that Sir Gabriel had bought him premises in Shug Lane, Piccadilly, John turned to his companion. ‘Do you think I should tell him I’m an apothecary or not?’

  Samuel jutted his lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. He might take against you just for being a Yeoman of the Society. On the other hand it would give you mutual ground for discussion and break any ice there might be.’

  ‘It might be better to wait till I see him and make my decision then.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  In the event, all schemes went awry. Walking into the shop, squeezed unattractively between a butcher’s and a pieman’s, both John and Samuel were amazed to see a comely young woman step forward to serve them.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ she enquired, lips smiling, eyes observing.

  Forced to say something plausible, John struggled for words. ‘I had actually hoped to have a word with the Apothecary, discussing the merits of certain herbs and so on.’

  A gaze bright as amber beads examined him shrewdly. ‘My father is out at the moment, Sir. Are you an apothecary yourself?’

  John was cornered. ‘Yes,’ he said lamely.

  Samuel decided to enter the arena. ‘Mr Gill is very highly spoken of, of course. That is why we came to see him.’

  The brilliant eyes changed direction and the Goldsmith was treated to an appraising look. ‘Really? By whom?’

  ‘By everyone,’ he answered, then chortled as if he had said something amusing.

  The girl flickered a smile. ‘How very odd. He is, in fact, not well liked by his fellows.’

  Oh God, thought John, searching for a clever reply.

  She was blazingly beautiful, with a cloud of red hair, pale skin, and those amazingly arresting topaz eyes. It seemed to be a time, the Apothecary reflected, for meeting lovely females, not the easiest thing for a susceptible creature like himself.

  John heard Samuel give a convulsive swallow, indicating that he, too, was far from immune to the charms of the ravishing Miss Gill.

  John came to a decision. ‘This I know,’ he said.

  ‘That my father is not well liked, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And for that very reason it is imperat
ive I speak to him.’

  The acute expression, which had never really left her face, returned fully. ‘Why? What has happened?’

  ‘I can save you the trouble of answering that,’ said a clipped voice from the doorway, and the two men swung round to see that Apothecary Gill had returned. ‘There’s been trouble at Apothecaries’ Hall of which I am suspected of being the perpetrator,’ the newcomer continued, marching into his shop. He went behind the counter, then turned to stare at them. ‘That’s correct, is it not?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that,’ John answered levelly. ‘The facts are that white arsenic was mixed with the flour kept in the kitchen at the Hall. It seems that this was done the night before a Livery Dinner. As a result all the Liverymen were taken ill, and one of them, Master Josiah Alleyn, subsequently died. Questions have been asked about those with a grudge against apothecaries and it seems that you fell out with the Worshipful Society some years ago. That is as far as the matter goes. You most certainly have not been accused of committing any crime.’

  ‘I should hope not indeed,’ said the redhead forcefully. ‘My father was treated badly by the Society, but revenge is not in his capability.’

  ‘Clariana, please.’

  ‘I mean it, Papa. They have no right to accuse you.’ She glowered at John, reminding him vividly of a molten furnace.

  ‘No one has accused him,’ he said patiently. ‘It is merely that Mr Fielding, the Principal Magistrate, who is investigating this particular case, insists that all avenues are pursued. Therefore, Mr Gill, as his representative I have to ask you whether you were at Apothecaries’ Hall seven nights ago. Or to put it another way, were you on the premises the night before the Livery Dinner?’

  It was a downright clumsy approach and the Apothecary knew it, but it seemed there was no other way out. He had been forced to reveal his hand far too soon and now could only make the best of it.

  ‘No, I most certainly was not. I haven’t set foot in the wretched place for years.’

  ‘Get out,’ hissed Clariana. ‘How dare you come here and bully my father? You have no right and no authority. Mr Fielding’s representative be damned. You’re just a prying busybody sent by the Master most like. Now go before I call the constable.’