Death at St. James's Palace Page 9

  “Sir Danvers Roe, physician,” he announced brusquely.

  “John Rawlings, apothecary,” John answered, not allowing himself to be unnerved.

  “You may step away. I shall care for this man,” Sir Danvers continued, kneeling down.

  “Nobody will care for him now but God. He’s dead. His neck has been broken by the fall.” And with that John got to his feet, though refusing to move from his place.

  Digby Turnbull hastened to join him. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s George Goward, one of the new knights. As the Queen passed along the balcony he must have turned to look at her and lost his footing. The fall has killed him. I’m afraid.”

  Digby made a hissing noise through his teeth. “Good God, what a terrible thing.” He thought on his feet, shouting to the major domo who still stood at the top of the stairs, “Henry, hold them on the staircase. Let nobody move until I give the word.”

  “Make way,” the major domo responded, passing through the crowd, who actually parted for him, still in a state of shock, John realised.

  Henry arrived at the bottom and took command, throwing a cordon of footmen across the top and base of the staircase so that people were actually trapped where they stood.

  Sir Danvers stood up, declaring grandly. “This man is dead.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Turnbull, giving short shrift. “The Apothecary has already told me.” He turned to John. “Mr. Rawlings, stay by the dead man. I’m off to get a stretcher of some kind.”

  “Best get a cleaning woman too. We can’t have the fine ladies stepping through that pool of blood.”

  “You’re right.” Mr. Turnbull bowed to the physician. “How kind of you to help us, Sir Danvers. If you would care to take a seat in the reception corridor until we have sorted this matter out.”

  “But...”

  “No buts I’m afraid. This is St. James’s Palace, Sir, and nothing further must be allowed to disrupt the levee.”

  And with that Digby made a polite bow and watched while Sir Danvers very angrily walked off, then hurried away himself.

  A voice called out from the staircase. “I must relieve myself. Allow me to pass.”

  “Go to the top, Sir,” the major domo replied. “A page will direct you to a closet.”

  Staring upwards, John saw that the pages, all white-faced and shaking, mere children when all was said and done, still stood at their posts, disciplined to the last, heirs to mighty estates or already owners of them. He could also see his party; Mary Ann utterly pale, Sir John hugely tall and somehow ominous, Joe Jago seething with frustration that he could not be at the heart of the action.

  Knowing that Digby Turnbull would be back at any moment, John briefly knelt once more at the body’s side, again struck to the heart by the dramatic and frightful nature of Sir George’s death. Then his professional training took over and he examined the crumpled corpse as Sir John

  Fielding would have wished him to do, trying to keep a cool head as he did so.

  The dead man told him nothing except that he had died unexpectedly, still smiling at whatever had amused him a second before, probably the sight of the dim dull characterless Queen herself. On a sudden instinct John looked at the heels of the body’s shoes to see if one had scuffed as Sir George had caught it when he tripped, but there was nothing there. Like most of the people present, Goward wore a new pair, his footwear immaculate with lack of wear. Which made the Apothecary realise, as he stood up once more, that his feet were beginning to hurt.

  Digby reappeared with two burly young men who hefted a plank between them. There was a great deal of screaming from the onlookers as they lifted the body high, placed it on the board and moved swiftly out of sight with it. At that, two women with pails and cloths and pained expressions on their faces, came forward and began to mop up the spilled blood of the dead man.

  Five minutes later it was all over. “Let them go,” Digby said to the major domo and the cordon of footmen parted so that people could leave at last.

  It was a subdued crowd who came down the stairs, carefully stepping round the place where the body had lain, John noticed. Finally Sir John Fielding, Joe on one side, Mary Ann on the other, drew close to where the Apothecary stood. Elizabeth Chudleigh, John saw, was still making her way downwards but was heading towards them.

  “What a terrible way for the morning to end, Sir,” John said quietly.

  The Magistrate shook his head. “There’s something not right, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sir John lowered his voice. “I am unable to say more at present. Would you be good enough to accompany me to Bow Street so that we may speak in private.”

  “But Emilia and Samuel are waiting for me outside, to say nothing of the servants. I promised to go home and regale them with stories of the Palace.”

  Mary Ann spoke up. “Could we not all go to Mr. Rawlings’s house? I can chat to Mr. Swann while you two talk.”

  The Magistrate was about to protest at her forwardness but was forced to silence by the arrival of Miss Chudleigh.

  “Off to celebrate?” she asked brightly.

  “Indeed,” Sir John replied smoothly. “Mr. Rawlings has been kind enough to invite us all back.”

  “Then I wish you joy, that is if any joy is to be found in view of this tragedy.”

  But no answer could be made, for it was at this very moment that Lady Mary Goward was half-carried down the stairs by a team of sweating footmen. Her eyes rolled piteously in her head as she passed the group. “God help me,” she moaned.

  Digby Turnbull stepped forward. “Do you wish to see your husband, Madam?”

  “No, no. I could not bear to look on him, so wounded and broken.” She started to howl “That it should end like this” over and over again, then turned another nasty shade of green.

  The Apothecary stepped rapidly to one side, mindful of his best suit. “Would you like salts. Lady Mary?”

  “I shall have nothing, thank you. Why should my pain be dulled when George lies cold and dead?” She paused, then said, “I shall send a funeral coach to collect him.”

  “I think not, Madam,” Sir John stated quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?” she replied, her foolish face suddenly furious.

  “I offer you my sincere condolences, of course, but I believe that Sir George should be taken to the mortuary and there examined by a physician.”

  “To what end? My husband is dead. No doctor can help him now.”

  “To establish exactly how he died. Lady Mary.”

  “But why? His neck was broken by the fall, that is what Sir Danvers Roe told me.”

  “Madam, there has been a sudden and violent death. The law must now take its course.”

  “I don’t understand you, Sir John.”

  “I cannot allow the body to be released until the coroner has been informed and gives permission. You see, we cannot rule out foul play in this matter.”

  “How dare you?” the fat woman shouted, her voice amazingly loud for one who felt so faint. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That Sir George’s fall may not have been accidental, Madam.”

  “Preposterous! You are preposterous, Sir.”

  “That,” answered John Fielding, “remains to be seen. I offer my sympathies in your hour of grief.” So saying he took Joe Jago’s arm and purposefully made his way outwards.

  To locate everyone, to send the servants hurrying home to prepare a cold collation, to get Samuel out of the crowd and into the Apothecary’s coach, then to get the coach itself home to Nassau Street through the hordes of carriages, had been a major effort. But it had finally been achieved and now Emilia was rushing round tending to her guests, trying to entertain Mary Ann - who was behaving pettishly because Samuel preferred to sit in on the men’s conversation - and cursing the fact that the fires had not been lit in her absence.

  John, meanwhile, had turned the library over to Sir John and after a glass of congr
atulatory champagne, he, Samuel and Joe Jago had made their way in there.

  The Magistrate sat in the chair that had once been Sir Gabriel’s favourite, his face very serious. “Gentlemen, are you all present?” he asked as the other three took seats.

  “We are, Sir,” Joe Jago answered. He came directly to the “Sir John, what is it that makes you think Sir George’s fall was not accidental?”

  “I heard something,” the Magistrate answered quietly, and the very tone of his voice sent a chill of unease over the Apothecary’s body.

  There was a silence, broken eventually by Joe asking, “What?”

  “Somebody whispered something just before the scream and the fall. It was right beside me, almost at my elbow. Everyone else, all the world it seemed, had turned to look at the Queen, and I was the only one remaining where I had originally stood.”

  “My God!” said Samuel, awestruck.

  “What was said?” enquired John.

  “Nonsensical words. ‘What price greatness now?’ Then there was an exhalation of air, as if an effort had been made. Then Goring screamed and plunged to his death.”

  “The words aren’t that nonsensical if they were uttered by someone jealous of his advancement. Was it a man or a woman who spoke?”

  “That I can’t tell. It was an unearthly voice, distorted by whispers. I believe it to have been disguised somehow.”

  There was another silence, then Joe said, “If someone did push him then it was not premeditated. It must have been a seizing of the moment, a grasping of opportunity as all heads were turned.”

  “Except for a blind man’s,” answered Sir John. “A man who had no interest in what the Queen looked like as he would never be able to see her.”

  “That eventuality the murderer would not have realised. The one twist of fate that he could not have taken into consideration.”

  “What price greatness now?” John repeated thoughtfully. “Someone who did not receive an honour venting their spleen on someone they disliked who had.”

  “The word greatness is the only one I’m not sure of,” the

  Magistrate answered. “There was a shriek from one of the ladies as the Queen passed by. It slightly drowned the beginning of the word. But it ended in ness, that’s for sure.”

  “What a puzzle,” said Joe. He took one of John Fielding’s hands, grasping it in a most companionable manner. “Sir, you’re absolutely sure of all this? There is no chance that you misinterpreted an entirely innocent remark and sound?”

  Sir John sighed deeply. “Today I received an honour at the Palace and, supposedly, part of the skill for which I have been rewarded is the ability to recognise a great many of the criminal class by their voice alone. Joe, do you really think I made a mistake in this? The sounds I heard were a whispered message full of menace, followed by the exhalation of air as somebody made the effort of pushing. Next came a cry as George Goring fell.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” Joe answered humbly. “It is just that so much depends on your being right. All the planning and man hours, the seeking of witnesses, the following of trails that go cold.”

  “If I did not know you better I would have thought you had lost your stomach for the fight, Joe.”

  “No, Sir, it’s not that.”

  It was a fraught moment for all concerned, John half agreeing with the clerk’s summation that so much depended on the merest shred of overheard evidence. Yet, by the same token, his respect for the abilities of the Magistrate was boundless and he found it hard to credit that Sir John Fielding himself might have made a mistake. Eventually, the Apothecary spoke.

  . “Look, we have two courses of action open to us. One is that we ignore Mr. Fielding - sorry, Sir John’s - testimony and put George Goring’s fall down to an accident. The other, is that we heed what he says. And it seems to me that we have no choice but to listen. How else will we ever know what really happened? Let us open an enquiry and, should we find nothing, close it again.”

  Joe nodded. “You’re right, of course. I must be getting old and lazy.”

  Or have your thought diverted elsewhere by Miss Chudleigh, thought John.

  The Magistrate shifted in his chair. “I am glad that you have come to this conclusion, gentlemen, but I can tell you now that I would have pulled rank and ordered an enquiry anyway, so certain am I about what I heard.”

  Joe Jago drained his glass, which John refilled. “Right. Then the first thing is to make a list of all those who were near George Goring on the stairs. Mr. Rawlings, you have a fine memory. Who were they?”

  The Apothecary raised his eyes to the comer of the room, fingering his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there was his wife, of course. Then our party. Miss Chudleigh was near at hand and Digby Turnbull, I believe, though I couldn’t swear to that. Then there was a woman whom I didn’t know and also a man. I am not sure whether they were together. Then, I suppose, there was one of the most extraordinary characters of all.” He stopped.

  “Why was that? Why was he extraordinary?”

  “He was-black, somebody’s slave I suppose. But beautifully dressed and turned out, quite a blade in fact. The odd thing is that I don’t remember seeing him at the investiture.”

  “He could have been sitting with the guests.”

  “Yes, he could. We must ask Mary Ann.”

  “How strange for someone to bring their slave with them.”

  “Not if he was highly regarded. And some are, you know.”

  “That’s true enough. Now, was there anybody else?”

  “No, not that I can recollect.” He turned to Joe. “Did you see anyone further?”

  “No, I think that account is fairly comprehensive, Sir.”

  “Well,” said the Blind Beak, “that gives us a lot to be going on with. Joe, can you find out on my authority who the two strangers and the black man were. Mr. Rawlings, would you be so kind as to question Digby Turnbull... who is he, by the way?”

  “A servant of the crown. He describes himself as being in charge of the other servants. He was present at the investiture in his official capacity.”

  “Then he might be very useful. Miss Chudleigh, too, must be questioned.”

  Joe flushed a little, then said, “That should be Mr. Rawlings’s task, I believe.”

  The Magistrate cleared his throat. “Yes, perhaps. But that leaves us with the most difficult witness of all - Lady Mary Goward herself.”

  “Perish the thought!” John exclaimed. “Surely you would be better with her, Sir.”

  “I’m quite prepared to quiz her but I shall want someone with me to note her every reaction. For as far as I am concerned she is probably the perpetrator of the crime.”

  “What? The widow?” asked Samuel incredulously.

  “They mostly bear more grudges than anyone else. Did they have any children?”

  John answered. “Not jointly, no. But she had a son by her first husband. I think she said his name was Frederick.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At boarding school in Kensington, the Brompton Park strangely enough. I must ask Lucinda if she knew him.”

  “How is the girl settling down to her new life?”

  “Very well. She is hard-working and conscientious.”

  “I’ve made a list, Sir,” said Joe, who had been scribbling away on paper produced from an inside pocket. “Where would you like us to begin?”

  “First we must trace the identity of the three strangers. But meanwhile, Mr. Rawlings, I think you should presume on your acquaintanceship with Mr. Turnbull and find out as much as you can. What went on behind the scenes at today’s ceremony, if anything.”

  “Sir,” said Samuel tremulously, “I know that I wasn’t present when the murder took place but I would so love to help if I can.”

  A slight air of resigned despair crept into the atmosphere, for John’s friend was not the most tactful of creatures and had been known in the past to frighten witnesses into silence.

  “Of course,” Si
r John answered, over-heartily. “I think your opinions would be most welcome. May I just cogitate a little as to how you can best serve us.”

  “By all means,” said Samuel, and drained his glass jollily.

  Emilia appeared in the doorway. “Gentlemen, have you finished your discussion?”

  Sir John rose and made a bow in the direction of her voice. “We have just concluded, Mrs. Rawlings.”

  “Then perhaps you would like to come to the table. A repast awaits you.”

  “I can think of nothing more delightful,” said the Blind Beak, and slipped his arm through Joe’s that he may guide him from the room.

  “Damn that girl,” said Emilia, undoing the last lace of her stays and throwing them across the room with a great sigh of relief.

  “Who?” said John from the depths of their bed, where he had retired almost as soon as their guests had left, completely exhausted by the day’s events.

  “Lucinda, of course. Didn’t I tell you what she did? Or rather didn’t do?”

  “Sweetheart, forgive me. My mind is still full of the many, varied things I saw today. All that pomp and beauty to be followed by such a starkly horrible death.”

  Emilia turned before the mirror. “My stomach is swelling.”

  “So it is. Come here and let me kiss it.”

  She did so, well pleased as he put his lips to the rounding. Then she looked contrite and said, “I’m sorry, it was selfish of me to talk about domestic things.”

  “Not at all. What was it you had to tell me?”

  “The new girl is a little wretch.”

  “I thought you liked her.”

  “I thought I did too. But I’m furious with her after today’s performance.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She disobeyed my instructions and left the house. She must have gone down to the Palace to see the crowds.”

  “But she was here when we got back.”

  “Yes, and in fine disarray. Panting and dishevelled. None of the fires were lit as I had instructed.”

  “Did you have it out with her?”