by Deryn Lake
The owner of the face was as surprised as he was and acknowledged his presence with a small bow of her head before she retrieved the hat and disappeared back into the shop. Unable to help himself, John went inside. A tall woman with a face that had once been pretty but was now beginning to show the signs of ageing, bore down on him.
‘Can I help you, Sir?’
She made a coy mouth as she spoke and smiled at him by pulling both her lips upwards without any accompanying warmth.
‘Yes, I want to buy a hat,’ John answered.
In the corner he could see Jemima Lovell serving a short plump woman, who had removed her wig the better to try on headgear, and made her a bow.
‘You know Miss Lovell?’ asked the proprietoress.
‘We have met,’ John answered, and concentrated on the matter in hand.
‘Is the hat for your wife, Sir?’
‘No, actually it’s for my daughter. She is only five. Do you have anything in a small size?’
The owner rearranged her lips to look motherly. ‘Yes, we do. Miss Lovell perhaps you would like to serve the gentleman. I shall take over your client.’
Children’s headgear clearly did not interest her and Jemima, having given the plump lady a polite curtsy, made her way to John.
‘Mr Rawlings, what brings you here?’ she asked in an undertone.
‘Seeing you in the window,’ he muttered back. Loudly he said, ‘Please can you show me a selection of hats for little girls.’
‘We do not have many. They are usually made by individual milliners.’
‘Well if you would be so kind as to bring out what you have got.’
‘Certainly, Sir.’ And giving him a little bob she made her way into the back.
John prevaricated and procrastinated over his choice and during that time managed to have a sotto voce conversation with the girl.
‘So your stay in Devon is over?’
‘You knew that, Sir. Madam Sophie released me to Lady Sidmouth but then I came straight back.’
John, recalling the moment he had seen her in Lewes with Lucinda Silverwood, walking and talking so closely together, almost felt like contradicting her but held his tongue.
‘Tell me, Miss Lovell, where do you live?’
She smiled. ‘Very close by. In Thrift Street.’
‘Then I wonder if you would do me the honour of coming to dine with me at my family home tonight. My father will be present. We eat at five, by the way.’
‘That is when the shop closes. I could be there by half past.’
‘Then I shall give orders for the meal to be served thirty minutes later.’
Eventually John bought two hats for Rose and made his way outwards carrying a couple of boxes. He had surreptitiously given Miss Lovell his card before leaving and she had whispered to him that it would be a pleasure to come. Feeling quite pleased with himself, John made his way home.
His father was sitting in the library dressed deshabille, a habit he was beginning to adopt more and more, John noticed.
‘Father, I have invited a young woman to come and dine with us. I do hope you don’t mind.’
Sir Gabriel sat up straight. ‘Not at all, my boy. Tell me of her.’
‘Her name is Jemima Lovell and she is the one person I believe is innocent of the crime that was committed in Devon recently. That is I am fairly positive it had nothing to do with her. Yet I believe that somehow she is connected…’
The Apothecary broke off and stared into space.
‘What exactly do you mean, my dear?’
‘I’m not sure,’ John answered, coming back to earth with a thoughtful look on his face.
‘Well, I must go and dress,’ said his father, heaving himself out of his chair. ‘I look forward to meeting this young woman greatly.’
‘I shall change too, but first I must go and see Rose.’
‘You will find her improved since this morning.’
John gave him a broad smile and rushed up the stairs with the two hat boxes. Not wanting to leave her as she turned her sweetest grin on him and put the hats, one after the other, on her head, the Apothecary found himself with precious little time to change. Despite this he put on evening clothes of dove grey with a pink waistcoat, and a fine shirt into which he pinned a brooch set with amethysts which glittered brilliantly when he moved. Coming downstairs he saw that his father was — as was ever his habit — dressed in sombre black with a white adornment here and there, the starkness of the ensemble relieved by a brilliant zircon, which shimmered a sparkling blue whenever Sir Gabriel made the slightest gesture. No sooner were the men assembled when there was a ring at the front door and John went into the hall to greet the new arrival.
‘My dear Miss Lovell, how very nice to see you. I am afraid that the only other female present is my daughter and she is a little young to entertain you. So you will be the only woman sitting down to dine. I hope that is acceptable to you.’
Jemima gave a small curtsy. ‘Perfectly, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Excellent. Do come and meet my father.’
Sir Gabriel may have reached a great age but he had not lost one whit of his charm. John watched, very slightly amused, as Miss Lovell melted beneath the shower of care and attention that his father poured on her. And when they went in to dine Sir Gabriel stood tall and straight and courteously offered the dark-haired beauty his arm in order to support her. John was left to walk behind and notice how fine the pair looked as they made their way into the dining-room.
The meal was a great success, the cook having surpassed himself, and Miss Lovell declaring that each course was delicious. John, looking at her in the light of the many candles which lit the room, once again had the fleeting impression that she reminded him of someone but yet again was unable to recall who that person was.
‘You do know of course that poor Fraulein Schmitt died very suddenly in an accident,’ he said quietly, watching her reaction as he poured her a port.
She looked horrified. ‘No, I had no idea. How awful. What sort of accident was it, pray?’
‘She fell off a cliff.’
‘Oh no! Where was this?’
‘In Cornwall. She and her sister had gone to Padstow for a holiday but went for a trip to visit the cliffs near Polzeath. Miss Schmitt went off on a walk by herself and plummeted to her death.’
There could be no doubt that Jemima was genuinely upset, in fact she seemed more distressed than John would have expected in view of the couple’s somewhat strained relationship.
‘Please don’t upset yourself,’ he added. ‘It was a terrible death indeed but I am sure she felt no pain.’ He did not add that Miss Schmitt might not have died instantly but could well have crawled round in agony after her fall.
Sir Gabriel spoke up. ‘I consider this a highly unsuitable conversation for the dining-table, my son. Let us talk of happier things I beg you.’ And he led the chat to the amusements of London and whether Miss Lovell went to the theatre and, on hearing that she did, her thoughts on various plays.
John sat back and let them babble on but in a way he was slightly annoyed. He had intended to lead the talk to questions about whether Miss Lovell had seen anyone from that fateful coach party subsequent to her leaving Devon. Yet he knew that Sir Gabriel was right. He should not have broached the subject of Miss Schmitt’s frightful demise when he had.
After dinner they repaired to the parlour, a room much used by Emilia but somewhat neglected of late. Jemima, it seemed, was reasonably good on the harpsichord and played them an air or two before rising to her feet and saying, ‘Gentlemen, it is getting late. I am afraid that I must leave you.’
‘Allow me to escort you home in my coach. I assure you it will be no trouble,’ John offered, forestalling any objection she might make.
Travelling along in the darkness Jemima said, ‘I had not realized you were quite so well-to-do, Sir. Your father is obviously a man of distinction.’
The Apothecary smiled. ‘Has it put you off?
I’m sure your father was someone of good quality.’
There was a fraction of a second’s pause before she answered, ‘I think he is one of the best men in the world.’
‘So he is still alive?’
‘Very much so,’ said Miss Lovell, and with those words fell silent.
Twenty-Three
The next two weeks passed with the Apothecary feeling exactly as if he were living an orderly life. He rose early each morning, ate his breakfast, played with Rose for about twenty minutes, then walked to Shug Lane — the shop already opened by Gideon — and looked through calls booked for that day. Then, if there were none too urgent, he would go into the compounding room and prepare his herbs amongst the joyful smell of well-remembered things. That done he would set out at about noon to visit his patients and take with him the medicinal properties either prescribed by himself or by a physician. He would return home in time to dine and would then spend the evening chatting to Sir Gabriel or — now that Rose was getting so much better — venture forth to the theatre. He had also taken to visiting his friends again, seeing something of the now decidedly wealthy Samuel Swann, the de Vignolles, flitting between London and their Surrey home, and the great man himself, Sir John Fielding.
But none of these people quite compensated for the sight John had one day of King George, riding along and looking extremely cheerful in an open carriage, waving his gloved hand in a most amicable manner. The Apothecary waved back and bowed and by the time he had straightened up again the royal party had passed by.
The King had clearly been on his way to St James’s Palace and had been heading down Piccadilly towards St James’s Street. John had been standing on the corner of Swallow Street, bound to see a shopkeeper suffering horribly with trapped wind, when he had encountered the monarch. Having returned the royal salute, the Apothecary continued to make his way up the street when his eye was caught by a vividly painted and decidedly garish sign. It depicted a crudely painted representation of a woman’s foot with pointing toe and a legend reading ‘At Number twenty-four, Little Vine Street, Dancing Lessons are give daily at the hour of ten onwards for the sons and daughters of Gentlefolk. 1/6d per hour paid in advance. Persons of More Mature Years by Special Arrangement.’
What led John to walk past the place he could not have said but as he drew nearer he became more and more convinced that it had something to do with Cuthbert Simms. And sure enough as he drew within earshot he heard the sounds of a tune being scraped out on a fiddle and a familiar voice calling out, ‘No, not like that. Like this,’ followed by the sounds of scampering feet. Drawn as if by a magnet, John entered the premises and walked into the large room in which the dancing lessons were taking place.
It being during school hours, Cuthbert’s class consisted of a half dozen or so middle-aged women — shopkeepers’ wives John presumed — who were bored and had nothing else to do but gossip with their friends. Also present was a very elderly man.
They turned in a body at the sound of the Apothecary’s entrance and he was fixed by a dozen pairs of eyes, ogling for all they were worth.
‘Have you come to join us, Sir?’ asked one, bolder than the rest.
‘Well, I might try a step or two,’ John answered, putting down his parcel of physic.
‘Join in as best you can,’ said Cuthbert snappily, not looking up from a sheaf of music which he had lying on the floor in front of him.
‘Certainly, Mr Simms,’ John answered, and had the pleasure of seeing the little man look up in some surprise.
‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Rawlings. Why, bless me! So you have returned from Devon, Sir.’
‘As have you, Mr Simms. Alas, all good things must come to an end.’
‘Indeed yes. But I must not neglect my work. Have you come for a lesson, Sir?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have time. But I’ll dance a quick measure now that I am here.’
‘That will please the ladies greatly. Now form up. Several of you will have to take the man’s part. Mr Ponsonby…’
There was no reply from the old fellow who stood, stumpy legs spread out, dusting snuff off his well-worn damson breeches, clearly not hearing a word.
‘Mr Ponsonby,’ Cuthbert yelled, ‘we’re just about to dance Haste to the Wedding.’
The old chap cupped his ear, gave a grin which revealed one or two rotting teeth and shuffled onto the end of the line. John, finding himself standing next to the old dodderer, gave him a broad smile. Mr Ponsonby replied by displaying his teeth and pushing up his wig which looked decidedly in need of care and attention. With a great show of bravado, Cuthbert Simms struck up.
The Apothecary, who reckoned himself a reasonable dancer, knew the steps and whirled through the set piece with great elan. Several of the ladies, however, grew out of breath and Mr Ponsonby surprised one and all by jigging about at great speed though not one whit in time to the music. In fact he seemed to be doing a dance that he had invented himself and gave an appreciative cackle if any lady should be so fortunate as to meet with him during its course. John decided that Cuthbert Simms truly earned his money and was pleased to produce a shilling and a sixpence which he pressed into the dancing master’s hand as he made his way out.
‘A break if you will, ladies and gentleman,’ said the little man, perspiring copiously and somewhat red in the face. ‘I really do not require this money, Mr Rawlings. Thank you all the same.’
‘Nonsense. I enjoyed the dance and would have stayed longer but am on my way to see a patient. But I would appreciate it if we could have a chat some time. Do you live nearby?’
‘My humble abode is in Great Wild Street, not far from the Seven Dials. It is very small and somewhat dingy.’
‘But why did you choose this place to teach? Surely you could have found somewhere nearer?’
‘Cost, Mr Rawlings. Cost.’ And Cuthbert tapped the side of his nose. ‘Besides the better class of person would prefer a dancing master to have rooms in a more prestigious part of London.’
‘I suppose you’re right. So could we not meet in a tavern?’
‘Very well. The Royal Saracen, if that would be convenient to you. When did you have in mind, Sir?’
‘Tonight. When you finish teaching. What time would suit you?’
‘I shall close my classes early. Shall we say seven o’clock?’
‘That would be most convenient. I shall just have time to see my daughter into bed.’
‘Then seven it is, Sir.’
Having left the dancing class in full swing John hurried up Swallow Street to where a barber waited in a back room, groaning loudly, while his assistant was rushed off his feet with a queue of customers growing impatient.
‘Heavens, Sir,’ said John, opening his bottle of physic and pouring out a spoonful, ‘I had not thought to find you in extremis.’
‘I had a bite midday,’ grunted the barber, whose name was Fields, ‘and the pain has come on again. You are sure it is wind?’
‘Positive. The physician has been to see you has he not and confirmed the diagnosis?’
‘Indeed. But the pain is so intense.’
‘Swallow this,’ said John, and proffered the spoon.
The barber did so but still sat doubled up, his face pinched and pointed with pain. John decided on an old-fashioned solution. Taking his cane he laid it across Fields’s stomach at the same time telling him to lean forward. Then he pressed as hard as he could and was rewarded by the barber letting loose a rouser, followed by another and finally a third.
‘That’s better,’ Fields announced, standing up straight.
‘Take the physic as prescribed,’ John said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and raising it to his nostrils. ‘That will be two shillings, Sir.’
‘Worth every penny,’ answered Fields, and going to a small cupboard unlocked it and counted out the money.
‘Back to work for both of us,’ John said cheerfully, and giving the man a brief bow made his way out to Swallow Street and from the
re to Shug Lane where he and Gideon spent a pleasant afternoon compounding simples.
The Royal Saracen was in Newport Street, close to St Martin’s Lane, and from the outside looked a reasonably well-run establishment. Stepping inside John was pleased to see that it was moderately clean and that booths had been set up in which people were sitting round tables. Spotting Cuthbert, who was looking somewhat exhausted to say the least of it, John made his way to join the dancing master.
‘You seem weary, my friend.’
‘Alas, I am. I feel I am getting somewhat ancient for this work. Believe me I was ready to lie down and die by three o’clock.’
‘Oh, surely not. You don’t look old,’ John lied gallantly.
‘I have been teaching the Terpsichorean art for forty years, my friend. I began as a bright young spark of twenty-odd and now you find me at sixty plus still nobly doing my best.’
John had a sudden rush of tremendous pity as he did for all old and benighted people who struggled to make ends meet and toiled themselves into the grave as a result. He turned to Cuthbert Simms with a look of great affection.
‘It is working that is keeping you young at heart, Mr Simms. ‘Zounds but if you were some retired old ninny with naught to do all day but sip chocolate and read the newspapers you would soon feel the pinch of the years. Why I shall continue to work in my shop until the day they carry me off, I swear it.’
‘Well said, my boy. The only trouble is that my body is beginning to let me down, don’t you know. I cannot caper as once I used.’
‘You will have to get a young assistant.’
‘But where to find the fellow at the price I can afford to pay him? That is the question.’
John looked sad and sipped his wine. ‘Never mind. The right person may turn up. You never know.’
Cuthbert was growing somewhat red in the face and was imbibing quite freely and John, watching him, wondered whether it was going to loosen the man’s tongue. He asked a discreet question.
‘I’ll warrant you were one of the finest dancers of your day, Mr Simms.’
