Death at the Wedding Feast jr-14

by Deryn Lake

  Death at the Wedding Feast

  ( John Rawlings - 14 )

  Deryn Lake

  Deryn Lake

  Death at the Wedding Feast

  One

  It was a delicious moment. In fact probably the most delicious moment of his life. And then John Rawlings, with an impish sideways grin, remembered a particularly special occasion in his misspent youth — an incident involving Sukie, his master’s kitchen maid — and decided that this was the second most delicious. Be that as it may, nothing could take away from his present triumph. He had at last, after many years of experimenting with water, finally succeeded in carbonating it. The bottle he was holding up to the light and peering at contained sparkling bubbles.

  After his father had moved to Kensington John had set up a rather large piece of equipment in his home in Nassau Street. Barrels and vats, boxes and a handwheel, to say nothing of a mass of pipes joining one piece of machinery to another, now dominated the room at the back formerly used for cleaning boots and Sir Gabriel’s shoes, together with the knife cleaning area. Sir Gabriel’s best pair, worn on special occasions only, had glittering pinchbeck heels; however footwear more ordinary, with shining buckles and bright rosettes, sufficed the great old man for everyday wear.

  It had taken John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, some years to perfect his bid to get water to sparkle like the heart of a fountain. But now, judging by the bottle he held at eye level, he had finally succeeded. It bubbled, it fizzed, it glinted and gleamed. It was everything he had ever hoped for. Before he allowed himself a wild cheer of joy the Apothecary went to his log book and entered the date.

  ‘19th February, the Year of our Lord 1768, today I succeeded in Carbonating Water.’

  Then he let out a whoop of joy and executed a few nimble flights of foot before rushing into the main house holding the bottle on high. Unfortunately there was not a soul in sight to share his celebration. In fact the Apothecary felt a decided shiver at the emptiness of the place. Disconsolately, he went into the library and sat down. But a few seconds later he leapt to his feet again and rushed into the hall.

  A footman came hurrying up. ‘Are you going out, Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it. At what time is Miss Rose expected back?’

  ‘Miss Rose is taking tea with Miss Thomas and should be returning at about three o’clock.’

  As Miss Rose and Miss Thomas were aged six and seven respectively John gave a crooked smile. ‘I see. Well, would you be kind enough to tell her that I have gone to see Sir John Fielding but will be back in time to say goodnight to her.’

  ‘Very good, Sir. Will you be walking or shall I get you a chair?’

  ‘The walk will do me good, I believe.’

  So saying, John Rawlings left the house in Nassau Street and strolled through the crowded and noisesome ways towards that tall, thin house in Bow Street where Sir John Fielding held court daily. Tucked in an inner pocket of his greatcoat was a bottle of that saucy, bubbling liquid whose secret he had finally found.

  As he walked, John thought. Thought back to his early life and the time he and his mother had begged on the streets of London until kind Fate had brought them into the path of Sir Gabriel Kent. Quite literally because his coach had run them down. But oh what goodness, what gentleness John had felt when Sir Gabriel himself had lifted them up and taken them back to his house. Later, much later, when he had taught her to appreciate the finer things of life, Sir Gabriel had married John’s mother. But their happiness had been all too brief for Phyllida Kent had died giving birth to his daughter and all Sir Gabriel’s love and affection had transferred itself to John.

  Avoiding a group of beaux, walking along and chattering, swinging their great sticks and elevated on heels of a somewhat alarming height, the Apothecary thought of himself when he had been younger and was grateful that he had never been as silly and empty-headed as the mincing little gang he had just passed. Mark you, he had not led an exemplary life, far from it. His love affair with the actress Coralie Clive had caused quite a scandal in its day, not to mention a few other little peccadillos gathered on the way. But then he had reformed at the time of his marriage, only for his sweet Emilia to be snatched away from him and for him to be left — a desirable young widower — in charge of bringing up his daughter, Rose.

  Not that that, he thought as he swung into Long Acre, had seemed to stem the ladies’ interest. But the Apothecary, being such a contrary creature and by nature loving that which always seems a little unobtainable, had declared his passion for a totally unsuitable female. A woman older than he was, a woman titled in her own right, a woman of decided views and wayward beliefs. In other words the beautiful and capricious Marchesa Elizabeth di Lorenzi.

  The very idea of her stopped the Apothecary dead in his tracks. Pulling out his fob watch he stared at the date which ran inside the minute hand in a small but clearly marked ring, enclosing, in their turn, a blaze of stars, a moon and an exceedingly grumpy-looking sun.

  ‘My God,’ whispered the Apothecary, under his breath, ‘she’s due very soon. I must get to Exeter as soon as possible.’

  For the fact of the matter was that he had left the Marchesa well and truly pregnant, getting very large and moving much more slowly than usual about her great house. But for an hour or two he must devote his thoughts to Sir John Fielding, the blind magistrate, the powerhouse who brought law and order to the city of London as best he could. Patting the bottle of sparkling water that nestled in his pocket, John made his way to the Public Office in Bow Street.

  Being somewhat late in arriving, John was surprised to hear the sound of loud laughing coming from the courthouse. Pushing his way through the crowd of members of the beau monde, who had made it the height of fashion to see criminals brought to justice, he found a seat in the second row of the gallery and peered to see what was causing the merriment.

  Standing at the bar, pertly dressed and with a fashionable hat tipped over one eye, was a soncy lass standing all of five feet tall and most attractively rounded, her mass of blonde hair cascading down in ringlets from beneath the brim. She had obviously said something to Sir John — who sat in a high chair at the far end, the space between being occupied by John’s friend Joe Jago, who sat at a writing-desk, bewigged and with a snow-white cravat at his throat, at the shorter end of the bar also facing the prisoner. He was grinning broadly, the Apothecary could see.

  ‘Well, Sir John,’ the young woman was saying, ‘he was handsome like, though not as well set-up as yourself, Sir.’

  The magistrate, clearly in a good mood, retorted, ‘I hardly think that that is the point at issue, Miss West. You are charged with visiting the Covent Garden theatre and there relieving a gentleman of the contents of his pockets. What have you to say to that?’

  ‘I say that I might have pushed against the gentleman — accidental like — but take something from him? Why, Sir John, I’d as soon jump from a cliff.’

  So saying she curtsied to the gallery as if she had been making a great speech. They whistled and catcalled back at her — John included — forcing the magistrate to call for silence.

  ‘Miss West,’ he said severely, though John knowing him as he did, could not help but notice a slight rumble of laughter beneath the ferocious tone, ‘would you be so good as to turn out your pockets.’

  Miss West curtsied again, this time in the direction of the magistrate who obviously could not see and had to lean forward to hear what it was Joe Jago whispered to him. He smiled to himself as he heard the words and the Apothecary, observing, thought the Blind Beak might have a soft spot for his naughty defendant.

  From the back of the court Beak Runner Smallwood
stepped forward.

  ‘Is the arresting officer present?’ boomed Sir John.

  ‘Here, Sir,’ Smallwood replied.

  ‘And the complainant?’

  ‘Here, Sir,’ answered a smartly dressed gentleman who had been sitting on the end of the front row of spectators.

  ‘Now, Miss West,’ said Sir John deeply, ‘your pockets, if you please.’

  These particular articles of clothing were carried underneath the skirt and Miss West drew them out with a glimpse of garter and bare thigh which she allowed to remain on display for a few seconds before lowering her dress once more. A terrific whistle rose from the gallery and Sir John banged his gavel.

  ‘Silence!’ he roared, but the beau monde were in no mood to be hushed and continued to murmur softly one to the other.

  Aware that she now had the full attention of everyone present, Miss West slowly fished in her pocket and drew out a guinea, some silver and, finally, a white carnelian stone.

  ‘That’s mine,’ called Mr Wilson, the complainant.

  Miss West flounced her skirt prettily and exclaimed, ‘Why no, Sir. I think you must be mistaken. That stone has been in my possession for the last three months.’

  Mr Wilson went very red and turned to the magistrate. ‘I swear to you, Sir John, that that is my carnelian.’

  Fielding’s black ribbon, concealing the useless eyes that were beneath it, turned in Wilson’s direction. ‘You have a witness here who can swear to that?’

  ‘No, Sir, but I can bring along such a person tomorrow. The lapidary who cut it and would know it anywhere.’

  ‘That should prove excellent.’ The blind gaze turned towards the saucy Miss West who was blowing kisses to the gallery. ‘You must spend a night in the cells, Miss West. The rest of your case will continue tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh I don’t mind at all, Sir John,’ she chirruped. ‘They’re nice and clean compared with some others I could mention. Besides, you’re treated like a human being there.’

  ‘Thank you for the kind words,’ answered the magistrate, a definite smile on his humorous mouth. ‘Take her below, Smallwood.’

  And with a bob of her perky hat Miss West disappeared from their view.

  There was one more case to listen to. A low personage in the gallery at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, had actually stood up and made water on the crowd below. Orange peel and rotten fruit theatregoers were used to, but this was going too far. He was knocked to the ground by two burly patrons and handed into the custody of Runner Raven, who happened to be on duty in the theatre that night. His case was now coming up before the Blind Beak, who dealt with him sharply.

  ‘What you did was disgusting and I can only conclude that you were drunk at the time. But that is no excuse. I sentence you to hard labour in Newgate. Your term to last one year. And you are to serve the full twelve month of it. Now get him out of my presence.’

  He banged his gavel hard and nodded at Joe who stood up and said, ‘The court rises.’

  There was the usual pandemonium as the beau monde tried to get out but Sir John and his assistants had already left by a door leading them to the stairs that led to the private apartments, while the shackled prisoners behind were taken — with many moans and groans — to the cells below.

  John thought that the pretty Miss West was not going to have such a comfortable night of it as she had envisaged.

  As he climbed the winding staircase he thought that he would be a rich man if he had been awarded a guinea for every time he had clambered up them, and he also thought of the powerful person he was to meet at the top. For Sir John Fielding, whom he had known for so many years and in so many different circumstances, was a force to strike fear into the breast of even the most hardened criminal. From outside the door to the salon on the first floor he could hear the sound of laughter and his heart lifted in his chest. Knocking politely, he heard the magistrate’s voice call out, ‘Come in,’ and, doing so, John entered a den of comfort.

  It was a bitter February with a cheerless world outside, but within the Blind Beak’s living room there was a scene of great jolliness. Joe Jago, wig removed so that his bright red curls shone in the firelight, was helping Sir John to remove his shoes and put on a pair of comfortable old slippers. They were laughing together like the great friends they were. Joe, seeing a movement in the doorway, looked round and winked and John, signalling with his hands, asked him not to tell the Blind Beak that he was there. Thus he had a moment or two to quietly watch the legendary magistrate.

  Though the great man looked older he was in fact still only forty-seven years of age. For once he had removed the black ribbon hiding his eyes which, half-open as they were, showed themselves as being of a greenish-blue. His wig, however, of long flowing white curls was still on his head, surrounding his handsome features and giving him a gentle look, very different from his demeanour in court where villains quailed before him.

  Bodily, Sir John was starting to put on a little weight. Probably, John thought, because of sitting all day in the courtroom and getting little exercise. But for all that he still presented a fine figure, standing well over six feet and with impressive shoulders and a strong chest. Even though he knew the magistrate could not see him John bowed, a habit of his the origins of which were lost in the mists of time.

  ‘Good evening, Sir John,’ he said.

  The magistrate jumped a little and it took him a second or so to place the voice. Then he said, ‘Mr Rawlings, what a wonderful surprise. What brings you here on this bleak February afternoon?’

  ‘Sir, I wanted to share with you my triumph. I have finally succeeded in carbonating water.’

  Joe Jago, having finished putting on the Blind Beak’s slippers, rose to his full height and seized John’s hand which he pumped up and down with great vigour. ‘Oh well done, Sir. Well done. I know you have been working on this project for some years.’

  ‘It seems like all my life. But, Joe, I’ve done it! I’ve put joie de vivre into water. Look.’ And John produced from his greatcoat pocket a bottle and held it up to the light of the candles which were just being lit by an unobtrusive manservant.

  ‘By Jove, Sir. It sparkles like diamonds.’

  ‘You’re right, Joe. That’s a true description.’

  And putting his arms round the clerk, the Apothecary danced a small jig of triumph. The Blind Beak meanwhile had taken the bottle from Jago’s hand and was feeling it carefully with his long and finely shaped fingers.

  ‘These are one of the few moments when I wish that I could see,’ he said, and sounded so sad that John bounded to his side.

  ‘But you shall be the first to taste it, Sir.’

  ‘Will I? Do you promise me that?’

  ‘Only I have done so before you, I swear.’

  ‘Then fetch three glasses, Miller, and we’ll drink to Mr Rawlings’s famous brew.’

  ‘Very good, Sir,’ and the manservant left the room.

  Because the downstairs floor of the Bow Street house was entirely taken up with the Public Office — the courtroom being built in the grounds of the house next door — the layout of the premises was somewhat unusual. Sir John’s parlour was on the first floor — and very comfortable he had made it too — with the kitchen quarters on the same level. The family rooms and living areas were on the floor above, the bedrooms above these. And way at the top of the house were the rooms where the servants slept. Small wonder, then, that Number Four, Bow Street towered above its neighbours.

  The manservant returned with the glasses and John poured a measure into each. Handing the first to the Blind Beak, he and Jago stood respectfully awaiting his opinion. The magistrate raised the glass to his lips, which he then smacked together with appreciation.

  ‘By God, Sir, you’re made a delicious brew here. I’ll warrant this will sell well to the public.’

  It was Joe’s turn. He quaffed the lot. ‘I’ll second that, Mr Rawlings. You have produced something quite delicious.’

 
; John looked at them both seriously. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Indeed we do,’ the magistrate answered, speaking for them both.

  The Apothecary frowned. ‘I had not thought of actually selling it.’

  ‘But you must,’ insisted Sir John. ‘It is unique — at the moment. Take an advertisement out in the Morning Post. Say that bottles of the liquid are available from Two, Nassau Street. Do, Mr Rawlings, I beg of you.’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Come on, Mr Rawlings,’ said Joe, holding out his glass for a refill, ‘get in first before some other rascal does so.’

  John laughed. ‘How can I refuse? I shall go and see my father and take him a bottle — and get his opinion at the same time.’

  ‘And give my kind regards to the great old man.’

  ‘And mine too,’ added Joe, and once more drained his glass.

  Two

  Arriving in Kensington on the following morning, driven by his personal coachman — Irish Tom — and travelling in the coach with his monogrammed initials on the side, now grown a little the worse for wear, John, having disembarked, made his way briskly to his father’s residence in Church Lane, walking up the pathway that ran between the High Street and the gravel pits. His father had moved to the country in 1758, nearly ten years previously, and had now reached the great age of eighty-six. Yet the years had laid their hand upon him kindly; his golden eyes still gleamed with full cognition of all that was taking place, his voice was firm and strong with none of the quavering tones of the very elderly, his hearing, though fading, was still sharp enough. Let in by a footman, John stood in the doorway of the library and gazed upon the old man, glasses perched upon nose, avidly reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee standing on a small table at his side.

  It was true that age had not faded Sir Gabriel and yet there was an air of fragility about him. He had never been overweight but these days there was a new thinness, a new angularity to his features. His hands, John noticed before he spoke, had a rustling quality about them as they turned the leaves of his beloved newspaper.