Death at the Wedding Feast jr-14

by Deryn Lake

  His answer came at once. ‘If you would like to step through into my compounding room we can discuss the matter in private.’

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied, but at that moment her reticule came undone and the contents spilled over the floor of the shop.

  ‘Allow me,’ said John, and helped her to retrieve the contents.

  It was only as he was leaving the shop that he found a card case with some newly printed cards inside it. ‘Lady Imogen Beauvoir’, he read, before hastily placing the cards back in their holder. He retraced his steps and looked round but Lady Imogen was still ensconced in the compounding room. John left the card case on the counter in a place where she was bound to see it and went on his way.

  He had always loved Exeter, loved its back streets and alleyways and now he found his feet heading towards the river, bustling with life and activity. But as he went towards the West Gate he saw the tavern The Blackamore’s Head and felt that he had to go in there and have a jug of ale for old time’s sake.

  He sat at a table, feet stuck out in front of him, listening to the voices with their soft Devon burr speaking all around him. And then one voice rose above all the others, strident and compelling, a voice that had his full attention, though his negligent position at the table altered not at all.

  ‘I demand that you repeat that,’ it said.

  The other person gave a laugh and answered, ‘Indeed I won’t, Sir. I insist that you forget and forgive.’

  There was the sudden sound of a chair scraping back and the louder voice shouted, ‘Damn you, Sir, you said something I cannot forgive. You insulted my sister and you’ll take it back or pay for it.’

  This was followed by the noise of a hearty punch and then a groan, then the sound of someone else rising and a fist crunching. John rose to get a better view.

  Two handsome young bucks were going at each other hell-for-leather. The taller of the pair was dressed in the very latest fashion with a short, high waistcoat and tight trousers which left very little to the imagination. His coat he had cast to one side. The other fighter was smaller and more genial-looking. He was not so fashionably dressed, wearing a longer waistcoat which had seen better days and a somewhat tired coat which was hampering his return blows.

  A circle of men had formed round them shouting encouragement and remarks like ‘Hit him, George’ and ‘That’s the spirit, Freddy’. They were clearly known to one and all and the Apothecary stood by fascinated, watching them punching the lights out of one another. And then the landlord stepped in. He had changed since John had last visited the tavern and this new licensee was a massive chap, built like a bull and with a neck that emphasized the point. He came round majestically from his side of the bar and stepped in-between the two scrappers, seizing each by the collar and raising them off their feet.

  ‘Enough!’ he roared. He even sounded like a bull. He shook them both violently and then banged their heads together. ‘You’ll have to continue this in the street. I’ll have no more fisticuffs in this establishment.’

  And with that he threw the couple out, single-handedly, and so hard that they both landed on their backs on the cobbles. John, convinced that they were going to need his services, followed them. The jollier fellow was scrambling to his feet, bleeding profusely from his eye and lip.

  ‘Please allow me,’ said John, ‘but I think you will need a stitch or two in that. Let me escort you to the apothecary’s shop.’

  ‘Thank you but no,’ replied the other, giving a small bow. ‘My father is a physician and I live only a step from here. I’ll make my own way — but thanks for your kindness.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ growled the taller man, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll finish this here and now, Freddy Warwick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ the Apothecary interceded. ‘Brawling in a public street is highly frowned upon these days.’

  ‘I wouldn’t agree with you at all about that,’ drawled the other man, ‘Exeter on a Saturday night is no place for those of a delicate constitution.’

  ‘None the less,’ John answered, ‘I think you two should stop. You are both wounded badly, and in my opinion as an apothecary both of you require medical attention. Urgently.’

  The taller man looked belligerent, despite the fact that his nose was pouring blood. ‘Apologize, you cur,’ he said to Freddy.

  ‘I apologize for everything,’ the young man replied with a certain cold dignity, and turning on his heel walked quickly away, applying a handkerchief to his bloody eye.

  ‘Well, you have your apology,’ John remarked, ‘and now I think it would be best if you sought some help.’

  ‘That man is an absolute dandiprat,’ growled the other, staring at Freddy’s departing back. ‘But you can escort me to an apothecary’s if you wish. By the way, my name is George Beauvoir.’

  Suddenly everything made sense. He had to be the brother of Lady Imogen who had been so upset in the very shop to which they were now making their way. And Freddy — whom John rather liked — had perhaps hinted that she was pregnant and got a damaged eye for his pains.

  ‘Lord George?’ asked the Apothecary.

  ‘The very same. And what’s your name, Sir?’

  ‘John Rawlings of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’

  ‘Should I be impressed?’ asked George.

  ‘Very,’ John replied succinctly.

  They made their way along towards High Street, but his lordship was bleeding so badly that John decided they should go to the first apothecary they came across. Sure enough, after they had proceeded just a very few yards, they saw a small shop with the familiar jars in the window and John hurried his patient inside.

  The apothecary’s apprentice came out to see them and immediately called his master from the compounding room.

  ‘Now what have you been doing, Lord George?’ the elderly man asked him. ‘I shall have to tell your brother of you.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said George, and his voice was semi-serious.

  ‘I was merely being jocular. I am hardly likely to see him,’ the apothecary answered with a hint of acerbity. ‘I do not move in such exalted circles. The new apothecary on High Street has taken most of my custom and I fear that nowadays I am called upon for little except mopping up after fights and handing out the pills which are in much demand.’

  ‘What would they be?’ asked John, interested.

  ‘Oh, the usual thing: tablets for gout — they are a favourite — a cure for the clap, my best seller. And, of course, boiled Pennyroyal for helping young women who…’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ interrupted John, ‘I am an apothecary myself. And, believe me, the demands for physics are exactly the same in London as they are here. Now, what’s to do with this poor fellow?’

  ‘Get him lying flat for a start. Then apply bruised leaves of Fluellein to that nose of his.’

  Together they got George down to the floor and put the application on to his nostrils. Throughout this procedure his lordship kept complaining loudly and uttering vague threats but the two apothecaries ignored him and started a counter conversation about the use and effectiveness of various plants.

  During all this John was able to whisper, ‘Who is this brother that you spoke of earlier?’

  ‘Viscount Falmouth. Their grandfather is the Earl of St Austell. He’s about to remarry — since when every young woman in the place has been throwing herself at the Viscount, the Earl being off the market, so to speak.’

  ‘With any success?’

  ‘None at all. He’s a bookish chap and seems in no hurry to tie himself down.’

  ‘Wise man.’

  There was a squeal from the floor. ‘What are you two muttering about? I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes that my nose has stopped bleeding.’

  ‘Remain where you are for another five. Then I will give you an infusion of Blueberries to take home and apply frequently. You’d best keep your nose under a bandage for the rest of this night.’

 
; ‘Dammit, man. I wanted to go out this evening.’

  The older apothecary looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘It is entirely up to you, of course, but I would suggest a quiet few hours of complete rest. You have no wish to start the flow of blood once more.’

  From his place on the floor George muttered evilly. ‘Curse that little wretch Freddy Warwick. I’ll have it out with him, I swear it.’

  John spoke up. ‘I think it would be best, Lord George, if you gave up this unfortunate habit of having things out with Freddy. You may have thumped him but he thumped you equally hard in return. If you carry on you will lose your handsome features, you can be sure of it.’

  George turned on him a malignant glance. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

  ‘No, but I gave it,’ John answered, and turning his head to one side winked at the elderly apothecary who gave him a toothy grin in return.

  Nine

  At dinner that afternoon John shouted down the length of the great table, ‘What do you know of the Earl of St Austell?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He was a contemporary of my father’s, a little younger perhaps. Why?’ came the answer from the Marchesa.

  ‘I discussed him with Sir Clovelly today. It seems he had a fierce reputation when he was younger.’

  ‘Why the sudden interest in the man?’

  ‘Sweetheart, have I forgotten to tell you? Miranda Tremayne — that nasty little girl — is going to marry him.’

  ‘What? But she’s young enough to be his granddaughter.’

  ‘Easily. Though that doesn’t deter our Miranda. She’s looking like a creamed cat and more than a little pleased with herself.’

  ‘For once I feel robbed of speech. But of course I can see the attraction. He has a huge estate in Cornwall and is as rich as Croesus, so they say.’

  ‘And will eventually die, leaving our Miranda a very wealthy widow indeed. Let it be hoped that his temper sweetens with age.’

  Elizabeth looked thoughtful and took a sip of wine. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘St Austell growing more and more gentle. He was a vicious and rather cruel young man, I believe, and I think he will just get nastier and nastier as time passes.’

  ‘You and Sir Clovelly may be quite right. We shall just have to wait and see.’ John cleared his throat. ‘My dear, there is something I want to ask you.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I wish to return to London for a brief visit. First of all I want to see Sir Gabriel and Rose. Secondly I wish to discover how Mrs Fortune is proceeding with running my new business. And lastly I want to check on my new lads and see how they are getting on, particularly Fred the Factotum.’

  The Marchesa pealed with laughter; a lovely, bubbly sound. ‘How long will you be gone for?’

  ‘About a month. Then I will return so that we can be in time to attend the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, so we are going to be invited, are we?’

  ‘That is what Lady Sidmouth told me. She is also inviting Sir Clovelly Lovell.’

  ‘It should be greatly piquant to see Miranda acting the innocent — and going like a lamb to the slaughter.’

  For a moment the acoustics in the great dining room seemed to go out of kilter and the Marchesa’s voice was distorted, as if it were echoing down a tunnel. For no reason the Apothecary felt afraid.

  ‘John, what is the matter? You’ve suddenly gone very white.’

  He drained his wine glass to get control of himself. ‘’Twas nothing. A moment’s lapse, that’s all.’

  There was silence and then Elizabeth said, ‘Why don’t you bring Rose back with you? I am sure she would love to see the boys.’

  John dropped his napkin, rose from his seat, and walked the length of the table. ‘Madam, I loved you,’ he answered, ‘but now I love you more than ever. May I accept the invitation on my daughter’s behalf?’

  ‘Very gladly, Sir,’ she answered, and regardless of the footmen who stood at the back of the room, kissed him on the lips.

  Two days later John caught the flying coach and had a very jolly time of it indeed, his fellow passengers being three young bachelors going to London to celebrate the betrothal of one of them. When they heard of his recent triumph in the realms of fatherhood they cheered wildly and insisted on wetting the heads of the two babies in every stop they made. Consequently the Apothecary arrived at the Gloucester Hotel and Coffee House feeling much the worse for wear and caught a hackney to Nassau Street in something of a grumpy mood. This was not alleviated by his reception, which proved to be minimal, all of the upstairs staff being busy running errands for Mrs Jacquetta Fortune who seemed to have taken control of the entire place. On catching a glimpse of him coming through the front door she dropped him a brief curtsey.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, how very good to see you home. We were not expecting you, as you have probably noticed. My dear Sir, the business has taken off like a thing deranged. Orders are coming in daily for the carbonated water. The whole enterprise is going to be a great success, I can assure you.’

  ‘Well, I am delighted to hear it. I shall no doubt be needing extra cash as I am now the father of twin boys.’

  Jacquetta’s eyes opened wide. ‘How wonderful, Sir. Please accept my heartiest congratulations. What are their names, may I ask?’

  ‘Jasper and James. They are the sweetest little devils and absolutely identical. One day you must meet them.’

  ‘Will they be coming to London?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John answered, and suddenly felt inexplicably annoyed with Elizabeth for her aversion to the capital and her refusal to so much as visit it. To take his mind off these feelings he decided to make his way to his shop in Shug Lane. Once there he alighted from his coach and sent Irish Tom back home. Not knowing quite what to expect, he sauntered over the threshold.

  Within the place gleamed; every wooden surface shone like a mirror; every jar glinted its vivid contents. Even as he stood surveying the scene John could see Fred’s back bent as he dusted a low-placed box of pills. He was suddenly reminded of the child’s namesake, Fred the mudlark, that ridiculously healthy child who had lived in an upturned boat on the banks of the River Thames. In many ways they were so alike, both undersized, both cheerful — and both with a habit of acquiring things that were not rightfully theirs.

  ‘Well, well,’ John said admiringly, ‘you’ve certainly made a good job of the shop. Is Master Purle pleased with you?’

  Fred straightened up, somewhat startled. ‘Oh hello, Sir. We wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

  Gideon appeared from the compounding room, looking every inch the apothecary in his long apron, his curling hair tied back in a neat bow. John cast his mind back to when he had first taken him on as an apprentice and marvelled at the change. The Apothecary had signed on someone totally lacking in flair; now Gideon had become a young man more than capable of running the shop in Shug Lane and entering that most noble of professions. And how handsome he had grown. A veritable sight for sore eyes.

  ‘Fred,’ said Gideon, ‘go into the compounding room and help Master Robin with chopping up the herbs. There’s a good lad.’

  ‘Right ho, Sir.’

  The diminutive figure disappeared obediently, and John turned to Gideon. ‘How has he been behaving?’

  ‘Impeccably. I cannot fault him. And, strange to tell, he has formed a good friendship with Robin.’

  ‘And he? How is he turning out?’

  ‘Excellent, Sir. The boy is genuinely interested. He is far more alert and alive than I was at his age.’

  ‘You were a late developer, Gideon.’

  The young man flushed, colouring from his neck up to his bright hair. ‘I suppose I was.’

  John smiled at him to show there was no ill feeling and at that moment the door of the shop rang, then opened, accompanied by a young man who walked towards them, his nose buried deep in a book.

  ‘Good morning, Sir. How c
an we help you?’ said Gideon, just as John was opening his mouth to ask the same question.

  ‘Eh? What? Oh sorry.’ The young man closed the book with a snap and looked about him with a vague expression on his face. ‘Ah yes. Of course. Something for my grandpapa.’

  John took over. ‘What did you have in mind, Sir?’

  The young man looked at him. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure. Can’t think what it was he wanted.’

  He opened the book again and read a few lines as if this would refresh his memory. John glanced at the pages sideways and saw that they were full of mathematical equations. He cleared his throat and the young man looked up and fixed him with a vague expression.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I did not speak, Sir,’ said John pointedly. ‘You were trying to remember what it is your relative required.’

  ‘Was I? Oh yes.’

  This conversation was getting nowhere and Gideon intervened.

  ‘Would it be something for gout?’

  The young man looked doubtful. ‘No, I don’t think so. Ah yes, it is coming back to me now.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ said John.

  ‘It is for…’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘… potency. He is getting…’ He now began to speak so softly that the Apothecary was forced to cup his ear. ‘… married again. He wishes to perform his marital duties vigorously. You understand?’

  He said these last words with such a great deal of embarrassment that John almost felt sorry for him. He became very professional.

  ‘How old is the gentleman concerned?’

  ‘Seventy-two.’

  ‘A good old trooper then,’ was out of John’s mouth before he could curb the words. ‘Now, Sir, I have some strengthening physick of my own composition which is considered invaluable by many elderly gentlemen. And in your grandfather’s case I would recommend rubbing oil of Jessamine into the appropriate part three times a day.’

  The young man looked vague. ‘You mean…?’ He pointed downwards.

  ‘Yes,’ said John firmly, ‘that is exactly where I do mean. Now, is there anything further I can help you with?’