Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  “The brothel? How old are they, then?”

  “The Brompton Park school takes lads from the age of ten upwards but this particular bunch of hooligans are aged between twelve and fifteen. There are usually about six of them, a dozen at the most. They like rampaging about, making catcalls and throwing stones.”

  “Is the headmaster aware?”

  “Mr. Sebastian? He has been written to, of course, but I think he can’t - or won’t - identify the boys concerned.”

  “What do you mean, won’t?”

  “As I said, Mr. Rawlings, there is a lot of money at stake. Some of these boys have titles, others are heir to them. It would not be in his best interestes to come down too hard on the guilty, therefore it is easier to remain vague as to exactly who they are.”

  “I see. Well, I do hope that you will register your protest.”

  “You can be certain of that, Sir,” Mr. Turnbull replied, rolling up his stockings and fastening the silver buckle of his breeches over them. “I shall visit said Sebastian in the morning.”

  “If you would like me to bear witness I shall be only too happy to do so, though it will have to wait a while. I return to town early.”

  “Oh, you do not live here?”

  “This is my country retreat though my father is permanently in residence. You may know of him: Sir Gabriel Kent?”

  “I have certainly heard the name. I believe he is a master of whist.”

  “I am sure he would like to hear himself described thus.”

  “So where is your home?”

  “In Nassau Street, in Soho. Though my shop is in Shug Lane.”

  “I shall make a point of visiting it when I am next in town. Now, how much do I owe you?”

  “I cannot charge when I act as a Samaritan.”

  “Then I shall certainly call at your shop and make some purchases. You see, I also live in London,” he added surprisingly.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I am attached to the Court in a very minor way. Nothing grand I’ll have you know. I’m a type of steward. I oversee other servants.”

  “It still sounds very responsible.”

  “Believe me, I am a little cog in a vast wheel.”

  “Are you connected with the palace at Kensington at all?”

  “I have a room there, that is why I am seen around these parts from time to time. Of course I do not generally broadcast the fact that I am connected with the royal household, it is considered more discreet not to advertise these things. But this time, when I call upon Mr. Sebastian to voice my complaint, I intend to tell him.”

  His patient, now respectably garbed but walking with a definite limp and leaning hard on his umbrella, made his way back to the street. In the doorway he raised his hat, somewhat muddied from its sojourn on the ground.

  “Well goodnight to you, Mr. Rawlings. Shug Lane, you say?”

  “Yes, I am the only apothecary there. You can’t miss me. If I should be out, my apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, will look after you.”

  But as he closed the door on his visitor and made his way back to the parlour, where Sir Gabriel sat snoozing, John realised with a shock that the period of Nicholas’s indentures was drawing to its close. He had taken the young man, older than customary because of his difficult and chequered past, to be his apprentice in 1755, at the time of the strange incident in The Devil’s Tavern. Next year, in 1762, the seven years would be up.

  How quickly life goes by, considered John, and thought of the child that was coming in to the world, probably in April of the year that lay ahead, and felt for the first time the full weight of his thirty years.

  “Glum face,” said Sir Gabriel, opening a gleaming eye.

  “I’m old. Father.”

  His adopted parent sat upright, straight as a whip and just as incisive. “That word is now allowed in this house, my dear. You are as old as you damnably well feel.” He tapped his forehead. “Here’s the key to it all. If you’re old inside there, then, by God, you are. But cheat that and you can be as bright as a button all the days of your life. So I’ll hear no more of such talk, is that understood?”

  John smiled. “Perfectly,” he said, and kissed Sir Gabriel on the cheek.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, John departed for town, leaving his wife behind to enjoy the country air and to make a leisurely visit to her mother, who still had a home in Chelsea even though in far smaller premises now that she was a widow living alone. With no woman aboard, Irish Tom, John’s coachman, decided to go at a good speed and by half past seven on a sharp September morning, the sky so clear that you could see a leaf fall at half a mile, he had passed The Swan, the last building in Kensington Parish adjoining the City of Westminster. Slowing down for a moment to allow the stage coach to draw out from the yard, John, staring out of the window, found himself witnessing the most pathetic sight. The stage, with much horn blowing and noise to indicate its departure, set off at a reasonable pace, only to leave a passenger stranded. A small figure, clutching a bag, rushed into the yard as hard as it could, just in time to see that the coach had gone too far to turn back. Staring disconsolately after it, the figure then sat on its luggage and burst into tears.

  It looked to John, from the very way it wept and moved its head, like a girl, but it was most certainly dressed as a boy. Sensing something sadly odd, the Apothecary called to his coachman to stop. Opening the door, he pulled down the step and got out.

  “Now, my lad,” he said, approaching the weeping child, “what’s your trouble? I take it you have missed the coach.”

  It looked up at him through waves of tears. “Yes, Sir.”

  It was a girl all right. The guinea bright hair might be cut short, the garb be totally masculine, but nobody could deny the stamp of the features. What game could possibly be being played here, the Apothecary wondered. He blanked his features.

  “Where are you heading for, my lad?”

  “London, Sir.”

  “Whereabouts exactly?”

  The poor thing thought wildly, obviously having no clear idea about its destination. If ever John had seen a case of a runaway, this was it.

  “Do your parents know you’re on your own?” he asked quietly.

  The girl paled. “I only have a mother alive, Sir. I’m on my way to see her.”

  “And where can she be found?”

  “In Soho, Sir.”

  “I see.” John fingered his chin. “Look, let me be blunt with you. I don’t believe your story. I think you are trying to escape from something. Now, would you care to step inside the inn and tell me your troubles over breakfast? I have had none myself and neither has my coachman.”

  A terrified look appeared in the girl’s eyes. “I do not know you,” she said. “It would not be seemly.”

  John smiled. “I am a married man, my boy, and I can assure you that young fellows are not to my taste.”

  She could hardly betray herself by protesting that she was a girl and that it was her virtue she must protect. The poor little thing stood opening and shutting her mouth, shifting from one foot to the other - John noted with amusement that her boy’s buckled shoes were the smallest he had ever seen - unable to say a word. And it was at that moment that Irish Tom, beckoned by, decided to leap down from his coachman’s box, and arrived at her side, his cape flapping round him, landing like a flying bat.

  She shrieked, very startled, and the coachman made everything much, much worse by saying, “There, there, little lady, I won’t hurt you.”

  She lowered her voice an octave and said gruffly, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucas Drummond.”

  “Lucas, is it?” said Irish Tom, peering into her face intently.

  “Tom,” said the Apothecary, with just the hint of a laugh in his voice, “leave the young gentleman in peace. He has missed the stagecoach and I am just about to buy him breakfast. And you as well. Now shall we all step inside.”

  Tom let out a bellow of merriment. “I t
ake your point, Mr. Rawlings, so I do. You and the young fellow enjoy your repast. I’ll make my way to the coachmen’s parlour.” And he strode off, still chuckling.

  Wondering how he was going to manage this potentially disastrous situation, John ushered his young companion into the dining parlour, and it was not until a great plate of ham and herrings and a steaming pot of tea had been placed before them, that he asked his first question.

  “How old are you, Lucas?”

  The girl looked up, her mouth full. “Sixteen, Sir,” she said after a moment.

  “Have you left school? Are you an apprentice?”

  She shook her head. “No, Sir. I attend the Brompton Park Boarding School.”

  “That place again,” John muttered. “Why is it always coming into the conversation?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. How long have you been there?”

  “Since I was eleven.”

  “Eleven. That’s well young to be put out to board.”

  She blushed wildly. “I’ve got no father and my mother has other interests. It was more convenient that I go to school.”

  Oh God’s mercy, thought John, poor devil, thrust in with a load of boys - and mischievous boys at that if Mr. Turnbull is to be believed - with her breasts sprouting and her courses started. He looked at her with enormous pity.

  “Why does your mother want you to masquerade as a boy? What advantage is there in it?”

  The poor child looked utterly wretched, tears welling in her eyes again. “I am a boy,” she protested miserably.

  “No,” said John, “you are not. You are an attractive female and your life must be one of pure agony surrounded by all those eager young males.”

  She exploded into sobs, so violently that John was forced to leave the table, ignoring the curious eyes cast in his direction by his fellow breakfasters.

  “Landlord,” he called, “can you show me to a private room. My niece is indisposed.” He lowered his voice. “Her age, you know.”

  In the past, the Apothecary had found that any mention of women’s complaints always drew instant results, and now it happened again. They were ushered into The Lamb, a private snug set aside for discerning travellers.

  Settling Lucas by an extremely sickly fire, but better than nothing, John thought, he waited for the weeping to subside which, eventually, it did.

  “Now,” said the Apothecary, “let me explain something to you. I am an apothecary by trade which means that I am entitled to treat the sick even though I am not a physician. Many people ask me for physick to cure nervous disorders so I am very used to hearing sad and sorrowful stories. Why not tell me yours, in the strictest confidence. I promise that nothing you say to me will go further than these four walls.”

  Lucas looked tortured and opened her mouth, however no sound came out.

  “For a start, your name cannot really be Lucas. What is it actually?”

  “Lucinda.”

  “And is your other name Drummond, or did you make that up?”

  Lucinda wiped her face with her sleeve. “No, that is what I am called. So may I know your name, Sir?”

  “John Rawlings.” The Apothecary decided that formality might be the keynote. “Allow me to present you with my card.”

  He withdrew one from an inner pocket and she read it slowly, then raised her pretty wisteria-coloured eyes to his face.

  “Mr. Rawlings, there is one thing I have to say to you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I cannot, indeed I will not, reveal to you the identity of my mother. She is quite famous in her way and I would do her great damage if I were to tell anyone, anyone at all, who she is. So please accept that and ask no further questions about her.”

  Twitching with curiosity, the Apothecary nodded.

  “That understood. I’ll tell you my tale.” Lucinda drew breath, then said in a small, sad voice, “I was born to her when she was very young and I was put out to a family to be raised from babyhood. Then her circumstances changed and she gave birth to another child, this time a boy, my half- brother.”

  “Was he also put out to be reared?”

  Lucinda paused, then said, “Yes, after a while.”

  “Were you both bastards?”

  She shook her head violently. “I can’t and won’t say. You must draw your own conclusions.”

  John looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It was wrong of me. Am I forgiven?”

  She drew her youthful dignity round her, a heart- wrenching sight. “Yes, I forgive you. Anyway, my brother was sent to school when he was eight but shortly after that he got ill. My mother particularly wanted me to look after him, he was so very fragile. Anyway, Brompton Park only took boys, so it was then that she got the idea of disguising me. I was very small at that time. It was quite clever, don’t you think?”

  She said this with an air almost of pride and John felt he could weep that any mother should so betray her offspring.

  He cleared his throat. “You speak of your brother in the past tense. Is he dead?”

  “No. I meant he was frail at that time.”

  “And now?”

  Once more she shook her head and small bright curls flew around. “He’s a little better these days, I suppose. It’s hard to say.”

  “But now you have decided to leave him.”

  “He is twelve and has other friends - and I cannot stand the strain of it any longer.”

  “Can I deal honestly with you?” asked John. “As a doctor would his patient?”

  “Ye - es,” she answered uncertainly.

  “I would hazard a guess that a boy, or boys, has discovered that you are a girl and wants to get into your bed.”

  The tears started once more and she nodded dumbly. “It has already happened. He came to me silently in the night. It was so painful, so violent, but I did not dare call out. I could not bear it to take place again. That’s why I’m running away.”

  “By God,” said the Apothecary, jumping to his feet. “Your school has much to answer for. The principal must have seen what we can all see. He should be publicly shamed - and so he shall be.”

  “Oh no,” said Lucinda, suddenly pale with fear. “It would all be so dreadful. The boy will say I was willing, he’s just the wretched sort that would. And my poor brother might be shocked to death. As for my mother ...” Her voice trailed away.

  Resisting the comment that Lucinda’s parent should have more on her conscience than even the headmaster, John sat silently, wondering what he should do next. The unwritten rule for anyone who discovered a runaway was to take them back to their place of education and let those in authority sort the matter out, dealing with the miscreant as they saw fit. But this terrible story, provided it were true, was something entirely different. Wishing that Sir Gabriel were present to advise him, the Apothecary stared into space.

  Lucinda broke the moment. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I find it hard to credit that any mother could abandon her daughter to such a fate, yes.”

  Again came that odd note of pride. “Mama has had a great deal to put up with. She did what she thought was best.”

  It was impossible to argue with such blind faith and John simply gazed into the fire. Finally he said, “Were you on your way to see her? Does she really live in Soho?”

  Lucinda looked a little ashamed. “No, that was a lie. I had thought to get work as a maidservant in some house. To earn my keep and have a roof over my head.”

  The Apothecary shuddered, knowing what the poor creature did not. That every stagecoach was met by harpies from the whorehouses, their purpose to pick up pretty and innocent young girls from the country and take them to work in the brothels. Lucinda, with her bright hair and lovely eyes, would be a target from the minute she set her foot upon the carriage step.

  He turned to her, a note of appeal in his voice. “Lucinda, I beg you to let me call upon your mother. She must be told what is happ
ening.”

  “No she must not,” the girl answered vehemently. “She has made a new life for herself. I will not have it ruined.”

  “You are very loyal.” He did not add ‘in view of what you have had to bear.’

  Lucinda made no comment but instead said, “So you see that it would be best for me to head for London and make my own way in the world.”

  John shook his head fiercely. “No that you must not do. The city is riven with vice and viciousness, a trap into which any young girl might fall. Let me offer you instead a post as maid to my wife. Her own maid came with her after her marriage and a second girl has been taken on. But now that Emilia is expecting a child, another pair of hands would come in useful.”

  “But I could not live in Kensington, Sir. I might be seen and forcibly dragged school.”

  “Our home is actually in Nassau Street in Soho. And that is where I am going now. Do you trust me enough to accompany me?”

  The small face seemed to shrink before his eyes and all the colour drained out of it. “My life has not been filled with good fortune but perhaps that is changing. I must trust somebody, sometime. Mr. Rawlings, I will come with you,” Lucinda said.

  He nodded but said nothing, making a silent vow that those responsible for the poor child’s predicament would one day be called to answer for it.

  It was very late when he walked into his shop, after noon in fact, but the place was fairly full, a strong female element being present, no doubt attracted by the pale, dramatic looks of John’s apprentice, Nicholas. As he had grown older, so had the young man’s slightly melancholy air been enhanced. And this, much to his Master’s astonishment, had caused the ladies to clamour after him, presumably wanting to mother him as well as get him into their beds. Apprentices, of course, were forbidden from fornication but John had long ago turned a blind eye to this regulation. Nicholas was older than most, twenty-four by now, and to enforce such a ruling would have been ridiculous. He looked up as John came in, his blue black hair, tied in a queue by a tidy ribbon, enhancing his exotic appearance.