Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  “No, I thought you could do that as she is your protegee.”

  The Apothecary groaned. “Are you sure she went out?”

  “Yes, the boy told me. Slipped out of the house as soon as the coast was clear. Then came rushing in and went straight up to the attic, so he said.”

  “Well, she’ll have to mend her ways or I’ll put her out.”

  Emilia’s angelically impish smile appeared. “You know perfectly well you’d do nothing of the sort. Nor would you take her back to the school. You’re all bark, Mr. Rawlings, with not an ounce of bite in you.”

  John bared his teeth. “I could still sink these into your delightful little bum, my dear.”

  “I doubt you’ll do anything of the kind.”

  “I wouldn’t wager a fortune on that.”

  “You are taking advantage of a pregnant woman,”

  “I’m glad you noticed.”

  “Oh John!” said Emilia, and giggled wildly as he blew out the candle and drew her down beside him in the darkness.

  Chapter 8

  It would be impossible, thought John Rawlings as he dressed in sober clothes, the kind he wore when attempting to convince people that he was a fit person to ask questions about their lives, to track down Digby Turnbull without further details of his whereabouts. In fact the man who moved from palace to palace, organising servants for special events, would probably be the more difficult to contact of the two people Sir John Fielding wished him to see. This left Miss Chudleigh, possibly still in residence at St. James’s Palace or, more likely, in Kensington, fled there to recover from the shock. Not knowing quite how to proceed, John went downstairs to breakfast, after kissing Emilia, who was still asleep.

  Nicholas had already left for the shop and the house was quiet, the servants no doubt gossiping about the investiture and its terrible aftermath in their own quarters. This gave the Apothecary the opportunity he needed. Ringing a bell, he asked for Lucinda to be sent to him.

  As soon as she came into the room she exuded a strange mixture of defiance and guilt, yet her amazing eyes refused to meet John’s as he cleared his throat portentously.

  “I am highly displeased with you,” he said, leaning forward on the table and glaring at her. She opened her mouth to reply but before she could get a word out, the Apothecary continued, “Since your arrival in this house there have been nothing but bad reports of your behaviour. I personally saw you creeping out late to post a letter, long after the maids had gone to bed. Gossip has reached my ears that you are walking round London hand-in-hand with my apprentice, and now you defy my wife’s instructions and leave the home when she particularly asked you to stay in and light the fires.”

  There was a long silence, then Lucinda said, “Are you giving me notice, Sir?”

  “No I am not, though I am sorely tempted. But I would like an explanation.”

  She replied like a barrister, enumerating points. “The letter I posted late was for my brother, who is still at the Brompton Park school and far from well. And it is true that Nicholas has befriended me and sometimes takes my hand when we are walking out together. As to leaving the house yesterday, yes I confess that I did give in to temptation and run behind your coach to share the excitement. I had intended to be out only a few minutes but became distracted by all that occurred.”

  It was very difficult to be angry in the face of this artless account and John strove hard to maintain a stem manner.

  “Lucinda, you must not go on like this if you wish to remain in this establishment. I agree that yesterday was a very special occasion but the fact remains that you flouted the orders of Mrs. Rawlings.”

  She hung her bright head. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Hardly likely, considering that investitures are not weekly occurrences. Now, prove your worth and bring me a decent breakfast. All the excitement of yesterday has given me an appetite. And Lucinda ...”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “I would rather that Nicholas did not fall in love with you. His indentures do not come to an end for another year.”

  “I will do my best to discourage him,” she replied with a slight edge to her voice, then left the room.

  John picked up The Daily Courant which was lying on the table and saw that the sensational news of the death of Sir George Goward within the confines of St. James’s Palace and immediately following the levee at which he had been knighted, had reached the ears of the gentlemen of the press. They referred to the murder as a ‘fatal fall’ and a ‘tragic accident’. However, the story went on for pages, probably being one of the most extraordinary it had ever reported. The Apothecary read the whole thing through, tucking in toa robust repast as he did. Then, his plans laid, he left the house to walk to Bow Street.

  Sir John Fielding had taken no time off to celebrate his new honour and John saw as he approached the Public Office, the building in which the Magistrate both lived and worked, that those butterflies of society, the beau monde, were flocking into the public galleries of the court in droves, probably titillated by the fact that Sir John had been present when George Goward had crashed to his death on the previous day. Hoping that he hadn’t missed Joe Jago, who always sat in court with the Magistrate, John hurried inside and gave his name to the official at the desk.

  But he was to be disappointed. “Mr. Jago has left, Sir. He and Mr. Fielding - I mean, Sir John - have just made their way inside.”

  “Damnation,” said John forcibly, and behind him another voice, female, echoed the same sentiments. He turned and saw, somewhat to his surprise, that Elizabeth Chudleigh had followed him into the tall, thin house, third on the left as one entered Bow Street, and was now standing disconsolately, also wondering what to do.

  The Apothecary bowed flamboyantly. “Miss Chudleigh, good morning to you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Rawlings. I did not recognise you in such dark clothes. It seems we are too late to see Sir John or Mr. Jago.”

  “So it appears. And I’m afraid I do not have the time to sit in court and await them. Therefore, dear Madam, may I accompany you to the shops or wherever you are bound?”

  “No,” she responded, “you may take me to Will’s Coffee House. It is but a step from here and besides they know me.”

  “It is a very male preserve. Miss Chudleigh. You are certain you will be welcome?”

  To this she snapped her fingers. “If they want me to leave they will have to carry me out physically. Now come along, good Sir, I feel the need to talk.”

  And she stepped out of the building, walking briskly, with the Apothecary in hot pursuit.

  Will’s Coffee House, situated at the comer of Bow Street, was the establishment in which the wits and literary men of the day foregathered. Henry Fielding and William Wycherley had been regular visitors, together with an Admiralty secretary named Samuel Pepys. Indeed, it had the reputation of being the meeting place from which poetry emanated, for every coffee house in London had its own particular following. The beau monde went to White’s in St. James’s Street; intellectuals to the Grecian in Covent Garden; men of the church to Truby’s or Child’s; while financiers patronised Jonathan’s in Exchange Alley. Merchants interested in shipping would go to the coffee house run by Edward Lloyd in Lombard Street, which had grown from a humble meeting place to premises in which ships were auctioned, as well as producing its own newletter of shipping intelligence.

  There were also coffee house of a less materialistic nature. Theatre people, both audience and actors, poured into the Bedford, where every branch of literature and every performance at the various playhouses was weighed and determined. Further, Tom Fung’s was notorious for its clientele of fashionable fops and noblemen, bloods, bucks and choice spirits of London. Even politicans bowed to the decree. The Whigs congregated at the St. James’s or the Smyrna, Tories could be found at the Cocoa Tree or Ozinda’s. But in none of these places were women expected to be present and so it was with a great deal of courage, in John’s opinion, that Elizabeth
Chudleigh swept into Will’s and demanded a box.

  Yet it was typical of her. She cared nothing for convention - her appearance virtually naked at a court ball gave evidence to that - and her liaison with the Duke of Kingston, scandalously discussed in the great salons of the land, was indiscretion gone wild. But her beauty, though slightly faded, was powerful and her arresting manner hard to resist. Despite all the many points against her, John found that he liked her more and more.

  Now she looked at him very directly with those wide limpid eyes of hers and said, “Why were you calling on Mr. Fielding?”

  He kissed her gloved fingers. “It’s Sir John now. And why were you?”

  “Because a strange rumour has reached my ears.”

  “Which is?”

  “That George Goward’s body was taken to the mortuary and will not be released until the coroner has been notified.”

  “The death was sudden and violent.”

  “But natural.” She paused. “Wasn’t it?”

  John weighed up the odds and decided she would be of more help to him if she knew what was going on, though on the other hand wondering whether the Magistrate should be the one to inform her.

  “Your silence tells me a great deal,” said Miss Chudleigh, raising a cup of hot chocolate to her lips. “I can only presume there is suspicion of foul play.”

  “Sir John thinks so,” the Apothecary answered slowly. “But I think I had better let him speak about that personally. But meanwhile you might answer a question or two for me.”

  A cloud appeared at the back of the sensational eyes but Miss Chudleigh continued to sip her chocolate, apparently unperturbed.

  “Do you recall being on the staircase when Sir George fell?”

  “Yes, I was standing quite close to him.”

  “Who else was there?”

  The beauty frowned. “Let me see now, Sir John, of course, and dear Joe. Yourself and Mary Ann.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Mary Goward, naturally. One of the silliest women ever to see daylight in my view. Then there were the Witherspoons, brother and sister, close as book leaves and probably incestuous.”

  “Dear God!” exclaimed John, eyebrows flying.

  Miss Chudleigh disregarded him and frowned in even deeper concentration. Then she smiled. “Jack Morocco was there as well. Large as life and perfumed like a lotus.”

  “Jack Morocco?” John repeated. “Who’s he?”

  “The Duchess of Arundel’s little pet. He started off as her black boy but by the time he reached puberty she had grown so fond of him that she didn’t follow custom and send him to the plantations. Instead she kept him on and treated him like a son. She dresses him as a fop, pays all his bills, bought him a horse and even fetched a dancing master to him. Can you credit it?”

  “And is he a dutiful son to her?”

  “Not he. He has a secret life that is the talk of the town, though she knows nothing of it.”

  “And are you going to tell me what that is?”

  “The usual. A private apartment, a white mistress, scores of hangers-on, claret and champagne. Need I say more?”

  John laughed. “No. I take it the Duchess has no natural sons of her own?”

  “No children at all, fate did not curse her with any.”

  What an odd choice of word, thought John. Surely it should have been bless? But Miss Chudleigh was continuing to speak. “Anyway, he is quite the dandy man, though very pleasing in personality when one converses with him. In fact he has quite contributed to the clientele of Signor Luciano. All the young noblemen go there to learn fencing and horsemanship from friend Morocco.”

  “He sounds a character indeed. I wonder what he was doing at the investiture.”

  “One of his jolly friends receiving a knighthood I expect.”

  “I see. Was there anybody else standing near Sir George?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Who are the brother and sister you mentioned?”

  “The Witherspoons? Oh just a strange couple who have always shared a home. I believe there was another sister who died. If my memory holds, there was talk of suicide.”

  “Surely it’s not true they are incestuous?”

  Elizabeth Chudleigh shrugged a careless shoulder. “Who knows? Nobody has been in their bedrooms, just as they haven’t anyone else’s. It’s mere conjecture, after all.”

  “Do you know where they live?”

  “Somewhere in Islington, close to George Goward, so I’ve heard.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you think that is significant?”

  It was John’s turn to shrug. “It’s possible I suppose.” He finished his coffee, putting the cup down carefully in the saucer. “Tell me, how well do you know the Gowards?”

  The wide eyes gave him a penetrating stare. “She more than him. When I first came to court she was married to Lomond, a drunken wastrel if ever there was one. George Goward was on the fringes of polite society then, but he was good with the ladies and spoke well, so managed to climb the ladder. Every rung a woman, of course.”

  And were you one of them? thought John.

  “Culminating in Lady Mary?”

  “Yes, though to marry that vapid fool must have been a sacrifice for him indeed.”

  “I wonder why they never had children,” said John reflectively.

  “Perhaps she wouldn’t, perhaps he couldn’t. She had a son when she went into the marriage. Not that George had much to do with the child, rumour has it that he couldn’t abide the little fellow, teased him constantly about his porky appearance.”

  “He was fat?”

  “Huge. Took after his mother in that, to say nothing of his kind person.”

  “Would you think that he had many enemies?”

  “I would say,” answered Miss Chudleigh, lowering her lids so that he could not see the expression in her eyes, “that he probably had dozens.”

  “Fascinating,” said Sir John Fielding, “absolutely fascinating. Do you know, Mr. Rawlings we only received intelligence a few moments ago as to the identity of the other people standing in Sir George Goward’s vicinity. You have done very well indeed.”

  “Miss Chudleigh was most forthcoming - at least about the others.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Sir, I know she is a friend of yours yet I could not help but get the feeling that it was really she who was in control of the entire conversation. She talked freely about anything that did not concern her but said little about her own self.”

  The Magistrate frowned. “Do you think she is hiding something?”

  “More than likely, though what I cannot imagine.”

  Sir John looked thoughtful. “Perhaps she knew Goward better than she cares to admit. Could you follow that up, do you think?”

  “I can try,” John answered, none too hopefully.

  Today the court had risen early, there being few cases to hear, and the Apothecary, who had spent far longer with Miss Chudleigh than he had intended, had returned to Bow Street to give the Blind Beak the names of the three unknown people on the stairs.

  “Mr. and Miss Witherspoon and Jack Morocco,” Sir John said consideringly now. “I feel that if you would be so kind, Mr. Rawlings, it might be helpful if you saw them. Find out if any have past connections with George Goward.”

  “The Witherspoons live near him in Islington, I believe.”

  “And Jack Morocco?”

  “No connection that I know of but then, according to Miss Chudleigh, Morocco lives wildly and has many friends. He was the Duchess of Arundel’s black boy, incidentally, but she grew to adore him so much that she brought him up and educated him as a son.”

  “How lucky he was to be kept on. As you and I know full well, Mr. Rawlings, when the black boys approach manhood and are no longer sexless toys to accompany fine ladies, they are usually despatched to the West Indies and slavery.”

  “A few remain because their owners have grow
n fond of them.”

  “Sometimes too fond! Certain white women of rank and position have allowed their black servants familiarities that propriety would not tolerate.”

  “With tragic results if they are discovered. Anyhow that would not apply to the Duchess,” John said with certainty. “Apparently she treats this young man as an indulged child and always has.”

  The Magistrate rumbled a laugh. “I would rather like to meet him. I’ve a mind to call him in to Bow Street on some pretext or other.”

  “But meanwhile do you want me to track him down?”

  “Try and find him in one of his haunts. It could be very enlightening. Meanwhile I will attempt to make an appointment with Lady Mary and inform you of it should I be suc- cesful.”

  “She will plead her grief as an excuse not to see you.”

  “Of course I could demand an interview.”

  “She’ll throw a vapour if you do,” the Apothecary warned.

  “Then I shall have to have you on hand to revive her,” answered Sir John, and laughed again, very much amused by the involuntary groan which escaped his visitor’s lips.

  A letter from Digby Turnbull awaited John on his return to Nassau Street:

  Dear Sir,

  I am Informed by Miss Chudleigh that Much is Spoken of Concerning the Demise of Sir George Goward. In view of the Circumstances I would be Obliged for the Opportunity to Converse with Your Self. If you Would Care to Call at St. James’s Palace presenting at the Same Entrance, I will be Pleased to recive Your Good Person.

  I remain, Sir, Your Humble Servant,

  D. Turnbull.

  “What is it?” asked Emilia, appearing in the hall and looking most charming in a slightly loose blue robe.

  “I have been summoned to the palace.”

  “By His Majesty.”

  “There’s no need to be frivolous. Now how has Lucinda behaved herself today?”

  “Well enough. But John...”

  “Yes?”