by Deryn Lake
“He is in his studio. He’s a portrait painter, you know. Quite famous.”
“Not Julius Witherspoon?”
“Certainly.”
“Good gracious,” said John, and wondered at his own lack of initiative that he had not enquired further about the brother and sister.
“Do you want to see him?” Christabel asked.
“Not yet. Leave him in peace a little longer. Perhaps we could speak to you first.”
The elf nodded. “Follow me to the salon, gentlemen. There you may sift me for information.”
As she moved in front of them to lead the way, John and Samuel stared at one another, still both reeling from the shock of her.
“Beautiful,” whispered the Goldsmith, much to his friend’s amusement.
“Gentlemen, come in,” she called over her shoulder, and opened the door to a small but prettily appointed and very feminine room. This, John guessed, was Christabel’s private sanctum.
She motioned them to sit down. “I wondered if somebody might call.”
“Did you? Why?” asked the Apothecary.
“Because Goward was so detestable that I am sure he was murdered. Why, I’d have done it myself if I’d thought quickly enough.”
It was too much. First her elfin looks and her youth, now this frankness of speech. All John could think of saying was, “Good gracious.”
“Don’t look so startled. You came here for the truth, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then don’t be shocked by it, I pray you. We’ve known the Gowards for years, in fact they bought a country place here shortly after he married that fat frump Mary.”
John and Samuel exchanged another glance, not knowing how to deal with this at all.
“He was always mooning round here, his eyes falling from their sockets over my sister. Look, there she is. My brother painted her when she was fifteen.”
She motioned to a portrait on the wall and the two men turned to stare at it. A consummate beauty gazed back at them, clad in crimson, her skin the colour of a white rose, hair so black that it seemed to gleam on the canvas, a pair of wonderful dark blue eyes, glittering with vitality. Truly one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen, John thought. The image of such a creature being pursued by the loathsome Goward was repellent to say the least of it.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Simply put, he seduced her. And all at such a vulnerable time. Our father had died and Mother was one of those silly, feeble females who simply cannot manage on their own. So she went into a final flutter and died as well.”
It was so comically said that the Apothecary found himself wanting to laugh, and yet it was such a tragic story.
“Anyway, in the guise of strong friend of the family, he bedded her then got bored with her when she became en ceinte.”
“She had a child?” exclaimed Samuel.
The elf looked serious, a difficult task for her. “Fortunately not. She miscarried after a fall, a fall which broke her back by the way.”
“Oh my God!” said Samuel, who was so involved with the tale that he was leaning forward on the edge of the chair, turning his hat in his hands.
“What happened next?”
“Julius and I cared for her as best we could. But she was such a creature of the wild; she loved riding and dancing and being in the countryside. She simply couldn’t bear to be confined to one room. Very simply, gentlemen, she saved up the syrup that had been given her to relieve the pain and took it all at once, thus causing her death. She was eighteen years old.”
“It seems George Goward had much to answer for.”
“He did indeed.” Christabel stood up and pulled a bell rope. “May I offer you some coffee?”
“How very kind of you,”
“Very,” echoed Samuel, who had a look on his face that John knew only too well.
“So why were you at the investiture?” the Apothecary continued.
“My brother, my funny little brother, was receiving some kind of medal. He had painted a portrait of the King’s sister. Princess Augusta, which actually made her look quite human. God’s sweet life but don’t these Hanoverians surround themselves with hideous women - faces like dogs, the whole damned bunch of ‘em …”
This was too much for John, who guffawed loudly, Samuel joining in somewhat over-enthusiastically.
Christabel grinned at them. “I see you agree. Anyway, Julius was being rewarded for his services. Did you not notice him?”
“What does he look like?”
“Sadly, somewhat dwarfish. He was born with a curvature of the spine which makes him appear rather hunched. In fact he’s an odd little carcass. But I love him dearly and that is why I stay with him and keep house. Though now he has been rewarded by the King perhaps some female will disregard his lack of looks and marry him.”
“So that’s how you came to be there. Now tell me, did you notice anything while you stood on the stairs?”
“If I had,” Christabel answered roundly, “I most certainly wouldn’t tell you. Whoever did it deserves to be elevated to the peerage.”
“Hear, hear,” said Samuel, letting the side down complete!y.
Fortunately, at this juncture coffee was served, and the general disturbance covered any gaffes that might have been made. John made the taking of his cup an excuse to marshal his thoughts. If anyone had a motive for murder it would be the Witherspoons, both brother and sister. He wondered, almost absently, what size shoes they wore. If Julius was described as dwarfish, then his feet would be small. But by the same token. Jack Morocco could have made up the entire story of the creeping feet to attract attention away from himself.
“Would you like to see Julius now?” asked the elf. “For there is nothing more that I have to tell you.”
Have or won’t, the Apothecary thought. Out loud he said, “That would be most kind. Shall we go to his studio rather than call him from his work?”
“In either event it means disturbing him. But, yes. Perhaps you would like to see some of his canvasses.”
“I’d be honoured,” said Samuel, brimming with the enthusiasm of the newly smitten.
It was indeed a small man who turned to look at them as Christabel opened the studio door, having knocked and been told to enter. In fact the curving of his spine gave the momentary impression that Julius Witherspoon was a hunchback. But probably through years of habit, he straightened as soon as he saw that he had visitors and made a small, polite bow. He was not really handsome at all, other than for a pair of fine eyes, similar to those of the girl in the portrait. But those apart he was pale and had that sense of strain common to people who have struggled with pain and deformity. Yet if beauty had been denied him, a compensatory great gift had been bestowed. The canvas he was working on was quite stunning.
It was of a woman in riding dress, her hair like flame beneath a small hat with a feather, her skin the colour of ivory, her eyes brandy wine. Yet it was the sitter’s expression that Julius had caught so brilliantly. John gazed, totally absorbed, feeling that he knew her, that he could sense her mischief and her pride, her kindness and her rebelliousness. Then his eyes were drawn to the background of the painting. He looked at a wild lake, hyacinth blue, at mountains rearing above, at the colours of autumn tingeing the trees. Then he realised that the girl herself was the embodiment of autumn and that the artist had contrived, most cleverly, to bring another depth of meaning into what could have been simply a portrait of a young woman.
“This is a masterpiece,” said John. “You are a genius, Sir.”
The little crooked man smiled and his whole face lit from within. “How very kind of you.”
“It is the truth,” said the Apothecary. “If I can afford your fee I would like you to paint my wife.”
“I would be delighted. But tell me, to whom do I speak?”
Christabel answered. “He is John Rawlings, Julius, and he is here on behalf of Sir John Fielding, the Magistrate. They believe
that someone pushed George Goward down the stairs.”
“Really?” said the painter, and dabbed gently at his canvas.
“I’ve told them everything, including the fact that I would have done it myself if I’d thought about it.”
“And I would have helped you,” Julius replied.
It was futile to ask further questions. The Witherspoons, even if they had seen anything, which the Apothecary doubted, would remain totally silent. He changed the subject.
“I’ll take up no more of your hospitality. It has been kind of you to see us.”
“Sorry we couldn’t be of greater assistance.”
“You were very honest.” John turned to his companion. “Samuel, I think it’s time we were on our way.”
The Goldsmith cleared his throat, then looked at Christabel earnestly. “Miss Witherspoon, my father has retired to Islington and I often come to visit him. Would it be in order for us to call one day?”
She looked at her brother and a silent current of amusement passed between them. They were clearly very close, to the point where they could communicate without speaking. It was small wonder that unperceptive souls might accuse them of an unnatural love, though the Apothecary felt certain there was another explanation.
“You aren’t twins by any chance?” he said.
“Of course we are. How did you guess?”
“You have a certain rapport, an empathy that only exists between those who’ve shared the womb.”
Samuel cleared his throat once more. “Miss Witherspoon?”
She turned to him, her elfin face contrite. “I’m so sorry. Of course you may call. Might I know the name of your father? It is possible that we are acquainted.”
“Samuel Swann, which is also my name.”
“Ah, Mr. Swann. Of course. I often see him at the theatre. A nice old fellow.”
“Yes, he is rather,” said Samuel, and Christabel, approving of this answer, looked at him and smiled.
John turned to Julius. “It has been a privilege to meet you. You have a great gift. I will discuss fees with you another time, if I may.”
“Of course. Would you care to see some more canvases before you leave?” And without waiting for a reply he began to pull some out from a pile stacked against the wall. He was certainly not weak, despite his deformity, and the Apothecary noticed as well that his feet were small and neat, encased in a pair of low heeled shoes. The fact that Julius was a genius did not exempt him from the possibility of being a murderer, John thought.
His work was breathtaking, though. He seemed to have the knack of seeing into the sitter’s soul and conveying their idiosyncrasies with strokes of his brush. Dignitaries revealed themselves as corpulent, sagging old men; spindle-legged, double-chinned, purple-veined. Their wives looked on the world from the bored, dead eyes of women who have never done a hand’s turn, or the shrewish gaze of those whose small tight lips only parted to criticise and argue. Yet it was the last canvas of all that left John breathless.
As Julius lifted it on to the easel, the Apothecary saw that it was a portrait of Lady Mary Goward, enormous within a chair, her pink and white complexion and vacuous expression brilliantly captured. Beside the chair stood an equally enormous boy, his body distorted by roll upon roll of flesh, his legs thick and unwieldy, his face scarcely visible for wobbly chins, even his eyes peering out from puffs of fat.
“Good God!” John exclaimed. “What a terrible child. Who is he?”
“It’s her son, Frederick, poor thing. Goward gave him a life of hell because he was so big. Said he couldn’t bear to see him round the place.”
“I believe he mentioned that to me when we first met.”
“I didn’t realise you knew Goward.”
“I only came across him briefly. We were not friends.”
Julius gave a bitter laugh. “He had none. Anyway, he refused to pay for this portrait.
Said I hadn’t caught the essence of his wife or his stepson. Said I had made them look too bad-tempered!”
The Apothecary shook his head. “I can’t speak for the child but you have portrayed Lady Mary exactly, even down to her fat restless fingers.”
“I admit that I was pleased with it,” Julius said.
John stared at the portrait, feeling that there was much it could tell him, but the more he looked the less he seemed to see. Yet his pictorial memory, the gift that allowed him to conjure up a scene exactly as it had been when it had taken place, absorbed every detail of the picture so that he might carry it with him and look at it again when he was alone.
Chapter 13
Samuel, dragging Miss Witherspoon’s name into the conversation as frequently as he possibly could, talked all the way back to London, then begged pardon of John that he must leave him, saying that he would walk the rest of the way to his shop in Puddle Dock Hill. The sudden quiet was an immense relief, giving the Apothecary the chance to sort out all the information he had received and to plan what he was going to do next.
High on the list, of course, was to continue the search for Lucinda and her brother, for the thought of the two youngsters wandering around unprotected was alarming to say the least. Yet were they wandering, John wondered. Or had they gone to someone’s house, perhaps their unfeeling mother’s and had she finally done her duty and taken them in? And was Nicholas right? Was Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh, rumoured to have given birth to at least one child, harbouring them right next door to that unpleasant school from which they had both decamped?
“Kensington,” said John. “But before that a visit to Bow Street.” He called up to Irish Tom, who was in a far better mood having spent an hour in The Angel while his master visited the Witherspoons. “Tom, we’ll go straight to the Public Office, if you please.”
“Certainly, Sir,” answered the coachman, and whistled to himself, thinking that there was a pleasant little hostelry situated quite close to their destination.
Sir John Fielding, as good fortune would have it, had not sat down to dine but was enjoying a sherry with his wife Elizabeth. Even more fortunate, thought John, was the fact that their adopted daughter, Mary Ann Whittingham, was out visiting and was not present to disrupt sensible conversation with idle chatter.
“My dear friend,” said Sir John as the Apothecary came into the room. “How are you proceeding?”
“I am a little further forward. I have seen the Witherspoons who both have a motive for murdering George Goward and admit quite freely that they would have done so if they had been quick witted enough. But, and this is most significant, Jack Morocco has been to visit me.”
And he told the Magistrate the story of the creeping shoes and the black man’s assertion that George Goward had been done away with.
“You think it is possible that he made it up?” the Blind Beak asked.
“He might have done, he’s full of mischief. But on the other hand I feel inclined to believe him because it bears out what you said, Sir.”
“Yes.” There was a long silence, then Sir John said, “Have you written to your friend in Devon yet?”
“Emilia was doing so this morning. She is asking him to check the parish registers for the birth of Goward’s daughter.”
Once again the Beak was very still, an old trick of his, leading those who did not know him better to believe he had dropped off to sleep. “There’s a thread to all this but I’m damned if I can grasp it,” he said eventually.
“I feel the same. By the way, is the questioning of the footmen and pages-of-honour complete yet?”
“Yes, they’ve all been interviewed, and I can tell you this much. There is a conspiracy of silence regarding the thirteenth page boy. All of them categorically deny that he was there.”
“How very bizarre. Tell me, Sir, did anyone see anything untoward?”
“They say not. Whoever moved on that staircase must have been so quick and clever that it was over before it was even noticed.”
“Jack Morocco firmly believes that it was Lady Mary hers
elf. He thinks the shoes could well have been hers.”
John Fielding sighed. “Tiresome woman. I am due to see her two days after the funeral. Elizabeth will accompany me there, won’t you, my dear.” He took his wife’s hand.
“I shall be intrigued. Having missed the investiture, to say nothing of the murder, at least I will be able to get a look at the principal suspect.”
“Could I accompany you?” John asked.
The Blind Beak looked a little dubious. “Well, Jago will be there of course. But if I were to say that you had come in your professional capacity, lest she feel faint, then I am sure it can be arranged.”
“I would much appreciate it.” John rose. “Sir, will that be all? I would like to get back to join Emilia at dinner.”
“Indeed you must. But just one last thing. Has young Guernsey contacted you?”
“No.”
“Then seek him out again, my friend. He has a country estate, very fine apparently, out at Marybone, not far from the Gardens. If anyone will tell you the identity of the thirteenth pageboy, it will be he. Runner Ham interviewed him and found him to be an honest lad. Try your best with him, Mr. Rawlings.”
“I certainly will, Sir.”
“And let me know as soon as you hear from Sir Clovelly Lovell.”
“Of course.”
By the time the Apothecary rejoined his coach, all Irish Tom’s troubles were behind him, and he was singing merrily up on the coachman’s box. Delighted to find him in a better frame of mind, John gave the driver his orders.
“Tom, I want you to take me home then change the horses and go straight to Kensington. Spend the night at Sir Gabriel’s, then return for us at eight o’clock. Tell him that we are coming for the weekend and there is much afoot.”
“It will be dark any minute, Sir.”
“Never mind. You have done the journey so many times that it will make little diference.”
There was the sound of muttering, to which John said, “Think of the pleasures of The Dun Cow, Tom,” and peace was restored.
