by Deryn Lake
“Filthy old fart catcher,” Nicholas interrupted. John raised an eyebrow. “… and she has no doubt switched allegiance in gratitude. Nick, you must put the past behind you.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again. Wherever she is, at least she is safe.”
“But not from his disgusting advances.”
“He might not be disgusting. Poor devil, he could be a kindly soul with purely honourable intentions.”
“Then why did she write that to me?”
Shaking his head, the Apothecary found himself unable to reply.
They had a good morning, working hard in the compounding room, John enjoying the freedom of being away from the puzzle of George Goward’s death. Yet however hard he tried, he wasn’t really away from it at all. Over and over again, he found himself running through the various points and coming up with nothing but a series of loose ends. Everyone seemed to have a motive for doing away with the dead man, yet there was no one at whom one could actually point the finger. The more he mulled it over, the more convinced John became that Sir John was right and that the widow was responsible, tired, no doubt, of Goward’s mistresses and general bad behaviour.
“She’s got to be interviewed - and interviewed soon,” he muttered. Then another idea came. Just supposing Lady Mary were Jack Morocco’s mother, having allowed one of her black servants to make free with her. Supposing that the victim, short of money perhaps, had decided to blackmail his own wife. What a motive that would give her.
“By God!” said John. He had spoken aloud and Nicholas looked up questioningly from the table at which he was pounding herbs. But at that moment a voice called, “Shop,” and before he could say a word, the Muscovite was forced to remove his apron and go through.
“Is Mr. Rawlings in?” John heard a youthful voice say.
“Who wants him?” Nicholas asked.
“I am Miss Aminta’s black boy and I come with an invitation from my masser… I mean master.”
Nicholas laughed. “Are you the jackanapes that Jack Morocco rescued in the street?”
“I am he,” the child answered with dignity.
John stepped into the shop and gasped at the transformation. The dirty little rascal in the suit of clothes too large, had been turned into a miniature black prince. A scarlet turban with a twinkling jewel supporting a cheeky white feather, matching red trousers shaped like those of a Turk, an embroidered waistcoat, a miniature dagger tucked into a stiffened taffeta waistband, adorned the former ragamuffin.
“Well, well,” said the Apothecary, “and what does he call you?”
“Ebony, Sir.”
“No other name?”
“Ebony James Morocco.”
The Apothecary smiled at the sweet pretension of it all. “Well, Ebony James, what does your master want with me?”
“For me to give you this, Sir.” And he produced from his belt a gilt-edged card.
John studied it in surprise. “A supper party? Tonight?”
“Yes, Sir. I have been told to await your reply, yes or no.”
“Well, yes then.”
“I have also been instructed to ask whether Mrs. Rawlings will be joining you.”
“No, she won’t. She is in the country at the moment.”
“That is a pity, Sir,” Ebony James said seriously. “Because my masser say that she is one of the prettiest girls in town.”
“How very saucy of him and how very observant.”
The boy, still not sure of himself, though growing more confident by the minute, gave a nervous smile. “Thank you, Sir.”
The Apothecary glanced at the card again. “I see that the supper is to be held in Grosvenor Square. I didn’t realise the Duchess lived there.”
“She doesn’t, Sir. Those are Mr. Morocco’s private apartments.”
“A very good address,” the Apothecary answered, and wondered who paid the bills to support the black man’s extravagant lifestyle.
Ebony James shifted his feet. “Would it be in order for me to go now, Masser? I have other cards to deliver.”
“Of course, of course.” The Apothecary searched along the shelves and found a bottle of perfume. “Here, give this to Miss Aminta with my compliments. Tell her I look forward to seeing her.”
The boy bowed. “Thank you, Sir. Good day.” And he was gone, trotting along the lane in his beautiful gear, attempting to avoid the spray of mud sent up by the carriage wheels of those driving round town.
“Isn’t it strange,” said Nicholas, “how one moment of good fortune can change a life. When that child bolted into the street to avoid a whipping, fate led him to Jack Morocco and an assured future. Just as Mr. Fielding, as he then was, saw the goodness in me and asked you to take me as an apprentice. Everything hinges on the flip of destiny’s coin.”
“The art of life,” John answered seriously, “is to know that the coin is flipping and to act on it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That many people do not recognise their golden opportunity for what it is and ignore it, continuing with their mundane lives until the moment has passed - for ever.” He became brisk again. “I must call at Bow Street to tell Sir John what I have learned about George Goward’s daughter.”
“Is she Jack Morocco’s mistress, do you think?”
“I did at first but now I’m not so sure, so the Beak’s opinion will be very helpful.”
“Will you ask her when you see her tonight?”
The Apothecary fingered his chin. “If the moment presents itself, then I certainly will. On the other hand I would hate to embarrass the girl on a social occasion.”
“You’re very considerate, Sir.”
“Not always,” John answered, as, unbidden, a picture of Elizabeth di Lorenzi came into his mind.
He had never seen anything quite like it. The house in Grosvenor Square, an address that was considered the height of bon ton by the beau monde, had either been most cleverly converted or custom built as apartments, John was not certain which. And of these apartments. Jack Morocco had the finest. Situated on the first floor, it had a large salon with three big windows from which one could step out onto a long ironwork balcony. Leading from this salon were bedrooms and a parlour, together with a silk wallpapered dining room. Indeed, the whole place was decorated and furnished to a fabulous degree.
There were hothouse flowers everywhere, in fact the apartment was totally full of them, giving out a strong heady scent which filled John’s nostrils. There were also flowers of the human variety. Every good-looking young person in London, both male and female, seemed to be present, vying with each other for shrill small talk and expensive dress. The main topics of conversation, as far as the Apothecary could make out as he pushed his way through the groups, were the opera, the theatre, horses, grooms and fashionable clubs, together with the latest balls, assemblies and ridottos. It was all very boring and very trivial and John, having secured himself a glass of champagne, looked around for someone with whom to converse on a sensible level. As good luck would have it, Aminta sat alone on a small couch and he headed in her direchon.
She was very much a young woman with her own style, clearly refusing to bow to fashion’s latest decree. Where all the other females present were following the trend for enormous hairstyles, en poudre and with swaying plumes atop, Aminta wore hers down, hanging straight, almost to her waist, its colour the bold rich red of autumn trees, its texture fine as silken threads. Into these very beautiful tresses flowers had been woven, so that in her apple green open robe and blossom white underskirt, she looked like a wood nymph, or rather the spirit of an orchard, John thought.
He bowed before her. “Madam, we meet again.” The tremendous pallor which had enveloped her at the funeral had gone, so had the look of an injured vixen, but still Aminta had a haunted manner, as if she were concealing something from the world.
She looked at him blankly, then said, “Mr. Rawlings, is it not?”
The Apothecary bowed aga
in, “Your servant, Madam.”
“I did not realise Jack had invited you,”
“He did, but only this morning. Where is he by the way?”
She smiled faintly.’ “Showing some beauteous female round the place, I expect.”
So she wasn’t the only one, John thought. Morocco clearly believed that there was safety in numbers.
“You don’t mind?” The words were out before he had time to curb his tongue.
Aminta shrugged delicately. “No, of course not. Jack was born to flirt and charm. Without being able to do so, he would die.”
“You do not fear that one day he might leave you?”
She looked thoughtful. “If he does, he does. There is nothing I can do about it.”
“You are a very philosophical young woman.”
“I have had to learn to be. I was brought up by foster parents, you know. An aunt and uncle. They were not unkind to me but they were very strict. In order to make life tolerable I had to plan that I would leave for London as soon as I had saved enough money for the coach and lodging at the other end.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. But life in town was not as I imagined it. It seemed there was little work open to me other than prostitution or maid servant.”
“Which did you pursue?”
“Neither. I had always wanted to act and so I took myself off to the Theatre Royal and asked them to help me.”
“What happened?”
“I got a job selling fruit in the intervals.” The girl laughed. “I think if I had stayed long enough I might have been allowed to set foot upon the stage. But then I met Jack and he did not approve of my being a lowly fruit seller. So he put me under his protection.”
The Apothecary thought of asking the key question about her antecedents but decided to wait a while longer, not wanting to frighten her away. “Tell me more about Mr. Morocco,” he said. “I find the man quite fascinating.”
“Well, he was the Duchess’s black boy.” At that she turned to lay her hand on Ebony James’s shoulder, for he was sitting close by, a necessary adjunct if her pale beauty were to be shown off to its fullest advantage. “She loved him so much that she did not send him away at puberty. Now he acts as if he were her son.” Aminta indicated the apartment with a sweep of her arm. “These hothouse flowers are always here. they are not just for this evening’s entertainment. As to the rest: a box at the opera, a horse and groom in Hyde Park, a coach, the best clubs, and fashionable dinners and suppers for his coterie of hangers on.”
“And a beautiful white friend,” John added.
Aminta smiled. “Why not say mistress? It’s true enough.”
“I wasn’t sure about that.”
The girl shook her head. “It is not something that society wishes to know.”
“But what about these people?” John indicated the guests.
“They are young and are too afraid of losing Jack’s generous friendship to voice anything openly. But behind his back the knives are out.”
“So you do not believe you have a future together?”
“Fine company, or those that consider themselves to belong to that set, would turn their back if we were to marry. Isolation would become the order of the day and Jack is too gregarious to tolerate such a situation.”
“You have been very honest with me. Do you mind if I ask you something else?” She shook her head.
The moment had come to find out the truth, John thought. “This great journey of yours to London. Was it from Devon by any chance?” Aminta looked astonished. “Yes, it was. How did you know?”
“Mostly guesswork. Tell me, Madam, is your full name Georgiana Aminta Goward?”
She went pale as she had been at the funeral and appeared so frightened that the Apothecary instantly regretted his forwardness. “Be calm,” he said. “I mean you no harm by asking that. It is simply that I am assisting Sir John Fielding in the hunt for your father’s murderer and everything about Sir George’s past must come out if we are to shed any light on the present.”
Aminta turned away, shaking. She was such a delicate being, such an elfin creature, that John began to think himself ruthless to the point of cruelty that he had been so blunt with her.
“Please,” he said, “don’t be alarmed. I am truly acting as a friend.”
She turned to look at him once more and he saw that the agonised vixen had returned, white as snow, her hair flaming round her colourless face.
“I can tell you now,” Aminta said, her voice low and somehow menacing, “that I didn’t kill him despite the fact that he treated me like filth. I literally have never met the man in my entire life, and that’s the truth. I was handed to my foster parents as soon as my mother died. And then, if rumour be correct, when he remarried his new wife wanted nothing whatever to do with me. Thus I was abandoned, totally and utterly.”
“So she knew of your existence? Miss Chudleigh believed that Sir George would not have informed her.”
“Oh she knew all right. But she and my father were not the sort to love children. Lady Mary, fat and foolish; he the most selfish being to strut. Her son was sent away, I was kept in darkest Devon. That is how they wanted it. Mr. Rawlings …” She looked at John in a blaze of sincerity. “… the closest I ever got to my natural father was at his funeral yesterday.”
“Was it you who threw the rose?”
“Jack threw it on my instigation. Despite all George Goward had done - or rather not done - it was he who breathed life into me. The rose was the one and only respect I ever paid him.”
I wonder, John thought, if it was your lover who exacted the final revenge for your neglect? And yet again the memory of the black man’s grinning face as Goward lay with skull smashed at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, came back to haunt him.
The supper party was superb; everything that money could buy lavished on the guests and Jack Morocco himself proving to be the perfect host. Despite feeling somewhat older than the rest of the visitors, John enjoyed himself thoroughly, while Aminta seemed to have recovered her old spirits and laughed and danced along with everybody else.
Looking at her, considering her beauty to be almost unworldly, the Apothecary again asked himself the question as to whether a man would kill for her. Without doubt, the answer was yes. Yet would Jack Morocco risk losing all his material benefits, his wonderful lifestyle, just to be avenged for his mistress’s neglected past? If he thought he could get away with it, he would, John concluded. In fact there was little he wouldn’t put past the black man in the way of daring and contempt for authority. Yet, observing him, charming all who came in contact with him, it was impossible not to like him. A great desire that Jack should not be the one who must be brought to justice came over John and he did something totally foreign to his nature. He actually wished that the guilty party would be Lady Mary Goward, whom he was due to visit, in company with the Blind Beak, the very next day.
“More champagne,” said a voice at his elbow, and John saw that his host had come to join him.
“Thank you.”
Morocco snapped his fingers and a footman appeared instantly. “I saw you speaking to Aminta earlier. How did you get on?”
“Do you mean do I like her? If so, the answer is yes.”
“Let’s not mince words, John. Did she tell you her story?”
“I had guessed it anyway. The parish records showed the birth of a daughter to George Goward, a daughter who bore the name Georgiana Aminta. I worked the rest out for myself.”
“You Public Office people are quite cunning. I’ll give you that,” said Jack, downing a glass and immediately taking another. “Checking the parish records, eh. So now you know why I didn’t like Goward and have no time for that wife of his either.”
“Yes.” John looked his host straight in the eye. “Jack, there’s something else. A rumour circulates that Lady Mary, despite her size, is a lascivious woman. It is said by the locals of Islington that she gave birth to a child out of
wedlock and that that child was black. Was it you? Goward’s widow your mother?”
The great dark eyes changed and the Apothecary saw in them a look that he had glimpsed once before. A look of immense sadness and knowing, as if all the terror and trials of those snatched from their native land to act as unpaid servants to white men had entered the soul of Jack Morocco.
“I ask you, John, could that woman have produced a creature like myself?”
“It does not follow that her children must be as vacuous and vacant as she.”
“That’s true enough, but the answer is no. If the rumour is reality, then the child is not me. I was born on board a slave ship. My mother gave birth to me in the horrors of that foetid crowded hold where people of my race were chained in order to be transported from their families and homes into servitude. The experience killed her but I lived; I lived because, by God, I was tough and determined. I was baptised in our first port of call because they all expected me to die, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Some maiden sisters in Bristol brought me up but when I became too lively for them, forever involved in japes and jollys, they sold me off. You know the rest. I owe everything to the Duchess. She loves me and has given me a life of luxury and pleasure. So whoever Lady Mary’s love child - a misnomer if ever there was one - might be, it is certainly not myself.”
“This case is full of unexplained children,” said John, musingly. “Miss Chudleigh’s unwanted offspring, George Goward’s daughter. Lady Mary’s bastard, to say nothing of her fat son, my ex servant Lucinda, the thirteenth page boy. How do they all fit in, I wonder?”
“And how many of them are still alive?” Jack Morocco added.
“Most, it would seem.”
He relapsed into silence, Sir John’s words that there was a thread somewhere repeating themselves in his head. There had to be a connection but what itwas remained a mystery. Yet at least the Apothecary felt he might now make some sort of progress. When he had asked the Duke of Guernsey about the thirteenth page boy there could be no doubt that the young man had lied. If he could somehow or other persuade him to tell the truth then perhaps the rest of the pieces would fall into place. But meanwhile there was something even more important to do. Tomorrow, in company with Sir John and Lady Fielding, he would see Lady Mary Goward and she would finally have to answer for herself.
