Death at St. James's Palace

by Deryn Lake

  “Well?” Julius had asked.

  “Do you think I’m worthy?”

  “As worthy as any of us. I’ll send word through that a new member is proposed.”

  Julius slipped through a door leading to a room beyond, which he firmly closed behind him so that John could not see inside.

  “You’re for it,” said Gainsborough in his Suffolk accent, and laughed heartily.

  “They will admit you,” Julius announced solemnly, returning and, before the Apothecary could utter another word, he had slipped a blindfold over John’s eyes.

  Unable to see a thing, John heard the door open and found himself being led through by the elbow, Julius on one side and the great Gainsborough on the other. There was a roar of greeting as the three appeared and judging by the sound, the Apothecary imagined himself to be in a large room occupied by an equally large number of people. Feeling his way cautiously, he discovered that he was standing at the bottom of an almost perpendicular ladder, that his guides had let go of him and that the order to mount was being shouted from every quarter. Glad that he had had nothing to drink in the way of alcohol, the Apothecary slowly climbed the steps, about dozen in all, and then was ordered to remove his blindfold.

  He was standing on a platform, far too narrow for his liking, looking down at a table round which were seated the club’s officials. John’s eyes bulged in his head, for here were the great men of the arts, all staring up at him, completely straight-faced. Gainsborough’s rival, Joshua Reynolds was there, David Garrick, whom John had met before during the fatal incident at The Beggar’s Opera, and even the great Dr. Samuel Johnson, the most clubbable man in London according to his friends.

  Reynolds, whom John recognised from a portrait he had seen of the artist, appeared to be the president, for he wore a rather extraordinary cap and gown, and had a gavel lying on the table before him. David Garrick, wearing a long black robe and a mask, which did not in the least disguise his recognisable features, had placed behind him on a perch a live owl, which he appeared to be consulting about John’s suitability as a new member. As well as these two, there were twelve other dignitaries, all masked and gowned. The rather frightening effect of this solemn gathering was enhanced by the fact that a cauldron of spirits of wine stood on the table in front of them, throwing a most eerie light on all of their faces. John gulped, wondering what he had wandered into.

  “Examine the candidate,” boomed Joshua Reynolds.

  Garrick spoke, disguising his voice but insufficiently to deceive the Apothecary. “Sir, were you present at your birth?”

  So this was the way of it. Sheer absurdity, not meant to be taken seriously.

  “I can’t remember,” John answered gravely.

  “Do you hear that. Screech?” Garrick asked the owl, which winked an eye but did not reply.

  “Sir,” the actor asked again, “think carefully. You are out shooting and a covey of partridges takes flight. There are thirteen in it. You kill two birds with the first barrel, and one with the second. How many remain? Take care what you reply, Sir.”

  This was an easy one, John thought. “Why, ten remain, of course.”

  Garrick turned to the owl. “Hear that. Screech? Ten remain. Foolish fellow.” He regarded the Apothecary once more. “Only three remained, Sir. The ten live birds flew away.”

  “Fine,” chorused the other judges. “One bottle of claret.”

  So it went on. Ridiculous questions being met with equally ridiculous answers and fines of bottles of wine being imposed. Finally, though, they considered the Apothecary absurd enough and he was allowed to descend from his perilous platform and was offered membership, his subscription to be yet another bottle of claret.

  This was the moment of unmasking and John watched in amazement as various other actors, together with prominent young men about town, appeared from behind their disguises and greeted him.

  “Well, well, Sir,” said someone close to his ear.

  The Apothecary turned to see who had spoken to him. Then his eyes widened in astonishment. Present with this raffish crowd of artist and theatricals and not appearing in the least uncomfortable in their presence was that most ordinary-looking of gentlemen, that sober and serious servant of the crown, Digby Turnbull himself.

  Chapter 18

  “I never realised,” said John, frankly astonished, “that you were a member of the Pandemonium, Sir.”

  Digby laughed. “It would sound pretentious if I told you that everyone who is anyone does belong. But the fact remains that if one is interested in the arts in their varied forms, this is the club to join.”

  The Apothecary looked round. “I see a good selection of rich young blades as well.” A thought came. “Tell me, is the ubiquitous Jack Morocco a member?”

  “Naturally. He belongs to every good club in town.”

  John was silent as it slowly dawned on him that the three men who had stood near George Goward on the staircase were all linked, Sir John Fielding believed that a thread connected the children in this case. Was there another thread, the thread of belonging to the same club, associating all the males?

  “Was George Goward a member?” he asked.

  Digby Turnbull shook his head. “Good God no. He would have considered the Pandemonium far too artistic for his tastes.”

  “I see. His widow was taken ill today, you know. She collapsed while being questioned by Sir John. It seemed to me that she had had an apopletic seizure.”

  Digby made a contemptuous noise. “I’m hardly surprised. The woman couldn’t take a step out of doors without being ill. Do you remember that scene at the funeral? What was that all about?”

  “She was in an hysteric because her son was ill and his school wouldn’t release him to attend.”

  “Doesn’t he board at Brompton Park?” Digby asked thoughtfully.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because I have an appointment there tomorrow. I simply demanded that Sebastian see me. His little rowdies are making trouble again.”

  Thinking of his shrivelling experience in the Cold Bath at the hands of the horrible Arnold, John nodded sympathetically.

  “I wondered if you might like to come with me. You might get a chance to see the boy and learn his version of events.”

  “Sebastian will probably throw me out,” the Apothecary answered.

  “Let him just try,” Digby stated with a fighting look in his eye.

  It had been an amazing evening which John thoroughly enjoyed. However, he left relatively soon despite all the requests from his new acquaintances to stay on. For before he had parted company with Digby Turnbull they had arranged to meet early the next morning to drive to Kensington in John’s coach. It seemed that, trusted employee of the crown though he might be, Turnbull had no conveyance of his own, using the carriages attached to the various palaces he visited.

  They met at eight o’clock in Nassau Street and got aboard as soon as Irish Tom brought the coach round from the mews, then they clipped off at a good pace and had left the City of Westminster and were at The Swan in excellent time. There they stopped for breakfast, during which the Apothecary was unusually silent, remembering the two strange incidents that had occurred in the place: his first meeting with Lucinda Drummond, dressed as a boy, and the fight between the Duke of Guernsey and his half-brother. All part of the network of odd children, he thought.

  Digby Turnbull broke in on his reflections. “D’ye know I’d like to meet that Goward boy myself. Just out of curiosity.”

  “He’s hugely fat. I’ve seen a portrait of him. I believe his stepfather gave him no mercy over it, poor child.” John paused, then said, “I wonder if he knows about his mother’s apoplexy. I suppose somebody will have informed him.”

  “I doubt it. The welfare of children seems to be the last thing considered in that household. You’ll probably end up doing it yourself.”

  “Heavens, I hope not,” the Apothecary answered. “I don’t even know the boy. I have no wish to be the be
arer of ill tidings.”

  “Well, I think you should prepare yourself.”

  “Oh dear,” said John, and cut another slice of ham to fortify himself for what might lie ahead.

  It seemed that some word of Digby Turnbull’s royal connections must have reached the ears of the nasty Mr. Sebastian for this time he received his visitor with cordiality and a certain amount of obsequiousness. However, at John he glared angrily, his face taking on its customary purplish tone. Digby, observing this, came in quickly.

  “I insist that Mr. Rawlings be allowed to stay. He is my friend and confidant, and besides he has an urgent message for Frederick Goward, - that is, unless the child has been informed already of his mother’s indisposition.”

  Mr. Sebastian looked genuinely puzzled. “Frederick Goward? I do not have a pupil of that name.”

  John came in. “He’s probably called something else. He’s Lady Mary Goward’s son by her first husband.”

  “Oh,” said Sebastian, ceasing to frown. “You must be referring to Lomond. Well, I’m afraid he’s not here.”

  “Lomond?” repeated Digby, a slight edge in his voice. “Do you mean the Earl?”

  “Of course I mean the Earl,” the headmaster replied irritably. “His father was killed when he was just a child.”

  “Of course!” exclaimed the Apothecary. “I remember her telling me that she was first married to the Earl of Lomond.”

  Digby shook his head slowly. “I never knew that there was any connection. John, do you realise what this means?”

  “No, what?”

  “That the Earl was present at the investiture. He is one of the pages-of-honour that attends on state occasions.”

  “The thirteenth page boy!” exclaimed the Apothecary. “Great God, he was there when his stepfather died.”

  They turned to Sebastian with one accord. “Did you say that Lomond wasn’t at school?” John asked.

  The headmaster’s heavily jowled face flushed to an alarming hue. “Actually, the boy’s sick and can’t be seen.”

  “Those are two contradictory answers,” said Digby coldly. “I’m afraid, Sir, that as an employee of the royal household I have the right to know the whereabouts of one of its pages- of-honour. Is Lomond ill, in which case I insist on seeing him. Or is he absent?”

  “The latter,” said Sebastian furiously. “The little devil has left school and not informed me of his whereabouts.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A few days.”

  “Is that why he didn’t attend his stepfather’s funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you told his mother he was unwell.”

  “He often is; a terrible sickly boy is Lomond. So it was only half a lie. It was just that I had hoped to retrieve the wretch before the burial and by the time it happened it was too late to change my story.”

  “This school seems to specialise in runaways,” John remarked with sarcasm.

  “What do you mean, Sir?” the headmaster asked nastily.

  “Well, first Lucinda Drummond, whom you insist upon calling Lucas. Then her brother Fred. Now, the Earl of Lomond. What kind of a record is that?”

  “Are you trying to be amusing, Sir?” snarled Sebastian.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you clearly do not know the facts.”

  “What facts?”

  “Fred Drummond and the Earl of Lomond are one and the same person. Drummond is the family name of the Earls of that title.”

  John leapt to his feet. “God’s holy life, but I’ve been so blind. The thread between the children is beginning to make sense at last.”

  Digby looked at him in amazement. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that I must get back to London and see Aminta Wilson.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my dear friend, she is the Beauty of Exeter’s daughter, and she is also stepsister to both those unfortunates born to Lady Mary Goward.”

  The honest citizen looked positively shocked. “Aminta is Hannah’s child?”

  “She most certainly is. And it is quite likely that at this very moment she is sheltering both Lucinda and Frederick, protected, of course, by that man of fashion, Jack Morocco himself.”

  “But why him?”

  “Because he could well be Frederick’s half-brother.”

  “I think,” said Digby Turnbull, rising to his feet and bowing to the headmaster, “that I need a very large brandy.” And he made a hasty exit.

  As is the way of the world. Jack Morocco could not be found anywhere. Having hurled himself back to London, still without seeing his wife or his father, John found that the trail had gone cold. The Negro was not at the Duchess’s house, though the servants there parted with the information with the utmost reluctance. Nor was he at his own apartments, the Apothecary learned.

  “The Master has gone to the country, Sir,” the head footman announced.

  “Whereabouts, do you know?”

  “I have no idea, Sir. He didn’t say. He could be anywhere. He has friends in all counties.”

  “Miss Wilson, has she gone too?”

  “She is with him. They could even be visiting Devon. She comes from that part of the world.”

  It was hopeless. Tired and disgruntled, John climbed back into his coach and ordered a weary Irish Tom and an even wearier set of horses, to return to the village of Kensington where, he announced, he planned to spend the next day or two.

  All the way there the Apothecary kept puzzling through everything he had learned. If Jack Morocco were Lady Mary Goward’s son, then the picture was complete. She would have had Lucinda out of wedlock, Frederick by her first husband, and Jack by a black servant. Yet the Negro’s story of having been born on a slave ship had been convincing indeed. With his head pounding in concentration, John Rawlings stared out into the darkness.

  “Do you mean to say,” asked Emilia, “that my servant Lucinda, who had poor Nick making sheep’s eyes at her, is Lady Mary Goward’s bastard daughter?”

  “Not only that. She is half-sister to the Earl of Lomond, that fat little fellow whose portrait I told you about. Strangely, I don’t remember seeing him at the investiture though Digby Turnbull assures me he must have been there.”

  “It was very crowded. One fat boy might well vanish amongst that throng.”

  “You’re quite right. Oh, I have missed your good sense,” said John, and cuddled his wife close. “You’re getting rounder,” he told her.

  “I know; fatter and fatter. I’ll end up like that poor Lomond soon.”

  “Never. His obesity was a disease. No wonder Lucinda was sent to look after him. He must have had difficulty in getting around.”

  “So how are you going to find them?” Emilia asked.

  “I have no idea. My intuition that they might have gone to Aminta could be completely wrong.”

  “Would they have known about her? I mean, why should they?”

  The Apothecary spread his hands. “Again, I don’t know.”

  “You said that that young Duke of Guernsey lied about the thirteenth page boy. So he must be aware of something. Why don’t you ask him where they are?”

  “It’s worth a try, I suppose.”

  “Indeed. But not,” said Emilia firmly, “until you’ve had one day off to clear your head.”

  That day, being a Sunday, the entire family with servants set off to attend divine service in Kensington Church, walking the short distance in an orderly fashion. John, feeling staid, escorted Emilia, while Sir Gabriel, leaning upon his great stick, walked ahead, raising his hat and bowing to various acquaintances on the way.

  One day I will be like this, thought the Apothecary, and rather shied away from the idea of having to settle down to total domesticity.

  The church was packed with ordinary folk, while in the boxed pews near the front sat those of rank and fortune. Miss Chudleigh, somewhat flushed, John observed, made a grand entrance, depositing a small yapping do
g into the arms of a servant, who took it outside where it continued to make a din. But it was not to the members of the nobility that John’s eyes were drawn but to a figure at the back, lustily singing and taking part with vigour. Hardly able to control his face, John saw that Joe Jago, having presumably spent the night with Miss Chudleigh, had joined the commoners and was attending service at a respectful distance. The Apothecary could not resist it. Turning round quite deliberately he caught Joe’s eye and gave a gracious bow of his head, then winked meaningfully.

  Sir John Fielding’s clerk, very red in the cheeks, made a brief bow back and returned his eyes to his hymn book.

  Emilia looked up enquiringly. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Nothing at all,” answered her husband. “Only the happy feeling that all’s well in some people’s world.”

  And with that he gave his full concentration to the service, though a smile still lingered about his lips.

  Chapter 19

  There had once stood in the pretty village of Marybone a fine manor house with beautiful and spacious gardens. These gardens, however, had become detached from the dwelling in 1650, and had been converted into bowling greens and further rural walks attached to The Rose Tavern, sometimes called The Rose of Normandy because of its Huguenot associations.

  Nearly one hundred years later, in 1738, the then proprietor of The Rose, Daniel Gough, advertised and opened Marybone Gardens as a place of evening entertainment. From then on he enlarged and improved the premises so that when the Gardens were taken over by John Trusler in 1751, they included a substantial garden-orchestra containing an organ, and a Great Room for balls and suppers.

  John Trusler, being a cook by profession, decided to improve the food on offer, and rich seed and plum cakes and almond cheesecakes, all made by his daughter, became a speciality of Marybone. Further, the Gardens opened daily for public breakfasting in the Great Room, followed by a concert which began at noon. And it was to this breakfast, on the Monday following his visit to Kensington Church, that John Rawlings escorted Emilia and Sir Gabriel, both of whom had declared a longing to leave Kensington and mingle with the beau monde.