Death in Hellfire

by Deryn Lake

  “He looks better than usual,” commented Samuel.

  And it was true. Somebody had been at work applying cosmetics to the dead man’s swollen face, so that now he had high patches of colour in each cheek and carmined lips. His eyebrows, too, had been blackened and someone had applied a beauty spot to his brow.

  “I think I preferred him as he was,” John commented.

  The coffin was lined with blue satin and the Marquess had been dressed in his best suit of clothes, which were a matching shade of blue. His hands were clasped on his stomach, his eyes closed. Yet somehow he did not look peaceful. There was about him a sense of disquiet which John could not explain to himself. He stood, staring down at the dead man, when suddenly something rustled in the corner. The Apothecary nearly shot out of his skin in fright, while Samuel swore a terrible oath.

  “Who’s there?” said John.

  The child, Georgiana, detached herself from the shadows round the bedhead and came walking towards them.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” John asked angrily.

  “Keeping watch over my father,” she answered, while Samuel muttered, “I told you she was weird.”

  Georgiana turned towards the corpse. “He looks splendid, doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t think that is quite the right word,” John answered with asperity. “And I don’t think you should be in here on your own. You are a child, Georgiana, despite things that may have been done to encourage you to grow up. For the love of God, embrace your childhood while you still have it.”

  “I have never been young,” she answered wretchedly.

  “Yes, you have,” the Apothecary said fiercely, determined to talk some sense into her. “Listen to me. How old were you when your father asked you to cuddle him with no clothes on?”

  “About eight.”

  “Then think of those early years. Did you not enjoy them? Did you not have fun with other children?”

  The child nodded without speaking.

  “Then they are what you must concentrate on. Do not let your father ruin the rest of your life for you. And think of your mother. Think of how grieved she must be by your plight.”

  “That had not occurred to me.”

  John wanted to shout at her for being a thoughtless little girl but he knew that Georgiana had suffered in silence for some years and must be treated with respect as a result.

  “Well, it is a fact. She cares for you deeply and, if I were you, I would try to return that love with the same intensity.”

  “Poor Mama,” the child said sadly.

  “Poor Mama, indeed. Georgiana, if I may make a suggestion, be determined to put the past behind you and start afresh.”

  She gave him a look that made him grow cold. “Sometimes it is not possible to bury the past,” she said. “You see, it can have a way of coming back to haunt you.”

  And with that she walked from the room with never a backward glance.

  “There’s your murderer,” said Samuel, pointing at where Georgiana had just been. “She did it. It’s obvious.”

  “What, Lady Orpington as well?”

  “Both of ‘em. I tell you, she’s not right in the head.”

  “Oh, come on. She’s suffered greatly. She’ll settle down in time.”

  “She’ll always be mad,” Samuel pronounced with an air of finality. “Come on, we’ve said our farewells to her father. Let’s go and have a drink.”

  “A good plan,” John answered. “I need to emulate Joe Jago and make a list.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The air in the taproom of the George and Dragon was thick with tobacco smoke, mixed with the stinks created by the mass of humanity who heaved within. First there was the pungent note of unwashed flesh - not entirely unpleasant as most of it was honest sweat - mixed with a general sharp smell given off by the press of people. To add a piquant odour somebody had let loose a rouser, the remains of which floated about, apparently unable to find any means of escape. John, forcing his way into the room behind Samuel, who was shouldering his way in, waved a hand in front of his face.

  “Dear me, ‘tis a bit noisome.”

  “It positively reeks. Are you sure you want to drink in here?”

  “We’re lying in wait for Zachary Flint, the constable, don’t forget.”

  “Has he arrived?”

  John nudged a farmhand. “Is Mr Flint here by any chance?”

  “No, sir. He ain’t. Mark you, he could be about official business. There’s no saying whether ‘e’ll come or not.”

  The Apothecary produced a coin from his pocket. “My friend and I will be in the guests’ parlour. If the constable should turn up, perhaps you would let us know.”

  He must be getting old, John decided. Where a few years ago he would have welcomed the bustle and thrust of the taproom - stinks and all - now he was positively glad to take a comfortable seat by the fire, a table in front of him on which he could lean his paper for making a list, and order two pints of ale from the serving wench.

  “Age is catching up with me,” he remarked to Samuel.

  “Why so?”

  “At one time nothing would have got me out of that place. Now I prefer sitting in the warmth and nodding off.”

  “You need a woman, John. You have been a widower long enough. I suppose there is no hope…”

  “Of partnering me with Coralie? Sam, I truly don’t believe so. We are very different people now from those we were long ago.”

  “And who would take on that horrible child?” said Samuel, downing a draught of ale moodily. “I think Coralie will be hard put to it to find another husband with that little beast lurking on the stairs.”

  “The child is disturbed. She’s not evil.”

  “You may have your opinion, I have mine.”

  “Enough of that. I’m going to write a list.”

  John took a pad and pencil from his inner pocket. Heading a column “Suspects”, he turned to Samuel.

  “Well, who do we have?”

  Continuing to look woeful, his friend answered promptly, “Lady Georgiana Bravo. I tell you, John, she may be young but she’s the killer.”

  The Apothecary gave him a glance but said nothing and wrote the name down. “Now who else?”

  “Dominique Jean.”

  “Surely not just because he’s French. That would be most unfair.”

  “You know as well as I do why. He is owed a great deal of money and it rankles with him.”

  “Next?”

  “Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood.”

  John scratched his chin with his pencil. “Him, I can imagine. But why her?”

  “A woman with as dull a personality as she has is bound to have a secret life. Otherwise she would go quite mad,” Sam announced in lugubrious tones.

  John chortled. “What about Coralie and the sister?”

  “Both are suspicious, whichever way you look at it. The pair of ‘em seem to glide round corridors in the dead of night.”

  “Samuel, really! According to you they all could have done it.”

  “And don’t leave out old Lord Orpington. He could have faked that heart attack and will no doubt make a magnificent recovery in time.”

  “The man’s life hangs in the balance,” John remonstrated.

  “Then why have you left the house?”

  “Because for the moment there is nothing further I can do for him. Besides, Lady Dashwood - dull or no - is quite capable of looking after the man.”

  Samuel finished his ale and called for another pint for himself and John. Settling back in his chair he said, “Well, it’s up to us now to question everybody and draw our own conclusions.”

  John, ignoring the use of the plural, said, “Well, it will have to be done quickly. The party is breaking up. Besides, I have a mind to get back to London and put the whole thing before Sir John and Joe.”

  Samuel sighed gustily. “And I have been away far too long. A good thing Jocasta is such an understanding woman.”<
br />
  “Is she?” asked John, with just a tinge of envy. “Sam, are you happy?”

  “I can say I truly am. She is a good wife, loyal and kind. And the birth of my son crowned my joy.”

  John, looking at him, thought what an extremely jolly ending his old friend had achieved. He felt a sudden rush of emotion.

  “Samuel, don’t let us quarrel ever again. I’m sorry I was neglectful but it was one of the truly terrible times of my life. I was forced to go on the run and you can believe me, that is the most wretched experience a man can suffer.”

  “John, I want to be your friend for evermore. I promise you that from now on I shall never take offence at anything you do.”

  “Well, that gives me plenty of leeway,” John answered, and gave his friend an affectionate punch.

  “Gentlemen, am I interrupting?” said Dominique, who had come into the room without them seeing him.

  “Not at all. Take a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Tonight I feel like wine. Shall we have a bottle of claret?”

  “Indeed we shall.”

  Dominique sat down between them and looked from one to the other. “You are discussing the recent deaths?”

  “We were,” John answered.

  “Do you know I have been thinking about that night; the night that Lord Arundel died. I have been over and over it in my head and I remember now that there was yet another set of feet.”

  “Tell me the story from the start,” said John, sipping his wine and looking comfortable, yet his mind sharp as a razor.

  “I related to you that I heard someone go into Lord Arundel’s room and then there came what sounded like a scream.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, after that, between the feet clattering over the floor and someone shuffling down the stairs, I heard a person come along the corridor.”

  John sat forward. “Go on.”

  “This was the walk of somebody determined. I could tell by the way the shoes sounded. It was someone who knew where they were going in life.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I can’t be sure. Whoever it was walked as if they were important, that is all I can say.”

  “I see. Thank you. It might be connected to the death. On the other hand it could be a midnight prowler. Tell me, who else slept on your floor? Besides Charles, I mean.”

  “Coralie and the child; Lord and Lady Orpington; Lady Juliana. I think that was all.”

  “Um.” John looked thoughtful.

  Samuel’s face assumed the sort of expression which meant that he was about to ask a question and John braced himself for the moment.

  “Tell me, Dominique, do you sleep well at home?”

  “Usually like a log. But I told you, the storm kept me awake on this particular night and that is why I constantly woke up.”

  “And would you say the person who went into Lord Arundel’s room first of all was a woman?”

  “Yes, I should think it probably was.”

  “Well, that narrows the field.” And Samuel looked so pleased with himself that John could have hugged him.

  “Despite what you have to tell us I feel that I am no nearer solving the puzzle. In fact, I believe that the murderer will get away with his or her crime,” he said reflectively.

  “Why?” asked Dominique, looking surprised.

  “Because all the potential killers are leaving and returning to their own homes. I have no jurisdiction to make them stay. I doubt that even Sir John Fielding could bid them to do so.”

  “But you can ask them where they live,” the Frenchman answered. “Surely they would be obliged to tell you.”

  John gave a sudden smile. “You’re right, of course. Tomorrow we shall present ourselves early, Samuel, and take everyone’s details.” He turned to Dominique. “And where do you dwell, my friend?”

  “I live at 70, Charlotte Street. Close to the workrooms in Tottenham Court Road.”

  “I see. Do you walk there?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  And with that it was almost as if Dominique Jean deliberately closed that line of conversation and began chatting about more congenial things.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They journeyed home together and finally parted company in the Strand, both hiring hackney coaches to take them to their respective destinations. Early that morning they had come to present their compliments to Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood, this time accompanied by the village constable, who had appeared utterly over-awed by the fine company and had hardly said a word. Nevertheless, he had agreed to inform the Coroner of the deaths of Lord Arundel and Lady Orpington and solemnly watched the coffined remains be loaded on a cart and taken off to the nearest mortuary. John, surveying the couple’s grim departure, thought of them in life, as anxious to get at one another as dogs on heat, and found it to be one of the saddest endings of an affair that he had ever witnessed.

  Samuel, standing next to him, had said, “I wonder if their souls will be reunited.”

  John had answered thoughtfully, “I doubt that very much. They were neither of them pleasant people. Why should they be particularly smiled upon in the afterlife?”

  Sam nodded, seeing the wisdom of this, then had said, “Do you believe we go on after we die?”

  John had turned on him a face full of uncertainty. “Who knows?” he had replied.

  But now they were climbing into their hackneys and bidding each other farewell.

  “You’ll keep me up to date, won’t you?”

  “You may depend upon it,” the Apothecary answered as he headed off to Nassau Street.

  The house was quiet when he entered it and John, enquiring from the footman who greeted him as to everybody’s whereabouts, was informed that Sir Gabriel was in the library and Miss da Costa and Rose were out.

  “But they will be back soon, sir. It will soon be time for Miss Rose to go to bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was just heading towards the library when the front door opened and there stood his child, hand-in-hand with the governess, both of them looking even lovelier than when John had last seen them.

  “Papa,” shrieked Rose, spying him, and she rushed towards him and was gathered up into his arms.

  Sir Gabriel was having a pre-dinner nap but woke up the moment John entered the room.

  “My dear, you have returned to us. Have you had a great adventure?”

  “I have indeed. Let me pour you a sherry and then we can discuss it all.”

  He sat down opposite his adopted father and started to recount his exploits, carefully editing those of the Hellfire Club, Sir Gabriel raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Obviously you enjoyed that part of the proceedings, far more, I believe, than you are telling me. However, you need say no more. I was a man of the world once, you know. Before I married your mother and my life changed for ever.”

  John smiled at him, wishing the wise old creature were immortal but realising that that was a dream which could never come true.

  “Let me tell you the rest later. What I really want to know is how Miss da Costa has settled down.”

  “She has proved a treasure, my dear. Rose adores her madly, as do I. Indeed, as do several young men of our acquaintance.”

  “Oh? And who might they be?”

  Sir Gabriel had looked austere. “I have not lowered myself to kitchen maid gossip yet. Those are facts you must discover for yourself.”

  “I am duly chastened,” said John, looking morose, then twitched his mobile eyebrows at his father and burst out laughing.

  Rose was allowed to stay up to dine with the older people and sat very straight and well behaved, keeping one eye on her father to make sure he approved. As the meal ended, John rose from his seat.

  “Father, Octavia, please forgive me. I must go to the Public Office this evening. There is much I have to tell Sir John. I hope to see you both on my return.”

  “Octavia and I will probably
be playing chess in the library. We will await your arrival.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” replied John, meaning every word he said.

  He had dined late, London fashion, and found that the summer sun was low in the sky by the time he alighted from his conveyance in Bow Street. Earlier on he had roused Irish Tom from his slumbers and told him that he must look to his laurels now that his master had returned.

  “But, sorrh, I’ve been driving Sir Gabriel all over the place, so I have. I assure you that I have not been wasting my time.”

  “I see. Well, in any case I have returned and from now on will keep you occupied,” John answered severely, and proceeded into the Public Office.

  A Beak runner was attending the desk and his face lit up as he recognised the Apothecary.

  “Goodness me, sir. I am sure the Magistrate will be delighted to see you. Would you like to make your own way up?”

  “I’d be honoured.” And John had proceeded up the twisting staircase to the Beak’s private apartments which lay above.

  Knocking politely, he stood outside the door of Sir John’s salon and heard footsteps cross the floor, then it was flung open by none other than Joe Jago.

  “My dear Mr Rawlings,” he said, a great grin crossing his features, “a pleasure to see you back, sir.”

  John, who, when he had been on the run, owed his life to the foxy-headed clerk, pumped his hand warmly.

  “My dear Joe, how goes it with you?”

  “Very well, I thank you, sir.”

  From the depths of the room, just catching the dying rays of the day, a familiar voice was calling out, “Mr Rawlings, is it you? You were away so long I thought something had gone wrong.”

  John bowed, even though he could not be seen. “Things indeed took a turn for the worse, Sir John. I have come to tell you the entire story.”

  “Then enter, my dear fellow, and take a seat. Jago, fetch our friend a drink.”

  Half an hour later the Apothecary eventually finished his tale and saw a sight with which he had now grown familiar.

  The Blind Beak sat so still and so quietly that he appeared to have dropped off to sleep. Joe’s eyes, meanwhile, had grown wide and a look of astonishment had appeared on his craggy face.