by Deryn Lake
“So two people were murdered, sir?”
“It is my belief that they were. But the damnable thing is that I don’t know how.”
But further conversation was ruled out by a deep sigh coming from Sir John Fielding. “What a tangled web indeed. Tell me, Rawlings, do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“No, sir. It seems to me that the murders could have been committed by a number of people. In fact, Samuel Swann was convinced that it was the child - a girl of but a few years - who was guilty.”
“Tell me again who they were.”
“Well, there is the little girl, Lady Georgiana. Then there’s her aunt, sister of Lord Charles Arundel - the murdered man. She is a spinster of about forty-five and her name is Juliana. Then there comes Charles’s wife, the former actress Coralie Clive—“
Sir John interrupted with a deep chuckle. “Who, if memory serves correctly, stole your heart away when you were young and foolish and unmarried.”
“She is still very beautiful,” John replied earnestly, “but I believe that I have finally recovered.”
“So I should think. But pray continue.”
“Then there comes the dead woman’s husband, the Earl of Orpington. He appeared to have a heart attack when I told him of her death but I treated him with foxgloves and this morning he was somewhat recovered.”
“I see. And who else is there?”
“Three people. The notorious Sir Francis Dashwood, his wife Sarah, and finally Dominique Jean, son-in-law of the late Pierre Langlois, who was present at West Wycombe and apparently bears a grudge against the family because he is owed money.”
“Quite a large field,” said the Blind Beak slowly. “What do you think, Jago?”
“I wouldn’t know until I’ve seen them, sir. But who stood to gain from the deaths? Anybody?”
“I suppose they all did in their different ways.”
“Even the child,” said Sir John heavily, “for she was much put upon by her father.”
There was silence in the room and the noises from the street outside rose up and filled the upstairs salon. The Apothecary became acutely aware of his love of London and how much he had missed it while away in the country. The shouts of the hawkers, the babble of prostitutes, the shrill voices of the beaux as they minced along, intermingled in some strange unearthly chorus which set his blood racing in his veins. He longed at that moment to be able to return to his shop and once more live a normal life, settling down with Rose and Sir Gabriel, and, who knows, even marrying again when the time was right.
His thoughts switched to Elizabeth, his dark lady, and he wondered how she was and if she ever had any regrets about turning him down. How much he had loved her, almost - though it shamed him deeply to admit it - from the time he had met her on his honeymoon. A mental picture of her lean, full-breasted body ran through his mind and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Sir John was speaking. “They must have been poisoned, Mr Rawlings. But with what?”
“I don’t know, sir. That’s the devil of it. And how was it administered? I told you that Lady Orpington had a tiny mark on the back of her neck but it was scarcely bigger than a pinprick. Far too small for any instrument I know to have inserted it.”
“And the man? Did you not say that there was not a mark on him?”
“Nothing. Except of course his chancre. He had syphilis, as I’ve already told you.”
“Yes, I recall. Well, it seems to me that it must be a poison as yet unknown in this country which has its own peculiar way of administration.”
“Tomorrow,” said John with determination, “I shall go to Apothecaries Hall and make enquiries.”
“I think, sir,” said Joe Jago, who had been listening intently throughout, “that that would be a very good plan indeed.”
As John stepped into the hall of number 2, Nassau Street, he was greeted with the wonderful and warm sound of a woman’s laughter, joined a few seconds later by Sir Gabriel’s chuckle.
“Ah, my dear, it is checkmate, is it not?”
“Indeed it is, Sir Gabriel. You are a master of the game.” Shedding his cloak, John headed straight for the library, where he found his father and Miss da Costa staring intently at the chessboard. Looking up, Octavia laughed once more.
“Sir Gabriel has won again. He plays such a daunting contest.”
“Years of practice, my dear. You will learn some of my moves if you study carefully.”
She stood up, smoothing down her creamy white petticoat over which her open robe of midnight blue hung attractively.
“And how did you fare, Mr Rawlings? Was it a successful meeting.”
“Yes and no. It has given me yet another task to perform tomorrow while I am anxious to return to my shop.”
Sir Gabriel glanced up lazily. “The trouble with you, my dear, is that you hate to delegate responsibility. And yet because of your connection with Sir John you are being forced to do so all the time.”
John laughed and said, “That, sir, is a slur on my character.” He looked at Octavia. “Take no notice of what is being told you. I am extremely adept at leaving my affairs in the hands of others. Particularly someone as efficient as young Nick.”
A light rose pink bloomed in her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, “he seems a very reliable person.”
“He is. He was apprenticed to me when he was somewhat older than is usual and had already had a full and interesting life by the time I met him.”
“How old is he now?” she asked casually.
“About twenty-eight I think.”
“A good age,” she answered, and smiled attractively.
A warning bell was sounding in the Apothecary’s brain as he considered why the girl was so interested in Nicholas Dawkins. Thinking he knew the answer he felt elated that Nick should have made so fine a conquest. Certain that the Muscovite returned Octavia’s feelings, he decided to put the matter to the test.
“I see that you and he have got to know one another in my absence. Have I your permission to invite him to dine with us tomorrow?”
Miss da Costa became flustered. “Mr Rawlings, it is your house. I am only an employee. You may invite to dine whomsoever you wish.”
He bowed politely and said gravely, “Thank you. I shall ask Gideon to deliver him a note.”
Sir Gabriel, looking up, winked at John. “I like young Dawkins,” he said solemnly. “He has called here several times while you have been away.”
The Apothecary knew then that his suspicions were confirmed. He winked back at his father, making sure that Miss da Costa could not see him.
“Then we shall make tomorrow a special occasion, sir. I suggest that we dine at six o’clock and Rose may stay up and sit with us a while.”
“That will give her great pleasure,” Octavia answered solemnly, in control of herself once more.
Early next morning John set off for Apothecaries Hall, situated in Black Friars Lane. He had gone by way of the river, hiring a wherry as far as Black Friars Stairs. Normally he would have enjoyed the journey, loving water travel as he did, but today he was impatient to get the business over and done with, and to return to Shug Lane and all the old familiar matters of his everyday life. However, an enormous part of his curiosity had been aroused and he wondered if anybody might be able to help him in his search for the highly unusual poison that had been used.
As luck would have it the Master of the Society was in that day and John, feeling somewhat lowly and unimportant in the face of such high professionalism, requested an interview with him, little thinking that it would be granted. But to his amazement Master John Peck only kept him waiting fifteen minutes before the younger man was ushered into his presence.
The Master sat behind his desk, a dark, saturnine creature with a great hawk’s nose which gave him a ferocious profile. He looked up as John entered.
“Well, Apothecary, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, I am here on behalf of Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.�
�� Peck ceased examining the mound of papers in front of him. “And what might your connection be with him, pray?”
“Master, I have worked with Sir John from time to time, and I am at present involved in a little scheme of his.”
“And may I ask what that scheme might be?”
“I am afraid that I am not at liberty to reveal that. But I am allowed to tell you that during the investigation two people met their deaths in a quite inexplicable manner.”
The saturnine face came alive with sudden interest and there was a definite gleam in the dark eyes.
“And what might that manner have been?” He motioned John, who up to now had been standing, to take a chair.
“I am not altogether sure but I am convinced there was foul play.” And the Apothecary went on to describe the two bodies, particularly that of Lady Orpington and the small puncture on the back of her neck.
By now he had the Master’s full attention. “It sounds to me, Mr Rawlings, as if a rare poison must have been used.”
“I am aware of that, Master. The question is what?”
John Peck shook his head. “Of that I am not certain but I believe that I know someone who might be able to help you. My friend Dr Pitcairn, a physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, was telling me the other night that he has a student from the Americas who is an expert on tropical plants, having been a medical attendant in both the West Indies and Surinam.
I would imagine that a chat with him could be of great assistance.”
“It most certainly would, sir. Might it be in order for you to reveal his name to me?”
“It would indeed. He is called Edward Bancroft but I have no idea where he lives. However, I can discover that for you quickly enough.”
John felt like kissing the man’s hand, so grateful was he. Instead he gave a deep and respectful bow and said, “Thank you most sincerely, Master.”
“It is the least I can do to assist Sir John. Now to save me looking it up will you be kind enough to write your address on this piece of paper. I promise to be in touch with you shortly.”
There was a silence while John scribbled his address, during which the Master picked up the sheaf of papers from his desk and started to study them once more. He looked up absently, clearly surprised to see John still standing there.
“You may go,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” John answered humbly. But once outside the door he threw his hat in the air and caught it again. At long last he knew that he was on the trail of the murderer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next morning, true to his word, Master John Peck sent the relevant information by way of special messenger to John, working in his shop in Shug Lane alongside Nicholas Dawkins. It had been a happy day during which the Apothecary had hung out herbs to dry, and compounded and mixed several potions. He had also rolled quite a few suppositories, which had given him a certain satisfaction. Indeed, later he had been called out to visit a man suffering with painful haemorrhoids and was able to give him some freshly made samples from the ointment of Pilewort.
The dinner on the previous evening had been highly successful and John’s earlier suspicions had proved correct, indeed he could not remember such a couple for exchanging looks and giving each other warm and affectionate glances. He could see at once that the Muscovite had made up his mind to marry Miss da Costa, and though delighted that at last his former apprentice was about to enter the state of married bliss, could not help but feel a tinge disappointed that this meant that Nicholas would be leaving him and setting up on his own.
Now he turned to the Muscovite as John Peck’s messenger left the shop.
“Well, Nick, I reckon this is it.”
“The address you sought, John?”
The Muscovite had only recently been finally persuaded to call his former master by his first name and it still sounded slightly awkward when he did so.
“Yes. This will bring me one step nearer to the solution, I feel certain of it.”
The Master of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries had written:
“I have Spoken to My Friend William Pitcairn and he Tells me that Edward Bancroft can be found at number Twenty-Four, Little Britain, in a lodging above a Book Shop. You can Catch Him there on most Evenings.”
John looked up. “It’s the address all right. The American lives in Little Britain, not far from St Bartholomew’s. I shall go and see him this evening, as soon as we have closed the shop.”
“Might I come with you, sir?”
The Apothecary glanced at him in some surprise. “Are you sure you really want to?”
“I would like it very much. After all, from what you have said, we can only learn from him.”
“How true. I’ll give a message to Gideon that they are not to wait dinner for me. And what of yourself?”
Nick’s pale face took on a little colour. “I am on my own this evening, sir. There is no one to inform.”
“But not for much longer, I believe.”
The former apprentice glowed, “It may seem foolish to you, John, but I can truly say that Octavia and I fell in love almost immediately. I intend to propose’in the next few days.”
John smiled a crooked smile. “I do not find that foolish at all, my dear fellow. Was it not Marlowe who said, “Whoever loved, that loved not at first sight”?”
“1 believe it was, sir.”
“Well, he knew everything, so that’s settled.”
“There is another issue, John.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“After I am married I would like to open my own shop and have already started to look round for some premises.”
“Well, that’s understandable. Have you anywhere particular in mind?”
“Somewhere a little out of the heart of London. Perhaps Chiswick or Chelsea.”
John smiled at him. “I can just see the pair of you living in the country and relishing it. I suppose I could not tempt you back to Kensington?”
“I would love to, but I want to work for myself.”
“Quite right too,” John answered, but in his heart of hearts he thought that everything was beginning to change and nothing would ever be quite the same again.
The address in Little Britain was relatively easy to find. John had picked up a hackney coach from the stand in Piccadilly, having lent Irish Tom to Sir Gabriel that evening, and had proceeded down the Hay Market to Charing Cross. Then they had gone up Fleet Street to St Paul’s, then proceeded along St Martins le Grand and finally turned left into the winding confines of Little Britain. A little further on, on the south side of West Smithfield market, to which livestock were herded through the open streets of the city, lay the great St Bartholomew’s Hospital, occupying exactly the same site as when it was founded in the early twelfth century.
Little Britain abounded in bookshops but John and Nicholas identified the number fairly easily and climbed up the narrow staircase which lay beside the establishment. At the top they found a fairly decrepit front door on which the Apothecary was forced to bang with his cane, there being no knocker. As he could have predicted, there was total silence.
“What do we do now?” asked Nicholas.
“We seek him out at the hospital,” John replied and proceeded back down the stairs. But he was forestalled, for a tall, slim young man wearing a tricorne hat which was just a fraction too large for him and was prevented from descending over his eyes by a pair of jolly jug ears, was starting to make his way upwards.
“Can I help you?” he asked politely, his accent revealing that he came from across the Atlantic.
“Dr Bancroft?” John enquired.
“Yes, sir, I am. How may I assist you?”
The Apothecary could not help but notice that the American’s hand had gone to an inner pocket where he clearly carried a pistol.
John hastily added, “Your name has been given to me by Dr Pitcairn, so I do hope you don’t mind me calling unannounced.”
“And why
did he give you my name, may I ask?” the other answered.
“Because, sir, it is known that you are something of an expert on exotic poisons.”
Edward Bancroft visibly relaxed. “I see. May I ask who you are, sir?”
John fished inside his cloak. “My card, Dr Bancroft.”
The man studied it carefully, then looked up and held out his hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr Rawlings.” He peered at John in the gloomy light. “But your face seems vaguely familiar to me. Have we met somewhere before?”
John stared at him, then went bright red. “I believe it might have been at Medmenham Abbey,” he said, and gave a wry grin.
“Well, bless me, so it was. I think we’d better step inside, Mr Rawlings.” His look took in Nicholas. “And you, too, sir. Any friends of Sir Francis are friends of mine.”
Nicholas merely smiled and the two of them were ushered into Edward’s very neat and comfortable set of rooms.
Half an hour later they were seated by the fire, which Dr Bancroft had lit for the look of it, sipping dry sherry.
“So you were a monk, Doctor?”
“Yes, I have been for some time,” the other answered carelessly, giving a broad grin.
John, considering how robust the monks were about their sexual excesses, totally unashamed and brashly honest about the whole situation, decided that rather than being embarrassed about his connection with the place, might as well join in with the general hearty attitude.
“Terribly good fun, wasn’t it?” he said, giving a rollicking laugh and at the same time shooting a glance at Nicholas, who, rather than looking shocked, appeared extremely interested.
“Yes. Suits me, anyhow,” replied the American doctor, giving another broad smile.
“Tell me,” asked John, “did you ever discuss any of these exotic poisons when you were at the Abbey?”
“Truth to tell, I did, Sir Francis seemed very interested and I discussed one poison in particular with him and the other apostles.”
