Death in Hellfire

by Deryn Lake

  The Apothecary pricked up like a hound. “All of them or just a few?”

  “About four. As well as Sir Francis there was Sir Henry Vansittart, Lord Sandwich and Lord Arundel.”

  “And what particular poison were you discussing?”

  “One made by the Accawau Indians who live in Dutch Guiana. I was telling them how they make it, store it and then envenom the points of their tiny arrows, which they then blow through a pipe.”

  John stared at him as light slowly began to dawn. “You say that the poison is administered by use of a blowpipe?”

  “Yes. The Indians hunt with them. The smallest quantity of the poison, conveyed by a wound into the red blood-vessels of an animal, causes it to expire in less then a minute.”

  “So taken internally it would do no harm?”

  “Precisely,” Dr Bancroft answered. “It has to enter the blood to kill.”

  “Sir,” said John solemnly, “there is something I have to tell you.”

  And there, in the quiet of the Doctor’s apartment the Apothecary told him the entire story of the deaths of Lord Arundel and Lady Orpington, the two lovers finally united in hell.

  Edward looked shocked. “I knew them both, as you know. And you say that the woman had a small mark on the back of her neck?”

  “Yes. The only evidence I could find for her strange demise. Other than for that it could have been of natural causes.”

  “Then somebody has either acquired or made a blowpipe and blown a little arrow into her.”

  “And Lord Arundel? What of him?”

  The Doctor shook his head. “You say the poor wretch had the Great Pox?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “Was there a chancre anywhere on his body?”

  “Yes, in his groin. But you don’t think…”

  “If a killer were to mix up a little poison and if that were put on the chancre…”

  “What would be the results?”

  “Why, in that case the chap would suffer muscle paralysis and might well go blind and stagger out into the gardens.” John stared at him aghast, while beside him Nicholas drew in a sharp breath.

  “You are serious about that?”

  “Completely,” the Doctor answered. “That is what the effect would be.”

  There was a profound silence and then Edward Bancroft spoke again. “By the way, I dined privately with the Arundels, and his wife - the former actress Coralie Clive - expressed a great interest in the poison. So much so that I gave her husband a little of it. He said he wanted to experiment with it on a cat.”

  Outside in the street John leant hard against the wall, feeling slightly out of breath. “God’s blood, Nick, that was something of a shock.”

  “I should say it was, sir. Let’s go in here and have a brandy.” They were passing a tavern - a small disreputable-looking place - but still they made a concerted dive into the grimy confines.

  “You look terrible, John,” said Nick, who was none too calm himself. “Let me get you a drink.”

  He went to the bar, having found two seats in a dark, wretched corner first, and returned a moment later with glasses in his hand.

  “What a revelation,” he said.

  “Yes,” the Apothecary replied grimly. “But despite that I cannot believe she did it. I have known her for years and am certain that however immense the provocation she could not possibly have killed her husband.”

  “But, John, you were once in love with her. Surely that might prejudice your opinion.”

  The older man emptied his glass and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But who else? Who else? Who could have such a specialist knowledge of poisons?”

  Nick shook his head thoughtfully. “Who is there? Well, the child is ruled out at least.”

  “Is she? Supposing she overheard a conversation and actually saw the substance they were talking about. After that she would be quite capable of forming some primitive wooden splint to act as an arrow, I feel certain of it.”

  “In that case the field is open, with Sir Francis Dashwood as favourite.”

  John nodded gloomily. “But you’re not saying what you really think, Nick. Namely that Coralie, compelled by despair, actually got rid of her disease-ridden husband.”

  “And her rival for his affections? That doesn’t quite make sense to me.”

  “No.” John allowed a small smile to appear. “I would rather imagine that Coralie - being utterly sensible - would have thought poor wretched Lady Orpington was welcome to him.” Nick looked at him. “Who do you think did it, sir?”

  John raised his shoulders. “I have absolutely no idea. But one thing is sure. We should search for that blowpipe. For I feel whoever has it will turn out to be the killer.”

  “But how do we go about that?”

  “Let us call on each person in turn.”

  “But that could take some while.”

  “Nevertheless, it is what we must do.”

  So saying, John stood up and was making to leave when he suddenly sat down again.

  “What is it?” whispered Nick.

  “That couple who have just come in. I know them.”

  Nick stared and saw two people, both of whom looked extremely out of place in the dingy surroundings.

  “Who are they, John?”

  “None other than cronies of Sir Francis Dashwood and regular attendees at Medmenham Abbey. James and Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe.”

  John’s voice must have carried more than he intended for two pairs of eyes swivelled round and stared at him. There was a momentary frisson, followed by a rapid glance of suspicion, then Betsy metamorphosed into her usual self.

  “Why,” she gushed, “if it isn’t Mr O’Hare. How divine to see you. What are you doing in this part of the world?”

  And without waiting for a reply she crossed over and joined him, elbowing Nick out of the way and leaning across the table in a most familiar manner. James followed more slowly, clearly embarrassed, though whether through being seen or by his wife’s behaviour, John was not quite certain.

  The Apothecary and his assistant rose to their feet and bowed, at which James returned the greeting.

  “How do you do, sir and madam? How nice to see you again,” John said politely.

  “My dear, have you heard the news from West Wycombe?” asked Betsy without preamble. “Lord Arundel is drowned and Lady Orpington has died in the grounds. Isn’t it terrible?”

  “The fact of the matter is that they were both murdered,” John answered, cutting straight to the point.

  James looked shocked but John thought he detected a knowing look on Betsy’s face. Despite this she said, “Oh, surely not. You must be mistaken.”

  John’s vivid sense of recall brought back a picture of Sir Francis leering happily at his fellow monks as he had picked his “bride”, Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe, and he wondered, as he had done at the time, exactly what her relationship with her husband could possibly be.

  “I can tell you most assuredly, madam, that those are the facts. The pair of them were attacked with an exotic poison little known in this country.”

  “And how do you know all this, sir?” asked James. “Because,” John answered bluntly, “I work with the Public Office - Sir John Fielding himself, to be exact - and have done so for some years.”

  There was a silence during which James sat down, somewhat heavily.

  “Well, we have nothing to say to you. We were not present at the time,” he said.

  “I am aware of that. But I am hoping that you might be able to tell me what the association between Charles Arundel and Sir Francis was.”

  “They were both apostles and took part in the monks of St Francis’s secret ceremonies.”

  “Anything else?” John asked.

  “No, nothing,” Betsy replied. She looked suddenly militant. “But you were a guest there, Mr O’Hare. You should know.”

  Nick, who had remained silent up to this point, said, “Surely as an old friend of Sir Francis, you must
be able to tell us something, madam.”

  Betsy regarded him coldly, taking in his pale, dark, arrestingly handsome looks. John watched her visage change and suddenly become both coy and arch.

  “That’s as may be, young sir. But I can tell you that Sir Francis was a better friend of my husband than he was of myself, wasn’t he James?”

  “We played cards together occasionally,” her husband replied shortly.

  So was that the way of it, John thought. Did James Avon- Nelthorpe play deep with Sir Francis Dashwood and had the older man wiped out his debts in return for his wife? Not that he had received a very good bargain out of it, the Apothecary considered with a certain amusement.

  James stood up. “Have you asked all your questions, Mr O’Hare? Are we free to go?”

  “Of course. I had no intention of interrogating you. And by the way the name is actually Rawlings. I used the other to hide my true identity.”

  Betsy rose also, not sure whether to titter or be angry. “Well, good evening to you, sir. I trust that if we meet again it will be in happier circumstances.”

  The Apothecary and Nick both got to their feet and bowed magnificently.

  “Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir.” But as soon as the two of them were out of the door John turned to Nick and said urgently, “Follow them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They hurried out just in time to see the Avon-Nelthorpes climbing into a hackney coach which had been pulling up outside St Bartholomew’s Hospital. John looked round frantically for another but could see none. He turned to Nicholas.

  “What shall we do?”

  “We could beg a ride off that farmer.”

  John stared at him but indeed there was such an individual amongst the horde of drovers driving their cattle to market. With merely a look between them the two men raced towards the trundling cart shouting “Stop, stop, we will make it worth your while.”

  The fellow looked over his shoulder, saw that his pursuers were well-dressed and duly pulled to a halt.

  “How can I help you, sirs?”

  “Can you follow that hackney coach?”

  “The one just disappearing?”

  “Yes. If you can keep up with it I’ll give you a golden guinea,” answered John.

  They clambered on board the hay cart and proceeded back along the way they had come until, as they reached the Strand, the hackney coach veered off to the right.

  “They’re heading for Covent Garden,” said John in amazement.

  “Probably going to a brothel,” Nick answered, not really meaning it.

  For Covent Garden was infamous as the area of London with more prostitutes and houses of ill-repute per square inch than any other.

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” John answered.

  The cart turned slowly to the right and the Apothecary asked the farmer to slow down.

  “I think we’d better disembark,” he said to Nick. “This is not the usual form of conveyance for this area.”

  “Do you think they have seen us?”

  “Bound to have done.”

  And as the Apothecary gave the farmer his promised guinea he saw two figures scurrying into a house of dubious reputation, glancing over their shoulders as they did so.

  “We daren’t follow them in, dare we?” Nicholas asked.

  “No. But we can saunter past and see what kind of things are on offer.”

  They walked onwards in a casual manner and went up to the door at which stood a huge negro slave. He bowed as they drew closer.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Can I interest you in a game of chance? Cards or dice? Or perhaps beautiful young ladies? Or why not have both? We cater for all tastes in this establishment.”

  “Thank you, but no,” John answered. “Unfortunately we have another engagement. But we shall come back another night. You can be sure of it.”

  “Thank you, sirs. I hope to see you again.”

  The servant gave a deep bow and John and Nick walked quietly on.

  “What shall we do now?” asked the Muscovite.

  “We shall go and see Dominique Jean. I’ve a feeling he could be very useful to us.”

  They quickened their pace but as soon as they saw a hackney they hailed it as time was moving by and John could only recall where the Frenchman had his workshop. Or rather where his celebrated father-in-law had had his. Fearful that the place might be closed and Dominique returned home for the night, John felt a sense of relief when the driver put them down at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, not far from the brewhouse, which stood in an alleyway leading off Bainbridge Street. There were lights on at the workshop and the Apothecary turned to Nick with a smile.

  “Sombody’s in there and at least they can tell us Dominique’s home address.” And with that he knocked loudly on the door of number 39.

  From within the building they heard a French voice say, “Merde,” and the two men turned to one another and grinned. Bolts were drawn back and eventually Dominique’s face appeared in the crack. Lit from behind by a lanthorn which he held high, it had a strange, greenish pallor. Recognising John, the Frenchman broke into a broad smile and threw the door wide.

  “Come in, mon ami. I was wondering if you might call. How are you?”

  “Very well indeed.” John motioned to Nick. “May I present Nicholas Dawkins, my former apprentice, now qualified and an apothecary in his own right.”

  “I am delighted to meet you. I have news for you, John, about one of your patients.”

  The Apothecary stared. “Who?”

  “Lord Orpington, of course. I called in at West Wycombe on my way back to London and I can tell you the old boy was up and about.”

  John turned to Nick. “That just proves the efficacy of foxgloves given in small amounts.”

  “I shall remember that.”

  They walked into the workshop and John stood sniffing the air. From every corner the smell of beautiful wood filled his nostrils together with another odour, a strangely unique tang. He turned to Dominique.

  “What a wonderful stink. What is it?”

  The Frenchman smiled. “You are in the repair section at the moment. Wood comes to us from various places and brings with it an individual smell of its owner. The blending of their essences is what you can detect at present.”

  “I never thought wood to have a smell.”

  “Oh, but it has, my friend. Each piece that comes in is unique. Sniff them for yourself.”

  The Apothecary did as he was instructed and sure enough a faint aroma rose from each piece. Nicholas looked on fascinated and eventually joined in.

  Dominique stood watching them, smiling at their astonished expressions. Then interrupted them by saying, “Gentlemen, would you like to see some of my father-in-law’s work?”

  Leading them through to the other end of the large workroom, John and Nicholas stood in silent admiration at the great things of beauty that had been fashioned by the hands of that master craftsman, Pierre Langlois.

  “These are still waiting for me to put the finishing touches to them,” Dominique said, feeling an exquisite piece of furniture with love.

  “I wish I could have such a masterpiece in my home,” John answered sincerely.

  “Alas, these are all pre-ordered,” the Frenchman stated a little sadly. His voice changed. “Now, mon ami, I am sure you had a reason for calling here. What can I do for you?”

  John laughed. “Dominique, I want you to go to a certain house in Covent Garden for me.”

  The other looked stricken. “But John, I am a married man with a small child. My wife would kill me.”

  “Not if you explained to her first. All I want you to do is find out if it is both a gambling hell and a whorehouse. And anything else that might be of interest.”

  “Such as?”

  “Two people whom you have already met patronise the place. I refer to Sir Francis Dashwood’s friends Betsy and James Avon-Nelthorpe.”

&nbs
p; “But I saw them briefly once, that is all.”

  “Nevertheless, you would know them again.” John’s face took on an earnest expression. “It is quite important to me that you do this, Dominique.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because they would recognise me,” the Apothecary answered, and explained the events of the evening to the Frenchman, leaving out the reference to the unusual poison used to kill Lord Arundel and Lady Orpington. At the end Dominique pulled a face.

  “Very well, I will go, provided I can explain to my wife. If she is agreeable I shall visit the place tomorrow and will call on you with the results. Do I have your card?”

  John produced one with a flourish and the Frenchman studied it.

  “Shug Lane, eh. A good address.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, are you any nearer finding out who committed the murders?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then perhaps you never will,” Dominique answered and gave a Gallic shrug.

  Outside Nick turned to John. “Do you think he was trying to hide something?”

  “I don’t know. But it occurs to me that he could very easily fashion a blowpipe. Don’t you think so?”

  “Very easily indeed,” the Muscovite replied as they set their faces towards Oxford Street and the long walk home.

  The next morning, Sir Gabriel having played cards the night before and remaining in bed for a while, John had an excellent opportunity to read the paper and an item of interest immediately caught his eye. “The Funeral of Charles William Montblanc Bravo, Marquess of Arundel, will Take Place at 2 o’clock at St James’s, Piccadilly, Today.”

  So the Coroner had released the body and the murdered man was finally to be laid to rest. John glanced at his watch and saw that if he changed into his mourning clothes he could slip out of the shop and be at St James’s in five minutes, leaving Nicholas in charge once more. He could also get a full morning’s work in before having to do so. Consequently, he left the house arrayed in deepest black and hurried off to Shug Lane.

  Both Gideon and Nicholas were there before he arrived and looked somewhat startled at his appearance.