by Deryn Lake
Contents
Cover
By Deryn Lake
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Praise for Deryn Lake’s other John Rawlings Mysteries
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Historical Note
By Deryn Lake
The John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH IN THE DARK WALK
DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA
DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S TAVERN
DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH
DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL
DEATH AT APOTHECARIES’ HALL
DEATH IN THE WEST WIND
DEATH AT ST JAMES’ PALACE
DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN
DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER
DEATH IN HELLFIRE
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
DEATH AT APOTHECARIES’ HALL
A John Rawlings Mystery
Deryn Lake
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain by Hodder and Stoughton 2001
This eBook first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 1994 Deryn Lake
The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0133-1 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For Virginia and Charles Purle –
Friends for all seasons
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank, first and foremost, Lt Colonel Richard Stringer, Clerk of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, who was kind enough to let me visit Apothecaries’ Hall, and who personally showed me round the many beautiful and interesting rooms, telling me a fascinating ghost story into the bargain. Without him it would not have been possible to write this book. Equal thanks go to Professor Denis Baron, who not only told me all about white arsenic but introduced me to Colonel Stringer in the first place. Again, this book would not have been possible without him. Other stalwarts helped too. Carrie Starren, archivist at Kensington Central Library, who led me to the rate books and let me go through them until John Rawlings, with his neighbours Mr Forgus and Mr Horniblow, duly appeared in the year 1760. My research companion on that occasion was Beryl Cross, whose poems continue to delight many readers. As ever, I am in the debt of P.C. Keith Gotch of the Metropolitan Police Thames Division, for his advice on where and when bodies in the river would surface. Thanks, too, to Victor Briggs for photocopying the manuscript when my printer broke down mid-book, and to Mark Newington, for his sparkling wit and unswerving friendship, and Dr Nigel de Sousa, who made quite sure I didn’t get flu and so could finish this book on time. Last, but very far from least, I would like to thank my editor Philippa Pride, who poured oil on somewhat troubled waters when a harassed author turned to her for help. With a team like this, who could fail?
Praise for Deryn Lake’s other John Rawlings Mysteries
‘One of the best mystery series to hand at present is the John Rawlings historical crime line … ten out of ten’
DR JONATHAN GASH
‘John Rawlings and the Blind Beak are developing into my favourite historical mystery heroes – tenacious in their search for villains, daring as they outwit them, yet always ready to pause for a moment of delightful domestic life. I’m eager for the next!’
LINDSEY DAVIES
‘evocative Georgian mystery … if you love a good whodunnit you won’t be disappointed’
Evening Argus, Brighton
‘an absorbing murder tale set in Georgian London … splendidly evokes the atmosphere of the capital with all its elegance and intrigue. Wonderfully descriptive, it deserves to be a success’
The Kent and Sussex Courier
‘A wealth of marvellous characters parade across the pages, their dialogue is lively and John Rawlings is proving to be a real charmer.’
Eastbourne Herald
‘An effervescent tale … the author organises her large cast and colourful background with skill and gusto through a racily readable drama.’
FELICIA LAMB in the Mail on Sunday’s Night & Day Magazine
About the Author
Deryn Lake is the pseudonym of a well-known historical novelist who joined the popular ranks of historical detective writers with her gripping John Rawlings Mysteries.
Deryn Lake lives near the famous battleground of 1066.
Chapter One
‘It is not,’ said John Rawlings, raising his quizzing glass to his eye to inspect the plant lying on the counter before him, ‘the finest camomile leaf I have ever seen.’
‘I agree,’ answered Mr Clarke, the vendor, somewhat tartly, ‘but that is because you asked for dyer’s camomile, Mr Rawlings. Normally, white camomile is what is requested.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that. However, I am in need of desperate measures to cure a particular patient of mine.’
‘But dyer’s camomile is not,’ persisted Mr Clarke, who ran the shop attached to Apothecaries’ Hall and was therefore considered a great expert on all matters relating to herbs, ‘generally used for medicinal purposes. Consequently this specimen is all I have in stock.’
‘I know the plant’s true usage is as a dye, but I have come across an old Assyrian Herbal which recommends it as an external poultice.’
‘May I ask for what purpose?’
‘For application to the anus when said orifice makes a pustule. Believe me, I have tried everything else.’
Mr Clarke rolled a pair of pale protuberant eyes. ‘Dear me! I dread to think what colour the poor patient’s fundament will turn if you put this on it.’
John attempted to look serious and wise as befitted his surroundings but ended up grinning. ‘He’d best wear yellow breeches for a week or two.’
‘If you add iron as a mordant the mixture will become greenish brown,’ Mr C
larke informed him, keeping a straight face.
‘Merciful heaven,’ said John, reaching into his pocket to pay for the purchase. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’ Then he gave a laugh which echoed down Water Lane and away towards the Thames and in which Mr Clarke, who was far from a bad fellow despite his somewhat prim appearance and manner, cheerfully joined.
This day, John had journeyed to Apothecaries’ Hall by water, hiring a wherry which had conveyed him through the freezing river wind as far as Black Friars Stairs. From there he had walked up Water Lane, passing the imposing arched entrance to the courtyard round which the various buildings of the Hall were situated. A few steps further on and John had come to the shop, above the door of which stood the Society of Apothecaries’ imposing coat of arms. This displayed Apollo, the God of healing, slaying the dragon of disease, supported by two unicorns – these taken from the arms of James I who had granted the Society its original charter – a miniature horned rhinoceros raised above all.
It was November, 1758, and as cold as Muscovy, but inside the shop all was warm and cosy, and John, in no hurry to face the bitter journey home, lingered to talk while Michael Clarke wrapped up the Apothecary’s various purchases.
‘So how are things with you, Mr Rawlings?’ asked the other man, making a deft parcel.
‘Reasonably good. The shop is doing steady trade.’
‘And your apprentice?’
‘Coming on extremely well.’
‘Any marriage plans?’
John smiled a little sadly. ‘I have plans, but the lady concerned does not. She is an actress and currently wedded to her art.’
Mr Clarke nodded wisely. ‘Keep her on a slack chain, Mr Rawlings. She’ll be easier to capture later on.’
‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘And what of your father, the redoubtable Sir Gabriel?’
The Apothecary’s expression changed. ‘I am a little concerned for him, to tell the truth. He is slowing down very slightly. By that I mean he only plays cards and attends routs on four nights a week instead of seven.’
Mr Clarke looked amused. ‘Dear man. A remarkable figure about town.’
‘He is now seventy-four years old.’
‘Gracious, you do surprise me. He is always so imposing in his black and white rigs. I would have taken him for ten years younger at least.’
‘As do most people. However, I have thought to buy a country residence. Somewhere he may go for a little peace and quiet.’
Michael Clarke appeared dubious. ‘Somehow I wouldn’t have associated your father with rural life.’
John grinned crookedly. ‘I know what you mean. I thought perhaps Kensington where there is a reasonably good social scene centred round the palace.’
‘A place like that would indeed be more suitable for a man of Sir Gabriel’s temperament.’ Mr Clarke handed over the parcel. ‘Now, Mr Rawlings, will there be anything else?’
‘No, unless you happen to have some herb true-love.’
Mr Clarke looked interested. ‘Ah! Treating a person who has been poisoned, are you?’
‘No, I wanted the plant for one of its other uses. To aid a patient with his performance in the boudoir.’
‘I see. But be careful, Sir. An overdose, which he might feel inclined to take, can produce delirium and convulsions. However, in moderation, the powdered roots consumed in wine are most effective, while the leaves are excellent for dispersing tumours and swellings in the privy parts, to say nothing of healing filthy old sores.’
John inclined his head in a gesture of respect. ‘Mr Clarke, a half-hour in your company is an education in itself.’
The other bowed delightedly. ‘Most kind of you to say so, my dear Sir. However, today I have had very little chance to air my knowledge. There is a Livery Dinner in the Hall and my customers have been mainly the mighty of the Society. Not those to whom one should express an opinion.’
‘I thought there were a great many craft moored at Black Friars Stairs.’
‘That is the explanation.’
John glanced at his watch, a gift from his father on his twenty-first birthday. ‘Then it won’t be long before they come out. I’d best be off before you get a rush of important custom.’
Mr Clarke shook his head. ‘There you are mistaken, Sir. Most did their buying on their way in to the Dinner. Now they’ll be in a hurry to get home before darkness falls. So stay a moment or two longer. I have some herb true-love in stock.’
He disappeared to the back of the premises, where hung row upon row of different plants, each one with a neat label attached. Alone, John turned to look out into the street through the shop’s window, peering towards the left where stood the arched entrance to Apothecaries’ Hall. Sure enough, the Dinner was over. Several dignified figures were leaving the building and were heading through the gloomy afternoon in the direction of the river, their way lit by a bevy of linkmen who trotted briskly beside the Liverymen, flaming torches held high. The Apothecary, knowing that one day he would be called to take Livery, watched with a certain feeling of awe as the procession made its way.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Michael Clarke from the storeroom, and came back into the shop, the herb John had requested in his hand. ‘Will this be enough?’
‘I should hope so. My patient only wishes to enhance his performance, not sire every babe in London.’
‘Be careful to warn him about the dangers of overdosing.’
‘I certainly will. By the way, how is it used to cure poisoning?’
‘Well, you know that the seeds and berries combined are compounded to create the aphrodisiac?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you ignore those and make a tincture from the fresh plant itself, it not only acts as an emetic but eases the inflammation caused by the poison; a double-pronged attack against the presence of toxins.’
‘Once again I stand in awe of your knowledge,’ said John, reaching into his pocket.
‘That will be one shilling, Sir.’
‘A bargain. Good day to you, Mr Clarke.’
‘I wish you a safe journey, Mr Rawlings.’
These pleasantries exchanged, the two men bowed to one another and John made his way into the dusk-filled confines of Water Lane. Looking at his watch once more, the Apothecary saw that it was a little after four o’clock, and strode out briskly, hoping that he could hire a wherry with no difficulty, having scarcely an hour left before total darkness fell.
It was just as he reached the top of Black Friars Stairs, at the foot of which he had earlier observed so many craft awaiting their owners, that John felt rather than saw a figure leaning against the wooden balustrade which offered passengers their only means of support as they ascended or descended the perilous steps to the water. The Apothecary’s hand flew to the pistol he always carried when travelling late and alone, but a faint groan reassured him that this was probably no footpad lurking in the shadows, though he still kept his weapon close.
‘Who’s there?’ John asked in a sibilant whisper.
‘Oh, help me,’ came the agonised reply. ‘I’m sick to my stomach.’
Sure enough, there came the sound of vomiting and an unpleasant plop as the contents of the man’s guts landed in the water below. Hoping that there were no boatmen beneath, John took a step towards the voice, only to draw in his breath in shock as a Liveryman of the Society of Apothecaries put out a feeble hand in his direction.
‘My God, Sir,’ John exclaimed, ‘what has happened?’
The older man shook his head. ‘I’ve been at the Livery Dinner. There must have been … bad meat.’ His words ended in a gasp and he was violently ill once more.
‘If that is the case, you must rest and receive treatment. Shall I escort you back to the Hall?’
‘No, young man, no. My barge waits below. I would sooner return home. I can lie down in the cabin.’
‘But if you are suffering from food poisoning, Sir, you should not undertake a journey without assistance. How far must
you travel?’
‘To Chelsea …’ The older man’s voice died away and he was again seized by a painful spasm which caused him to bend double, his thin hands clutching his stomach.
‘You are in no fit state to proceed alone,’ John said firmly, knowing what he ought to do but thinking of the warm fire in his father’s library and wishing he were already sitting beside it.
‘My good young person, I will be all right provided I stay quiet. I am an apothecary after all.’
‘So am I, Sir. Though only a Yeoman.’
Despite his pain, the Liveryman chuckled. ‘We were all only Yeomen once.’ He seemed to recover slightly. ‘My barge is moored over yonder. Be so good as to call them in, my friend. I doubt my voice would carry at the moment.’
‘And what name shall I say, Sir?’
‘I am Josiah Alleyn.’
John descended three of the steps and stared out over the river. Beyond the stairs, where a mass of wherries had collected in the hope of gaining custom, several barges bobbed at mooring. Most impressive of all was the Society of Apothecaries’ own barge, today being used by the Master. On ceremonial occasions this magnificent craft was decked overall with banners and streamers of crimson and blue silk, and although it bore no extra decorations that evening it was still a wonderful sight. It rode the river tricked out with the Society’s great shield, painted and gilded, while the barge’s woodwork displayed exuberant moulded foliage, fluted Corinthian pilasters, and carved figures of the four seasons, all of them dwarfed by the depiction of several gods, including Apollo, Hercules and Neptune, cheek by jowl in a chariot drawn by sea lions. A large dolphin was painted on the rudder, providing the finishing touch to this voluptuous decor.
Beyond this floating tribute to the woodcarver’s art lay several smaller, more modest vessels. Cupping his hands round his mouth, John called in their general direction, ‘Would Master Alleyn’s barge come in please,’ and was rewarded by the stirring of six pairs of oars rising in the air simultaneously before dipping into the water and rowing towards Black Friars Stairs.
