by Deryn Lake
Leaving his startled father to supervise the stabling arrangements, the Apothecary sprinted to the front door, his heart pounding. It was opened even before he knocked by a woman servant in a black dress.
‘Master Alleyn?’ asked John, his voice full of fear.
‘The Master is dead, Sir,’ she answered, and burst into tears.
Chapter Three
As John Rawlings entered through the front door, following on the heels of the servant, the unmistakable sounds of a house in mourning rose to meet him. Voices speaking in hushed tones, the ordinary noises of everyday living unnaturally muted, distant sobbing coming from some room at the dwelling’s heart.
He turned to the woman who had let him in. ‘When did the Master die?’
She looked at him, her pale face damp with tears. ‘Early this morning, at first light. He slipped out of life as dawn broke.’
‘Christ’s wounds!’ cursed John bitterly. ‘I could have sworn that he was out of danger.’
‘Master Cruttenden said he had a relapse.’
‘Master Cruttenden?’
‘A very old friend of the family. He is an apothecary too.’
‘I would like to talk to him,’ said John, his voice harsh.
‘He’s still here, comforting the mistress.’
‘I dare not intrude upon her grief. I’d best come back another time. Perhaps if you could tell Master Cruttenden that I called and need to speak to him on a professional level.’ So saying, John produced a card from an inside pocket.
‘That will not be necessary,’ answered a voice behind him, and both the Apothecary and the servant whirled round, startled, to see the tall figure of a man dressed entirely in grey standing almost on top of them, so silently had he approached.
John bowed deeply, his hair almost touching the floor as he did so. ‘John Rawlings, Sir, Apothecary of Shug Lane. I accompanied Master Alleyn home from the Livery Dinner at which he was taken ill and treated him with herb true-love. I would have staked my life on the fact that I had saved his.’
The older man looked down the length of his nose. ‘Alas, no, Mr Rawlings. Not all the poison was purged. I applied a clyster but, alas, it was too late.’
‘May I ask what substance you used?’
‘Certainly,’ answered Master Cruttenden smoothly. ‘It was the distilled water of devil’s bit. The most effective treatment I know for cleansing the body inwardly via the colon.’ He smiled, though not broadly.
He was like a seal, John thought, long and grey and somehow giving the impression of smoothness. However, all similarity to that particular species ended with his face which was extraordinarily arresting despite the fact that the man must be around fifty years old. A flowing grey wig surrounded a long thin visage, the most dominant feature of which was a piercing pair of eyes, as glittering and as colourless as quartz. The mouth, too, was interesting: there was a suggestive curve to the lips that John felt certain women would find most disconcerting.
Aware that he was being regarded as something of an upstart, and a junior upstart at that, the Apothecary bowed once more, a mark of respect from a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society to a Liveryman.
‘Forgive my curiosity, Sir. It is simply that I thought my treatment had worked and clearly it did not.’
‘No indeed. Food poisoning can kill, Mr Rawlings. I myself attended the Dinner and was taken quite ill in the night, vomiting and purging for many hours. Fortunately I treated myself and recovered. Therefore I can only presume that my dear friend took more of the tainted substance than I did.’
‘Have you any idea what that substance could have been, Sir?’
Master Cruttenden shrugged and as he did so his long apothecary’s gown rippled like water.
‘Who knows? We had meat, fish, bread, high sauce, fruit. It could have been any number of things.’
John shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I feel so guilty.’
The Liveryman gave a worldly smile. ‘Pray do not do so, my young friend. We all of us lose patients from time to time. Why, I have attended the funerals of some of my own and though it is a heartbreaking experience I try to console myself with the thought of all those whom I have saved.’
The Apothecary sighed. ‘You are right, of course. None the less, I find it hard to come to terms with this particular incident.’
Master Cruttenden looked brisk. ‘Well, you have little choice, Mr Rawlings. The truth is that Josiah has died and we must all accept the fact.’
A voice spoke from the doorway. ‘I shall never do so, never, never. I married him when I was little more than a child. Over the years we grew as one. This is a blow from which I can never recover.’
John turned to see that Mrs Alleyn, her round face crimson with anguish, her eyes streaming, had come to join them. Dreading the blame that he felt sure she would heap on him, John went over to her.
‘Madam, what can I say? I did my best, truly I did.’
She fell into his arms like a small round pudding, clutching him to her dumpling breasts.
‘I know you did, my dear. I have never seen anyone try so hard. That is what makes it all the more difficult to bear.’
‘God have mercy on him,’ said John, and felt his own eyes begin to fill with tears.
‘Come,’ Master Cruttenden put in, his mellifluous voice soothing, ‘you must not distress yourself like this.’
‘I’ll distress myself how I like,’ Mrs Alleyn answered from the depths of John’s chest.
The Liveryman laid a commanding arm round her shoulders. ‘Now, Maud, let me escort you to your room.’
She shook her head forcibly. ‘No thank you, Francis. I wish to talk to Mr Rawlings a while.’
‘Then I shall go and gather my things together. But when your conversation ends I really must insist that you rest. Mr Rawlings, adieu. No doubt we will meet again.’
Still clutching Mrs Alleyn in his arms, John bowed his head. ‘Farewell, Master Cruttenden.’
Francis swirled in the doorway. ‘No self-recriminations, now. These terrible accidents do happen.’
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
The Liveryman left the room, his long gown eddying behind him.
‘I don’t like that man,’ whispered Mrs Alleyn in a small spiteful voice.
‘Why?’ asked John, mildly astonished.
‘My daughter fell in love with him when she was far too young for such follies. It was always my secret belief, though I could never prove it, that he encouraged her to do so.’
‘I see.’
Disengaging herself slightly, Maud looked up at him from sore and puffy eyes. ‘After that I never took to him, though he still remained a close friend of Josiah’s, who believed that I had imagined it all. He was also Josiah’s medical adviser, so they were very close.’
John attempted to steer the conversation in another direction. ‘Tell me what happened yesterday. After I had gone.’
Mrs Alleyn took a step back, finally letting the Apothecary go. ‘Well, in the morning, after you left on the barge, Josiah slept very peacefully for a long time. He woke in the afternoon and declared that he felt very weak. Remembering what you said about food, I gave him a little clear broth, that is all. In the evening Francis called to say that he had been poisoned at the Livery Dinner and to enquire whether Josiah had suffered the same fate.’
‘Go on.’
‘Josiah was much better by now, though he did complain of some stomach cramps.’
‘Which were natural enough after such a severe poisoning.’
‘Anyway, during the night, after Francis had gone, he grew much worse again. There was no way I could get a message to you, Mr Rawlings, so I sent a boy on horseback to fetch Master Cruttenden back again. He gave him a clyster to wash the poison out through the bowel but, as you know, it failed.’
‘It’s a terrible story. I feel as if my professional reputation has been called into question.’
‘Not by me, it hasn’t. I saw you strive to save him
.’
‘Perhaps I should have tried a clyster.’
‘There seemed little point when he was purging like he was,’ Maud answered grimly.
The Apothecary sighed deeply. ‘May I see Master Alleyn’s body?’
The newly widowed woman hesitated. ‘He has not been prepared.’
‘That does not matter. I should like to take my leave of him.’
‘Then so you shall.’
They went into the bedchamber together, the plump little woman on John’s arm, just as if they were going in to dine. Pausing before the door, Mrs Alleyn took a key from her pocket and unlocked it.
‘Why did you do that?’ John asked.
‘Lock it you mean?’
He nodded.
‘I don’t really know. To keep nosy servants out perhaps.’ Within, the room was dusky, the curtains drawn against the light, while on the great bed poor Master Alleyn slumbered in the last sleep of all. John drew close. It would not have been seemly to examine the body with the bereaved woman standing so close by, so instead he merely leant over the corpse and scrutinised it intently.
The face was peaceful enough, but one of the hands had drawn the sheet into a tight knot, suggesting Josiah had died in pain. Of the clyster pipe and bowl there was no sign. Francis Cruttenden had obviously cleared up after himself. For what seemed like the hundredth time, John shook his head in bewilderment.
‘I thought I’d saved you,’ he whispered.
There was a muffled sob from Maud but other than that, total silence. The Apothecary straightened up with sudden determination. ‘I am not satisfied with this affair,’ he said, turning to her. ‘I intend to get to the bottom of the mystery and find out exactly what happened at that Livery Dinner.’
The widow stared at him, round eyed. ‘How can you?’
‘I don’t know yet, but I am going to do my damnedest.’
‘Is it worth it? Josiah is dead and nothing can bring him back again.’
John put his hands on her shoulders and she drew close to him, a warm, comfortable motherly figure whom it was impossible not to squeeze, something he now did.
‘I know, I know. But it is for myself. For my own satisfaction. For my amour propre if you like. I must know what it was that was so virulent it returned to kill Master Alleyn.’
‘Then I wish you luck, Mr Rawlings, for you have a good heart, that’s for sure.’
There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door. Before Maud had a chance to answer, it opened, revealing Francis Cruttenden in a long grey cloak. He looked more like a creature of the sea than ever as the rippling material whirled about him.
‘My dear, I take my leave,’ he announced.
Mrs Alleyn made a very small curtsy. ‘Thank you for what you did, Francis.’
‘It was nothing.’ He turned to John, very much the Liveryman addressing a minor Yeoman. ‘Good day, young Sir.’
‘Good day, Master Cruttenden.’ The Apothecary bowed.
The Liveryman swirled from the room leaving John to hug Maud briefly before he, too, absented himself.
‘It’s a mystery,’ said the Apothecary, his feet propped up in front of him, a pipe in one hand, a glass of claret in the other. ‘What on earth could it be that kills one man, yet merely makes others ill? An odd form of food poisoning indeed.’
‘Quite so,’ answered Sir Gabriel, dressed for an evening’s relaxation and thoroughly enjoying being away from home in the company of his son.
They were sitting in The Unicorn, a private snug situated in The Dun Cow, a comfortable inn close to Mr Elphinston’s Academy, an imposing building with considerable gardens on the outskirts of Kensington, whose founder had not gone unnoticed by Sir Gabriel as a possible neighbour of substance.
John drained his glass and poured himself another. ‘I can’t let the matter rest you know.’
‘I didn’t think for one moment that you would.’
‘As soon as we return to London I intend to visit Apothecaries’ Hall and somehow or other talk my way into seeing the Beadle and the Butler. For certain they will know more than most about what went on that day.’
‘Assuredly they will. And now, John, let us consider our country residence. Where do you think we should look?’
‘Perhaps Church Lane. It seems reasonably well populated. It is close to the King’s kitchen garden, which means there will be activity. Whilst the church itself is always a good centre for meeting others.’ Remembering Nicholas Dawkins’ words, John paused. ‘But I leave the final choice to you, Father.’
Sir Gabriel leant forward in his chair, holding his wineglass up to the fire to study the rich red claret reflected in the flames. ‘Do you believe that I am going to retire here?’
‘No, Sir, I don’t,’ the Apothecary answered roundly. ‘I believe that you will regard a house in Kensington as I intend to do, a country retreat which will provide a little relaxation away from town.’
His father smiled. ‘I may grow to like the place well.’
Very wisely, John answered, ‘That, Sir, will be a matter entirely for your own choice.’
‘So in the morning I suggest we ride through the entire locality to see which area takes our fancy most, casting an eye on Church Lane as you suggest. Then we can enquire about landlords and leases.’
John nodded, drained his glass, then refilled it. ‘I might leave you in charge of negotiations, Father, once we have settled on somewhere.’
‘You’re longing to return to town, aren’t you?’
‘As I told you just now, I am most anxious to see the Beadle and the Butler and ask them a few questions.’
Sir Gabriel, too, emptied his glass. ‘Will they be of any help, do you think?’
‘That depends,’ answered the Apothecary thoughtfully, ‘on whether they have anything to hide.’
They left The Dun Cow in the most abysmal weather, rain falling out of the sky in sheets. Thoroughly soaked in the short distance between the inn door and the carriage, Sir Gabriel brushed at his cloak with a long pale hand.
‘It is said by those who know such things, that conditions like these are ideal ones in which to find a new residence.’
‘How do they conclude that?’ asked John, wiping the mud from the back of his stockings.
‘Very simply. If a house appeals in dismal light, dripping with wet, then it will seem like paradise on a beautiful day.’
‘A logical thought indeed.’
The carriage turned westwards out of the inn yard, passing some important looking residences on the left, though nothing so fine as the enormous gardens of Kensington Palace, the chimneys and spires of which could be glimpsed over the fields to the right hand side.
It had been William III of Orange, husband of Queen Mary, who had retreated to rural Kensington. A chronic asthmatic, he had sought to escape the fogs of London and had set up his court there. Thin, weak, solemn and with a constant cough, the Dutchman had started a fashion for the place, which was now de rigueur. A street directory purchased by Sir Gabriel indicated that not only did the Bishop of Ely have a residence in the village but also His Grace the Duke of Rutland, together with the Countess of Yarmouth. Then, of course, there was Holland House, in which currently resided the politician Henry Fox and his wife, the former Lady Caroline Lennox, sister of the Duke of Richmond.
The coach turned right off the High Street, proceeding past an imposing church, and went on up Church Lane. Two rows of houses, elegant and no more than twenty years old, faced one another across the cobbled street.
‘A little too close for my liking,’ commented Sir Gabriel, gazing out of the rain streaked window. ‘If I’m going to live out of town then, damme, I want to feel as if I am.’
The lane grew more rural as the King’s kitchen gardens appeared on the right, somewhat damp and miserable looking now but obviously bursting with delicious fruit and vegetables during the summer months. Adjacent to the gardens were one or two cottages, clearly belonging to the gardeners. Opposite these was a
neat little row of fifteen houses or so, all with gardens behind and around them. At the end of the lane, before it turned left and became the way to the gravel pits, stood a large and imposing parsonage complete with gardens and fields.
‘Rural enough?’ asked John.
‘Perfectly so. Yet in easy access of all the great houses.’
John hid his smile, well aware that his father was already planning what he would wear as he paid his initial visit to the new neighbours, bearing calling cards. Indeed, it would not have surprised him if Sir Gabriel had announced his intention of leaving one at the palace itself.
‘What about you, my dear? Do you care for this row?’
‘Very much,’ said John, who was already casting an eye over all the garden space and starting to plan where he could grow herbs.
‘Then let us go in search of whoever owns these houses and talk of rentals and leases. I must say I quite care for the end of terrace, should that prove available.’
Taking the street directory from his father’s hand, John glanced at it. ‘The parsonage is occupied by the Reverend Waller, I see. And the next three houses to his are occupied by Mrs Trump, William Horniblow and Mr Forgus. There’s no indication which, if any, stand empty.’
‘Leave this to me,’ said Sir Gabriel firmly. ‘I am well versed in the way of finding out such things.’
So saying, he called out to the coachman to turn back to the High Street where, or so he claimed, the professional and trades people were bound to be situated.
An hour later it was done. Though not actually empty, the end of terrace house was about to become so. Mrs Trump, the elderly widow who lived there, was considered by her family to be too frail to be left on her own any longer and was due to leave to reside with her daughter. So it was in the pouring rain and full of the old woman’s somewhat smelly furniture, John Rawlings first saw what was destined to become a beloved home.
‘I shall take it,’ Sir Gabriel announced grandly, having finished his tour of inspection and seen beyond the gloom to the house’s intrinsic grace.
