by Deryn Lake
Mr Clarke looked suitably earnest and impressed. ‘The Principal Magistrate himself?’
‘There is no one else capable of dealing with such a monstrous crime,’ John Rawlings answered firmly as he put the grains of arsenic into a vial and made to take his leave.
Chapter Five
The hackney coach which John Rawlings had been lucky enough to hire in Fleet Street drew to a halt. Turning his head to look out of the window, the Apothecary allowed his gaze to wander over the tall thin house outside which it had stopped, remembering the very first time he had seen the place. That had been in 1754, four years earlier, when he had been barely twenty-three and under suspicion of murder. To say that he had been terrified was a laughable understatement, and his first meeting with the great John Fielding, the Blind Beak, had been even more alarming. It was just as if those sightless eyes could see straight through the black bandage which always concealed them and right into the very mind of the person being questioned. That opinion of the Magistrate’s unnerving gift had not changed in the intervening years, during which John had come to know the man solely responsible for keeping the peace in the wild streets of London.
‘The Public Office, Bow Street. We’re here, Sir,’ the driver called down.
‘Yes, I know. Thank you,’ the Apothecary answered, clambering out and feeling in his pocket for the fare.
‘Rather you than me, Sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They say that the Blind Beak can punish hard if he feels so inclined.’
‘Fortunately I’m not in line for correction at the moment. This is a social call.’
But was it? Even as he said the words John knew that in fact this was the start of another exhaustive search for a killer. He and John Fielding had worked together to bring a murderer to justice on five different occasions. Now the discovery of arsenic in the kitchens of Apothecaries’ Hall was clearly the beginning of a sixth. With a rather solemn tread John climbed the three steps leading up to the open doorway of the Public Office and went inside.
It was a tradition, founded by the first Bow Street magistrate, Sir Thomas de Veil, that the justice and his family live over the court and public rooms, and John Fielding and his household had followed this custom. Above the functional ground floor there were four more storeys, the last being in the roof itself, where two large dormer windows indicated the servants quarters. However, Mr Fielding’s favourite receiving area for social visits was on the first floor, a large comfortable salon where, in summer, the windows often stood open to let in the air. But on this gloomy evening a jolly fire threw its glow onto the walls, setting the shadows dancing and enhancing the candlelight.
The Magistrate turned his head as John entered the room, having knocked politely first. Just for a moment there was complete silence, then the Blind Beak said, ‘Mr Rawlings?’
Mr Fielding’s intuition was uncanny and, as always, the Apothecary felt daunted. ‘How did you know?’
‘Your tread, Sir, and the odour of you. Not a foul stink, let me hasten to add, but your own highly individual scent. I would know you anywhere, my good friend.’
Again by habit, John bowed. He had always, in common with so very many others, treated the Magistrate as if he were sighted, and now this habit was totally ingrained.
‘As ever, Sir, you astound me.’
Mr Fielding rumbled his wonderful mellow laugh. ‘I’ll get some hot punch sent in. No doubt you’ll need warming after the misery of the streets.’
‘It is indeed very raw out there.’
The Magistrate rang a little bell which stood on the table beside him and after a moment or two a light step was heard in the corridor outside. This was no servant coming to answer, however: instead, a ravishingly pretty girl entered the room, a girl barely thirteen years old but already one of the beauties of town. A girl so naughty with her flirting that the temptation to box her ears was never very far away. The Apothecary gave her the most severe glance he could manage in spite of her radiant smile.
‘Why, Mr Rawlings,’ said Mary Ann Whittingham, Mr Fielding’s niece, ‘how very pleasant to see you again. I was only thinking the other day that I had not set eyes on you since the summer.’
Vividly recalling how he had rescued her from a brothel where poor wretched children were offered to the old and beastly of London, and thinking that the little madam seemed totally unperturbed by the experience, John looked positively ferocious.
She dimpled at him. ‘You frown, Sir. Have I done anything to upset you?’
He stuck out his tongue, happily aware that the Magistrate could see none of this. ‘Of course not, Miss Whittingham. How could you?’
He crossed his eyes and made a face like a gargoyle.
‘Why,’ she answered, grinning, ‘I do vow and declare that you grow more handsome every time I see you.’
‘Enough,’ thundered the Magistrate. ‘Mary Ann, stop teasing our guest. Ask one of the servants to make a jug of strong punch and bring it to us as soon as it’s ready.’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ she answered demurely, thumbing her nose at the Apothecary, who thumbed his back.
Mr Fielding sighed gustily as the door closed behind her. ‘What a creature! After her fright last summer I swear she’s bounced back to be cheekier than ever.’
‘She’s certainly a handful.’
‘Of course my wife, having no child of her own, positively dotes on her. That’s the root of the trouble.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Marry her off, I suppose, as soon as she’s of a reasonable age.’
John’s heart sank at the very prospect of trying to keep the little imp under control for another three or four years.
‘My apprentice is still in love with her.’
‘She’ll settle for no young apothecary, my friend.’ The Magistrate sighed again. ‘No, I detect signs of vanity in her. I believe she’ll set her cap at a title.’
‘She’s very beautiful. She might easily secure one.’
‘What a business it is to rear a daughter,’ Mr Fielding replied.
For this was how he thought of the child, brought to him at the time of his marriage by Elizabeth, his bride, who, for reasons that were not quite clear, was raising her niece as her own. John felt fairly certain that somewhere in Mary Ann’s background was a bastard birth, just as there was in his own.
John had most certainly been born out of wedlock, and had been a starving three-year-old when his adopted father, Sir Gabriel, had taken Phyllida Fleet, John’s beautiful mother, forced to beg on the streets of London in order to survive, into his home. Later he had married her and John had been given all the security and background he needed. But he often wondered about his real father, another John Rawlings, son of the powerful Rawlings family of Twickenham, who had gone to find lodgings in London and never returned.
There was a further tap on the door and a servant appeared bearing a tray.
‘Set it down on the table beside me, if you please,’ the Magistrate said, then, hearing the tray deposited, proceeded to pour out two glasses of punch without assistance. ‘And now,’ he said, as the man left the room, ‘to the reason for your visit, my friend. I have a feeling that this is not merely a social call. Could you have come to see me about the recent strange events at Apothecaries’ Hall?’
John stared, astonished. ‘I swear to God, Sir, that you read minds.’
Mr Fielding chuckled. ‘Not at all. The outbreak of food poisoning was reported in the newspapers, read to me daily by the redoubtable Joe Jago. At least the important matters are the tittle tattle and gossip I hear from Elizabeth over the breakfast table. Naturally the latest trends in fashion are duly relayed by Mary Ann.’
The Apothecary laughed, then said, ‘Have you heard about Josiah Alleyn, one of the Liverymen who attended the dinner?’
The entire atmosphere in the room changed and Mr Fielding raised his head like a dog to a scent. ‘Are you telling me that there has been a fata
lity?’
‘I believe,’ John replied slowly, ‘that there may well have been a murder.’
The Blind Beak nodded calmly and sipped his punch. ‘Start at the beginning, Mr Rawlings. It is always the best way.’
John took a deep draught of the hot comforting liquid and launched into his tale, the Magistrate sitting in silence, the black bandage which hid his eyes turned towards the Apothecary, his head utterly motionless.
‘You have the arsenic with you, you say?’ he asked eventually.
‘Yes.’
‘Be kind enough to place a crystal on my finger.’
The Apothecary did so and watched as John Fielding cautiously licked it. ‘A strange taste. One I have not experienced before.’
‘Only safe in very small doses, I fear.’
‘And you believe this was deliberately added to the flour?’
‘Yes, I do. In sufficient quantities to make all those who attended the dinner violently ill’
‘And kill one of them.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Um.’ Mr Fielding frowned. ‘What an extraordinary mind must be behind this. To murder one person is comprehendible, but to attack a whole group is a different matter entirely.’
‘Nicholas, who first alerted me to the idea of poison, thought it might be someone with a grudge against apothecaries in general. A person whose spouse or close relative might have died whilst undergoing treatment.’
‘That would certainly seem the most probable explanation.’
‘But how in heaven’s name do we find such a one? Where does the search begin?’
‘Whoever this person is, he or she must have access to Apothecaries’ Hall and to the kitchen. To mix white arsenic with the flour suggests that they know where the flour jar is kept. A grieving widow, bemoaning the loss of her husband at the hands of a quack, is hardly likely to have that knowledge, now is she?’
‘Possibly not, but the Hall is not barred by sentries. Anyone could walk in.’
‘None the less,’ said John Fielding, refilling their glasses, ‘I feel there must be some prior knowledge in this particular case, so I would suggest that you bend the ear of Mr Clarke and also that of Mrs Backler, remembering, of course, that they are not above suspicion themselves.’
‘Surely …’
The Magistrate raised an admonitory finger. ‘Believe me. They have the run of the place. I know they have been helpful to you so far, but that could merely be a cover for something more sinister.’
‘Others have the run of the place too, Sir. What about the Master, the Beadle, and all the rest of the dignitaries? I, a humble Yeoman, can hardly start asking them questions, can I?’
‘Clearly not.’ Mr Fielding shifted in his chair. ‘In the case of the Master, I believe it would be fitting if I called upon him personally. He has to be informed of our suspicions of foul play. As to the Beadle, you can quiz him discreetly. After all, Mrs Backler has invited you to their house and you are quite the master of gleaning information under the guise of a social visit.’
‘You make me sound very underhand.’
The Magistrate guffawed cheerily. ‘We are deceivers all, and in the belief that the ends justify the means I shall drink to that.’
‘And so shall I,’ answered John, and clinked glasses with his mentor.
He left Bow Street just before dinnertime, not wishing to foist himself on the Fieldings, who warmly pressed him to stay. But John, despite the urgings of his empty stomach, was longing to see Coralie and headed purposefully for The Strand and the house in Cecil Street. This time there was no important coach parked outside, and suddenly excited at the thought of being with her, as he always was, every time anew, the Apothecary rushed up the steps and rang the bell.
‘Miss Coralie is at home,’ said Thacker, smiling broadly.
‘Is she resting before the theatre?’
‘She is not going to the theatre, Sir. She has a night off.’
‘’Zounds!’ exclaimed John cheerfully and briefly clutched the actresses’ servant in something of an undignified yet heartfelt embrace.
Coralie was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at him. ‘John, it’s you,’ she called, her voice filled with pleasure.
‘May I come up?’
‘Of course.’
Throwing his hat and cloak aside, the Apothecary rushed to join her, holding her at arm’s length and taking delight in simply gazing into her beautiful face, remembering all the varied times they had spent together.
They had met four years earlier when she had been working for Mr Fielding, acting the part of a murdered woman in a reconstruction of the night of the victim’s death. On that occasion she had saved John’s life, on another he had saved hers. But they had only become lovers in the summer of this year, despite the strong attraction she had always held for him. Now, though, having been apart for several days, and regardless of the fact that it would soon be time to dine, John and Coralie went into her bedroom and closed the door behind them.
They were both young and in love and in a matter of minutes they had created that rare kind of magic that sometimes can be found between two people, responding to each other as if they should always be together. John, who had slept with several women before Coralie, caught himself wondering if, now that she had become his mistress, he could ever fall in love again. A practical side of his brain told him that he could, but his romantic self vigorously denied that he would ever find such total fusion of feeling with another person. All thoughts were dismissed, however, as they reached the culmination of lovemaking and lay peacefully in the afterglow, starting, once more, to think about food.
Coralie sniffed the air. ‘I think we are to have a side of beef’
John tickled her under the chin, his delphinium-blue eyes serious. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘One day, I will.’
‘When?’
‘When I am bored with theatrical life.’
‘That day will never come in my opinion. You are as bad as your sister. The pair of you will end your days as spinsters.’
Coralie propped herself up on one elbow, her emerald eyes slanting. ‘My dear, there you are completely wrong. Kitty has been married. It is just that she and her husband prefer to live apart.’
The Apothecary sat bolt upright, utterly shocked. ‘I had no idea. How long ago was this?’
‘A good twenty years, when she was little more than a girl. She was just starting out in her career and found that the pull of the theatre was stronger than that of being a wife. I have always vowed never to do the same. When I marry I want it to last for ever.’ She gave John an unfathomable look.
‘But for God’s sake, Coralie,’ he said, suddenly annoyed, ‘how much longer do you expect me to wait?’
‘I cannot understand your hurry.’
The Apothecary could feel himself growing exasperated. ‘I am not in a hurry, yet I have the urge to live with you all the time. To have you in my bed, in a home that belongs to us both. Coralie, be fair. Look at the situation from my point of view.’
Just for a moment her eyes seemed sad and wistful. ‘John, I do try, but my sister’s experience has left its mark on me. Neither she nor her husband George are truly happy.’
Thinking about the ecstatic cries coming from the first floor window the other night, John would have argued that Kitty had sounded very happy with her lover, whoever he might be.
‘… and I do not want to repeat her mistakes. Give me another five years and I am sure I will have explored all the major theatrical roles and finally be content.’
‘Five years is a long time. I shall be over thirty and you will be staring it in the face. Surely that is leaving things a little late.’
‘For what?’
The Apothecary gave an exasperated sigh. ‘What do you think? Childbearing of course. You know very well that I want to have children.’
‘Do you look upon me merely as a brood mare?’
It was too much. She had
gone too far. Turning a furious face in Coralie’s direction, John leapt out of bed and began to pull on his breeches. ‘This relationship is clearly going nowhere. You ask if I see you as a brood mare. How do you regard me, then? As a stallion?’ he demanded as he wrestled with his buttons.
His mistress did not answer, looking aloof and remaining in the bed with her back averted.
‘Coralie,’ said the Apothecary pleadingly, for he loved her and did not want bad feeling between them.
‘What?’
‘Be reasonable. I care for you deeply. I cannot bear it when we quarrel.’
She turned over, her black hair tumbling over the whiteness of the pillow. In the candlelight he could see that she was smiling. ‘I thought I was being reasonable.’
‘Well think again, sweetheart. All I want is to marry you while we’re still young enough to enjoy it.’
Her smile deepened. ‘Very well, I shall compromise. I shall shorten the five years to three.’
John shook his head. ‘You’re a witch of the wood,’ he said, and sighed. Then he kissed her, though deep in his heart he knew that something sensitive and fine had been wounded irrevocably.
He was weak where she was concerned, John knew it. Despite his earlier anger he spent the night in Coralie’s bed and was forced to rise into a bleak November dawning in order to visit his shop before setting off for Apothecaries’ Hall.
More than slightly annoyed with himself, John entered his premises in Shug Lane at eight in the morning to find that the reliable Nicholas was there before him, his pale face smiling as he whisked off the covers and generally tidied up.
It was reassuring to stand for a moment, gazing round all the wonderful jars and matrasses that were part of his stock in trade. Breathing a sigh of contentment, John looked at his apprentice. ‘Any news?’
‘A footman came round bearing a letter from the Comtesse de Vignolles. I took the liberty of bringing it with me, not certain of your movements as I was.’ Nicholas grinned, perfectly well aware where his Master had spent the night.
