Death at Apothecaries' Hall

by Deryn Lake

  The Blind Beak nodded his head, said, ‘Well done,’ and started to climb the stairs, his clerk beside him.

  John, having seen them safely up, turned right and went into the kitchen. Somewhat to his disappointment there was nobody about. Not the ideal conditions at all for practising sleight of hand. However, within a few seconds the door opened and Jane Backler walked in. She stopped on seeing John and stared at him.

  ‘Mr Rawlings, what are you doing here?’

  Knowing that the Blind Beak was at this very moment apprising the Master of the true facts about the poisoning, John decided to tell the truth, only glad that he had not let the monkey out of the sleeve on the previous evening. ‘I’ve come to tell you the results of the autopsy on the mouse.’

  ‘I thought you were calling last night. I waited for you.’

  The Apothecary felt himself grow hot but continued regardless. ‘The mouse had eaten flour, within which were grains of arsenic. The poisoning at the Livery Dinner was deliberate.’

  The Butler slumped into a chair, plunging a suddenly white face into her hands. ‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘Oh, thank God.’

  John looked at her curiously. ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘I am surprised, astonished even. But much more than that, I am relieved. My good name has been restored to me. You will never know what I have been through since that accursed Dinner. Sly looks, snide remarks, whispering and gossip, but no open accusations, not one. Nobody had the courage to come out and accuse me to my face of buying unfit food.’

  She wept at this, very suddenly, her sobs loud and uncontrollable. John let her cry for a few moments then went to Jane’s side, laying his hand on her shoulder. ‘Mrs Backler, enough of your grieving. The worst is behind you. What lies ahead is the monumental task of discovering who put the poison in the flour, because, since the death of Master Alleyn, that person has now become a murderer.’

  With the tears still streaming down her face, Jane stood up, making a heroic effort to rally. ‘Yes, you’re right. How can I help you?’

  ‘I told you a lie about why I came here. The real reason was to discover whether someone could meddle with the flour in front of a kitchen full of people.’

  The Butler looked at him shrewdly. ‘Don’t waste your time, my friend. Nobody could unless, of course, they were a member of my staff.’

  ‘Quite.’

  She took in the entire meaning of that short answer and squared her shoulders before she replied. ‘Mr Rawlings, present in the kitchen that day were myself and my two daughters, Abigail and Ruth, who come in from time to time to assist at more important occasions. Also here was a French cook who works for me on the same basis. My husband, the Beadle, put his nose round the door from now and then to see how things were getting on.’

  She paused and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, then looked at the Apothecary very straightly. ‘I can assure you, Sir, with my hand upon my heart …’ she laid it there ‘… that I have no reason for poisoning the apothecaries. They pay me an annual salary of six pounds, and Sotherton’s status is much enhanced by his position. Even though we still have a shop, it is from the Court of Assistants that most of our benefits flow. You must believe that I would not bite the hand that feeds me.’

  Despite Mr Fielding’s warning, John felt certain that she was telling the truth. Jane Backler had a blaze of sincerity about her woebegone features.

  ‘As for my daughters,’ she continued, ‘the little innocents wouldn’t harm a fly. Why, they are scarce out of the cradle.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Yet they work here? How old are they?’

  ‘Fourteen and sixteen.’

  John burst out laughing. ‘Hardly babies.’

  The Butler allowed herself a small smile. ‘No, I grant I exaggerate, but, believe me, they know very little of the politics of the Society.’

  ‘Are there politics?’

  ‘There are always politics in every group, large or small.’

  ‘How very true. So that leaves the French cook.’

  ‘He was born here but studied with one of the master chefs. His name is Jacques Genet and he works for himself, hiring out his services to any who will employ him.’

  ‘Could he have any motive that you know of for poisoning the flour?’

  ‘Of course not, but I expect you will want to see him none the less. He lives, so I believe, somewhere near Drury Lane. The Beadle will have a record of his address.’

  ‘Then,’ said John, coming directly to the point, ‘if none of you tampered with the flour, who did? And when was it done?’

  A fearful expression crossed Jane’s face, the gap in her teeth suddenly making her look like a frightened child. ‘Mr Rawlings, can I say something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This Hall, beautiful as it is in the daylight, is very different at night. Then it is a place full of shadow. I tell you true, I don’t like being here on my own after dark.’

  ‘Are you saying something unworldly poisoned the flour?’

  ‘Of course not. What I am saying is that I am not alone in my feeling. That people, men included, don’t care to remain here for long when nobody else is about.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So someone who wanted to steal back after nightfall and put poison in a place where it could do most harm would encounter very little to stop him.’

  ‘But surely there’s a watchman?’

  ‘An old fellow who dozes half the night. He could easily be avoided.’

  ‘So that is how you think it was done? By a midnight walker?’

  Jane shivered. ‘Yes, that is what I think.’

  ‘When did you last use the flour?’

  ‘On the previous day. The Master was entertaining guests and a high sauce was made to go with his meat. After that it was not touched until the Livery Dinner.’

  John rubbed his chin hard. ‘Does that suggest to you that the killer has precise knowledge of this place? Knows that the watchman dozes in the small hours? And knows exactly where the flour is kept?’

  ‘Maybe not the last. But cooking components are stored in pantries. All that he …’

  ‘Or she,’ the Apothecary interrupted.

  Jane conceded with a nod of her head. ‘… needed to do was locate the kitchen and the rest would be easy.’

  The Apothecary nodded slowly, then he took Jane’s hand and raised it to his lips, a gesture that clearly pleased her. ‘I shall call on you tonight, if I may. I need to talk to your husband.’

  She suddenly looked extremely defensive. ‘What about?’

  ‘Just about the situation in general,’ John answered vaguely, and hoped that with that reply the Butler would be content.

  Chapter Seven

  It would seem that for the time being John had achieved all that was possible at Apothecaries’ Hall. He had been given the names of three people with grudges, one against the Master personally, the other two against apothecaries in general. The Butler had confirmed that only a member of the kitchen staff could have poisoned the flour during the preparations for the Livery Dinner. It was also her opinion that the substance was tampered with on the night before, an opinion with which John tended to agree.

  Finally, innocent though he believed him to be, the Apothecary had invited Michael Clarke to dine, in order that he might question him more closely. With these thoughts and many more tumbling around in his mind, John left the Hall in order to get a little air and exercise and clear his head.

  It was fast approaching the hour to dine and dusk was just starting to fall over the river. Not only that. A November fog was creeping over the water, vaporous and sinister, its white fingers curling round the boats that lay moored at Black Friars Stairs.

  John stood silently, remembering how Josiah Alleyn had leaned against this very railing, sick to his stomach. He had little thought then what a strange trail would open up from such an unpleasant but seemingly innocuous beginning. But then nothing was ever quite what it seemed. Did Jane
Backler’s gap-toothed smile hide a woman ruthlessly protecting her husband? Or was Michael Clarke’s bulging-eyed enthusiasm a mask for a disturbed and cruel mind?

  John shook himself, thinking that the fog had entered into his brain, then, for no obvious reason, drew back as the sound of footsteps, firm and confident in their tread, approached the place where he stood. Without seeing the Apothecary, Francis Cruttenden strode by and descended the steps, his rippling grey cloak blending so evenly with the mist that he was scarcely visible.

  ‘Barge,’ he called, and at the sound of his voice disembodied oars rose upwards in the fog, and a phantom vessel, or so it seemed to John’s overactive imagination, began to make its way silently through the vapour.

  Though Master Cruttenden had obviously been at the Hall, seeing the Liveryman was still something of a shock and the Apothecary found his thoughts turning to the glorious Emilia Alleyn, wondering again whether Cruttenden had been the focus of her youthful yearnings, or if it had been another sister who had loved him. On a completely crazy impulse John found himself creeping down the stairs from which the Liveryman had just departed and calling to the sole wherryman who had braved the ghastly night and sat in his boat waiting for a fare.

  ‘Boatman.’

  ‘Yes, Scholar?’

  ‘Keep close behind that barge. I’ve a mind to see where it goes.’

  The waterman spat into the river to show his contempt for idiots. ‘It’ll cost you, Scholar. Double for the fog.’

  ‘Just get on,’ answered John and sat down on the plank seat, the dank atmosphere already settling on his cloak.

  Master Cruttenden’s barge was ahead of them, barely visible through the ever descending mist, pulling across the river towards the south bank. Not quite certain why he was embarking on such folly, John sat in silence, listening to the quiet dipping of the wherryman’s oars, feeling as if he were acting out a part in a dream.

  The barge vanished from view, the only clue to its whereabouts the sound it made as its oarsmen strove across the tide.

  John leant towards the wherryman. ‘Have you any idea where they’re heading?’ he whispered, breath fluting in the vapour.

  The fellow shrugged, his face yellow beneath the lantern he carried on a pole. ‘Could be anywhere.’

  ‘What stairs are there on the Southwark side?’ John persisted.

  ‘Marygold, Bull, Old Barge House. How would I know which one they want?’ His face changed and he held up a hand. ‘Listen, they’re pulling downstream.’

  The Apothecary strained his ears but could hear nothing except the distant stirring of water. But his boatman, with a sturdy heave on the right oar, was turning his craft, also to head downstream, and, eventually, towards the open sea.

  ‘Not Paris Garden,’ he muttered.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They would have started to pull in by now.’

  ‘Your knowledge is quite amazing.’

  ‘Nay, Scholar, so would yours be if you’d been born in a boat as I were.’

  They relapsed into silence, listening for the sound of Francis Cruttenden’s barge, now completely lost to view. Finally, the wherryman pointed a gnarled finger at the shore and nodded his head. ‘Mason Stairs,’ he whispered.

  With absolutely no idea how he was going to get back across the river, John paid the man off, gave a generous tip, and set foot on the slippery stone steps. As he did so, he glimpsed the barge, which was being taken off to a boathouse situated, as far as he could tell through the fog, on the river frontage some further yards downstream. Hoping that he would not lose his quarry, the Apothecary set off in pursuit of Liveryman Cruttenden, his feet overloud on the crunching gravel, or so it seemed in the silence.

  At the top of Mason Stairs a walk way ran to both right and left, whilst ahead appeared the shadowy outlines of a timber yard. Beyond that, John could see nothing. He stopped, listening for the sound of movement, and a faint footfall told him that Francis Cruttenden had gone forward. Cautiously, the Apothecary crept on, discovering as he did so that a rough track lay beside the yard, obviously leading to some dwelling place beyond. With extreme care John followed, peering ahead as he did so.

  Directly in front of him the hinges of a gate squeaked as it opened and closed. The Apothecary stopped dead, realising that he had caught the Liveryman up and was in danger of coming up so close behind him that Cruttenden might turn and recognise him. He waited several minutes, then cautiously moved on again, finding himself a moment later in front of a tall and ornate iron gateway. Peering through its bars, John could make out a path leading through a formal garden. Beyond that, and scarcely visible in the fog, reared the shape of a large house. Exercising extreme care, the Apothecary eased the gate open a small amount and squeezed his way through without opening it fully. Wondering what possible explanation he could give if he were caught, he proceeded quietly up the path.

  The house emerging from the mist was one of extreme magnificence, and John’s head tilted back as he took in its grandiose elevation. His mouth fell open in sheer surprise at such splendour. Francis Cruttenden was obviously a man of great means, if this was indeed his home. If not, the Liveryman clearly moved amongst an elite circle of rich friends.

  There was the sound of an opening door and John had literally to throw himself behind a bush as a shaft of light coming from the hall illumined the pathway. Through the open doorway he glimpsed a liveried servant, rich carpeting, paintings upon the wall and a glittering candelabra, before the door closed again and he was once more alone in the fog.

  Crouching behind the sheltering shrub, John considered his plan. There was no point in proceeding further. Francis Cruttenden had gone indoors, either to his own home or visiting. Further, there was Sotherton Backler to be called upon, then Samuel, hopefully for a night of claret and jolly conversation. The best thing he could do at this moment would be to find someone to row him back to the north bank, and there visit a tavern where he could appease the grumbling of his empty stomach. Without hesitation John turned on his heel and retraced his steps.

  Was it luck or just the appalling weather, or perhaps the large tip he had given him, that led the Apothecary to find the same boatman, smoking a pipe and taking his ease at the bottom of Mason Stairs? A weather-beaten face was raised through the fog. ‘Is that you, Scholar?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, settling himself on the damp plank. ‘And very surprising it was.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  The need to discuss overcame the Apothecary’s usual discretion. ‘Well, the man concerned is only a Liveryman of the Society of Apothecaries. When I say only, don’t misunderstand me. They are great men, advanced men, but I would not have thought their position sufficient to enable them to own a mansion of quite such noble stature as the one I saw tonight. That is, if he does own it.’

  The wherryman spat into the water. ‘Scholar, are you talking about Pye House?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a huge place set back in its own beautiful gardens.’

  ‘Then you are. There’s only one great house round these parts.’

  ‘And who owns it?’

  ‘Master Cruttenden. He’s the richest man for miles.’

  John gaped. ‘How did you come by all this knowledge?’

  ‘I told you I was born in a boat, didn’t I? I’m river folk, Sir. Have you not come across them before?’

  Remembering all that had happened to him in the great Devil’s Tavern at Wapping, John nodded his head. ‘Oh yes. I most certainly have.’

  ‘Then I’ll say no more,’ answered the wherryman as they set off through the mist towards Black Friars.

  Sotherton Backler’s house was rather like its lady, the Apothecary thought, attractive, not new, and somehow understated. It stood amongst its neighbours, its facade plain almost to the point of dullness, yet with an underlying appeal of simple charm that could not be missed. Within, as John was shown i
nto the parlour, the same quality occurred. The decoration was confined to the lightest and most sparely applied plaster work, yet the fireplace was exquisite. And the Butler, devoid of her plain and practical work clothes and dressed in rustling skirts, was on the point of being a lovely woman.

  ‘Good evening,’ said John, and kissed her hand.

  Sotherton Backler rose from his place beside the fire and regarded his visitor with all the aloof grandeur of a dignitary of the Worshipful Society. As Beadle he was its chief ceremonial officer and held a position of considerable importance.

  ‘I believe that you are assisting Mr John Fielding with his investigation into the alleged poisoning at Apothecaries’ Hall.’

  John bowed low, humble as only a Yeoman could be. ‘Sir, I wish that I could concur with the word alleged. Unfortunately the poisoning was a fact. A fact that led to a death.’ He straightened and looked the Beadle in the eye. ‘If only it were not so.’

  Sotherton Backler stared at him with a gaze intended to cut the little upstart to size. John assumed his official face, all the while smiling politely and thinking that Mr Fielding had obviously changed his mind: the tactic of gleaning information by means of social chit chat had been replaced by a smack of officialdom. Wondering what his future would be in the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries in view of all this, John continued to smile.

  The Beadle glared. ‘According to Mr Fielding an unknown hand deliberately poisoned the flour used in the high sauce. Now what possible motive could there be for that? Personally I find it almost impossible to believe.’

  John looked contrite. ‘It seems, Sir, from what I have learned so far, that certain persons bear a grudge against apothecaries in general, whilst others have a particular dislike of the Master. It is quite conceivable that one of those people added arsenic to the food simply to make everyone ill, perhaps never dreaming that in one case the dose would prove fatal.’

  At the back of the room Jane rustled slightly, then said, ‘I am thankful, Sotherton, that the arsenic was found. Up till that moment I had been living with the reproach of others. It was one of the worst experiences imaginable.’