by Deryn Lake
The ceremony at an end, the dismal trek to the graveside began. The brothers shouldered the coffin once more, and Mrs Alleyn wept anew. Emilia, tight-lipped with the effort of keeping control, took her mother by the hand only to release it again as the Master, a late arrival whom John had observed slipping quietly into the back of the church, offered the widow his arm. Thus formed, they went outside and vanished into the fog.
John hung back, wondering if there might be something further to see, and was rewarded by the sight of Francis Cruttenden leaving for the graveside, joining ranks with his fellow Liverymen, his very walk proclaiming to the world that he was a man of substance and station. Remembering Pye House and the wherryman’s assurance that Cruttenden owned it, the Apothecary wondered exactly from which resplendent family the man originally came. He turned to Joe Jago.
‘Have you ever heard of the Cruttendens? Wealthy people, I believe.’
The rocky face creased into a frown. ‘Can’t say I have, Mr Rawlings. Why?’
‘No reason really. I met one of them, Francis Cruttenden, when I attended Master Alleyn; in fact he is a personal friend of that family. Since then he just seems to keep cropping up. He owns a luxurious house on the south bank. That’s all I know about him.’
Samuel, hovering beside them, decided to elaborate. ‘Look for the lady, Mr Jago.’
‘And what lady might that be, Sir?’
Irritated but not letting it show, John answered, ‘Master Cruttenden was involved with Miss Emilia Alleyn, the dead man’s daughter.’
Joe nodded. ‘Would that be the beauteous young thing tending to her mama just now?’
‘It certainly would,’ Samuel answered robustly.
The Apothecary decided to cut the whole conversation short. ‘Samuel is attempting to tell you that I find Miss Alleyn very charming, and it’s true, I do. That is why her relationship with the somewhat elderly Liveryman interests me. However, it begins and ends there, Joe, I assure you.’
The craggy face did not change, although John could have sworn he saw a twinkle gleam momentarily in the clerk’s eye. ‘Then I shall do my best to find out more about the man, Sir. Now, do you think we should step into the churchyard?’ he said.
The actual grave was nowhere to be seen, invisible in the fog. But a melancholy line of people was winding down a nearby path, obviously making its way to throw earth upon the coffin, a miserable tradition which the Apothecary detested. Back up this path, bellowing and sobbing in a pure hysteric, came Mrs Alleyn, the hapless Emilia one step behind. Behind her again, moving swiftly in his eddying black cloak, followed the man of whom they had just been speaking.
‘My dear,’ Francis was saying in an unctuous voice, ‘my dear, let me take care of her.’
‘No,’ Emilia was answering determinedly, and, ‘No, no, no,’ Mrs Alleyn protested at the top of her voice.
Francis Cruttenden lengthened his stride and, catching Emilia up, put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Now be a good girl,’ he said.
She wrenched herself from his grasp. ‘Leave us alone, please. Let me look after my mother as I see fit.’
‘But, sweetheart …’
It was too much for John who stepped forward, blocking their path.
‘Oh my dear young man,’ sobbed Mrs Alleyn, and flung herself into his arms.
From his authoritative height, Francis Cruttenden looked down his nose. ‘Oh. Mr Rawlings, isn’t it?’
The Apothecary, his grasp full of Mrs Alleyn, gave a nod of his head that only just met the standards of politeness. ‘It is, Sir.’
‘It seems we are destined to encounter one another on occasions of great sadness.’ His eyes ran over Samuel in a contemplative manner. ‘Have we met before, Sir?’
‘Indeed not,’ the Goldsmith answered heartily, while John’s heart sank at the thought of Samuel’s shadowing techniques being on a level with those of his questioning. ‘Samuel Swann, Sir,’ his friend continued, bowing.
Cruttenden gave a mirthless smile that could have meant anything and allowed his gaze to flicker over Joe Jago. ‘And you are …?’
Knowing Mr Fielding’s clerk as well as he did, John was aware of a slight clenching of Joe’s jaw but the bow he gave, though brisk, was polite enough. ‘My name is Jago, Sir, and I am here representing Mr Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street.’
Cruttenden’s naturally haughty expression was wiped clean off his face. ‘Bow Street? Good gracious, why should they send a delegate?’
‘Since the discovery that the flour used at the Livery Dinner had been poisoned, Master Alleyn’s death has been treated as a case of murder. And as it is the duty of the Public Office to apprehend criminals, we are in search of the perpetrator.’
‘But surely he would not be here?’
‘On the contrary,’ Joe answered levelly, ‘he more than likely is.’
Francis spun round, as if someone wielding a knife might come up the path at any moment. ‘What an alarming thought.’
‘Surely you’re not afraid?’ said Emilia, and laughed harshly. Then before he had time to answer, she turned to John. ‘Mr Rawlings, if you have the time, would you be kind enough to escort my mother and me home? There will be guests coming back to the house and she needs a few moments alone to recover her composure.’
John released Mrs Alleyn and bowed low. ‘I would be delighted, Miss Alleyn.’ He turned to Joe and Samuel. ‘Will you two be all right to travel back to town together?’
The Goldsmith looked jovial, a sure sign that he was feeling conspiratorial. A fact he endorsed by winking his eye.
If Emilia noticed she gave no sign. Ignoring Francis Cruttenden, whose expression had now become mask-like, she propelled her mother up the path. ‘The carriages will be waiting, Mama. I suggest we leave as soon as possible.’
John bowed to the rest of the company. ‘Gentlemen, farewell. Sam, Joe, I shall see you again soon. Master Cruttenden, let us hope that the next time we meet no act of foul play has been committed.’
The Liveryman shot him a glance full of daggers, but the Apothecary merely smiled sweetly and went on his way towards the large black coach which had conveyed the principal mourners to the funeral.
Mrs Alleyn’s hysteric did not continue long. Having put her to lie down, not the most comfortable of positions on the coach’s hard seat, John sent a sniff of salts up her nose fit to lift the poor woman’s head off. Seemingly, this did the trick. Coughing and spluttering, she drew a gasping breath and said, ‘Oh, dearie me. I think I am a little restored.’
‘I’m so glad,’ answered Emilia, and kissed her mother on the cheek.
John laid a hand on his patient’s forehead. ‘You feel cooler, Ma’am. I believe you will be fit to receive your guests.’
Emilia looked up at him and John felt himself drown in her eyes. ‘Mr Rawlings, I can never thank you enough,’ she said quietly. ‘I do believe my mother has a very soft spot for you.’
‘As I have for her,’ he answered.
‘You will stay for the wake, won’t you?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall,’ said John, wishing that Coralie’s treatment of him had been kinder and not left him feeling so vulnerable.
The funeral reception was an ordeal, the house packed with dignitaries from the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries.
More than aware of his lowly status, John tried to remain unobtrusively in the background, but this was not easy. Sotherton Backler, for one, engaged him in conversation.
‘Well, my young friend, how does it all go? Are you any nearer a solution?’
‘No, Sir, I am not. You admit freely that you argued with the Master yet assure me that you did nothing to jeopardise the Dinner. The two men known to hate apothecaries both emphatically deny having anything to do with the poisoning. Therefore I must follow other avenues of enquiry. The investigation has temporarily reached a dead end.’
And yet, thought John, hating having to consider it, bu
t too professional to ignore the fact, there is a loose thread that has not been followed. Garnett Smith’s son was betrothed to Emilia Alleyn, of all unlikely things. Could such a situation be mere coincidence? Or was there a sinister web, whose strands he was only just starting to glimpse, to be uncovered here?
Knowing that this was neither the time nor the place to question her about it, John decided on a move that would be to his enormous advantage. Picking his moment, one indeed in which the girl looked decidedly tearful, John approached.
Emilia looked up, blinking her eyes. ‘Oh Mr Rawlings, it’s you. This is a very sad occasion. You must excuse me.’
He took her hand in genuine solicitude. ‘Miss Alleyn, forgive me for intruding on your grief, but there is something I have to explain to you. Yet I truly feel that now is not the right moment. I wonder if some time during the coming week you might allow me to call on you and discuss the matter more fully?’
She smiled unhappily. ‘You may call whenever you please, Sir, but I beg you to tell me what is on your mind immediately. I don’t think I can cope with worrying about it if you don’t.’
‘This really isn’t an appropriate occasion.’
‘None the less, I insist.’
John squeezed the hand that he was continuing to hold.
‘You are aware that the flour used in the banquet was poisoned?’ She nodded. ‘As you heard Mr Fielding’s clerk say at the funeral, the Public Office are now treating your father’s death as a case of murder because of it.’
Emilia went extremely pale but still said nothing.
‘So I feel it only fair to tell you that I am assisting the Principal Magistrate with his investigations.’
She looked frankly astonished. ‘You are? Why? I thought you were an apothecary.’
‘I am. It’s simply that I know Mr Fielding. Some years ago I found a body in the Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens and as a result of that discovery was asked to help track down the dead girl’s killer. Since then I have assisted the Beak on several occasions. Now I am doing so again.’
Emilia looked enthusiastic. ‘But that is good news surely. I would hate to think the villain responsible for my father’s death might escape undetected.’
John swallowed hard and finally released her hand. ‘What you don’t realise is that it will mean asking questions – of you, your mother, of your relatives. The questions may well be about the past, and personal at that. I wouldn’t wish, Miss Alleyn, to lose your friendship over this.’
‘I wouldn’t like that very much either,’ she answered and made to move, then turned. ‘When do you want to start your enquiries?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Then how about the day after tomorrow?’
‘Will you be up to the ordeal by then?’
‘I shall make absolutely certain I am,’ she answered determinedly, and walked away to join her mother.
It was so pleasant, John thought as he went through the front door of number two, Nassau Street, to feel his father’s presence in the house once more. The place, which had been somewhat cold and empty over the last few days, was now full of the smells of good food and wine, and the glow of many candles, in fact all the things that the Apothecary associated with the years of his childhood.
Throwing off his great coat and hat and heading for the library, John delivered his parent a smacking kiss on the cheek. ‘Welcome home.’
‘My dear, welcome to my London home, you mean. I left our country place this morning, and very grim it looked too.’
‘Grim?’
‘The respectable widow and her incontinent canine have moved out and a veritable army of workmen are decorating afresh. I have spent a fortune on furnishings, to say nothing of pieces of furniture. La, running two places of abode is not for the faint hearted.’
‘You are to stop spending money at once.’ John said firmly. ‘The rest of the expenses must be my responsibility.’
Sir Gabriel smiled the smile of an indulgent parent. ‘We shall see about that.’
‘Yes, we shall,’ the Apothecary answered, underlining every word.
This said, the two men, as was their custom before going in to dine, settled by the fire with glasses of sherry, an occasion that John always relished.
‘So how are the investigations into the strange affair at Apothecaries’ Hall?’ asked Sir Gabriel. ‘I missed hearing about it while I was away.’
‘Somewhat at stalemate alas.’
‘How so?’
‘Because somebody, somewhere, is lying, I imagine.’ And John described quite fully everything that had happened and everyone he had met, though only giving the scantiest detail about Miss Emilia Alleyn and uttering not a word about the mysterious and somewhat magical effect she had on him.
Sir Gabriel gazed into the flames and with the extraordinary way he had of appearing to read John’s mind, said, ‘You seem to have had little time for yourself my boy.’
‘I spent an evening in Samuel’s company, which was very amusing, albeit somewhat wine laden.’
‘And what of Coralie? Have you seen much of her?’
‘Not much.’
‘She is busy in the theatre, I take it?’
John flicked a covert glance at his father, but Sir Gabriel’s face was quite impassive. ‘Yes, very.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, what?’
‘Nothing, my son. I merely sighed.’
‘I see.’ The Apothecary determinedly changed the subject. ‘Do you know anything of a family named Cruttenden, Sir? I think they must be wealthy merchants of some kind. Have you ever come across them?’
‘Cruttenden.’ Sir Gabriel repeated the name several times. ‘No, I don’t believe I have.’
‘It’s very odd that. Joe Jago didn’t know it either, yet the man lives in a vast mansion on the south bank, across the water from Apothecaries’ Hall. He can’t have made his money just by being a Liveryman.’
‘Perhaps he has a rich wife.’
John shook his head. ‘He’s not married.’
‘A wealthy patron?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ asked Sir Gabriel, darting a quick look at his son’s dark face.
‘Not in the least. He hangs around younger women like an old vulture. And he’s smooth as cream and just as glutinous.’
‘How very unpleasant.’
John downed his sherry. ‘He’s horrid, Sir. Horrid.’
His father laughed. ‘Somehow I must attempt to meet this creature. It sounds as if it might be an interesting experience.’
‘I don’t know how we would contrive it, but I would most certainly like to have your opinion of him.’
‘Then I shall think of something.’ Sir Gabriel emptied his glass. ‘You haven’t forgotten Serafina’s soirée tomorrow, have you?’
Somewhat shamefacedly, John nodded. ‘I’m afraid I had.’
‘It is only to be a small gathering of intimate friends. Her child is due very soon and she can no longer entertain the beau monde.’
‘I look forward to seeing her.’
‘I have heard that Coralie is to be there,’ said Sir Gabriel slyly.
The Apothecary did not move a muscle. ‘Then I look forward to the occasion all the more.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Shall we go in to dine?’ he said, and stood to one side to let his father leave the room first.
Chapter Ten
The letter came early, delivered by one of the Beak Runners. Opening it while he consumed his breakfast, John read the following:
My dear Mr Rawlings,
I write in Haste and send this out with Hope that said Communication will reach you Before you Leave for your Premises in Shug Lane. May I Presume to Ask that you Meet me at the Apothecaries’ Hall at Ten O’Clock. The Master has Requested Such and I Wish to Oblige Him, though not at Gross Inconvenience to Your Good Self Signed, ever your Friend,
J. Fielding.
Very slightly put out as h
e had hoped to spend the morning compounding with Nicholas, John bolted the rest of his food and took a hackney coach to his shop in order at least to see that all was well. There was a goodly crowd within, all apparently buying, and the Apothecary, making his way through to the back of the premises, was gratified to see his apprentice handling the situation with apparent ease. Gradually he noticed that most of the customers were female, aged between fifteen and twenty, and vying with one another for Nicholas’s attention.
John stared in surprise, never having thought the Muscovite particularly handsome, then considered a fact about which he was becoming more and more positive: that most people possess a hidden attraction only certain others can see, and it would appear that his apprentice’s concealed appeal was apparent to quite a few of the young ladies of the beau monde, as well as those of less exalted position. Two or three pampered girls, out shopping with their maidservants, were buying beautifying potions, all the while giggling as Nicholas tried to explain to them the various merits of each one.
‘Good morning,’ said John cheerfully, and was met with hostile looks from the young females for daring to interrupt their delightful flirtations.
A year previously, Nicholas would have died of embarrassment at this, but these days he was quite a man of the world and merely caught John’s eye and grinned over the top of the collection of dainty heads. ‘Good morning, Master.’
John reflected on the fact that to his own apprentice he was known as Master, although the actual master of them all was the Master of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, that dignified bloodhound of a man, William Tyson. An annual appointment, Tyson had succeeded earlier that year following the death in office of his predecessor, Andrew Lillie. John dreaded the thought that one day Liveryman Francis Cruttenden might take on that most powerful of positions.
