Death at Apothecaries' Hall

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Don’t be. You are already starting to peel away the layers.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Look at the information you have gathered so far.’

  Joe spoke up. ‘We are further down the road, Mr Rawlings, even if you can’t see it.’

  John got to his feet, ready to take his leave. ‘Well, I’ll continue to do my best. You can be sure of that. Now, what action do you want me to take about the missing watchman?’

  ‘Keep your ears open, that’s all. Meanwhile, we’ll stay in touch with the morgue keepers in case he’s brought in.’

  ‘Whoever this killer is,’ John said sombrely, ‘he’s a ruthless bastard. I fear for anyone who stands in his way.’

  ‘Then have a care for yourself, my young friend. He may already be aware that you are on his trail.’

  Thinking of Master Alleyn’s cruel death and the swiftness with which George Griggs had vanished, the Apothecary shivered slightly as he left the comforting confines of the courtroom and stepped into the carriage which was waiting to take him home.

  Harriet Clarke was not at all what John had expected. Possibly because she had an invalid son, he had formed a mental picture of rather a drab little lady, weighed down by the cares of the world. Instead, a very striking woman was shown into the small salon where John was receiving his guests. A bony but arresting face, dominated by a pair of grey eyes, bright as jewels, immediately caught his attention. Thick hair, dark as a gypsy’s, was gloriously abundant beneath her head-dress.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ Harriet said, as she made a formal curtsey, ‘I have been so looking forward to this moment.’ And she extended a hand with long firm fingers which the Apothecary kissed with enthusiasm.

  Away from the shop and dressed for the evening, Michael Clarke presented a better image than that of his work-a-day self, while Dr Hensey, as ever neat and dapper, had put on a canary silk waistcoat embroidered with red and pink roses. In short, though the company was small it was elegant. The only thing missing, in John’s view, was a hostess, and his thoughts immediately went to Emilia, and his heart ached as he wondered what she was doing.

  Earlier that evening, before the guests had arrived, a letter had been delivered to the door from Coralie Clive. Had its tone been very slightly curt? John had wondered. Commenting on the fact that she hadn’t seen him since Serafina’s soirée, the actress had said that she would ignore this and went on to invite John to escort her to an Assembly on the following Saturday. Knowing that it would be wrong of him to refuse, the Apothecary had hastily penned a letter of acceptance and returned it with the messenger. And now here he was, standing amongst his dinner guests and thinking of Emilia just as if the last four years, during which he had wooed and finally won Coralie, had never taken place at all. Considering himself a regular wretch, John turned his attention to the alluring Harriet, who smiled enigmatically and took his arm as they went through the open doors in the archway which separated the salon from the dining room.

  Sir Gabriel Kent, ever considerate, had accepted an invitation to whist, so that his son might act the role of host without competition. So it was that the Apothecary sat at the head of the table with Harriet Clarke on his right, Dr Hensey to his left, and Michael Clarke opposite.

  Murder not being the ideal topic for dinner party talk, the conversation ranged over a variety of subjects including John’s adventures at Bow Street earlier that day.

  ‘It’s so easy, is it not,’ said Michael Clarke, ‘to forget about the war, that is unless one has one’s nose permanently affixed to a newspaper. It needs something like Mr Fielding’s warning that the press gang will be waiting at the prison doors to remind us that it is still on.’

  ‘Of course, it was very much uppermost in our thoughts when I first met Mr Rawlings, nearly two years ago now,’ Dr Hensey answered. ‘Fate took us to Romney Marsh where it was all talk of spies and such like.’

  ‘Not just talk either,’ said John. ‘One of them, French as they come, though you would never have believed it to meet him, delivered me a crack on the jaw fair set to put me out for a week. If it hadn’t been for Dr Hensey here, I believe I might only just now be regaining consciousness.’

  ‘So you are a physician?’ asked Harriet, leaning in the doctor’s direction.

  ‘I am, Madam.’

  ‘What do you know about the falling sickness? My poor boy is badly afflicted and there’s not one apothecary worth the name – and there’s not many of those, I fear …’

  John thought this quite the most extraordinary remark.

  ‘… who can do a thing about it.’

  Dr Hensey sipped his wine. ‘Strange to tell, the falling sickness is a speciality of mine. I studied in Paris under an eminent man, Professeur Henri Collard, and he had definite theories about it.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘The use of certain physicks, combined in most specific quantities, can control it for the rest of the patient’s life.’

  One of Harriet’s strong white hands flew to her throat. ‘Do you mean this?’

  ‘I most certainly do, Madam, and it would be my pleasure and privilege to visit your boy if that is what you would like.’

  ‘I would like it, I would like it very much indeed.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Michael, what do you think?’

  ‘Anything that might help our son would be gratefully appreciated.’

  ‘In that case I shall make it my first duty as soon as I have attended my other patients.’

  He continued to talk to Michael, who listened avidly, and unable to help himself, John drew Harriet’s attention.

  ‘I hate to pry, Madam, but what did you mean by your disparaging comment about apothecaries?’

  She smiled a slow and cynical smile. ‘My experience of them has not been too good over the years.’

  ‘But you’re married to one.’

  ‘Well?’

  John was nonplussed, not knowing at all how to answer.

  Obviously sensing his confusion, Harriet patted his hand over the dinner table. ‘My dear Mr Rawlings …’

  ‘Please call me John.’

  ‘John, then. There is no need to look quite so put out. An apothecary tended me when I was pregnant and suffered greatly from sickness. He prescribed such terrible things, terrible things …’ She paused for a moment and looked positively ill. ‘… that I have never been certain from that day to this whether they had anything to do with my son being born the way he is. That’s all. I have nothing against you or my husband. Now, can we talk of other things?’

  While she had been speaking Harriet’s face had undergone a series of changes, a dark, almost vicious look gradually being replaced by the kind of expression demanded by social nicety. Convinced that there was an underlying message to what she was saying, John felt powerless to question her further. He changed the subject.

  ‘Do you enjoy living on the south bank?’

  ‘It’s very quiet but I quite like that. Although I was born in Spitalfields, my parents moved across the river when I was small, so one could say that I am used to it.’

  ‘You must know Francis Cruttenden, a Liveryman of the Society. He lives in Pye House, quite close to you.’

  Harriet’s sculpted features turned into those of a cat. ‘Yes, I know him,’ she said.

  And dislike him, John thought. He put on his ingenuous face. ‘He must be tremendously rich to live in a place of such splendour.’

  ‘I would call it tasteless grandeur.’

  ‘You’ve been inside, then?’

  ‘Several times, both before Cruttenden bought it and after. The house used to belong to old Mr Harman who made a fortune from importing rare goods. When he died his children sold it on and the Liveryman bought it.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Twelve years or so.’ Harriet paused and drank from her wineglass. ‘As I told you, I was brought up on the south bank. My father was a furniture maker, quite a successful one, but before he became establis
hed, my mother, in order to help out, worked as a servant for Mr Harman. I had the run of Pye House when I was a child. In fact his children and I were playmates.’

  ‘And after he died?’

  ‘Both Mother and I continued to work as servants there. That was until I married.’

  ‘So Master Cruttenden was your employer?’

  Harriet nodded. ‘He was indeed.’

  It was on the tip of the Apothecary’s tongue to ask her opinion of the man, but he held back, aware that he already had the answer. Her earlier change of expression had told him everything he wanted to know. Harriet Clarke disliked the Liveryman intensely. He changed the subject again.

  ‘How old is your son?’

  ‘Matthew? He’s eleven. Poor little soul, he cannot lead a normal life, because people hate and revile those who fall and have fits.’

  ‘They do indeed,’ said Dr Hensey joining in their conversation. ‘That is why my old tutor did all the research he could, to try and redress the balance.’

  Harriet turned on him, her face suddenly radiant. ‘When can you come to see him?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. Now tell me where you live exactly.’ He started to make notes in a pocket book and Michael Clarke took this opportunity to talk to John.

  ‘Have you heard that Griggs has gone missing?’

  The Apothecary nodded. ‘I fear the worst.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think …’

  ‘I believe he saw something on the night the flour was poisoned.’

  ‘And was done away with as a result? Oh, my God, I pray it isn’t so.’

  ‘So do I,’ answered John, but even as he spoke an inner conviction was growing that anyone connected with the poisoning at Apothecaries’ Hall stood in ever-increasing danger from a killer who regarded human life as little more than an expendable commodity.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The energy of Sir Gabriel Kent never ceased to surprise his son, who felt fractionally tired after entertaining company for the entire evening. His father, on the other hand, presumably boosted by the fact that he had won handsomely at whist, was sky-blue bright and ate rather more than his usual sparing breakfast.

  ‘My child, I am going to Kensington for a few days,’ he announced as he peeled some fruit.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, as soon as I have made a toilette. I want to see how the labourers are progressing in our new residence.’

  ‘Woe betide them if they have been slacking.’

  ‘I am quite certain that they are working with a will,’ Sir Gabriel replied urbanely.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said John, attacking a slice of beef, ‘I shan’t be able to join you. Tonight I have to dine with Mr Gill and his obnoxious daughter – all in the line of duty, you understand – and tomorrow I am going to an Assembly with Coralie. The day after that, being a Sunday, I thought of going to call on the Alleyns.’

  ‘And Miss Emilia in particular?’

  ‘Yes,’ John replied, ‘a hundred times yes.’

  ‘Is it wise,’ said Sir Gabriel, drinking from a bone china cup, ‘to continue to see both young ladies simultaneously?’

  ‘It is very unwise and soon I am going to have to do something about it.’

  ‘Yes, you are, my dear.’ Sir Gabriel picked up his newspaper. ‘Um, how odd.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s a report here that spying continues unabated in London. That despite the efforts of the Secret Office to smoke them from their dens, the French are still obtaining undercover information with apparent ease. Damme, but these people have their nerve.’

  ‘One can’t help but admire their daring.’

  ‘True enough, but it is hardly aiding our effort in the war.’

  ‘I’m prejudiced,’ said John. ‘The only French spy I ever met was such a lovable rogue that I can’t find it in me to dislike the breed.’

  ‘You’d change your tune if you were staring down a gun barrel.’

  ‘Yes, I probably would.’

  ‘Anyway, to other things. How does the Apothecaries’ Hall affair progress?’

  ‘An interesting twist,’ said John, and told his father of the Blind Beak’s theory.

  ‘It makes perfect sense to me. A mass poisoning always seemed a far-fetched idea. I’m sure Mr Fielding is right. Liveryman Alleyn was the intended victim all the way along.’

  ‘But there’s a stumbling block to that, and one that I personally have difficulty in getting past.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘How was the fatal dose administered? The amount of arsenic put in the flour was clearly only enough to produce sickness. How was it contrived to give Master Alleyn more?’

  Sir Gabriel smiled. ‘That, my child, is where your powers of deduction come into play.’ And he returned to his newspaper.

  Rolling his eyes to heaven, John smiled wryly, finished his breakfast, kissed his father on the cheek, and set off for his shop.

  ‘Visitor,’ said Nicholas, meeting him as John put his foot over the threshold.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young lady. Wouldn’t give her name. Said she wanted to surprise you. I showed her into the back.’

  At the very thought that it could possibly be Emilia, John’s breathing quickened its pace, and it was with bright eyes and a heart full of expectation that he made his way into the compounding room. And there she sat, lovely eyes turned towards him, her mouth already curving into a smile.

  John didn’t say a word but simply raised her from her seat and took her in his arms. ‘I missed you.’

  ‘And I missed you,’ she answered.

  ‘Was your mother very angry with us?’

  ‘No, she thinks the world of you. It’s just that she was brought up in the old school. She believes that a young woman, particularly her only daughter, should never, ever be left alone with a young man.’

  ‘That could prove a bit awkward.’

  ‘Are you being rude?’

  ‘Very,’ said John, and indulged in a long and hot-blooded kiss which could have left Emilia Alleyn in no doubt about his feelings towards her.

  ‘So how did you escape today?’ he said eventually.

  ‘My mother is in town visiting her sister. I pleaded the need for a little air and set off for Shug Lane.’

  ‘What shameless behaviour.’

  ‘Yes. I hope you’re not shocked by my lack of decorum.’

  ‘I am so shocked that I am thinking of taking an hour off and walking with you to act as your chaperone.’

  ‘Take me to the park,’ said Emilia, ‘I would like that.’

  ‘At once,’ John answered, and bowed. ‘Nicholas,’ he called.

  His apprentice appeared, attempting to look nonchalant and failing because of his broad grin. ‘Yes, Master?’

  ‘I am going for a stroll with Miss Alleyn. Look after the shop for me.’

  ‘Gladly, Sir.’ He bowed to Emilia. ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.’

  ‘I return the compliment.’

  Nicholas was visibly seen to melt at one glance from her angel’s eyes.

  ‘It will be cold in the park,’ John said, feeling enormously protective, an emotion he did not often experience with Coralie, who was so very capable of taking care of herself.

  ‘My cloak is quite thick.’

  ‘And I’ll stay close to you.’

  There was a muffled sound from Nicholas which could have been a cough but might just as easily have been a guffaw suppressed.

  The Apothecary stared at his apprentice severely. ‘I shall be about an hour or so.’

  ‘Very good, Master. What shall I say if anyone calls for you?’

  ‘That I have gone to see a patient,’ John answered, and beetled his mobile brows at the Muscovite, who seemed to be having some difficulty in wiping the grin from his face.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Miss Alleyn, inclining her head politely.

  ‘I sincerely hope we meet again,’ replied Nicholas, bowing
himself almost in half.

  ‘Have a care,’ put in John enigmatically, and left the shop with all the dignity he could muster.

  ‘Was that young limb laughing at us?’ asked Emilia, blue eyes bright.

  ‘If we were to go back now we would find him convulsed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the thought of me courting a young lady that he finds so amusing.’

  ‘But surely he must have seen that before. After all, he has been with you some years, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Several, and yes he has.’

  Emilia stared into the middle distance. ‘Is there a woman in your life at present, John?’

  Dear God, had he ever felt so wretched? ‘Yes, Emilia, there is.’

  ‘Tell me of her.’

  ‘I have known her for four years. She is an actress, Coralie Clive. She lives with her sister, the famous Kitty. The relationship is going nowhere.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘Yes, more or less.’

  ‘I presume you are lovers?’

  ‘I became her lover before I met you,’ John answered truthfully.

  He had said the correct thing. Emilia stopped walking and turned to look at him. ‘I really have no right to ask you these questions.’

  ‘What passed between us the other evening gives you every right.’

  ‘So what will you do, John?’

  ‘I will speak to her, of course.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘At this moment I really don’t know,’ the Apothecary answered, and the misery he was feeling must have sounded so clearly in his voice that Emilia said no more, simply taking his arm and walking in silence as they made their way to St James’s Park.

  He spent the rest of that day in a strange mood, half elated through having been in the company of Miss Alleyn, half weighed down with worry over how he was to conduct himself with Coralie. For truth to tell, his feelings for that young woman were very far from dead. He had walked too long and too close a road with her for all emotion to vanish overnight. As if sensing his Master’s pre-occupied state, Nicholas ceased to grin and guffaw, and worked soberly and silently for the rest of the time they spent together.

  Then at three o’clock John put on his hat and cloak. ‘I have to dine with Mr Gill and his daughter, so I thought I would combine the visit with a call on Mr Clarke. There is something I really must ask him.’