by Deryn Lake
‘Do you mean you’re no further forward?’
‘There’s been a mysterious disappearance, if you can call that progress.’
Coralie looked intrigued. ‘Who has gone?’
‘The night-watchman at Apothecaries’ Hall. I believe that he saw too much.’
‘What a tangled web.’
‘Isn’t it? But let’s move on. There is much I would tell you about Cruttenden and his lady love, with whom I had an astonishing argument last night.’
It was just like old times, Coralie’s hand on his arm as they progressed through the various rooms, greeting people who knew and admired the actress, even occasionally meeting those who had been treated by John and remembered him. During their perambulations, while they were not talking to others, the Apothecary gave her as much detail as he could about the poisoning, about the Blind Beak’s theory that Alleyn had always been the intended victim, about Tobias Gill, Garnett Smith, Harriet and Michael Clarke, and finally about Clariana and her passionate affair with her elderly lover.
‘How will you solve it all?’ she asked finally, giving him that gypsy-eyed look that he had always adored.
John shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Perhaps –’
But her words were interrupted by a call to supper. Feeling quite hungry, Coralie and John made their way through to the rooms set aside for the cold collation and fell to eating with enthusiasm.
Dancing had begun in the ballroom, and as the meal ended so the floor began to fill up. Benches set around the room exhibited rows of ladies in great distress for partners, for many of the gentlemen had retired to the rooms prepared for dice and cards. Fops, fools and gamesters led the way, and John was interested to see that mingling in their wake, generally made up of rakehell aristocrats and younger sons, was none other than Francis Cruttenden. Surprise was heaping on surprise, he thought.
Sets were being formed for the dancing, most of the young gentlemen wanting to be in Coralie’s, John noticed, though the caller insisted that ladies from the benches were chosen to partner them. Eventually, there being such an unwieldy number of dancers, the musicians launched into ‘The Dumps’, a longways set for an odd number of couples. Although mightily popular, this particular dance relied on good timing and there was a great deal of champagne-induced giggling as several couples got out of sequence. Sensing the mood of the company, the caller chose vigorous and jolly capers, and John and Coralie whirled through ‘Cold and Raw’, ‘Green Stockings’, ‘Half Hannikin’ and ‘Joans Plackett’, ending up with ‘Maid in the Moon’. By this time they had expended enough energy and made their way, somewhat hot and short of breath, to the refreshment room for some water ices.
Coralie turned to the Apothecary. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow. Can we spend the day together?’
He couldn’t meet her gaze. ‘No, I’m afraid I have to go to Chelsea to continue my investigations.’
Even though he was not looking directly at her, John was aware of a green glint in the actress’s eyes. ‘I see.’
He was unable to say, ‘See what?’ as he normally would have done, riven with guilt as he felt.
‘But you are coming back for the night?’
‘I’ll come for a while.’
She took his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. ‘John, what’s wrong?’
He started to protest, was even about to lie, when he was saved by the sound of running feet in the corridor outside the supper room.
A head appeared in the doorway. ‘Is there a physician present? There’s been an accident outside.’
‘I’m an apothecary,’ answered John.
‘Then come quick. There’s a man down and bleeding.’
John was acutely aware of Coralie hastening behind him in her high heels and felt, even in these extraordinary circumstances, a pang of regret that their great love affair appeared to have run its course.
‘Where is he?’ he asked, as they sprinted outside.
‘In the road, Sir.’
‘What happened exactly?’
‘He was one of the departing guests, just waiting for his coach to come round. All of a sudden, a brute steps out of the shadows and sets about him with a cudgel. I reckon he would have killed him if me and some of the other servants hadn’t gone running.’
‘Good God! What happened then?’
‘The villain took off pretty sharpish.’
‘Where did he go? Did you see?’
The footman shook his head. ‘Not really, Sir.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Some instinct, even running full pelt as he was, prompted John to draw a coin from an inside pocket and press it into the fellow’s hand.
The footman looked at the guinea and drew breath. ‘That’s just the funny part, Sir. He stepped into a carriage with a coat of arms on the door.’
Frankly astonished, John could ask no further questions. They had arrived in the street where a small huddle of people stood, gathered round something lying on the cobbles.
‘Stand aside,’ called the footman importantly. ‘Here’s the man of medicine.’ John was just about to kneel down beside the victim when he suddenly remembered that he was wearing his very best coat. Carefully removing it, together with his waistcoat, and handing them to the footman, he sent up a silent prayer that his silver breeches would stand the strain, then knelt and turned the victim over.
Francis Cruttenden’s face, eyes closed, blood pouring from his head, a wig dyed crimson hanging over one ear, lay a few inches away from his.
The Apothecary heard Coralie’s voice. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Find the redhead. She may have run away in a panic and be in danger herself’
The silly high heels skimmed off over the cobbles and, pushing the crowd of onlookers back, John was left alone with his patient. An extremely gentle examination of Cruttenden’s skull covered the Apothecary’s hands in blood but also revealed that there was no fracture. However, the bleeding from the deep wounds was profuse.
John called over his shoulder, ‘Get me some bandages quickly. Rags will do as long as they’re clean.’
Someone scurried away into the house, and as a stopgap John, thinking to himself that he wouldn’t have minded this sacrifice for a friend but for someone he positively disliked it was too much to ask, tore a sleeve out of his beautiful shirt, ripped it into shreds, then bound the Liveryman’s head as tightly as he could. Cruttenden groaned and his eyelids flickered.
A handful of bandages appeared, together with a bowl of warm water and a washing cloth, something John hadn’t asked for but was extremely glad to see. Cleansing the wounds as best he could, wishing he had some green balsam made from adder’s tongue to rub into them, the Apothecary did as good a job as he was able on the wounded man’s head.
The Liveryman moved slightly, calling out at the pain, and finally opened his eyes, staring directly at John. ‘What are you doing here? What has happened?’
John did not mean to be crisp – had he not learned long ago that recovering patients sometimes act most atypically? – yet there was something about the way Francis Cruttenden spoke that irritated the Apothecary beyond measure, particularly as he had ruined his best shirt for him.
‘You were attacked, Sir, by some brute loitering in the shadows. I can only presume that he meant to rob you. As to why I was called to attend you, it seems that I was the only medical man on the premises other than yourself.’
‘Did I not see Dr Ridgeway in the gaming room?’
‘If you did, then he is still there.’
The Liveryman grunted, attempted to sit upright, then felt the pain in his head and remained very still, his face suddenly ashen. ‘What are the extent of my injuries?’
‘Your head is badly gashed in several places but there is no apparent fracture. However, I think it might be as well if you consulted your physician tomorrow. Until then, can you stand or do you need to be carried into your coach?’
‘I c
an manage,’ the Liveryman answered. But he couldn’t. He was all splayed legs and sliding feet. Taller and heavier than John, he nearly sent the Apothecary flying as he tried to stand up.
‘Is Master Cruttenden’s carriage here?’ John asked a gawping hostler.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then help me get him into it.’
Many hands turned to at this request, some even taking quite a delight in heaving the snarling Liveryman into his conveyance.
‘Wait,’ said Coralie, panting into view. ‘I have the redhead near by. She has screamed herself into a pure hysteric and Dr Ridgeway has been called from dice to control her. He is well pleased at that, I can assure you.’
‘What a night,’ said John, his naked arm, devoid of shirt sleeve, suddenly feeling the cold. ‘I think I’ll go within to have a brandy.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Coralie.
They strode in side by side, disregarding the astonished looks at the sight they presented, undressed, bloodstained and, in Coralie’s case, somewhat the worse for having run up the street in unsuitable shoes.
‘My dears,’ said the Duchess of Northumberland, hurrying over to them. ‘I hear that you are the heroes of the hour. Apparently some cutpurse attacked one of my guests and you saved his life. Mr Rawlings, how can I ever thank you enough?’
‘By handing me a large glassful,’ he answered, giving her a smile which, as always, managed to curve up at one side.
The Duchess actually fluttered her lashes. ‘But of course. Come and sit down, my dear Sir. Tell me about your shop.’
‘I think he’s a little short of conversation at the moment,’ Coralie put in hastily. ‘Perhaps, Madam, you would care to call. My friend has some wondrous beautifying products.’
‘How very interesting.’ And their hostess allowed herself to be diverted at the thought of spending money on such things.
Dr Ridgeway, a society physician of some renown, strode into the room where they were sitting. ‘That hellcat creature,’ he pronounced furiously. ‘What a beastly girl she is. It was all I could do to calm her. Why, I’ve never known a female scream so much without rupturing her lungs. In the end I sent my coachman home for my bag. It took two of your lusty boys, Duchess, to hold her down while I poured white poppy syrup down her throat. A fair dose I gave her, too.’
‘Did it put her out, Sir?’ John asked.
‘Yes. She completely lost consciousness, thank God.’
The Duchess looked wildly alarmed. ‘Where is she now? Not in one of my bedrooms, I trust.’
‘No, I sent her home to her papa. Fortunately young Westminster was going into the City. Said he’d take care of her.’
‘But how did you know where she lived?’ asked John, a slight sense of unease nagging at him.
‘Her suitor, old Cruttenden, told me over cards. Said he’d taken a fancy to a poor man’s daughter, beautiful as sunset but without a penny to her name.’
John and Coralie exchanged a glance but said nothing.
‘I must agree with him there. She’s a damned fine-looking piece of womanhood, but by God I couldn’t put up with all that noise,’ the doctor continued. ‘Anyway, she’s gone. Nobody’ll hear a sound out of her for hours.’
The Apothecary downed his brandy and stood up, then turned to Coralie. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll go and find the footman who has my clothes. There’s something I need to ask him.’
Outside it was bitterly cold, a truly raw November night, and the Apothecary shivered in the doorway.
‘Here you are, Sir,’ said a voice, and the servant who had raised the alarm held out his coat, cloak and hat almost as if he had been waiting for him.
Gratefully John put on the cloak, holding his best coat and waistcoat at a distance from his bloodstained self.
‘You say that the man who attacked Master Cruttenden jumped into a coach bearing a coat of arms,’ he said, producing another guinea.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Did you by any chance recognise the crest?’
‘As a matter of fact I did, Sir.’
John rolled the coin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Whose was it?’
‘The Marquis of Kensington’s, Sir. I’d swear to that.’
‘Was he at the party tonight?’
‘Oh yes, Sir. Spent all the evening in the gaming room like he always does.’
‘So he must have seen Master Cruttenden leave.’
‘I suppose he must, Sir.’
‘How very interesting,’ said John, ‘thank you very much indeed.’
Chapter Sixteen
It was too late for conversation and both Coralie and John were far too exhausted after the evening’s alarms. Instead, a hackney coach drove them to Cecil Street where they disembarked and went straight to bed, sleeping side by side without touching. And in the morning when in the normal course of events he would have made love to her, the Apothecary, being the first to wake, got up, stripped, washed all Francis Cruttenden’s blood off himself, then dressed in some old clothes he kept at Coralie’s house.
She woke and saw him and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come and sit here. Tell me what is worrying you. Oh John, I hate to see you this unhappy.’
At that moment she was so gentle, so sweet, that he literally did not know how to conduct himself or what course to take. He felt as if he were being split in two, unable to escape Coralie’s spell, yet fatally drawn to Emilia Alleyn with whom he had exchanged such passionate kisses. Somebody started to speak and John realised that it was himself
‘Elope with me now, this morning, before it is too late. We can take a coach to St Mary’s in Marybone. The parson there does not ask too many questions, so I’m told.’ He uttered the words as if he had no control over them.
Coralie opened her mouth to answer but John rushed on. ‘Don’t argue with me. Darling, if you love me, please do what I say.’
The green eyes looked at him, a most perceptive expression in their depths. ‘Another attachment has brought this on, I imagine.’
John wrung his hands and turned his head away. ‘Yes, it’s true enough. I have met someone.’
‘Then why –?’
The Apothecary was sufficiently foolish to tell the truth. ‘Because I just don’t know what to do. I feel our relationship has run its course but yet I am still in your thrall.’
Coralie spoke, and her voice chilled him to the bone. ‘Don’t let me stand in your way, my dear. If you believe our association is at an end, then I beg you to go. Now. Thank you for everything you have done in the past. Good morning to you.’ And with those words she turned her back on him.
What an ignominious end to such a great love, John thought, as he slowly plodded down the stairs, saying farewell to the very fabric of the house, to every nook, cranny, picture and ornament. So many years of friendship, of feeling, had been wiped out at a single stroke, and irrevocably at that. The turn of Coralie’s defiant chin, the look in her lustrous eyes, said more than words ever could. She was cut to the quick by his behaviour and wanted no more of him. Miserable as sin, the Apothecary felt tears start to run down his cheeks as he made his way up the street, evening clothes over his arm, in order to hail a hackney coach and within its dark interior hide his abject misery from the world.
As soon as he got through the front door of number two, Nassau Street, John knew what he must do. He was too upset to see Emilia, would have felt that he was betraying both her and Coralie if he had run from one to the other like a snivelling schoolboy. Instead, he longed to see Samuel Swann and hear his jolly laugh, tell him all that had transpired, not just about the ending of his relationship with Coralie but also the assault on Francis Cruttenden. Suddenly full of purpose, the Apothecary sent for hot water, washed again and had a close shave, then dressed himself in Sunday clothes and set off by yet another hackney for Puddle Dock Hill.
He discovered Samuel attired for churchgoing, looking very much the par
t of a respectable citizen of London. Clad in dun brown, the Goldsmith appeared slightly portly, a fact which though it made John smile also made him realise that none of them was getting any younger.
‘I’m off to St Andrew’s. Are you coming? It would do you good to pray, you heathen.’
‘I go to church most Sundays.’
‘Not if you’re in bed with Coralie, you don’t.’
John winced, the subject too painful even to contemplate. ‘All right, I’ll join you.’
The curiously named St Andrew by the Wardrobe stood a mere stone’s throw from Samuel’s shop, and the two friends walked briskly down the hill towards the river, fighting off the cold by the speed of their descent. Hurrying inside, John spared a thought to the fact that the large and imposing church had acquired its unusual name from the circumstance of the royal wardrobe being situated in the neighbourhood, its location there dating from as early as 1361.
Despite the bitter weather all the pews were packed, particularly with pretty young girls, all under the watchful eye of their parents.
‘Regular churchgoing is truly good for the soul.’ John murmured innocently, but Samuel stoically ignored him.
The service started and the Apothecary sang lustily with the rest, wishing that Coralie’s devastated expression would not keep returning to haunt him. And then, quite suddenly, everything else was sent from his mind by the sight of Garnett Smith, clad all in black, stone cold sober, sitting in a crowded pew but somehow remaining alone.
‘One of the suspects,’ he muttered to Samuel under cover of the hymn book.
‘Where?’
‘Three pews in front. It’s Garnett Smith. Of course! He lives just round the corner from you. He probably comes here every Sunday.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him before. He usually wanders off into the graveyard at the end of the service.’
‘That’s where the son must be buried.’
‘Should we go and talk to him?’
‘It’s a heaven sent opportunity,’ John answered, and hoped he wasn’t being blasphemous.
