Death at Apothecaries' Hall

by Deryn Lake

  The service continued with a sermon, during which the Apothecary indulged his favourite hobby of observing people, his eye continually drawn to a slight figure sitting at the back of the church, its face concealed from the world by a heavily veiled hat. The fact that it reminded him of Emilia had to be a coincidence, yet even the young woman’s movements and mannerisms were almost identical to hers. Intrigued, John kept staring, but while he was looking away to find a different hymn she must have slipped out, for when he looked again she was no longer there.

  ‘Do we talk to Mr Smith in the porch?’ Samuel asked out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, let’s get there first, then there’s no way he can escape us.’

  They duly got to their feet as soon as the service was at an end and hurried out to be greeted by the parson. Then they loitered, John looking all around for the mysterious girl but seeing no sign of her. After a few minutes, Garnett appeared, alone but chatting politely enough to those around him. He shook the vicar warmly by the hand then made to go off in the direction of the churchyard.

  John stepped forward. ‘Good morning, Sir. Do you remember me?’

  Garnett stared at him blankly, then recognition gleamed in his eye. ‘You’re the young fool who came round enquiring after my welfare, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes Sir.’

  ‘And was it not you who tried to convince me that Alleyn did not kill my son through negligence?’

  ‘I pointed out that to identify the wen in his neck as a cancer would not have been easy.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you did.’

  He stared at John, minutely examining him, almost as if he were looking at him properly for the first time. Which, the Apothecary thought, he probably was, Garnett’s eyes being so befuddled by drink on the first occasion.

  ‘Well, you’re not a bad young fellow, after all. Would you care to step round to my house for a glass of sherry?’

  ‘I am here with a friend, Sir.’ John indicated Samuel, who was being extremely chatty to one particular group of saucy young females, bowing and making much of raising his hat.

  Garnett actually smiled. ‘Then bring him as well. But first I must go and pay my respects to my son. I do that every Sunday.’

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They went down the path side by side, walking towards the back wall of the church where there was the greatest preponderance of gravestones. Then Garnett Smith suddenly stopped and put an arm out to check John’s progress. ‘There’s somebody already there. Look. A woman’s kneeling beside the grave.’

  And indeed there was. The slight figure that John had noticed at the rear had obviously gone out before the service ended to place flowers at the headstone of poor Andrew Smith. Everything became crystal clear as the Apothecary saw that it was indeed Emilia, that she had come to pay tribute to her youthful lover.

  ‘Damme,’ said Garnett angrily. ‘Who the devil is it?’

  ‘It’s Emilia Alleyn,’ John answered quietly. ‘Please remember, Sir, that she has recently been bereaved.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ the older man replied testily, but for all his gruff manner he hurried forward as if he were pleased to see the girl.

  She glanced up, hearing someone approach, and the Apothecary saw her look of pure astonishment at finding them there. ‘Mr Smith, John,’ she said, very flustered.

  Garnett made the sort of bow that indicates politeness and nothing more. ‘Miss Alleyn,’ he said stiffly. Yet still John could have sworn that there was a certain excitement about him, that the sight of the girl brought back memories of his son and made him feel happier.

  Emilia got to her feet and curtsied respectfully. ‘Mr Smith, I do hope you don’t mind my coming here. My mother is staying in London at present and I took the opportunity to visit Andrew’s grave.’ She turned to John in bewilderment. ‘I did not realise that you and Mr Smith were acquainted.’

  ‘Well, we are,’ he answered enigmatically.

  She looked blank for a moment or two, then her expression changed and she said, ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Mr Rawlings called on me the other night,’ Garnett offered by way of explanation. ‘Strangely enough I found his conversation very helpful.’

  Still looking at John, Emilia asked, ‘In what regard, Sir?’

  ‘He illustrated quite clearly some of the difficulties that apothecaries experience.’

  Miss Alleyn tilted her chin upwards and stared Garnett Smith directly in the eye. ‘Do you still blame my father for Andrew’s death?’

  ‘In some ways I do. If a correct diagnosis had been made earlier …’

  ‘As I assured you before, Sir, even that couldn’t have saved him,’ John put in. ‘Once a cancer has a hold, particularly in a younger person, no one can loosen its grip.’

  ‘Please don’t continue your enmity,’ Emilia added sadly. ‘My father is dead, murdered by some madman. If he made mistakes, then he has answered for them grievously.’

  ‘Poor Josiah,’ said Garnett, and turned away from them, going to stand beside the grave, his back averted.

  ‘Why are you here?’ whispered Emilia, putting her hand lightly on the Apothecary’s arm.

  ‘I am continuing my investigations. You see before you a man determined.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To find out who poisoned the apothecaries.’

  She lowered her voice even more. ‘Was it Mr Smith?’

  ‘I can’t be absolutely sure but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then who?’

  John decided to be honest. ‘I truly don’t know.’

  ‘Will my father’s murderer ever be discovered?’

  ‘I must confess that at this moment it doesn’t seem very likely.’

  Very faintly, while he had been speaking, John had been aware of distant voices, one of which appeared to be an hysterical female. Now came the sound of running feet, accompanied by puffing and blowing, and a few seconds later Samuel came into view, sprinting down the church path.

  ‘John, come quickly,’ he gasped.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘A woman’s collapsed at the church gate. I think it might be Clariana Gill, but she looks in such a terrible state I can’t be certain.’

  ‘What on earth would she be doing here?’

  ‘You tell me. But you’d better hurry. Whoever she is, she’s lost consciousness.’

  It was indeed Clariana, John saw, as he ran up to the group huddled round a figure lying supine upon the ground. Closely reminded of the previous evening when her elderly lover lay in a very similar posture, the Apothecary leant over the prostrate figure.

  ‘Who are you, Sir?’ asked the vicar.

  ‘An apothecary, Father. Would you like me to tend her?’

  ‘By all means if you are trained. The poor woman ambled in here on foot, then collapsed. She muttered something about her father before she fainted.’

  Remembering only too vividly the opium that Clariana had been given the night before, John pulled up one eyelid. Sure enough the pupil of the eye had contracted to a mere pinprick and there was saliva flecking the corners of the girl’s lips.

  ‘It’s an overdose,’ the Apothecary said tersely. ‘That old fool Ridgeway must have lashed it down her by the gallon. I must treat her with emetics and stimulants.’ He looked up at Samuel. ‘Can we carry her to your place?’

  ‘I live near by,’ said Garnett Smith, striding up the church path, Emilia one pace behind.

  ‘Even though it’s probably far too late, I shall have to make her sick,’ John said by way of warning.

  ‘I helped nurse a dying son,’ Garnett answered simply.

  ‘Then we’d better go quickly.’

  ‘Can I assist?’ Emilia asked.

  Not only did he want her there desperately, just for the comfort of her presence, but the fact that an Alleyn would be setting foot over Garnett’s threshold might go a long way towards healing old wounds, John thought.
r />   He looked at Mr Smith. ‘If it is in order with you, Sir, I would like Miss Alleyn to be present.’

  Garnett hesitated momentarily, past hatreds crowding to plague him, then he said, ‘Come along, my girl. I’m sure a woman’s touch is always beneficial at a sickbed.’

  Samuel may have been gaining a little weight but he was still enormously strong. Picking Clariana up as if she weighed no more than a feather, he carried the unconscious girl away from the curious gaze of the congregation and down the hill to the river and the home of Garnett Smith. There she was put to lie in a bedroom that by its very smell revealed it was never used and John, having no bag with him, was put to the task of finding ordinary household substances that would suit his purpose.

  A strong mixture of salt and water he prepared for an emetic and gave this to Emilia to start spooning down Clariana’s throat. For the stimulant however, the Apothecary was in a total dilemma.

  ‘Do you have any thistles in your garden?’ he called in desperation to Garnett, who was hovering in the kitchen doorway, watching John work with a considerable amount of interest for one who professed to hate apothecaries.

  ‘I should hope not, Sir. I employ a gardener.’

  ‘None the less, I’m going to look. This girl has been given too much white poppy syrup. It is possible she could die. From a thistle, I can make a concoction that is good for spasm or convulsions.’

  They stepped into the garden, scouring the beds and borders.

  ‘We’re in luck,’ said Garnett, and pointed to where a Scotch thistle had had the temerity to avoid discovery and was growing beside a hedge. John wound his handkerchief round his hand and produced his herb knife, something he always carried unless he was going out for the evening. Grabbing the thistle hard, he pulled so strongly that he almost fell over when the weed came up out of the ground. Cutting off the all-important roots and leaves, John hastened into the house.

  Using the cook’s pestle and mortar, he ground them into a pulp from which a greenish juice appeared. This the Apothecary added to watered down wine, poured the mixture into a beaker, then carried it to the room in which Clariana lay, dead to the world.

  ‘Has she been sick at all?’ he asked Emilia.

  ‘Not yet. John, I’m finding it so difficult to get this down her.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  He took the salt water from her somewhat shaky hands and opening the unconscious girl’s mouth, poured it in as best he could, even though she coughed and choked as he did so.

  John smiled at the expression on Emilia’s face. ‘Can you bear to stay? She’ll start vomiting shortly. It won’t be pleasant.’

  ‘If you can put up with it, so can I.’

  ‘Mine is not always a charming life,’ the Apothecary said wryly, holding the bowl.

  ‘Whose is?’ answered Emilia sensibly, and mopped Clariana’s brow with a cool cloth.

  Much as John had expected, his patient went into a spasm as soon as the contents of her stomach had gone. And it was then that he administered the stimulant made from the thistle.

  ‘Will she revive?’ Emilia asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The opium will have entered her system long ago. The emetic was probably no use at all. All we can do now is wait and see.’

  An hour later they had their answer. An examination of Clariana’s eyes showed that her pupils were returning to normal, and she fell into a peaceful sleep.

  ‘We’ll leave her now. I’ll come back in a while and see how she is,’ John whispered.

  With a discreet cloth draped over the bowl which he carried gingerly, the Apothecary followed Emilia downstairs, loving the back of her shapely neck where the golden hair was swept up in curls.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

  Emilia looked back over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Careful with that,’ she answered, and laughed.

  They found Garnett and Samuel in the salon, making short work of a decanter of sherry. But this time there were no slurred words or maudlin sentiments coming from the host, instead Mr Smith radiated enjoyment, and looked round his younger guests with a genial expression.

  ‘I’ve been too long alone,’ he announced to everyone in general. ‘I should have invited people here before this.’

  Samuel looked wise. ‘Mourning ain’t easy, Sir, but I do believe that the prolonged grief of it is only caused by guilt.’

  ‘What do you mean, my boy?’

  ‘Well, if you did your best for the dead person while they lived, I don’t think sorrow drags on so long as it does for those who have a conscience regarding them.’

  ‘I have no guilt about Andrew. I attempted my utmost. It was others –’

  The conversation was taking a dangerous turn and John stepped in. ‘I am sure that everyone tried their hardest, according to their abilities. No one in their right mind could let a loved one, friend or family, die.’

  Why did those words ring so hollowly in his head? What was it that he should have realised by now? What lay just beyond his grasp that he should have seen?

  ‘What are you staring at?’ asked Samuel.

  John snapped back to attention. ‘Nothing. I was just trying to think of something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s just it, I don’t know.’

  The Goldsmith laughed. ‘You’ll have to bear with him. He’s always like this when he’s trying to solve a mystery.’

  ‘Well I think,’ said Garnett, as if he were making a public pronouncement, ‘that Mr Rawlings is a very remarkable young man. He called here pretending to be something else entirely and had me completely fooled. It’s not until you informed me of the fact just now, Mr Swann, that I realised he worked for the Public Office.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ John answered, ‘but one does not always get the best results by offering that particular piece of information.’

  ‘Quite understandably.’

  ‘I’m worried about the patient,’ said Emilia. ‘I think perhaps I should sit with her. I cannot imagine anything worse than waking up in a strange bed in a strange room and not knowing how one got there.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said John. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  They kept a silent vigil hand in hand, until finally Clariana’s lids fluttered and her eyes opened.

  The Apothecary spoke at once, sitting on the bed beside her so that the sick girl could see him clearly. ‘Don’t be frightened, Miss Gill. You have been rather ill. I’m afraid that the physick the doctor gave you to calm your nerves at the Assembly last evening, did not agree with you. But that has all gone now and you are well on the way to recovery.’

  She tried to raise her head but fell back against the pillows. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re in a house near to the church of St-Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe. Do you remember getting that far?’

  Clariana looked terrified. ‘Yes, no. It was like being in a dream.’ She sat up and clutched John’s coat. ‘Oh Mr Rawlings, tell me it was all a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Going home and seeing my father like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Hanging from that hook.’

  Emilia gave a muffled shriek.

  ‘Tell us what you saw,’ John said soothingly.

  Clariana went white as a ship’s sail. ‘I can’t remember everything. That young man, the one with the coach, ordered his postilions to carry me into my house. I think the medicine was working on me by that time for I could hardly walk. Then he left me alone. Said he had to get home and I would be better by myself. I got no further than the shop before I fainted. I woke some time later and managed to light a candle and when, when …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When I looked up I glimpsed a pair of shoes above my head, swinging very slightly in the draft from the shop door.’

  ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘No, because I could have been dreaming.’

&n
bsp; ‘Then tell me what you think you saw,’ John demanded, barely able to control himself

  Clariana gave him a truly ghastly look. ‘I thought I saw my father hanging from one of the hooks where the herbs are put to dry. He had a rope around his neck and, Mr Rawlings, he was quite, quite dead.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The deep shadows of Pudding Lane were even darker in the twilight of that late November day when John Rawlings and Samuel Swann nervously came to a halt before the closed door of the apothecary’s shop. Black shapes lurked at every corner and John, spinning round rapidly, swore that something had breathed upon the nape of his neck.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Samuel, perspiring lightly despite the clammy chill of the fog that had started to seep up from the river.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John answered. And where normally he would have made a joke of his friend’s patent fright, today he remained grimly silent.

  They had journeyed into the City together in a coach provided for them by Garnett Smith, who had remained behind with the terrified Clariana and an equally panicky Emilia, only keeping control of her anxiety for fear of upsetting Miss Gill even further. ‘Go armed,’ she had whispered to John as he left the house in Thames Street.

  ‘I’ve no weapon on me. I’ve been in church, remember.’

  ‘Then borrow one from Mr Smith.’

  This plan had proved farcical, however, as Garnett, who clearly had very strange ideas about self protection, could produce little more than an antique fowling piece and a cudgel. In the end, the Apothecary had settled for the bat while Samuel, unnerved by Clariana’s terrible story, had dashed home at speed to fetch a pistol. Then they had set forth to investigate what they hoped was merely a drug-induced hallucination.

  There was no wind at all, the fog ensuring that the evening was calm and still, yet it seemed to the Apothecary that the door of Tobias’s shop rattled as they stood looking at it, wondering quite what move they ought to make next.

  ‘There’s somebody in there,’ whispered Samuel hoarsely.

  John shook his head. ‘More likely a draft blowing through.’

  ‘Do you think by any chance it’s unlocked?’

  ‘It has to be if Clariana rushed out this way. She was hardly in a fit state to secure it.’