by Deryn Lake
Samuel looked thoughtful. ‘This is almost certainly a vital clue. Does it belong to a man or a woman, do you think?’
John turned the button over in his hand. ‘It could be either. Come on, you know about these things. Is the diamond real or paste?’
Rather surprisingly, his friend produced a jeweller’s glass which he put to his eye. ‘I’m a goldsmith not a gemster, but I’d say it was real.’
‘Then it comes from a very expensive garment indeed.’
‘Almost royally so. What will you do with it?’
‘Keep it for the time being. I want to show it to a few people and gauge their reaction.’
Samuel rubbed his hands together. ‘This is most exciting. I do believe we have reached a turning point.’
‘If Mr Fielding is right and the two murders are connected, then we have.’
‘Unless the button is Clariana’s.’
‘Even then,’ said John darkly, ‘there could be a path to follow.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She is besotted with Cruttenden but Tobias disapproved of the match and threatened to stand in her way. Perhaps in a moment of blind fury …’
‘She killed her own father? Oh, surely not. The very idea is unthinkable.’ Samuel’s hearty countenance looked aghast.
‘It would not be the first time in our investigations that we would have come across such a thing.’
‘Not involving a woman, though John. A female could never do anything so vile.’
To have argued would have been to have upset his friend, so the Apothecary remained silent.
‘And anyway,’ the Goldsmith continued, making a good point, ‘if the two murders are linked, what reason could Clariana possibly have for killing Master Alleyn?’
The truth of this was inescapable and John nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you’re right about that.’
Samuel got into his stride. ‘No, I’m afraid if Clariana owns that button then it is no longer of any importance.’
Very reluctantly, since the rest of the house had yielded little of any significance, the Apothecary was forced to agree.
Reading his mind, Samuel said, ‘Did you find nothing else?’
‘Only the fact that two glasses of wine had been poured and consumed and not cleared away.’
‘Clariana again?’
‘I don’t quite see father and daughter sitting down to share a bottle before she goes out for the evening, do you?’
‘No, not really. Do you think it was the murderer?’
‘If it wasn’t it must have been someone who called just before the killer.’
‘After Clariana had left the house?’
‘Almost certainly, yes.’
Samuel frowned. ‘You don’t think Tobias kept an appointment book, do you?
‘If he did I definitely didn’t come across it, yet that in itself is odd now I come to consider it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because all apothecaries who visit patients have a list of engagements written down somewhere. He must have had a book and the fact that it is missing is very significant.’
‘Perhaps the killer made an appointment to see him, then removed the evidence to hide the fact that his or her name was there?’
‘Precisely,’ said John, clapping his friend on the back, an action to which Samuel responded by beaming.
‘We are closer after all.’
‘Not if we can’t find the book, we’re not.’
The Goldsmith refused to be daunted. ‘It will turn up, never fear.’
‘Perhaps it has already been consigned to the flames.’
‘Don’t be such a pessimist,’ answered Samuel, and prepared to attack the food which had just been set before him on the table.
It was late when they left Truby’s and set off in the direction of the river. John drew his watch from his pocket. ‘I think I might beg a bed off Mr Smith. He seems quite happy to have his house full at the moment.’
‘He certainly likes the company of Miss Alleyn and Miss Gill. You might be a different matter.’ Samuel was half serious. ‘If he hasn’t the room, come back to me.’
‘Thank you, I will. I want to cross the river early tomorrow.’
‘To talk to Mrs Clarke? Or to visit the wounded Cruttenden?’
‘Perhaps both, who knows, but certainly to see the lady. Dr Hensey will have called on her son by now. I would like to know his verdict.’
‘Will you show the button to Miss Gill?’
‘As soon as she is herself again.’
However, in that the Apothecary was to be thwarted. No sooner had he rung the bell of the house in Thames Street, a house he had left in deepest silence earlier that morning after he had broken the news of her father’s death to a pale and trembling Clariana, than he was caught up in yet another situation.
Late though it was, both Emilia and Garnett waited up for him in the small salon.
John’s apologies for tardiness died on his lips. ‘What’s happened?’ he said, gazing from one face to another, a part of his brain that always appreciated the female sex thinking how gorgeous Emilia looked.
‘Clariana’s gone,’ she said, rising to greet him and kissing him swiftly on the cheek.
‘Gone?’ he repeated.
Garnett stood up and gave a small bow. ‘She wept in her room for an hour or so after you’d left. Then the next thing we knew, she had dressed, come down the stairs, told us both that she had urgent affairs to attend to, then was out through the front door.’
‘Still in her evening clothes?’
‘Yes. Those were all she had with her.’
‘Then she won’t have gone far,’ said John grimly. ‘My guess is that she hired a wherry and crossed the river to her lover Cruttenden. She certainly didn’t return to Pudding Lane. I stayed there several hours and there was no sign of her. Yet I shall have to find her in the morning. She is still my patient.’
‘But in Cruttenden’s thrall,’ Emilia commented bitterly.
The Apothecary shot her a look. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Garnett suddenly asked, ‘This Cruttenden, is he the fellow who was a great friend of your father’s, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ she answered tonelessly.
‘An extraordinary man, if I recall correctly. Very magnetic but somehow malign.’
John laughed, breaking the tension in the room. ‘What a perfect description. It sums him up exactly.’
Emilia, who did not lack courage, said, ‘I was brokenhearted by Andrew’s death, and Francis Cruttenden took advantage of that.’
‘Do you mean …’
‘He seduced me? Yes. He did not scruple that I was his friend’s daughter.’
‘The ravisher needs stringing up,’ Gamett exploded angrily, and even though John agreed, he could not help but smile at the phraseology.
‘May I stay here tonight, Sir?’ he asked, rapidly changing the subject. ‘I should enjoy talking to you for a while after Emilia retires.’
‘I should like that,’ Garnett answered, and by the very look on his face the Apothecary knew that the drunk, despairing, lonely man he had first met was fast disappearing in the wake of all the new, young, lively company.
The two of them conversed long and late, not about the murders but about life and its odd twists and turns.
‘I already regard Emilia as the daughter I never had,’ said Garnett sentimentally, a little tipsy by now but not unpleasantly so.
‘She has set my life on its heels,’ John answered, and sighed with the memory of all the sadness that he had experienced of late.
It was nearly December and the sun had broken through the fog. Even though it was cold and windy, the sky over the river was blue as linen bags, and the winding waterway beneath reflected the light and glittered like a jewel in the early morning. Young though the day was there was plenty of traffic on London’s highway. As John Rawlings crossed the Thames he glimpsed a gilded barge heading downstream towards Greenwich and a flotilla of long,
shallow boats bearing meat and malt to feed the capital, coming in from the upper reaches. Dodging them, in common with all his kind, the grizzly waterman exchanged oaths and insults with his fellow oarsmen as he cut his way across the river. John, leaning back against the board behind him, let the whole rude cacophony pass clean over his head as he concentrated on one thing and one thing alone: the rapid conclusion to this most elusive of cases and the stroke of good fortune that would lead him to discover the murderer of Josiah Alleyn and Tobias Gill.
Yet at the same time other matters nagged him. On a minor scale the fact that he had not replied to a letter from Sir Gabriel inviting him to Kensington for a day or so, on a major, the guilt he felt about Coralie. Remembering, the Apothecary believed he would never forget his last glimpse of her, the harrowed look on her lovely face, the tightly controlled tears that he knew would cascade as soon as he was out of sight.
What a brute I am, he thought, and felt angered with himself that he had given his former lover so much pain. Yet what else could he have done? She had cut him to the quick with her constant rejection of him. The survivor in John told his inner being that if Coralie had only acted differently, if she had agreed to elope with him as he had wanted, then he would have handled the situation differently. But still he found it hard to come to terms with her loss.
‘Mason Stairs,’ called the wherryman, and John, startled, looked up and realised that his journey was done. He had arrived at the river’s south bank and must now face a difficult interview with Harriet Clarke and one even worse with Clariana Gill. With certain trepidation, the Apothecary scrambled up the slippery stairs and stood at the top, looking around.
Almost immediately before him stood the narrow track leading to Pye House and its gardens. To his right and left ran Willow Street, in one direction towards a fairly rural landscape, in the other to the noisesome skin market, not the most pleasant of places for those who had no business there. The most direct route to Bandy Leg Walk was to go down the track past Pye House, then cross Maid Lane and enter Bandy Leg. But at this stage of the proceedings John had no wish to be seen by anyone connected with Francis Cruttenden so, instead, he turned left down Willow Street, passing the skin market but not going inside, then turned down Thames Street and in this way entered Maid Lane.
Bandy Leg Walk, entirely true to its name, curved outwards then in again. Parallel with it ran Gravel Lane, which did exactly the same thing. John fancied that a bird’s eye view of the two must look just like the legs of a bandy old soul whose gait would be marvellous to behold.
He was now in the area of the tenter grounds, used for stretching cloths, which were put over frames and secured by sharp, hooked nails known as tenterhooks. Though there were few houses in this part, the Apothecary spied three opposite the Bowling Green, outside one of which stood Harriet Clarke, pegging some clothes onto a line.
There was indeed a striking Junoesque beauty about her, for though not buxom in any way, Harriet was tall and strong-looking. Unaware that a visitor was approaching, John watched her as she called out, ‘Matthew, come here a minute,’ then saw a boy step out of the house. So this was the lad who had the falling sickness, the child who had nearly been voided before birth by an abortive substance. Were his suspicions correct? he wondered. Then the boy turned his head to look towards the Bowling Green and John knew the answer. Matthew was tall and dark like his mother, his features handsome as hers, but in the very way he stood and moved he resembled his father. There could be no doubt about it. Matthew Clarke was the son of Francis Cruttenden.
‘God’s sweet life,’ said John, and whistled quietly to himself. Was there no woman whom the wretched man had left in peace?
A new train of thought presented itself. Had one of the Marquis’s women – wife, sister, daughter – been violated by the grand seducer, leading to the attack that John had witnessed a few nights before? The letter to Sir Gabriel and the visit to Kensington suddenly became enormously important, and a stratagem presented itself. The Apothecary sighed. A visit to the Public Office was yet another thing that he must do today.
John strode forward a few paces and called out, ‘Mrs Clarke, how are you this morning?’
She wheeled in surprise and touchingly protected her son by drawing him close to her side. How many years had she spent in anguish, the Apothecary wondered, and found himself praying that Dr Hensey could perform a miracle.
Harriet recovered herself ‘Mr Rawlings, good morning to you. What brings you here?’
‘A visit to a patient actually, but as I was so close I could not resist the opportunity of calling.’
‘I’m glad you did so. Pray come in and have some tea. I regret my tardiness in asking you to dine. I have been somewhat preoccupied since I saw you last.’
‘Have we not all, indeed.’
‘Still no further forward with the affair at Apothecaries’ Hall?’
John looked grim faced. ‘There has been another development.’
‘What?’
‘I will tell you of it later,’ the Apothecary answered, and briefly looked at Matthew, peeping at him round his mother’s skirts.
She understood at once. ‘Then please come inside.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ John answered, and removing his hat stepped over her threshold.
It was a charming house, quite recently built, with large rooms and a sizeable garden. A fitting home for someone with a position as responsible as that of Michael Clarke.
‘What a gracious dwelling,’ said John, staring around in admiration.
‘We are very happy here. We live quietly but contentedly.’
The Apothecary lowered his voice. ‘I would like to speak to you alone, Madam.’
‘Of course. When Betty has made the tea she shall take Matthew into the garden. Then we can be private.’
The boy spoke up. ‘Dr Hensey said that I might have a tutor, Sir.’
‘Quite rightly so,’ the Apothecary answered. ‘He is a wise and good man and if he thinks that, then nobody can argue.’
‘I believe him to be a saint,’ Harriet said fervently.
Mentally John uttered thanks that the physician’s visit had proved successful.
With a great deal of clattering, a large friendly girl struggled in with a tray. ‘Hope this suits, Mam,’ she said to Harriet.
Mrs Clarke shot John an apologetic smile. ‘We’re not used to a lot of company here.’
‘Aye, but we does our best,’ the girl responded and banged her way out again, all big breasts and large grins.
‘Run along, my sweetheart.’ Harriet turned to Matthew. ‘You can have some cake in the kitchen.’
‘But I’d rather stay here.’
‘I need to speak to Mr Rawlings on his own.’
He went, reluctantly but politely, making a bow to John as he did so. The Apothecary was left with the strong impression that the boy longed to grow up a little but was being restrained from doing so by a fiercely protective mama.
Harriet turned to John. ‘Now, my dear Sir, what is it that you need to talk to me about?’
‘First I must deliver some grave news. Another apothecary has been killed. Tobias Gill, who you may or may not have encountered, has been murdered.’
Harriet lost colour but, strong woman that she was, mastered herself in a moment. ‘Is this death connected to that of Master Alleyn?’
‘It is believed so, yes.’
‘Then the killer must be found before he strikes again.’
John spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘Mrs Clarke, in order to see the present clearly, we often have to rake over the past, an experience which is sometimes both unpleasant and painful.’
She looked at him questioningly but said nothing.
The Apothecary continued. ‘Further, details that may seem utterly irrelevant and bearing no relation whatsoever to the matter in hand, are often the ones that throw a sudden beam of light on a matter buried in murk.’
Harriet stiffened. ‘P
ray go on.’
John steeled himself ‘The other night – and please remember that this may have no bearing on the two deaths, yet it is still of interest – Master Cruttenden was attacked. I believe you once knew him well. Do you have the slightest idea why somebody would wish to harm him?’
Her jewel eyes flashed in his direction. ‘No,’ she said stonily.
The Apothecary’s heart sank but he continued on his course. ‘You told me that you were once in his employ. Did you not see anything at that time that might have led you to believe the man had enemies?’
‘No I didn’t.’
The Apothecary gulped silently. ‘Mrs Clarke, what were your feelings towards Master Cruttenden?’
‘I had none.’
The ruthless side of John Rawlings’s character took over completely. ‘That isn’t true, is it? You told me yourself that an apothecary prescribed for you for morning sickness and that you have never been sure from that day to this whether what you swallowed was responsible for your son’s condition. But that was only part of it, I believe. I think Francis Cruttenden did not prescribe for sickness at all but attempted to procure an abortion for you because the child you were carrying was his and not that of your husband.’
She flew to her feet and bore down on him like a goddess of legend. ‘How dare you? How dare you say such terrible things?’
‘Perhaps because they are true,’ John answered, and caught her wrists in his hands as she made to strike him.
She wept at that, savagely and wildly as only a woman of her temperament could.
‘Calm yourself,’ he said, his voice kind. ‘I mean no harm to you. What passes between these walls is privy only to us. What a burden you must have carried all these years. Did you tell Dr Hensey of it?’
‘How could I? How could I without betraying what I tried to do to my beautiful son?’
‘I doubt very much you harmed the foetus. The falling sickness is a birth defect indeed but not one associated with attempted abortion.’
Harriet wept, violently, yet with a certain controlled strength. ‘I did not want Michael, dear good kind Michael, to be foisted with a child he had not fathered. I married him when I was pregnant, you know.’
‘Did he not guess at the time?’
