Death at Apothecaries' Hall

by Deryn Lake

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They left London in a blinding snowstorm and drove through the most horrid conditions to spend Christmas at Kensington. Sir Gabriel, always thoughtful, shut down the house in Nassau Street, leaving only a skeleton staff to keep the place warm, and gave those of his servants who were not travelling with them, the twelve days off Then he and John, with luggage piled high, set off on their hazardous journey, having said farewell to Samuel who was heading for Islington to join his father for the festivities.

  Before they left town, Sir Gabriel had been to call on his new godson and had shared presents with the de Vignolles.

  ‘John is remarkable,’ Serafina had said, resting in her great bed, her child sleeping in a cradle by the fire.

  ‘I hope he finds happiness with Emilia Alleyn.’

  ‘Everyone wants that for him. He is such a gifted and generous person.’

  Sir Gabriel had smiled. ‘We are all at the mercy of fate, whether we believe it or whether we don’t. John will triumph in the end, I feel it in my heart.’

  And now he and the son he had adopted were battling through the snow to reach the village before Christmas Eve. In the coach, they talked.

  ‘So what has happened, my child? You have been so preoccupied of late I have hardly had time to speak to you.’

  ‘Well, Sir, Cruttenden has not come up yet, held down by the icy waters I expect.’

  ‘No chance he escaped?’

  John shook his head. ‘The Runners who witnessed the attack on him said that he didn’t have a hope. He may well have been dead when he entered the water.’

  ‘Then a mad dog has been put down. That’s my view. Have you any idea who assaulted him?’

  ‘Now that, dear Father, would be telling.’

  ‘There were no clues at all?’ Sir Gabriel persisted.

  ‘Only this.’ And John drew from his pocket a small piece of olive green material, jaggedly torn.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I found it on a bush near Cruttenden’s front door when I inspected the premises next morning.’

  ‘Was it left by his killer?’

  ‘Who is to say? It could belong to anyone. I do not regard it with any special significance.’

  And the Apothecary refused to be drawn further.

  Sir Gabriel changed his questions. ‘What about the dangerous Miss Gill? What has happened to her?’

  ‘She came up before the Beak and he sent her for trial at the Old Bailey. She is at present languishing in Newgate I believe.’

  Sir Gabriel looked extremely pensive. ‘Samuel told me that you found some sort of list amongst Master Alleyn’s papers. Apparently all on it were people who had employed Cruttenden to do away with someone who stood between them and what they wanted.’

  ‘It’s true enough.’

  ‘But what is happening to them all? They are as guilty as the man they hired.’

  John sighed. ‘Mr Fielding gave the matter much thought but decided that there was not enough evidence to proceed against them. If Cruttenden had been alive to give testimony, that would have been a different matter. But the fact that he was involved in every case does not, in itself prove a felony.’

  ‘So none of them will be punished for their crime?’

  ‘Only by the mills of God.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something Harriet Clarke said to me about them grinding exceeding small.’

  ‘Was the Marquis of Kensington involved in all this?’

  ‘I think as you are continuing to play cards with him it might be better if I say nothing.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sir Gabriel, and shook his head.

  ‘Let me change the subject. Have you heard the latest gossip?’

  ‘Plenty. But to which particular piece of tittle-tattle do you refer?’

  ‘Well, the rumours are all about town that Coralie has a new beau. The heir to the Duke of Westminster, no less.’

  Sir Gabriel took snuff ‘Then great joy to her, declare I. I’ve always regarded that young woman very highly.’

  ‘As do I,’ said John sadly. ‘As do I. Now to my plans. I would like to propose to Emilia over this festive season. Do I have your approval, Sir?’

  ‘You most certainly do, my dear. An admirable and fine girl who is ripe and ready for marriage, as are you.’

  John looked reflective. ‘Life’s odd, ain’t it?’

  ‘Very, very odd,’ Sir Gabriel answered, and pulled his hat forward over his three storey wig indicating that he wished to sleep.

  On Christmas Eve at dinner time, the house guests arrived: Mrs Alleyn, Emilia, the twin sons, and Garnett Smith, who had emerged into the world a kinder and rather good-natured person. Bedroom space was at a premium but Sir Gabriel, with his usual charm, had managed to persuade bluff Mr Horniblow, who lived next door and was a widower with a dog, to give up his two spare bedrooms to the twins and Garnett. So everyone sat at peace round the dinner table and thought with pleasure of the days ahead, when entertaining would be shared between Sir Gabriel and Maud Alleyn.

  It was then, with the snow still falling outside and night drawing in fast that there came a thunderous knocking at the front door. The company looked from one to the other.

  ‘Whoever can that be?’ said Sir Gabriel, an expression of anxiety on his face.

  ‘What an hour and in what weather to call,’ agreed Mrs Alleyn.

  John stood up. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  His father’s best footman was already at the door and the Apothecary heard a woman’s voice ask for him by name. He stepped forward, peering out into the blizzard. A glistening black figure stood there, snowflakes on its hat and cloak.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘Harriet. Harriet Clarke.’

  ‘Then come in, come in. You must be frozen. How did you get here?’

  ‘By the public stage. It has taken me all day, in fact I never thought we would come through, the ways are so bad.’

  John drew her into the hallway and looked at her closely. She was molten with some inner emotion, her eyes gleaming and her face tense and taut. She looked to him, at that moment, as Boudicca, the ancient Queen, must have done before she went into battle, capable of anything.

  The Apothecary seized her hands. ‘Harriet, what is it? You look … wild.’ He could not think of a better word.

  ‘I’ve come about Dr Hensey.’

  ‘Dr Hensey! But it’s Christmas Eve!’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Do you think I would have left my husband and child on such a day if the matter had not been urgent?’

  ‘Well, what’s happened to him?’

  ‘He’s been arrested. It was in the newspapers this morning.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘On a charge of high treason. It seems he has been spying for France for several years.’

  ‘Dr Hensey has?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rawlings, yes. But it was his letter to his old tutor in France that finally did for him. The letter in which he asked for help for Matthew. Apparently the Secret Department in the Post Office has been opening his correspondence for some time. On seeing him write to Paris they acted, and they have come for him.’ Harriet looked him straight in the eye. ‘I have booked into The New Inn for tonight but tomorrow I shall make my way to London, somehow or other, and I am going to see the Secretary of State, the Earl of Holdernesse. I intend to plead for clemency for our friend, otherwise he will be shot. Mr Rawlings, will you come with me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said John, ‘without hesitation.’

  He shook his head in amazement, remembering how the signalling spy from the escapade on the Romney Marsh had never been caught. Small wonder if it had been Dr Hensey all along.

  He led Harriet into the warmth of the small parlour, and returned to the dining room.

  ‘It seems I will not be keeping my Christmas with you after all,’ he said. ‘Urgent business requires my return to London.’

  There was a murmur of general cons
ternation and Emilia jumped up from her seat. ‘John, what has happened?’

  ‘Something rather serious.’ He looked across at his father. ‘Sir, may I speak to Emilia alone?’

  ‘Of course, my boy.’

  He took her into the hall. ‘Listen, I have to go and plead for a man’s life. He is a good man, and a hero in his own country, and it is my duty to do all I can for him. I shall leave tomorrow morning. Would you go too?’

  She did not hesitate for a second. ‘Of course.’

  He pulled her into his arms. ‘Second question. Will you marry me?’

  The angel’s eyes widened and the heavenly being smiled. ‘Of course,’ she repeated, and took his hand in hers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harriet drew John outside the front door. ‘We will not fail in this mission, will we?’

  He looked at her, covered in falling snow, noticing inadvertently that the hem of her olive green cloak had a jagged tear in it and a small piece of the material was missing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But we can do our damnedest.’

  ‘Will the Secretary of State listen to our pleas?’

  ‘Yes, I think he probably might. He has a reputation for great fairness. If we tell him all we know about Dr Hensey’s character, we might at least be able to save him from the firing squad.’

  Harriet took the Apothecary’s hands in hers. ‘You are a strange creature.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You represent the law, yet you are quite prepared to go to any lengths to see that even a so-called criminal is treated fairly.’

  ‘What is a criminal,’ answered John Rawlings. He fished in his pocket and drew out the small piece of material that lay within. ‘Your cloak is torn, Harriet. Might this belong to you?’

  She took it from him, holding it in the beam of light that streamed through the open front door on to the snow. ‘Yes, it’s mine. Where did you find it?’

  ‘On a bush,’ said John. He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Farewell, my dear. A footman shall escort you to the inn. We will meet again tomorrow.’

  She gave him a glittering smile, a powerful woman indeed. ‘Goodnight, Sir,’ she answered, and walked away into the darkness.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  John Rawlings, Apothecary, really lived. He was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He was made Free of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13 March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho. This links him with H. D. Rawlings Ltd who were based at the same address over a hundred years later. Rawlings were spruce and ginger beer manufacturers and in later years made soda and tonic waters. Their ancient soda syphons can still be found on the bar counters of unmodernised pubs.

  Dr Florence Hensey, too, is a real historical character, a doctor of physick who was also a genuine French spy. He was caught by Anthony Todd, head of the Post Office, who was also in charge of the Secret Department of the Post Office, whose brief it was to open any suspect mail and read it. Interestingly, this department was not disbanded until the middle of the nineteenth century. A letter from Anthony Todd to the Lords of the Treasury, dated General Post Office, June 18, 1762, reads as follows:

  One Florence Hensey, Doctor of Physick, convicted of High Treason in 1758, was apprehended by my means, His Majesty’s Secretaries of State having no information from any other quarter that he was carrying on a treasonable correspondence … and though it was thought proper not to execute Dr Hensey, his conviction seems to have had so good an effect that the many spies then in London have been deterred, as far as it has appeared to me, during the course of this War, from giving intelligence to the Enemy.

  As spies, in the main, were executed it seems that somebody, somewhere put in a plea for Dr Hensey. I have let my imagination link this actual event with the enigmatic John Rawlings.