by Deryn Lake
‘Why, Sir Julian, what a splendid plan. If Miss Groves is agreeable, that is the way we shall proceed.’
Her caught her mood and as if he knew her well, put his two hands at her waist and twirled her round. There was something odd about the couple, but John could not grasp what it might possibly be.
Miss Groves, definitely piqued, said, ‘Oh very well, if you insist. But there is no need, Sir, I assure you.’
‘In that case,’ Lady Tyninghame put in, making matters far, far worse, ‘I shall accept it for myself with pleasure.’
She was elated, like a young girl, her loveliness enhanced by the bright, bold colour that had come to her cheeks. John thought that she was clearly delighted with the company of Julian Wychwood, whereas Titania looked ready to stamp her foot. He tried to lighten the mood.
‘Shall we stroll round the Pleasure Gardens?’ he asked brightly.
‘You may do so if you wish but I have to return to Mama. So I will bid you farewell.’ Having said that, Miss Groves dropped a curtsey to each of them and stalked off, bonnet high. Not in the least perturbed, Julian bowed low and presented Lady Tyninghame with the lappet of lace, which she accepted gracefully. John was about to make his excuses when Samuel Foote bustled up to them.
‘Ha, young Wychwood,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard your enemy is dead.’
‘Yes, and I can’t say I’m sorry. What brute allowed him to occupy my box at the theatre?’
‘Money talks,’ Foote answered merrily.
‘In other words, he gave you a larger fee than my retainer.’
Sam looked shocked. ‘Not me. Oh no, Sir, not me. Some underling at the theatre lining his own pockets. Shocking, I thought. But what could I do? I am merely an actor fellow. But for all that, we all had a good laugh at your antics when you dumped his pot upon his head then climbed up to the box above. Stopped the show it did.’
Lady Tyninghame gazed at Julian with a slight air of reproof. ‘What exactly did you do, Sir?’
Samuel raised his hat to her and gave a small bow. ‘Samuel Foote, at your service, Ma’am. As I was saying, this madcap friend of yours climbed over the theatre like a hero from a romance. It stopped the show while we watched him.’
She turned to Wychwood. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt yourself, my dear.’
Once again John was struck, even more forcibly, by the apparent closeness of two people who had barely been introduced. Something strange was afoot, he knew it certainly, but quite how he could investigate was impossible to conceive.
But now Sir Julian was speaking. ‘I am afraid that I must bid you all adieu. My watch tells me that I am already late for my next appointment. My Lady, goodbye. Surely we will meet again soon. Gentlemen, farewell. I shall see you both around Hotwell without a doubt.’
He raised his embellished tricorne hat and his liquorice hair gleamed black in the sunlight. He made a flourishing bow, kissed Lady Tyninghame warmly on the hand and disappeared into the crowd. John stared after him.
‘What an incredible young man,’ escaped from his lips before he could control the words.
‘I thought him rather charming,’ said Violetta Tyninghame.
‘He has a great air about him,’ remarked Samuel, staring at the space that Wychwood had recently occupied. ‘I knew an actor like him once. When he went on stage every eye turned to where he made his entrance. You could have heard a garter drop in the theatre. He was truly an overwhelming presence.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He disappeared. Quite literally. One day he did not turn up to rehearsal and when one of the company went to his lodgings it was to find that he had gone.’
‘Where to?’
‘Nobody knew. To make it even more mysterious, all the furniture had gone as well.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘This is the peculiar part. One of our patrons – a rich young gentlemen – swore that he saw the actor one night in a theatre in Prague, where he was playing the part of Count Almaviva, of all things.’
‘What’s so odd about that?’ asked John.
‘It is an operatic role and none of us knew he could sing.’
The whole story seemed rather pointless to the Apothecary, but he smiled and nodded and pretended it was very interesting. Yet his brain was totally at another destination. All he could think about was the strangeness of the situation in Hotwell and, overriding everything else, the fact that death was about to rob him of a partner for the second time in his life.
Fifteen
It was a bitter night, about ten of the clock, and John Rawlings was retracing the steps he had made on the night he had been waylaid by the macaronis. His thick cloak concealed a particularly garish suit in a violent shade of lime green. He had worn it in Devon and it held many happy memories for him, but tonight he wore it for a different purpose.
He had thought long and hard about the Strawberry Fields and had concluded that it was a club exclusively for nan-boys – a Miss Molly’s paradise, in other words. He was also fairly sure, judging by remarks made by the dying Benedict Pendleton, that within its walls he would find that renegade from justice, Herman Cushen. Herman and Benedict had been hired to execute the Earl of St Austell and had made a good job of it, disguising their real target by ending the lives of two other people as well. But they had escaped and though one of them had been called to final justice to answer for his crimes, the other had totally vanished. Yet now John felt he was on his trail once more, a trail that had been cold for over two years.
With scant idea of where he was heading, John made a slow progress and was just about ready to give up when ahead of him he saw two fellows, chattering and laughing quite loudly in the empty streets. One of them had a particularly shrill voice.
‘Come on, this way. I’m sure I remember where it was.’
‘I thought we had to turn left.’
‘No, it was quite definitely right. Now hurry along or we’ll be missing the Roaring Boys.’
John sprinted to catch up with them and said, ‘You are going to the Strawberry Fields, aren’t you? You see I’m not too sure of my way.’
He put a slight lisp into his voice and swung his hips a little.
‘Not sure of your way!’ said the taller of the two. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that too much. There’ll be plenty of people there to show you how it’s done.’
At this remark he bellowed with laughter, sounding rather like a mongrel letting rip. His companion joined him by braying like a donkey. John wondered for one infantile moment if they were all going to have to do animal imitations for their initiation ceremony.
The taller one seized his arm and whisked him over the pavements at a rate of knots, and they soon found themselves before an important-looking front door with a black servant in strawberry-coloured livery standing outside.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, looking solemn. ‘Is it your pleasure to sample some strawberries?’
‘Indeed it is. Are you agreed fellows?’
‘Agreed,’ chorused John and the other one, and the door swung open to allow them into a large entrance hall. For a moment or two John’s eyes were dazzled by the crimson draperies, the pot plants, the men lounging back on sofas and chairs, before his senses returned and he knew that the place was just as he had suspected. A male brothel. For all the girls, leaning voluptuously over the men or walking slowly up and down the room, presumably waiting to be picked, were boys in women’s clothing. John stared, never before having seen such fawning, beautiful creatures with the manners and characteristics of the female sex perfectly imitated. Some of the nan-boys looked suspiciously young to him, probably no more than thirteen years of age. And how they postured and pouted, carmined lips blowing kisses, kohl-blackened eyes winking suggestively, eyelashes fluttering and then dipping beneath a black lace fan. And there, in the midst of them all, sporting a peacock dress with false breasts very much visible, but still ugly despite all the make-up, was Herman.
He glanced in John’s direction and John swiftly turned away – but too late. Dragging his heavy dress behind him and with much shaking of the plumes in his wig, the wretched Mr Cushen was making a purposeful tread towards him. John steeled himself and faced him.
Herman’s face was contorted into what he considered to be an attractive leer. ‘Hello, my sweet. Are you feeling lonely? Want a little companionship for an hour or so?’
John answered in a piping falsetto. ‘I would rather look round for a little while. See what’s on offer.’ He managed a high-pitched giggle.
‘Certainly,’ replied the other, with more than a hint of annoyance. ‘Take your pick by all means.’ He flounced off and John metaphorically wiped his brow. Heaven be thanked. Herman had not recognised him.
A boy of about fourteen, dressed gorgeously as a girl in red satin, offered John a flute of champagne, which he took with a shaky hand. Loving couples were now forming up to dance licentiously together, staring into one another’s eyes, hands caressing sensuously. Fully aware that this particular branch of sexual activity was not for him, the Apothecary could still see the attraction of it for those whose natures inclined them that way. Where lay the difference he could not tell, and decided at some time in the future to discuss the whole matter with a learned physician.
Now all were being drawn into the dance, though John politely refused, claiming that he had hurt his knee. Instead he watched the nan-boys who had not yet been hired imitating the slave dancers from the east, posturing for their sultan, writhing about in quite the most formidable contortions. Incense filled the room and the music – played on a pipe – grew ever louder. Suddenly John had had enough. Very quietly, while all the attention was focused on the twisting bodies, he slipped out into the passageway, standing there a moment and cooling off. Then he made his way to the front door. But it was barred to him. The black servant stood there, his arm across the opening.
‘Leaving so soon, young Sir?’ he said, his voice very slow and deep.
‘Yes, I’m not feeling too well.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame, Sir. Would you like to sit down somewhere?’
‘No, no thank you. I think I’ll just get some fresh air.’
‘I wouldn’t advise that, Sir. It’s a very cold night and you might get a chill. Come with me to the parlour and I will get a servant to bring you a glass of cordial.’
‘No, really …’
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I insist.’
There was menace lying beneath his tone and John, with great reluctance, followed him down a narrow passageway and into a most opulent study. There were books lining the shelves and standing in piles on the floor. There was also a handsome globe and various maps of the world spread about the room. Indeed John could not think of a more contrasting place to find oneself in, having just left the fantasy of Miss Molly’s honeymoon hotel. There was a large desk in the centre of the room with a handsome fellow of about twenty-five or so sitting at it. He raised his eyebrows as John was hurtled inside.
‘Good gracious,’ he said, his voice cultured and pleasant. ‘What have we here?’
‘Someone who wanted to leave, Master,’ answered the negro.
‘But people are free to come and go as they wish, Samson. I’ve always told you that.’
‘I know you have, Master. But this cove was acting suspiciously.’
‘In what way?’
‘I can’t exactly say. But there was something rum about him.’
The man behind the desk gave a little laugh. ‘Well, I think it is very impolite of you, Samson, to presume such things. Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. My name is Peter Herbert.’ He slid down from the desk and gave a little bow.
John stared incredulously. The man was a dwarf. Perfect in both body and face, his legs were no more than two feet long. At full height his head came to John’s waistline. The Apothecary almost forgot to bow, he was so surprised.
‘You look startled. Why, may I ask?’
‘Forgive me. It is just that you are not the sort of person I expected to see running an establishment like this.’
Mr Herbert gave a short laugh. ‘Do you mean the fact that I am a dwarf? Or do I look too straight-laced for such an enterprise?’
‘Both really,’ John admitted.
‘Actually my mother owns it. I just stand in for her when she’s out. I am by trade a book-keeper for the Merchant Venturers. Don’t look so askance. My mama was a great courtesan in her day and was a very wise and kindly woman, believe it or not.’
‘I’m finding all this rather difficult to take in,’ said John. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Of course, of course. Have a brandy. You’ve gone a little pale.’
The little man put a glass in the Apothecary’s hand, then said, ‘You don’t look the type to be frequenting a nan-boys’ brothel. What are you really doing here?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘I see.’ Peter Herbert sipped his drink, his legs swinging above the floor. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he stated, then went on, ‘I think you came here for a purpose. Now what is it?’
For no reason that he could pinpoint, John trusted him. Before he knew it he had told Peter the entire story of the Earl of St Austell’s wedding feast and the two hired assassins. ‘One of whom is now working here as a male prostitute,’ he concluded.
The little man put his glass down and placed his fingertips together. ‘This is a serious story. But I only have your word for it. Samson, fetch Curlylocks in here.’
A more unfortunate soubriquet for the wretched Herman Cushen John could not imagine.
Samson, who had been standing like a statue during this conversation, hardly breathing, left the room on the double but returned only a minute later with the message that Curlylocks was working and had been booked for the night. John was never quite certain whether this was the truth or a hastily made excuse, but whatever the reality Peter Herbert shook his head.
‘Then I am afraid that I can do nothing to help you. To disturb a boy who is busy would be more than my dear mama could allow. Would you like to return tomorrow?’
John gave a hidden sigh, temporarily beaten. ‘Perhaps. But if not tomorrow then another day.’
‘Then it is possible we shall meet again. But if I am not here you will have the pleasure of my mother’s company. Because if you are going to take poor Curlylocks away, she will have to be consulted first.’
It sounded terrible, John thought, imagining himself facing some ghastly old harridan. However he smiled bravely.
‘I look forward to meeting her.’
‘It will be an experience you won’t forget.’
As Samson showed him down the passageway to the front door, John turned to him. ‘Tell me, were you by any chance once a black boy to Lady Tyninghame?’
The man’s face underwent a complete transformation. ‘You know her? You know that sweet lady?’
‘Reasonably well,’ John lied.
‘I was once her servant and I loved her. She was like a mother to me. But she had to let me go when that bitter time came for her. But you know all about that, of course.’
John nodded, wishing he did.
‘I worked in various shops but in the end I came here. Master Herbert is good to me – and so is the old dame, though the poor soul thinks she’s still a rare beauty.’ Samson gave a short laugh. ‘As to the boys, well, as long as they leave me alone I say good luck to ’em.’
‘You’re right. If that is their choice, if that is what makes them happy, then so be it.’
‘Not everyone thinks like us, Mr Rawlings. The bigwigs of Bristol and their wives get very hot under the collar about such things.’
‘The world never stopped turning for the opinions of the mighty. But Samson, do you live in or have you lodgings?’
‘I lodge near The Seven Stars, Sir.’
‘Then perhaps we can talk further somewhere else. Do you get any free time?’
‘I get a day
off once a month.’
‘When is your next one?’
‘Soon, Sir. This coming Friday.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Probably in The Seven Stars.’
‘I’ll see you there at about noon.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
And Samson opened the front door.
As he walked back to The Rummer Inn in All Saints Lane, the Apothecary’s thoughts turned once more to Elizabeth. Looking up at the crowded stars that dazzled his eyes from the blackness of the heavens, he wondered about the reality of God. Was He really there, in charge of all the millions of potential lives that those glittering points of light might house? Or was He a myth, a legend, created to pacify mankind, to keep him from dreading too much the fear of death? John, humble mortal that he was, had no answer, no knowledge to help him. Only a small prayer to whatever it was that some part of Elizabeth’s spirit would remain with him always.
Sixteen
Gone was the introspective thinking of the night before. John woke early, determined to find the answer to the puzzle of who had murdered the unknown man who called himself Augustus Bagot. Over a hearty breakfast he considered the options. If the murderer had held a grudge against the fat man, then there were several possibilities: Mr Huxtable, tired of the oaf who had taken up residence in his house; Commodore, the slave who had known the real Gus and who had loved him; and last, but very far from least, there was that most elegant and wickedly attractive man, Sir Julian Wychwood, who had fallen out with the pretender over a box in the theatre. Coming to the real Gus Bagot, who had lived and loved to the full in Bristol before taking ship to New Zealand, there was the definite possibility that he had caused someone great offence and the wrong man had answered for Gus’s crime.
In that regard John had only been given one name, Sir Charles Tavener, who had beaten young Gus to a pulp because of his advances to his sister. Yet the note he had seen in the fat man’s hand had been written in a rough script and the words ‘We’ll be coming soon’ pointed to several people ganging together. And then there was the problem of Lady Tyninghame. A delicate creature with a strange and questionable past, yet what was her relationship with the dazzling Sir Julian Wychwood? Every instinct John had told him that there was a bond between them. Had Sir Julian been the young lover mentioned as part of the lady’s downfall? With much on his mind the Apothecary ate a good meal and then ventured forth into the Bristol docks.
