Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  Kitty looked up at him slyly. ‘You’ve been dozing and I didn’t like to wake you.’ She stood up, yawning and stretching her arms over her head. ‘Well, I must get to bed. Do you want to come with me? I promise I’ll wash.’

  John smiled. ‘I’m too tired for such pleasures, alas. Also I need to see my friend gets home safely. For all his size, he’s a bit vague when it comes to practical matters.’

  Kitty hitched her skirt up so that her ankles were uncluttered for walking. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye then. Don’t forget, you can usually find me here of an evening and I’d like to drink with you again.’ She gave him rather a sad smile, then walked out into the dangerous darkness.

  The bearded ruffian came towards them from behind the pewter bar. ‘You’d best put up for the night, Sir. There’s not many that would row you back on so black and windy a river. And those who might would charge you a pretty fortune.’

  The Apothecary nodded. ‘Do you have a good room?’

  The landlord laughed, an oddly musical sound. ‘Aye, good enough for a bride.’

  John woke up fully. ‘A bride you say?’

  ‘One slept here last night, on her way to her wedding.’

  ‘She was to be married locally?’

  ‘At St Paul’s, Sir. But then there’s many that do. It’s handy for embarkation, you see.’

  ‘You did not know her?’

  ‘No, I’d never seen her before in my life.’ The landlord stared at John hard. ‘Why do you ask? Was she something to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ the Apothecary assured him. ‘It’s just that I have a lively curiosity.’ He leant over Samuel and shook him by the shoulder. ‘Wake up, old friend. It’s time to go to bed.’

  His companion leapt to his feet and flailed his arms. ‘What’s going on? Is there trouble?’

  ‘Not at all,’ John answered soothingly. ‘It’s simply that the hour is so late I have booked a room.’

  Samuel returned to consciousness. ‘A wise move. I feel fit to drop.’

  ‘You already have,’ the Apothecary commented wryly.

  ‘Then that being settled, I’ll escort you, gentlemen,’ said the bearded landlord, and took up a candle stuck in a bottle from the many that rested on the bar.

  It was precisely at that moment that the door leading onto the street swung open and John saw a waterman standing there, dripping wet, soaked through from head to toe.

  ‘Daniel,’ gasped the newcomer. ‘We needs to borrow the cock fight place, urgent like.’

  As if this were some secret code between them, John, suddenly extraordinarily alert, saw the landlord stiffen. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘Bottom of the stairs.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just see these gentlemen off to their room and then I’ll join you. Have a brandy, you look drenched, man.’

  ‘It’s an evil night,’ answered the waterman in a different tone, and the Apothecary had the distinct impression that he and Samuel had been surveyed, put down as town folk, and that nothing further would be said in front of them.

  ‘Come on Mr Swann,’ he ordered over-loudly. ‘We must let this good man have some rest.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ his friend answered heartily, clearly aware that something strange was taking place.

  ‘You have one of the rooms overlooking the river, Sir. The best in the house,’ and Daniel led the way upwards, his candle throwing dancing shadows on the wall.

  The wooden staircase, well worn with generations of ascending feet, swung round on itself, then continued upward by means of a spindly narrow stairway leading to the top floor. When The Devil’s Tavern had first been built in the reign of Henry VIII, it had served a turn as a timber-framed private riverside residence, and evidence of that was clearly revealed as John and Samuel made their way up to what would once have been the servants’ quarters, now transformed to bedrooms. Yet the chamber into which the landlord showed them was unexpectedly well furnished and neat, albeit small. It occurred to John that many of the tavern’s guests were members of the beau monde too drunk to return to their homes until morning, and this room had been specially set aside for that type of visitor. Those, and eager young brides of course.

  John looked round him for any sign of the former occupant, but the room had obviously been cleaned since the woman had departed and there was nothing left that could give any indication as to her identity. Removing his coat, the Apothecary was just about to strip down to his small clothes when from outside the building came a faint but unusual sound, a sound which immediately caught his attention. Somebody, or perhaps even two persons, were dragging something heavy up an outside stairway which John had not even known existed. A staircase that was quite definitely not Pelican Stairs which lay to the right, whilst this noise came from the left.

  Turning to Samuel who had instantly crashed down onto the bed, John motioned him to listen, but to no avail. His friend was already snoring, mouth wide. With a small click of annoyance, John went to the window and stood close behind it in order to overhear as much as he could.

  There was the low murmur of voices and the muffled dragging continued to the top of the stairs. Then came the sound of the object, whatever it was, being deposited in the room exactly below the one in which John stood listening. Knowing that the tavern and the riverside were both a haunt of smugglers, he assumed that contraband had been brought ashore and was being secreted away within. Certain that he was spending this night within a nest of villains, the Apothecary lay back down on the bed, though sleep eluded him.

  On two previous occasions he had worked with John Fielding, the phenomenal blind magistrate known to both the underworld and the beau monde as the Blind Beak, to help him bring a murderer to justice. And now the habits he had learned at the hands of such a great master were beginning to exert their influence. Supposing it was not contraband that had been carried so laboriously up the stairs. Supposing it was a human being, wounded and in need of his help. If that were so then he had no right to be lying on his bed considering the matter. He should be investigating the source of the disturbance. With a slight groan, John got up and padded to the door in his stockinged feet.

  Like many of his fellow Englishmen, the Apothecary had no dislike of smugglers and had, indeed, purchased smuggled goods in his time, tea amongst them. Further, he had commissioned a sailor to bring in from those exotic lands across the sea, the bitter sweet nuts of the moringa tree, the oil obtained from which was so useful in treating everything from ears to cramps caused by wounds. John had also ordered his contact to fetch him the zizyphus or Christ thorn which, when mixed with other ingredients, was an unbeatable remedy for cooling the anus. No duty had been paid on these imports and the whole matter had been treated as a private transaction. Therefore, it was no desire to peach or inform that led John to creep down the cramped stairs in search of what the watermen had brought in, merely a need to satisfy himself that there was nobody in distress.

  By now the tavern was quiet, not a sound from the main room below, even Samuel’s snores silenced. Aware of the floorboards creaking as he moved along, the Apothecary made his way cautiously downward, his only light the candle he was carrying. The attic steps petered out and swung round, joining the main staircase. Not quite sure in which direction to go, the Apothecary turned and saw a room leading off almost directly opposite, a long heavily panelled room with a large square window overlooking the river. Close to this was a door leading on to an open porch and a wooden balcony beyond. From outside the lights of the moored ships, coupled with some faint moonlight, threw a glow of luminescence and aided by this, John stepped within.

  At first he could see little, just the vague outlines of a few crude benches, all pushed well back, whilst two trestles with something lying on them stood in a far corner. There was a pungent smell of sweat in the air and it suddenly occurred to John that this room was used not for fighting birds but fighting men. He remembered now that during the course of the evening there had been muffled shouts and
cheers coming from upstairs, and had thought at the time that somewhere a bare knuckle contest between sailors was taking place. This, then, would appear to be its location. And it would also appear to be the hiding place of the contraband. Half smiling, John went towards the table to see what the watermen had brought in.

  It was as he stepped closer, the flame of his candle wavering in a draught from the window, that the first frisson of fear crept the length of his spine. There was something odd about the shape of the cloth covered object that lay on the makeshift table, something that seemed all too alarmingly recognisable. Suddenly afraid of what he might be about to see, John Rawlings held his candle high and plucked the concealing sheet to one side.

  How he did not cry out, even prepared for the worst as he was, he never afterwards knew. For a pair of open eyes looked up at him, eyes that appeared to stare straight into his with a dark secretive glare all their own. Catching his breath, the Apothecary put out his hand and touched the freezing cheek, also exposed by the removal of the cloth, then withdrew his fingers fast, aware that he was alone in the cockfighting room of The Devil’s Tavern with a dead man. Controlling an urge to run away and fetch Samuel, John put the candle where it would throw most light and thought of the words of his Master, the apothecary to whom he had been apprenticed. He had taught his pupil that only the living can harm the living, the dead can never do so. Having proven the truth of this in the past, John now composed himself and set about seeking even the faintest signs of life.

  There was no heartbeat, no pulse, no breath. The man had been dead for hours and, judging by his saturated garments, had drowned in the river Thames. Yet despite this, John continued with his examination, wondering if there was anything to be discovered about the man which might show how he came to be in the water in the first place. Finding another couple of candles and lighting them with the flame from his own, the Apothecary set to work.

  He was looking at the body of a man aged about sixty, perhaps a little more. Yet a good looking fellow for all his advancing years. Delicately undoing the corpse’s coat and waistcoat, John eased up the shirt and saw that the body bore many abrasions, presumably caused by knocking against things as it floated in the water. However, the man’s flesh was firm and not as lined as he would have expected. Similarly, the legs, though grazed, showed little sign of veining and the genitals seemed healthy. So it was not an obvious illness that had driven this man to suicide, if, indeed, suicide it had been and not accident. Somewhat puzzled, the Apothecary was just about to draw the corpse’s clothes back decently, when his attention was caught by a bulge in the coat’s inside pocket. Feeling rather like a grave robber, John drew out a pocket book, dampened by the water but still intact for all its time in the river. Holding it up to the light, he turned out the contents.

  There was a bag of money containing quite a considerable amount, this attached to the inside of the book. There were also several pieces of paper, none of them of any particular interest. But it was the final document to be unearthed, neatly folded and still legible despite its soggy condition, that made John’s flesh creep. It was a licence to wed.

  Once again in his mind’s eye, the Apothecary saw that cruel black wedding party, sitting so stark and grim in the back of St Paul’s, Shadwell. Could this be the missing bridegroom that he was presently examining? Bringing the licence close to the candle, John read the words on the damp paper, protected as it had been by being tucked within the pocket book. Sir William Hartfield. Kt of St James’s Square and Kirby Hall, Bethnal Green, and Miss Amelia Lambourn of Queens Square. Thinking about that evil group of guests cast a cruel suspicion in the Apothecary’s mind, and he rapidly searched the body for signs of robbery, as if to give the lie to his own unpleasant thoughts. The dead man’s rings and watch, presuming he wore them, were missing. But his jewelled snuff and pill boxes, concealed in an inside pocket, were still in place. Sir William Hartfield, if this indeed was the identity of the body, had not met his end at the hands of cutpurses and footpadders, for they would have removed everything. Feeling deathly cold, the Apothecary turned his attention to the corpse’s head to see if any clues as to why he had drowned lay there.

  There was no damage on the handsome old face but the victim had sustained a blow to the brow, probably striking something in the river, possibly as he fell in. Closing the eyes, still staring in that unnerving fashion, John brought one of the candles nearer and examined the mark. Though he had a thick growth of white hair at the back, the man was balding, and had shaved what hair he had left on top to facilitate the wearing of his wig. And it was on this bald area, just above the temple, that the clout had been sustained. The Apothecary peered closely, wishing he had his quizzing glass with him.

  All the blood that such a blow would have caused had been washed away by the water and it was impossible to tell from the wound what had produced it. Very gently, John touched the place with his long and sensitive fingers. It had been a hard knock for there was a marked indentation, he could feel it distinctly. Drawing so close that the dead man was only an inch away from him, John shone the candle directly onto the injury.

  There was a pattern in it, of that much he was certain. Whatever had crushed the dead man’s skull had borne a design of some sort and the shape of it had marked the balding head, a phenomenon that John knew of but had never actually witnessed before.

  ‘God’s mercy!’ the Apothecary whispered as he strove to see what it was.

  And then everything became clear as, just for a moment, the vague outline took shape and he knew, for certain, that this man had been struck by a human agency. For there on his head, imprinted on the flesh, was the faint contour of an ornamental fox’s head. The dead man had been smashed by a stick bearing such an object as its handle and had probably, if the force required to leave such a mark were anything to go by, been dead when he entered the water. With a sense almost of resignation, the Apothecary came to terms with the fact that he was looking at a case of murder.

  Questions formed in his mind. Could the watermen themselves be guilty of such a crime? But, if so, why leave the body lying here so openly, not even bothering to close the door of the room? Surely, John thought, they had simply found the corpse floating and had brought it to the shore. In fact they probably had an arrangement with the landlord to leave anyone discovered in the river in this very spot once the hours of darkness had fallen. Certain that he was going to be called upon to remember every detail, John made one final careful study of the dead man, painting a picture of the scene in his mind. Then, having carefully placed the marriage licence in his own pocket, the Apothecary blew out the candles and went back to his room.

  As was to be expected, John slept fitfully and woke as soon as the first slivers of daylight shone through the gaps in the closed curtains. Just for one blissful moment he lay quite still, listening to the sounds of the mighty river and the bustling people who inhabited its banks, then he was up, splashing his face with cold water and calling to Samuel to wake. The Goldsmith groaned blearily.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh God’s dear life,’ John answered impatiently. ‘Do you spend all your time sleeping? If you go on like that you’ll be unconscious for more years than you spend awake.’

  His friend looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Now mark this,’ the Apothecary continued. ‘While you were couched supine, snoring like a grampus and resembling nothing so much as a bumboat becalmed, I was examining a body.’

  Samuel sat bolt upright. ‘A body?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, and told him all that had taken place.

  They struggled into their clothes in a mad kind of race which the Apothecary won. ‘I’m off for a second look,’ he announced, heading for the door. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  ‘I hope I’m up to such a sight before breakfast,’ Samuel answered, fastening his cravat.

  ‘Of course you are. Now come along,’ John ordered firmly, and taking his friend by the elbow prop
elled him down the spindly staircase to the room in which cockfighting had once been the order of the day.

  Beyond the window the mighty waterway leapt and danced in the early morning wind, and the Apothecary saw that the square rigger which had been moored mid-stream was preparing to sail with the tide. Matelots swarmed in the rigging and the canvas was swelling in the freshening breeze. The sight was one of such exuberance that momentarily he went to the window and forgot about the fact that he was in the presence of death.

  ‘I love this river,’ he said, almost to himself, and then Samuel brought him back to grim reality.

  ‘Where’s the corpse?’

  John turned. ‘Over there, on that table.’ But even as he spoke his voice was dying away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked his friend, reading the Apothecary’s expression.

  In consternation, John seized him by the arm. ‘It’s gone, Samuel. By God’s holy wounds, the body has gone.’

  They stared at one another in amazement, though there could be no doubt about it. The dead man and even the cloth that had covered him, were no longer there. The table was empty.

  Chapter Three

  Despite the horrors of the night, neither John Rawlings nor Samuel Swann found themselves to be impaired in any way as regards appetite, indeed both consumed a great deal of pickled meat and fresh oysters, to say nothing of quite a lot of beer, at the breakfast served to them before they departed the mysterious confines of The Devil’s Tavern. Then, having settled their account with the pot boy, the landlord being mysteriously unavailable, they stepped out into the colourful world of Wapping by day. But instead of heading for the river, John turned back in the direction of St Paul’s, Shadwell.