by Deryn Lake
‘Where are we going?’ asked Samuel, surprised.
‘I want to show this soggy but legible certificate to the incumbent of St Paul’s. Sam, I have the strangest feeling that that sinister wedding I told you of and the disappearing body are somehow connected. Because if they are not it is the most extraordinary coincidence that the corpse should be carrying a licence to marry.’
Samuel nodded. ‘Too great a coincidence for my liking. I reckon that the bridegroom did not appear because he was already dead.’
‘I agree. Now, let it be hoped that the priest knew the groom by sight and can describe him for us.’
As luck would have it, the vicar of St Paul’s was already present when they arrived, appearing to be engaged in the humble task of dusting, a fact which John found more than a little endearing. He straightened as he heard the sound of approaching feet and dropped the duster into a pew, tugging at his cassock and snatching up a Bible which he hastily opened as if he had been studying it all along.
‘Blessed are the meek,’ he intoned.
‘Blessed indeed,’ responded John, and advanced on the cleric, his expression that of an earnest good citizen.
‘Good morning, my friend,’ said the vicar heartily. ‘Are you new to the parish? I do not seem to know your face.’
The Apothecary decided on the expediency of a minor lie. ‘Sir, I am actually present on the business of Mr John Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street, and in that respect I am new to the parish. So may I just say how very much I admire your beautiful church, known as that of the sea captains I believe. In fact so much do I admire it that I will not hurry away when Mr Fielding’s affairs are concluded.’
The priest cleared his throat. ‘And what business could Mr Fielding possibly have with me?’
John looked grave and Samuel bowed his head. ‘I wonder if you would mind looking at this, Sir.’ And from his pocket he produced the wedding licence that he had found on the corpse.
The vicar took it with hands that trembled slightly. He was balding, pink and inclined to be porky but for all that obviously nurtured a sensitive soul. ‘God bless us all!’ he exclaimed as he read it. ‘Where did this come from?’
The Apothecary’s countenance was that of a professional mourner. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, Sir, but it was found on the body of a man pulled from the Thames last night.’
The priest blanched and sat down rapidly, dropping the bible onto the floor. ‘Surely it could not have been that of Sir William himself?’
John shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Would you care to describe him for me?’
‘I’ll try,’ answered the poor man, with such a sad note in his voice that the Apothecary found himself producing his smelling salts from an inside pocket. ‘Here, inhale these,’ he said gently. ‘They will make you feel better.’
‘I simply cannot believe any harm could have befallen him,’ the distressed cleric went on, sniffing the salts dejectedly. ‘He was a benefactor of the church and a good citizen. But when he did not attend his own wedding I began to have a sense that all might not be well.’
John felt a thrill of cold seize his spine as he realised that his guess had been correct.
‘He did not attend his own wedding?’ repeated Samuel, speaking for the first time.
‘No, Sir. It was to have been here, late yesterday afternoon. But Sir William did not come.’
‘Is he of this parish then?’ Samuel continued, impressing John with his alertness.
‘Not exactly, though he does have an office here. Sir William owns a fleet of ships, all of which sail from Wapping. But he was born in Shadwell, you know, and baptised by one of my predecessors. Therefore, I consider him to be one of my parishioners even though he does not reside amongst us.’
‘And why did he choose to be wed here rather than nearer his home?’ the Apothecary asked, administering the salts once more.
‘Because he wanted his marriage kept secret,’ answered the priest, his voice a whisper. ‘There was family disapproval, or so he informed me. But they found out about it, you know. The church was full of them yesterday. In fact Mr Challon – he is Sir William’s secretary and therefore known to me – told me on the very eve of the wedding that he thought Sir William’s elderly mother might make a scene.’
‘How ghastly!’
‘Indeed so.’
‘But they did not have that satisfaction,’ put in Samuel.
‘No,’ said the priest, and wiped away a tear.
Genuinely sorry for him, John said, ‘Sir, I do not wish to cause you further pain but I must ascertain whether the dead man and Sir William are one and the same. The body I saw, in my official capacity, was that of a handsome man in his sixties. He had a bald head, though with some white hair at the back. He was about five feet and eight inches in height and of a medium build. I believe that his eyes were blue. He carried a silver snuff box, very finely made and richly decorated with an emerald which, to judge by its clarity, probably originated in the Indies. Is … was … that Sir William?’
The priest straightened his shoulders and got a grip on his emotions. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Then I am afraid your benefactor is dead, Sir.’
The vicar nodded his head and said very simply, ‘Then I shall pray for his immortal soul.’
It had often been the habit of Sir Gabriel Kent, retired merchant of the City of London and man of elegance, to sally forth on a fine spring day and take the air for the sake of his health. And today being so capricious a March morning, with a merry breeze teasing the budding trees and pale sunshine splashing the walls of the houses in Nassau Street, Sir Gabriel called for his valet shortly after breakfast in order to help him prepare for the occasion of progressing abroad.
As ever, Sir Gabriel wore clothes fashioned in black and white, never displaying colour upon his person as he did not consider it good taste to do so. On festive occasions or great fetes, Sir Gabriel permitted silver to replace the paler shade, but this was as far as he was prepared to go in the interests of celebration. However, to his son John’s addiction to high fashion and rainbow hues he was prepared to turn an indulgent blind eye, as he also was to the foolish escapades of youth into which his adopted offspring was prone to blunder from time to time.
Standing now before the mirror in his dressing room, Sir Gabriel fastened the cornelian clasp of his cloak – he conceded to colour in his jewellery – then asked his servant to affix to his head his second best tricorne. This was no easy matter for Sir Gabriel had a somewhat old-fashioned taste in wigs and still wore a towering three-storey affair, often seen in the reign of the Stuart kings but not so much in that of the Hanoverians. However, as Sir Gabriel was not the sort of man who would ever allow his hat to fly off in public, a masterpiece of pinning was a necessity, and this the valet undertook, muttering silently as he did so. Eventually, though, all was ready and Sir Gabriel, having been handed his great stick by a footman, stepped from his house and proceeded down Nassau Street in the direction of Leicester Fields and, ultimately, the far boundaries of St James’s Park.
He was a formidable sight, standing tall and straight despite the fact that he was only a few weeks away from his seventy-first birthday. And though he may have leant a little more heavily on his stick than he had twenty years earlier, Sir Gabriel did not quibble with this and accepted it as part of life’s natural progression.
At the far end of Leicester Fields stood Leicester House, usually occupied by the Princes of Wales, from which they set up a rival camp to the court of their fathers, whom they customarily detested. Now, however, there was a far more compliant prince. George II’s grandson, another George, a pleasant but vulnerable young man, had on the death of his father, Frederick, Prince of Wales, become the heir. Staring up at the imposing building, Sir Gabriel hoped that George would continue to lodge there, if only in order to escape the attentions of his domineering mother and her lover, the Earl of Bute.
Striding briskly, Sir Gabri
el passed William Hogarth’s house, which stood at number thirty, and was just thinking how pleasant the walk was and how well the valet had secured his tricorne against the wind, when a hoydenish figure, hatless and with its stockings not neatly connected to the knee of its breeches, turned into the Fields from St Martin’s Street, and began to run in a manner that Sir Gabriel could only think of as uncontrolled.
‘Really,’ he muttered beneath his breath, ‘what are things coming to? Has no one ever explained to these people the meaning of the word deportment.’
And then he stopped in his tracks, a look of astonishment on his face, as the figure drew closer and revealed itself to be that of his son, out of breath, dishevelled and in need of a shave.
‘Merciful heavens!’ exclaimed Sir Gabriel. ‘My dear child, what has happened to you?’
‘I’ve been made Free,’ answered John Rawlings, with a crooked smile. ‘And I am also in search of a dead man.’
Sir Gabriel took him firmly by the elbow. ‘I think we had better go straight home and then you can explain yourself further. There is no question of your opening the shop in that state.’
John nodded. ‘This morning I had what could only be described as an extremely primitive wash. What with freezing water, no razor, and the thought of a body I had come across on the previous evening, a body, I might add, after which I am now in hot pursuit, it is surprising that I look as good as I do. So my dear and elegant Papa, please bear with me and take that disapproving expression from your face.’
As always, Sir Gabriel weakened, finding it impossible to be annoyed when his son cajoled him. ‘I’ll say nothing further,’ he answered, ‘merely that when you have completed your toilette I would like to be told all that took place on such a momentous day as you seem to have experienced.’
‘I can think of nothing I would like to do more,’ John answered cheerfully. ‘Now why don’t you take a further turn round the Fields and let me run on so that I can make a start? It will save valuable talking time, for later, I’m afraid, I must go to Bow Street.’
‘You really are looking for a body?’
‘Yes, Father. I regret to say I really am.’
An hour later, his attire and visage completely restored, the Apothecary sat with Sir Gabriel in the library of their home in Nassau Street and explained to him all that had taken place on the previous day, describing with much relish the Court of Assistants and the characters who had been present.
‘There was one old goat who bleated on and on about my paying the increased fine for admitting Foreign Apothecaries. I explained to him I had first applied to be made Free last August so it was on those terms I should be let in, but he was such a know-all he couldn’t listen to anything except his own voice.’
‘But you won the day?’
‘Yes. I paid the lesser fine. I have to go back to sit an examination but that is a mere formality. So, after all this time, I can really call myself an apothecary.’
‘I am very proud,’ said Sir Gabriel. ‘And I apologise that I looked askance at your tatterdemalion appearance. You obviously have enjoyed an extremely exciting time.’
‘It was all quite extraordinary,’ John answered, and told his father everything that had happened once he had arrived in Wapping, including the wedding that did not take place, the finding of the body and the reasons why he believed the dead man not only to be Sir William Hartfield but also to have been murdered.
‘And now you want him found?’
‘Yes. Bodies do not walk out by themselves. He must have been removed at first light.’
‘And by this time might well be lying in a freshly dug grave.’
‘Indeed he might But whatever the case, it is my duty to inform Mr Fielding of all that I saw.’
‘You know, it is my belief,’ stated Sir Gabriel thoughtfully, ‘that the watermen may have been acting under instructions.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps it is their bounden duty to drag corpses from the river. Maybe it is they and no other who are responsible for keeping the Thames clear of carrion.’
‘I think you’re right,’ John exclaimed. ‘I’m sure I have heard that fact now you come to say it.’
‘Then the sooner you get to the Public Office and sort this business out, the better it will be.’
John glanced at his watch. ‘If I go now I might well be home in time to dine with you.’
‘And what about the shop?’
‘Just for today, it being rather an especial one, I shall let it stay closed.’
Sir Gabriel got to his feet. ‘I’ve a mind to drive out with you. I can make a few calls while you are closeted with Mr Fielding. I shall send a footman forthwith to get the carriage brought round.’ He turned at the doorway, the suggestion of a smile lighting his eyes. ‘Would you like me to lend you a hat, my dear? You seem to have mislaid yours.’
The Apothecary gave an amused grin. ‘I have my own second best, thank you. As to my other, the one bought especially for yesterday’s ceremony, after a day of attempting to escape me it finally plunged into the Thames this morning. The last I saw of it, it was heading determinedly for the sea. Samuel offered to dive in and capture it but I declined his proposal. I did not relish the prospect of two dead men in the river.’
Sir Gabriel inclined his head. ‘Just so. A wise decision.’
‘I am glad you agree,’ said his son, attempting to look serious.
The third house on the left-hand side of Bow Street, that is if one had made one’s entrance from Russell Street, looked very much like the others, in fact there seemed nothing remarkable about it at all. Tall, four storeys indeed, and thin, it was built in similar style to the rest of the property in this mainly residential area. But here resemblance ceased. For it was this house which, some seventeen years earlier, had been the dwelling place of Sir Thomas de Veil, Colonel of the Westminster Militia and Justice of the Peace. And it was from here, his own home, that he had administered equity to the city of London. Thus the Public Office in Bow Street had been born. After Sir Thomas’s death, the house had been occupied by the author and magistrate, Henry Fielding, but his declining health had led to his half-brother, John, taking his place. And it was to see this man, already becoming something of a legend because of his blindness, an affliction which seemed to handicap him not in the least, that John Rawlings was presently making his way.
As Sir Gabriel’s coach, a dark affair drawn by snow white horses, pulled up before the door, the Apothecary got out swiftly, remembering the stark terror he had felt when he had first laid eyes on the place, suspected as he had been at the time of committing a murder. Now, though, he was glad to see the house’s graceful lines rise before him, knowing that he could share the burden of his belief that a man had been done to death, with one of the sharpest brains in London. It was a disappointment, therefore, to be told that not only was the court not in session but that Mr Fielding was away from home, having driven out with Mrs Fielding for the purpose of visiting friends.
‘Would you like to see Mr Jago, Sir?’ asked the fellow in charge of the Public Office.
John nodded gladly. ‘Indeed I would.’ For if the formidable Magistrate was not available, the next best thing was to talk to his clerk, the foxy faced, sandy haired Joe Jago, a man whose origins were something of a mystery to John, for he spoke with the accent of one who had started life amongst the criminal fraternity yet worked on the side of law and order.
‘Then take a seat, Sir, and I’ll go and fetch him.’
But already a voice was saying, ‘Why, bless me, if it ain’t Mr Rawlings,’ and Joe himself was coming into the room, some papers in his hand. ‘Well now, Sir, and what can I do for you?’ he went on.
The Apothecary stood up and made him a polite bow. ‘There is a certain matter I have to report to this office. May I talk to you?’
‘By all means. Step into Mr Fielding’s study. He’s gone abroad with Mrs Fielding and Mary Ann. But if you tell me what you want to
say, I shall report back to him faithfully.’
The clerk sat down on the other side of a paper-covered desk, pushing back his wig and scratching his head with his quill pen. ‘Now then, Mr Rawlings, I’m all attention.’
‘I’ll come straight to the point, then. Last night I stayed at The Devil’s Tavern in Wapping. I was there with Samuel Swann, my friend the goldsmith, whom you know of old, celebrating the fact that yesterday I was made Free of the Company.’
‘And about time too. Well done, Sir.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, just as we were going to bed a waterman came in, soaking wet, and told the landlord that he needed the cock fighting area. This seemed to be some secret code between them because Samuel and I were rapidly shown to our room. After that I heard the sound of footsteps and something being carried up an outside flight of stairs. Later, when all was quiet, I went to investigate and found a dead man lying on a table in one of the first floor rooms.’
He paused for effect and Joe Jago said, ‘And in the morning he was gone, I suppose.’
John gaped at him. ‘How did you know?’
The clerk scratched his head so hard that his wig fell over one ear. ‘Because the watermen would have moved him on to the mortuary by then. Bless you, Sir, for every body they bring in they are entitled to a reward from the Coroner of anything between four shillings and sixpence and five shillings. Obviously, late at night they cannot deliver the goods, so to speak, so they would leave it somewhere until morning. No doubt they have an arrangement with the landlords of various hostelries to lodge the corpses with them till daylight comes. There’s nothing illegal about that.’
The Apothecary nodded. ‘My father suggested as much. But there is one thing, Mr Jago, that I feel you ought to know.’
‘And what might that be?’
