by Deryn Lake
‘You can rely on me, Mr Rawlings.’
‘I sincerely hope I can,’ the Apothecary said under his breath, as he went out into Piccadilly to hail himself a hackney coach to take him the short journey to St James’s Square.
He was now entering one of the most fashionable parts of London for the entire area of St James’s was considered excessively smart and bon ton. Not only had the Prince of Wales been born there but the street directory listed several Dukes and Earls amongst the residents of the Square. Furthermore, the inhabitants of this stylish quadrate had their own church, namely St James’s, Piccadilly, and their own club, White’s, which stood on the east side of St James’s Street. John considered, as the hackney dropped him outside number thirty-two, an imposing building if ever there was one, that Sir William Hartfield must have been rich indeed to have owned a house in so elite a quarter.
He had dressed sprucely but not ostentatiously for this occasion, a dark green cloth suit with gold decoration seeming to fit the bill perfectly. His waistcoat of matching material had perhaps just a fraction more embroidery on it than should have befitted one of Mr Fielding’s representatives, but the Apothecary considered this to be a personal statement of his love of fashion and did not let the matter concern him. And he had never been more grateful that he had turned himself out well than when the door was opened by a footman with a face as long and pompous as a viola da gamba, attempting to look down his nose at the visitor.
Forestalling any effort to turn him away, John said, ‘I am calling here on behalf of Mr John Fielding, Principal Magistrate, of the Public Office, Bow Street. I do not have an appointment but it is imperative that I see the head of the household immediately. I have some grave news to impart.’
Momentarily startled, the footman instantly regained his usual sang- froid. ‘Sir William Hartfield is not at home, Sir.’
‘I am aware of that,’ John answered quickly, covering his bad choice of words. ‘I have come to see his next of kin.’
There was no mistaking the meaning of that and the front door opened immediately, allowing John into a magnificent hallway, part of a spacious mansion built, so he guessed, in the 1660s.
‘If you will take a seat in the antechamber, I will fetch Mr Roger Hartfield. Who shall I say has called?’
‘John Rawlings.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
The servant departed, his expression bemused, leaving John to study the room into which he had been shown. Though small, it shouted aloud of Sir William’s wealth. Tall jars imported from India glinted azure and argent in the cold clear sunshine, rich brocades hung at the window, while a Chinese cabinet inlaid with gold stood beneath a decorated porcelain looking glass. Sitting carefully, the Apothecary took a seat in a velvet-covered chair which, by its graceful shape, denoted that it had been made in the reign of Queen Anne.
The noises of the house bore in on his consciousness. The ticking of the great clock in the hall, footsteps descending the stairs, the distant sound of a harpsichord, a girl laughing. Wondering whether it was the female twin, John got to his feet and was just about to cross to the door to have a look outside, when it opened.
‘Mr Roger will see you in the salon,’ the servant intoned expressionlessly. ‘Would you follow me, Sir.’
They crossed the vast area of the hall and turned down a passage leading off to the right. At the end of it lay two large doors which the footman threw open, announcing as he did so, ‘Mr John Rawlings, Sir.’
‘Come in,’ said a voice, and John stepped beyond the bowing servant into a room of unbelievable grandeur. Yet before he could take in his opulent surroundings, his eye was drawn to the figure that stood before the fireplace, one elbow resting nonchalantly on the mantelpiece.
‘Did he say Rawlings?’ it asked, and raised a quizzing glance to get a better look at the newcomer.
John stood thunderstruck, staring, mouth agape, at the fantastic creature who was regarding him, recognising him at once as the monstrous beau who had waved bejewelled fingers at him in St Paul’s Church, Shadwell.
A vast periwig sat on top of the man’s head, covered with the very finest powder, it being the current fashion to powder one’s headpiece, particularly in the winter months. But if the wig was overpowering, the beau’s clothes were even more so. A coat of pink silk lined with white, revealed beneath it a white satin waistcoat embroidered with silver, unbuttoned at the top to display a shirt of fine cambric with Valenciennes lace ruffles at the neck, these held in place by a glittering ruby brooch. The breeches, when John’s astonished gaze finally worked down to them, were of crimson velvet and encompassed the wearer’s knees without a wrinkle to be seen anywhere. On the legs themselves, which were rather fleshy in the calves, the Apothecary noted, were white silk stockings, these rising from shoes of blue Meroquin bearing stamping red heels and diamond buckles, which winked and glinted and rivalled the shafts of sunlight that fell on them through the many windows.
‘Yes, I am Rawlings,’ said John, his voice hoarse with wonderment.
The man smiled, displaying a fine set of large white teeth. ‘Roger Hartfield,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘How may I help you?’
And with that he made a little moue with his mouth, gave a silvery laugh, and pulled the bell rope.
‘Champagne, champagne,’ he shouted carelessly to the bowing footman who came almost immediately. “Tis not every day that a pretty fellow such as this crosses my path. Now, my dear chap, tell me why have you called?’
‘Sir,’ said John gravely, ‘I fear that I may be the bearer of ill tidings. Be good enough to prepare yourself.’ He fished in his pocket and drew out the bag containing the snuff and pill boxes. ‘Mr Hartfield, do you recognise these?’ he asked.
Roger threw them a disinterested glance. ‘Can’t say that I do, no.’
The Apothecary was dumbfounded. ‘They are not the property of your father?’
The beau shrugged. ‘Could be, I suppose. Damme, man, one snuff box is very like another.’
‘Even bearing an emerald such as this?’
Roger was about to reply when the door opened to admit the footman bearing a silver tray with glasses and champagne upon it.
‘Gibson,’ ordered the beau, ‘come over here.’ The servant did so, having first set down his burden on a side table. ‘Does this belong to my revered Papa?’ Roger went on.
The footman took the snuff box in a white gloved hand. ‘Indeed it does, Sir.’
‘There you are,’ said Roger triumphantly, as if he had just solved the riddle of the universe. ‘Why d’ye want to know?’
‘Because,’ John answered solemnly, ‘it was found on a body dragged out of the river Thames. A body that the Public Office has every reason to believe is that of Sir William Hartfield.’
‘Damme!’ exclaimed Roger violently. Then he rolled his eyes up in his head, turned white as chalk beneath his enamelled face paint, and crashed noisily to the floor, sending an exquisite clock flying as he did so.
‘He’s fainted!’ screeched the startled servant, taking a step backward.
‘So,’ answered John, reaching for his salts, ‘it would appear.’
Chapter Six
Roger Hartfield was far more heavily built than his elegant clothes would suggest. Bending over to pull the unconscious man into a sitting position, John found his arms straining in their sockets and was obliged to call the terrified footman, not an ideal companion in a crisis, to heave alongside him. But finally, as a result of their combined efforts, they managed to roll the beau into a ball and John thrust the head of the patient between his silk stockinged knees, simultaneously administering the salts to his flaring nostrils.
‘What, what, what?’ screeched Roger, sniffing, and cast a bleary eye in the Apothecary’s direction before once more lapsing into oblivion.
Fighting off a terrible suspicion that the beau was playing the scene to the full, John controlled himself and looked professional. ‘I need cold compresses for his head. I think that�
��s the only way I’m going to bring him round. Can you get me some ice and cloths?’
‘Certainly, Sir,’ the footman replied with alacrity, and left the room with considerable speed.
The door had barely closed behind him when it opened again. Turning from where he knelt beside Roger’s body, John found himself the subject of a very cold stare emanating from an extremely arresting woman. ‘And who might you be?’ she asked the Apothecary coolly, making it quite clear that she did not enjoy entering her own salon to find a member of the family lying on the floor with an entire stranger leaning over him.
John administered more salts. ‘John Rawlings, Ma’am. An apothecary. Presently calling on you on behalf of Mr Fielding, the Magistrate.’
The cold look did not falter. ‘And what possible business could that man have with us?’
‘The business of identifying a dead body,’ John answered, somewhat irritated by her attitude. He stood up and brushed at his knees.
The woman came into the room and closed the door behind her. She had grown paler but had lost none of her chilling attitude. In fact she seemed to glare even more as she said, ‘What body is this? Explain yourself more clearly.’
‘It was that of a man found floating in the Thames. Certain articles upon the victim’s person have led the Coroner to the conclusion that the remains are those of Sir William Hartfield.’
She drew in breath sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Perhaps you would like to see for yourself.’ And John passed the snuff and pill boxes into her reluctant hands.
She looked at them for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Yes, those belonged to my father-in-law.’
From the floor Roger began to make sounds of recovery, groaning noisily as he struggled to sit up. Seeing the newcomer, he exclaimed, ‘Lydia! I thought you were out.’
‘I returned and walked into the room to find you splayed upon the ground,’ she answered tartly. ‘This man, here, told me you had fainted.’
Helped by John, Roger struggled to his feet. ‘It was the shock. Apparently, a body has been found in the river which they believe to be Papa’s. God’s life but the strength went clean out of me when I heard the news.’
‘Well, it may not be so. It might be that of a common cutpurse who had stolen the goods and died with them on him.’
‘There was also a marriage certificate in the name of Sir William Hartfield and Miss Amelia Lambourn found in the dead man’s pocket book. I doubt very much that a thief would have bothered to keep that.’
Roger clutched his throat. ‘It all makes a terrible sense. That would explain why he did not appear at the wed …’
Lydia cut across him. ‘There’s no need to go into all that now. I’m sure our visitor would not be interested in family gossip.’
‘On the contrary,’ John answered evenly. ‘I might be very interested indeed. You see, we have very good reason to believe that Sir William was murdered.’
Two pairs of eyes regarded him in consternation, and John was alarmed to observe that Roger’s were rolling once more, the whites much on display.
‘Mr Hartfield, do sit down,’ he ordered firmly. ‘I would not like you to fall over again.’
But Roger ignored him, instead rushing from the room with his hand clapped over his mouth, making the most unpleasant retching sounds.
‘He’s a sensitive soul,’ Lydia said dismissively, then turned the full beam of her attention on John. ‘Now, tell me everything.’
The Apothecary paused, looking at her in silence, doing his best to sum her up before he spoke.
The creature he was regarding was a tall woman in an age of small people, almost as tall as John himself, a fact that she used much to her advantage, staring him straight in the eye without hesitation. Lydia was also well set up about the body, creating an overall impression of being both strong and muscular and not particularly feminine. However, giving the lie to this, there rose from her mannish shoulders a lovely neck, long and swan-like, black hair, waves and waves of it and unpowdered, looping down in curls around its whiteness. Lydia’s brows, as dark and defined as ravens’ feathers, rose in two curves above enormous eyes, deep blue and secretive. Yet despite the beauty of these, her main feature was a long strong nose which dominated her face above a full red mouth.
Wondering how he could possibly have missed so striking an individual at the wedding, and thinking that only sober black dress could have hidden such a smouldering loveliness, John gave a polite bow. ‘Madam, you have the advantage of me. You are aware of my name but I do not know yours. Nor, indeed, your position in Sir William’s household. Would you be so kind?’
‘I am Lydia Hartfield, widow of Sir William’s second son, Thomas, who was drowned at sea on one of his father’s ships,’ she answered promptly. ‘As I had no children, my father-in-law invited me to live in his house. I have been here for the last six years. I think it was generally considered that I would meet another husband and before too long leave the Hartfields in peace, but alas that has not happened.’
‘By fate or design?’ John asked.
The lips of the red mouth, until now harshly compressed together, relaxed, and Lydia smiled for the first time. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you meet nobody suitable or was your heart still set on the man you had lost?’
The smile vanished. ‘You are a very impertinent young person, has nobody ever told you that?’
‘Oh they have,’ John replied, walking a tight rope in his assessment of her. ‘But as an apothecary I am interested in how people think. You see, my old Master believed that the mind and the body are closely related and that the one could bring about ailments in the other. That is why I ask questions.’
She thawed a little, but not as much as he had hoped. ‘Well the answer is that I met nobody who could come up to Thomas’s standard.’ She motioned him towards a chair. ‘Now pray sit down, Mr Rawlings, and tell me about the body found in the Thames. I find myself hard put to believe it was Sir William’s.’
‘Then I am afraid you must be prepared to change your mind. The corpse was that of a man in his sixties, of average height and build and well preserved for his years. He had white hair but was balding, his head shaved for his wig …’
Lydia caught her breath and put both hands to her mouth. ‘You are describing my father-in-law exactly.’
John nodded. ‘I feared as much. You see, the vicar of St Paul’s, Shadwell, has also given me a similar description.’
The deep blue eyes flashed then narrowed. ‘The vicar? How did you come to see him?’
The Apothecary leant forward, his clasped hands between his knees. ‘I am not going to waste your time, Mrs Hartfield, by indulging in minor deceits. I know about the wedding ceremony that did not take place. I am aware that most members of the family attended the church, all dressed in black, though I am not certain that you were one of them. I am also sensible of the fact that the bride left in a storm of tears because Sir William did not appear. Now, I think, we all know the reason why, though maybe she does not. Perhaps, therefore, you could tell me where I may locate Miss Amelia Lambourn, for that is her name, isn’t it?’
The widow’s ferociously beautiful features contorted. ‘In answer to your first question, no I was not present. I am not the type that dances on the grave of another. And a grave it would have been if he had married her, for the weeping bride is no one to be pitied, you can believe me. She is a wretched little schemer and an unprincipled slut. As to her whereabouts, I have absolutely no idea where she can be found. I believe Sir William had set her up somewhere, no doubt in the lap of luxury. But if you want her exact address, you’ll have to ask Luke Challon.’
‘Luke Challon?’ the Apothecary repeated.
‘My father-in-law’s private secretary. He is privy to all his affairs.’ Lydia laughed bitterly at the double entendre.
John assumed his most sympathetic expression. ‘I take it that Miss Lambourn was a thorn in the family’s side?’
/> ‘Then you take it correctly. She is a common strumpet after every penny she can get hold of. While my father-in-law is that archetypally foolish figure, the old man clinging desperately to his youth by means of an association with a female considerably younger than he is.’
‘The seasoned campaigner struggling to win his last battle. Alas, I have many such patients.’
For no particular reason that John could see, this struck Lydia as extremely funny and her forbidding face lit as the red lips turned up at the corners and she burst out laughing. ‘Oh la la!’ she gasped. ‘And what a battle it is, no doubt.’ Then she sobered. ‘But he lost his, didn’t he, poor old fellow? Oh Mr Rawlings, how did Sir William die?’
‘He was struck over the head with a great stick, or at least by something that bore an ornamental fox’s head for handle. Then he was thrown into the river.’
Lydia swung to the other extreme and became immensely still. ‘God’s life,’ she murmured. ‘Who could have done such a thing?’
‘Someone who wanted to prevent his marriage at all costs, perhaps.’
She regarded him solemnly. ‘But only his family desired that, and none of us would have harmed him.’
John looked at her very seriously. ‘For all that I will have to ask your relatives questions. Do you have a few moments to tell me about them?’
Lydia stood up. ‘No, I don’t think I have. I believe it best that you request Luke Challon to help you. He can give you an impartial view whereas I cannot.’
The Apothecary nodded. ‘And where may I find this Luke?’
‘He’s at the country house in Bethnal Green at the moment. He was very concerned when Sir William did not turn up for the wedding and I believe has gone there to initiate enquiries.’
‘I see. But you were not?’
Lydia frowned, the black brows sweeping downwards into a line. ‘Not what?’
‘Not concerned when your father-in-law didn’t appear?’
‘It was the general belief that he had seen sense at last, had decided not to proceed with the marriage, and consequently was lying low for a few days.’
