Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Very good. This way, gentlemen.’

  Roger made a loud retching sound which John ignored as they followed the assistant through the maze of slabs and finally drew to a halt before one particular corpse. Without ceremony, the attendant twitched back the concealing sheet and Sir William’s face appeared.

  John turned to the beau, who had gone a glorious shade of pea green. ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Roger, and bolted for the door.

  ‘That’s a pretty fellow!’ commented the attendant with a laugh.

  ‘Rather delicate I fear,’ John answered, grinning. He motioned to the body. ‘Do you mind if I have a closer look? I am an apothecary and interested in advancing my knowledge.’

  ‘By all means, Sir. As long as you leave him tidy.’

  John nodded, pulling the sheet right back so that only Sir William’s feet were covered.

  Under the shroud, the corpse had been stripped naked and John could see at a glance that it had undergone a considerable change since he had last examined it. The hours in the river had bloated the body up so that now the skin was stretched tautly over the flesh and had a blueish shade about it. In fact so marked was this inflation that John, bending towards the balding head, found that the pattern made by the fox’s head handle was no longer visible. He thought then that whoever had killed Sir William might well have known the effect water would have on his victim, and had chosen the river as a place to dispose of him with much care. But then again, John considered, the murderer might have been in a panic and pushed the body into the Thames as the most expedient way of getting it out of sight. With a sigh, he gave one last long look before drawing the sheet back over all that was left of Sir William Hartfield.

  Outside, Roger was leaning against the wall, drawing deeply from a silver hip flask. ‘Can we go now?’ he puffed, applying the handkerchief to his eyes.

  ‘Not until we’ve visited the Coroner and asked him to release your late father’s remains.’

  ‘Oh pox it!’ said the beau, stamping his foot like a petulant child. ‘I’ve had enough of death for one day.’

  John put on a sympathetic expression and nodded, despite a growing certainty that Roger was very far from being as distressed as he wanted the world to think.

  Chapter Seven

  The journey back from the mortuary to St James’s Square, two ill-matched points of destination if ever there were any, was not without incident. Twice Roger called for the coach to be stopped, on the first occasion that he might vomit behind a bush, on the second in order to take air and consequently avoid faintness. All in all, John, who had most reluctantly attended the beau as he heaved and gasped, had never been more glad to see civilisation return, and would have jumped straight into a hackney and gone home had not Roger insisted that he borrow his carriage. So it was that the Apothecary returned to Nassau Street in the beau’s equipage, a sight which much amused Sir Gabriel, who stared long and hard through his quizzing glass at the abundantly buttocked cupids.

  ‘My dear, how could you allow yourself to be seen in such a thing?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I rather like it,’ answered his son, suppressing a smile. ‘It is amusing, exuberant.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Gabriel, putting away the lorgnette, ‘is that what it is?’

  ‘Don’t tease me,’ John replied, undaunted. ‘It belongs to a man of style, a beau of cutting fashion, who happens to be the eldest son of the deceased.’

  ‘And a fiend of poor taste if his conveyance is anything to go by.’

  ‘Father, you are getting very intolerant. I am sure Mr Roger Hartfield would consider you staid in your outlook.’

  ‘That,’ answered Sir Gabriel crisply, ‘would be entirely up to him.’

  John looked at his watch. ‘Is there time for us to have sherry before supper?’

  ‘Of course there is. Let us go to the library. I am sure you have a great deal to tell me.’

  ‘And I want to hear all about Nicholas. Has he behaved himself?’

  ‘Impeccably. I made it my business to take a stroll to Shug Lane, partly for my health you understand, partly to see how the Muscovite was faring.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘There he was, firmly ensconced, selling a bottle of your most expensive perfume to an eager young widow. To say nothing of a cure for foul breath to a rotten-toothed barrister’s clerk.’

  ‘Did he bring you the day’s takings?’

  ‘Most certainly, and I gave the boy a shilling out of it as an advance against his wages.’

  ‘I presume from this that you approve of him?’

  ‘Indeed I definitely do.’ Sir Gabriel opened the library door. ‘I consider that Mr Fielding served you well with that introduction. Nicholas seems an industrious worker and, besides, the young man has something of an exotic air about him which is obviously favoured by females.’

  ‘How can you be so cynical?’

  ‘With ease,’ answered Sir Gabriel, and poured two generous measures of sherry into crystal glasses. He took a seat and smiled at his son blandly. ‘A youth of Nicholas’s stamp is very good for trade and there’s no denying it.’

  John took his glass. ‘Has he told you his story by any chance?’

  ‘Oh yes. We chatted in the shop while he made me tea.’

  ‘Do you think Tsar Peter was his great grandfather?’

  ‘It’s possible I suppose.’

  ‘What an interesting thought.’

  ‘Isn’t it.’ Sir Gabriel paused, then went on, ‘You have an abstracted air, my child. Is the murder of Sir William Hartfield presenting you with a fascinating puzzle?’

  ‘The entire affair is fascinating. First the wedding that never took place, then the bridegroom’s witness who ran from the church, then the body being held fast by the ship moored close by the very place where I was celebrating.’

  His father shook his head, his daunting wig towering. ‘I don’t know about that. Tell me.’

  ‘There was a square rigger, a beautiful, powerful vessel, moored in mid stream, just beyond The Devil’s Tavern. I could see her through the window until it grew dark, when the lamps on her masts shone on the river like suns. Anyway, according to the Coroner, Sir William’s body was found by the watermen, caught up in her mooring ropes. So all the time that I was staring at her, the victim was probably there, lying beneath the water.’

  Sir Gabriel refilled both glasses. ‘But that means he could have been thrown in anywhere and drifted with the tide until something finally ensnared him.’

  ‘It certainly does. So what I have got to discover is where Sir William spent the night before his marriage. For that is the place where he most likely met his end.’

  ‘He was not at his St James’s Square address then?’

  ‘No. Roger Hartfield told me on the journey to Wapping, between bouts of sickness and swooning, that though he was not at home himself, he was informed by the servants that his father left the house on the night prior to the ceremony and did not return.’

  ‘What about his country residence? Was Sir William there?’

  ‘That I shall find out tomorrow when I visit Kirby Hall. By the way, did you ask Nicholas to come here in the morning?’

  ‘He offered to call every day to see if you needed him.’

  ‘What a stout heart he is!’

  Sir Gabriel smiled a sagacious smile. ‘I think that young man will very soon make himself indispensable to you.’

  ‘To say nothing of rapidly worming his way into your affections.’

  John’s father gave a cry of laughter. ‘No, to say nothing of that at all.’

  As dawn shivered the sky on the following morning, John rose and performed his ablutions by candlelight, before dressing in sensible riding clothes. Then the Apothecary made his way through the quiet streets to the livery stables in Dolphin Yard where, in response to a note sent round the previous evening, a grey mare of impeccable character answering to the most unlikely name of Godiva, stood alre
ady saddled up, awaiting him. With a leg up from the hostler, John secured a bag containing a change of clothes to the back of the saddle, and trotted off, heading down towards The Strand, before the clocks had so much as struck six.

  Even at this hour of the morning, the City of London, which horse and rider entered by way of Temple Bar, was full of people, street traders and hawkers clashing with carts and wagons as they made their way along the thoroughfare, all attempting to avoid the miry ditches on either side, awash with pestilential filth from which indescribable odours came forth to poison the air. It was not easy to make progress, for the middle of the street was equally treacherous, full of cavities which harboured dirty puddles packed with garbage. It was considered great sport by carters and coachmen to charge their horses through these morasses when they had reached full tide and drench from head to toe any poor unfortunate pedestrian who happened to be passing at the time.

  Above John’s head as he carefully picked his way through, swung the elaborately carved signs of the shopkeepers, each giving the name and profession of its owner, one of the most fanciful belonging to a hosier who had erected a pole hung with stockings. As if taking up the challenge, a shoeblack working on the street corner beneath, was flying a shoe on the end of a stout stick, below which he squatted on his three-legged stool, his pipkin of oil and soot, his brushes, and a cast-off periwig for removing mud, spread out before him. Walking at a snail’s pace, the Apothecary proceeded through the stalls of Cheapside market, then on into Poultry, its very name indicating the kind of produce on sale there, before turning left into Threadneedle Street where the shadow of two great buildings, the Bank of England and the Royal Exchange, cast a gloom over both horse and rider.

  The path became clearer as John cut across into Bishopsgate Street, leaving the markets behind him. Now he was heading for the Bishops’ Gate itself, one of the principal entrances into the City, the others being the Cripple Gate and the Moor Gate. Passing through the ancient portal, there since medieval times when London had consisted of a walled citadel and little else, and so named because it had been the route into the City used by the Bishops of London, the Apothecary found himself in Bishopsgate Street Without, meaning beyond the city walls.

  The open ground of the Moor Fields, where the medieval population had played football and practised archery, even skating on the marshy land when it froze over, stretched out to John’s left, beyond them the Artillery Ground, where the Fraternity of Longbows, Crossbows and Handguns had trained in the time of Henry VIII. As a harsh reminder of the suffering of the present day, the London Workhouse could be glimpsed nearby and, further away, Bethlem Hospital, better known as Bedlam, where for an entrance fee of 2d. the beau monde could go and gaze at the antics of the insane. Not wanting to dwell on such a grim prospect, John coaxed his grey mare across the rough terrain of Shoreditch, emerging by the brewhouse off York Lane. From here it was but a quarter of a mile to Cock Lane, which led away from all signs of habitation and into the open countryside, ultimately going to the pretty rural paradise of Bethnal Green. Well aware that these fields were much frequented by highwaymen, the Apothecary checked that his pistol was in his pocket and took Godiva at a hard canter along the farm track which Cock Lane quickly became.

  The March sun now being high in the heavens and John seeing an extremely welcoming hostelry named The George standing beside the thoroughfare, he dismounted, leading his horse round to the stables. Catering as it presumably did for many travellers, the Apothecary was directed by the hostler to a Bog House in the field nearby, a rare luxury not offered by all. However, the odour emanating from the grim looking building was enough to send him in search of a tree. After which relief he went into the bar to order ale, hoping to get into conversation with the landlord so that he might seek information.

  As luck would have it, a young woman was serving, presumably the host’s daughter, for she tossed her head pertly as John approached and said, with a saucy spark in her eye, ‘And what may I do for you, Sir?’

  ‘Oh several things I expect,’ he answered, catching her mood and winking, ‘but first I would like a flagon of ale, and then directions as to how I can find Kirby Hall.’

  There was a sudden stillness in the flagstoned room and the few people who had been sitting on the rough hewn benches, consuming their daily beverage, stopped speaking and stared at him. John instantly came to the conclusion that news of Sir William Hartfield’s death had already reached the village and that curiosity was running rife. He decided to play the total innocent and adjusted his features accordingly.

  The serving girl looked at him closely. ‘Well, it’s not far, Sir. About another mile down the road. It’s the sizeable house built near to the watch tower. The lane leading to it is called Drift Way.’

  She was longing to ask him why he wanted to know, that was obvious, but clearly could not summon up the gall. The Apothecary decided to give her a helping hand.

  ‘I believe there’s an elderly lady living there. I have been asked to call on her to discuss her aches and pains. You see, I am a man of medicine and her family think I might be able to help her.’

  ‘Oh, that would be old Lady Hodkin,’ the girl said knowingly. ‘It’s true she’s always complaining. But I’m not sure you’d be welcome there today, Sir.’

  John’s eyes shone earnestly. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘There’s been a bereavement, a tragic death. It’s said that Sir William Hartfield, he was the owner, has drowned in the river.’

  The Apothecary looked horrified. ‘Good gracious! When?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. One of the gardeners rushed in here this morning to say that during the night a messenger had come from Sir William’s London house to inform the family of his death.’

  ‘What a shock. And for you, too. May I buy you a nip of gin?’

  The girl dimpled an impudent smile. ‘I always enjoy a drink with a gentleman. And my name is Suky, Sir, if you’d like to call me that.’

  The Apothecary bowed. ‘Rawlings. John Rawlings.’

  His companion lowered her voice. ‘What’s worse, Mr Rawlings, is that Sir William was about to get married. Secretly though, nobody was supposed to know.’

  ‘How very interesting.’

  Suky warmed to her tale. ‘One of the under footmen who thinks he’s sweet on me, overheard Sir William and Luke Challon talking about it. That’s how I found out. Just to think of it! Off to get married and then he dies.’

  Wondering to how many other people the servant had passed on this choice piece of gossip, John said, ‘It’s beyond belief! But why was Sir William being so furtive about getting wed?’

  ‘Because he had been misbehaving with the bride for years. She was his kept woman, his fancy piece.’

  ‘Are you telling me that was during the time of his first marriage?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  John held out his tankard for some more ale. ‘How very shocking! Surely Sir William’s family could not have approved. I have heard they are very respectable people.’

  Suky gave a delectable smile. ‘They’d like you to think they are. But it wouldn’t do to dig too deep. I reckon all of ’em’s got something to hide, even poor Miss Hesther.’

  ‘Is she the old lady’s companion?’

  ‘Yes, her eldest unmarried daughter. Sir William’s late wife’s sister. I’ve heard it said …’ Suky giggled. ‘… that she’s nursed a passion for her brother-in-law all these years, ever since she and her sister met him as young women.’

  ‘Then she must have been very hurt by the fact he was about to marry his mistress. That is, if she knew of it.’

  ‘Oh, she knew all right. Job, that’s the under footman, says they had all found out and were determined to stop it.’

  ‘And now the bridegroom is dead,’ said John without emphasis, watching her expression.

  Suky looked extremely thoughtful. ‘Yes, strange, isn’t it. I wonder how Sir William came to fall in the river. Or was he given a
helping hand, do you think?’

  ‘That’s naughty,’ the Apothecary answered reprovingly, ‘for surely no member of a loving family would harm another.’

  ‘In a loving family, no,’ she replied. ‘But I’m not so certain that the Hartfields know too much about love. In fact I’d say that, between ’em, they know a great deal more about hatred.’

  The whisper of spring was everywhere, in the wild flowers burgeoning beneath the hedgerows, in the swiftly important flight of birds, in the disturbing, primitive song of thrushes, in the sharp sunshine which lit the landscape with such crystal clarity. So it was in a mood of sparkling excitement, quite unsuited to the task in hand, that the Apothecary rode towards Kirby Hall on that mad March noontime. An excitement engendered by the fact that the world was coming back to life again after the winter and that he was young and alive and part of it.

  Before he had gone to bed on the previous evening, John had searched through Sir Gabriel’s library for a guide book and had found one dated 1754, the previous year. Looking up Bethnal Green, he had read, ‘this Parish hath the Face of a Country, affording every Thing to render it pleasant, Fields, Pasturage-grounds for Cattle, and formerly Woods and Marshes.’ And staring about him as he crossed over the Green, its few gracious houses nestling amongst the trees, the Apothecary thought how very accurate the description was, for he could not remember being in a prettier place for an age.

  Immediately opposite him stretched a tree-lined track from which John caught a distant glimpse of a Watch House. This, then, must be where his destination lay. Trotting on, the Apothecary turned his eyes to the right and drew in breath in wonderment at the unashamed ebullience of the red-bricked Stuart mansion which met his gaze.

  Surrounded by carefully tended gardens and lying back from the path, Kirby Hall consisted of a major central block, very grand and imposing, connected by several intervening ranges of elegant pavilions, a majestic gate tower with a clock and weathervane above, dominating all. Before the house stood a smooth arrangement of flower beds, known as a parterre, at its side, a bowling green. There could be no doubt, even at this distance, that great wealth had built this magnificent edifice and that considerable sums continued to maintain it. Wishing he were wearing something smarter, John walked Godiva up the drive then, having handed her to an hostler who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, went on foot up the path through the parterre and pulled the bell which hung outside the front door.