by Deryn Lake
Already there were signs that this was a house of mourning. The curtains on the many windows had been drawn fast and the door knocker was carefully encased in dark flannel. The footman who answered wore a black ribbon over his livery and a long face to match it. Clearly expecting John to be a neighbour come to offer his condolences, his eyes widened in surprise at the travel-stained spectacle which the Apothecary presented.
‘Yes, Sir?’ the servant enquired, his voice solemn as the knell of doom.
‘I have come to see Lady Hodkin,’ John answered cautiously.
‘I am afraid she cannot be disturbed, Sir. There has been a bereavement in the family and they are not receiving,’ came the mournful reply.
‘But I fear I must disturb her,’ the Apothecary answered firmly. ‘You see, I am here on the business of the Public Office, Bow Street, making an investigation into the mysterious death of Sir William Hartfield.’
The footman looked thoroughly startled, his eyebrows shooting upwards towards his white wig. News of foul play had obviously not reached the servants’ hall. John wondered if it had even been relayed to the family by the rider who had come through the darkness to tell them of the loss of its head.
‘I regret having to shock you,’ he continued, very aware of how brutal and uncaring he must sound, ‘but it is essential that I speak to someone. Are any of Sir William’s sons available?’
‘No, Sir. Mr Roger and Mr Julian are in London, and Mr Hugh is on a voyage to France.’
‘Then what about Mr Challon, the secretary?’
‘Mr Challon has gone to Wapping, Sir, to inform those who work in Sir William’s office of the tragedy.’
‘Then if Lady Hodkin is unavailable I will have to speak to one of the other ladies.’ John softened his tone even further. ‘I would not inflict this on them were the matter not so urgent.’
‘Then I will try to find Mrs Hartfield or Miss Hesther. Please take a seat and I will make enquiries.’
With those words the front door opened wide and John found himself ushered into a stately grand hall, not typically Stuart in design, having something of an earlier style about it. From there he was shown into a small panelled room, somewhat dark and oppressive in atmosphere. Thinking how greatly all this contrasted with Sir William’s London home, the Apothecary sat down, wondering what was going to happen next. If the ladies of the house stood firm against interruption to their mourning, there was little he could do. Even Mr Fielding’s letter of authorisation would not get him past a determined set of weeping women. Hoping that one of them would decide to be cooperative, John sat listening to the ticking of the clock, pondering whether he would be able to get home that night or whether it would be too dark to leave Bethnal Green. A factor of great significance in view of the highwaymen who haunted the surrounding countryside.
The door opened and John saw that the footman had returned. ‘Lady Hodkin will receive you now, Sir,’ he intoned, his face expressionless though his eyes were beady with curiosity. ‘Would you care to use our facilities first?’
And before John could say a word he was propelled back into the hall and into a niche containing an enormous mahogany projection, complete with holes, brass handles and cocks, the whole frightening edifice being known as a plunger closet. This monstrosity filled the space so closely that it was impossible to shut the door while the thing was in use. Holding his breath, the Apothecary availed himself of its noisome services, then rushed out to wash off the dust of his journey in the sturdy tripod with basin and jug that thankfully stood outside the horrid little cabinet. A few moments later, in stark contrast, he was ascending the grandest of grand staircases, heavy with richly carved oak banisters, heading towards a landing with a very fine moulded plaster ceiling.
The footman glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who should I say is calling, Sir?’
‘John Rawlings.’
‘Very good.’ The man halted before a door and gave a deferential cough, then he knocked.
‘Come in,’ called a quavering voice.
‘Mr John Rawlings, m’Lady,’ he announced and made a rapid retreat, leaving the Apothecary to enter the room alone.
Here, too, both curtains and shutters were drawn, betokening a place of death, and John had to peer through the gloom to make out his surroundings. Staring round, he saw that he was in some kind of parlour which, in normal circumstances, must have been quite pleasant and cosy. Now, however, with its tapestry-hung walls and opulently ornate ceiling, the place appeared dismal and dark and just a little sinister. To add to the menacing atmosphere, the Apothecary was certain he could hear the faint sound of wheezing, as if some creature were struggling for breath in the blackness.
A voice spoke out of the shadows behind him. ‘And who the devil might you be, young man?’
John started violently then whirled round, narrowing his eyes. Sitting in a chair, looking almost like a large bolster, was a dumpy shape that appeared to be human. Staring even more closely, the Apothecary was able to recognise the features of the odious old woman he had seen in the church. As best he could in the darkness, he made a bow.
‘The name is Rawlings, Ma’am. Here about the business of Mr John Fielding, the Principal Magistrate.’
There was a snort of contempt. ‘Common upstart, he and his brother both. Came from nowhere, no good breeding, and now they think they can lord it over us all. Well, he ain’t got no jurisdiction here, Sir, so you’d best be off.’
John stared at her, utterly amazed and totally lost for words. Then a low growl echoed through the shadows, apparently her last say on the subject. The Apothecary felt the sweat break out on his brow, certain that he was in the clutch of lunatics. Then he became aware of something moving on Lady Hodkin’s lap. Taking a step forward, John saw that it was an ancient and ugly pug, the source of the asthmatic sounds he had heard earlier. Disliking both the dog and its owner, he drew in breath and decided to ignore the speaker’s great and venerable age.
‘I’m afraid that that is where you are wrong, Madam. Mr Fielding’s men have authority to go anywhere in the kingdom in search of villains. Which is precisely what I am doing now. I am seeking out the scoundrel who cruelly did Sir William Hartfield to death.’
There was a pause before she answered, ‘Bah! What rubbish is this? My son-in-law drowned accidentally.’
The Apothecary advanced another step and turned on her a terrible gaze. ‘Sir William Hartfield was beaten over the head with a stick and was then thrown into the river. I know because I examined his body shortly after it was retrieved. There can be no disputing the facts. And it is those facts which give me, acting on the Magistrate’s behalf, the absolute right to question all those connected with the dead man. In fact, Madam, I’ll go one better. Refusal by any person to cooperate can only be taken by those in authority as a possible sign of guilt.’
Lady Hodkin let out a feeble cry and it occurred to John that the old wretch was a past mistress at play acting.
‘Hesther, Hesther, come to me at once,’ she screeched. ‘There is a man in here, threatening me.’
The far door, presumably leading to a bedroom, flew open in rapid response to this and a plump woman of mature years and completely nondescript appearance, rushed in breathlessly.
‘Now, now, Mother. What’s happening? Who are you, Sir?’
‘An officer of the law,’ John answered dramatically, and watched with a certain satisfaction as the poor creature gasped and sat down hastily.
‘He’s terrorising me, he’s terrorising me,’ the old woman bleated meanwhile. ‘Oh, my heart. I’m going to have a seizure. I can feel one coming on.’
‘Give her this,’ said the Apothecary, passing Hesther his salts.
She stared at the bottle suspiciously. ‘What is it?’
‘A reviving spirit. Please trust me, Ma’am. It will do Lady Hodkin no harm, I assure you.’
She shot him such a grateful and pathetic look that John’s heart went out to her. The impression he had recei
ved in St Paul’s had been utterly right. Hesther Hodkin had devoted her life to caring for a selfish old tyrant who had ruined it for her in return.
‘You didn’t threaten her, did you?’ Hesther whispered pleadingly.
‘No, of course not,’ John lied. ‘I came to see her about the death of her son-in-law, that is all.’
Hesther’s already pasty complexion turned even greyer. ‘I cannot believe that William is dead.’ She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. ‘Roger’s letter …’
‘Yes?’
‘It seemed to me that it hinted at foul play, though he did not come out and directly say so. Tell me …’
But she got no further. The old woman, beating the air with her stick, managed to land a glancing blow on her daughter’s shoulders. Near to tears, Hesther administered the salts.
John could not resist it. ‘I see you are very handy with your cane, Madam. Perhaps you should watch where you are aiming.’
Tossing the pug to one side, Lady Hodkin rose from her chair like a fury. ‘Get out, get out I say. Common little beast. Don’t you ever show your face round here again, do you hear me!’
‘I shall show my face as often as Mr Fielding requires me to do so,’ John answered with dignity, then looked in Hesther’s direction. ‘I shall await you downstairs, Miss Hodkin. I am afraid there are certain questions I must ask you.’
‘You’re not to speak to him,’ yelled the old tyrant. ‘He’s a tradesman.’
‘Oh Mother, really!’ Hesther answered miserably as the door closed behind the Apothecary’s retreating back.
Yet despite this very minor stand against her parent’s domination, it still took the poor woman an age to extricate herself from Lady Hodkin’s clutches. In fact John, waiting below in the same small chamber, was on the point of taking his leave when Hesther finally threw open the door.
‘I am so very sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I’m afraid my poor Mama does suffer with her nerves.’
‘Yet obviously still maintains her strength,’ John answered drily.
‘Oh yes, yes indeed.’ Hesther glanced over her shoulder nervously. ‘She has forbidden me to speak to you. She says that she is going to write a letter of complaint to Mr Fielding. In fact she is threatening all kinds of terrible things.’ The unhappy woman paused for breath. ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, what shall I do?’
John gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Could we not speak somewhere private, somewhere where your mother does not go?’
Hesther frowned. ‘But where could that possibly be?’
‘Out of this house, perhaps.’
She stared at him in horror. ‘Oh, but that would not be seemly. I mean …’
The Apothecary looked at her intently. ‘Miss Hodkin, I believe you were very fond of your late brother-in-law.’
She flushed unalluringly. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, I shall pay you the courtesy of telling you the truth about him. What you feared is, alas, a fact. Sir William was murdered and thrown into the river, his assailant, at the moment, unknown.’
Hesther clutched her throat and let out a terrible sob, but said nothing.
‘That is where I enter the picture,’ John continued. ‘Mr Fielding has entrusted me with the task of finding his killer and bringing him to justice. The only way I can do this is by talking to everyone involved and sifting through their evidence. Therefore, I would ask that you meet me later tonight in The George, the inn by the roadside, little more than a mile from here. I am sure that you will be able to assist me enormously.’
Hesther looked at him, her eyes awash with tears. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then I’ll come,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’ll do all I can to help you cause that wicked being to answer for his crime.’
Impetuously, John kissed her fingers. ‘I admire your courage, Miss Hodkin. Shall we say eight o’clock?’
She started to weep and turned her head away. ‘Yes, eight o’clock,’ she replied in a choked voice. Then she withdrew her hand and hurried from the room.
Chapter Eight
For an hostelry set in so out of the way a place, The George appeared to do remarkably good trade. So much so, the Apothecary considered himself lucky to get the last room in the house, packed as the inn was with wayfarers and travellers. But once having dealt with the problem of securing himself a bed, John took the redoubtable Godiva round to the stables, unhitched his bag from the saddle and went briefly to the small chamber beneath the eaves which had been allocated to him. Then, having washed and changed into clean clothes, he hurried to the parlour, the smell of cooking reminding him all too clearly that he hadn’t eaten a thing since an extremely early breakfast.
In common with most coaching inns, the dining arrangements at The George were divided into two, the humbler travellers eating in the kitchen, the people of quality in the parlour. And though the Apothecary would have much preferred to dine amongst the locals, for the kitchen was always the place in which the best gossip could be overheard, one glance told him that it was already full and he had little alternative but to make his way to the other location.
Taking his seat at an unoccupied table laid for four, John took a swift look round at the other guests already assembled. An over-painted lady of uncertain years, together with her maid, both sitting nearby, smiled as she caught his eye. A red-faced parson, studying a book, muttered a surly greeting. A London family, obviously setting off on a visit, ignored him entirely. Whilst a man with a loud voice, whom John took from his flamboyant appearance to be a member of the acting fraternity, shouted a loud ‘Good evening’. Having bowed and smiled at them all, the Apothecary turned his attention to the bill of fare, determined to fill his stomach before Hesther arrived. Listed under the word ‘Eating’ was a choice of several dishes, all advertised at the price of One Shilling. Marvelling at the cheapness of it all, John ordered beef broth served with meat and vegetables, to be followed by pie, bread and cheese. All of this to be washed down with several tankards of ale. Then in happy anticipation of the meal to come, he sat contentedly, covertly studying the peculiarities of the human race.
It was at this moment that two men walked in and took a seat at a table almost directly behind his; two men at whom, in normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given a second glance. But there had been something about one of them that had brought the Apothecary back to a state of full alertness. For though he had been unable to get a really good look, John could have sworn that Valentine Randolph, the man he had seen both at the wedding and later in The Devil’s Tavern and whom he believed to be Sir William Hartfield’s office manager, had just come into the room, an extraordinary coincidence to say the least of it. Wondering how he could turn round without obviously gaping, John hit on the scheme of knocking his salt cellar to the floor and, in retrieving it, making a close inspection.
The plan worked even better than he could have wished. The man at the table behind politely leaned down from his chair to be of assistance and thus came face to face with the Apothecary who, by this time, was scrabbling about on his hands and knees. It was Randolph all right, John was certain of it. Indeed, there was just the merest hint of recognition in the man’s eyes, though of the kind that cannot recall where or when the meeting has taken place.
‘Much obliged, Sir,’ said the Apothecary gratefully, as the salt cellar changed hands.
‘A pleasure, Sir,’ answered the other, and turned back to his companion.
John strained his ears. ‘… was killed?’ Randolph was whispering. ‘I simply can’t believe it.’
‘Apparently it’s true. Roger wrote a private note to me. It seems a man from Bow Street took him to the mortuary …’
Randolph gave a low but distinct chuckle. ‘I’m sure he appreciated that!’
‘… and there is talk of Sir William being struck before he went into the river.’
The voice died away again but the Apothecary clearly heard Valentine Randolph snatch in his brea
th. However, it was at this moment that his meal arrived, steaming in its generous bowl, together with Suky bearing more ale and a wink about the eye.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘They told me you’d come back.’
John smiled. ‘It was too dark to return to London so I decided to extend my stay.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, do you have a snug, or any other small room in which I could have a private conversation?’
Suky looked at him sharply. ‘Why? Expecting company?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’
‘A lady is it?’
‘Yes. Miss Hesther from the big house. She wants to discuss her mother’s health.’
Suky grinned, a cheeky expression on her face. ‘Oh Miss Hesther!’ she exclaimed noisily. ‘I thought you meant somebody young.’
Acutely aware that Valentine Randolph and his companion had stopped speaking and that it was now their turn to eavesdrop on him, John motioned her to be quiet.
‘Oh I’m sorry to be indiscreet, Sir,’ Suky continued, reading his expression and changing her tone to a loud stage whisper. ‘Yes, we do have a nice little snug leading off the bar you were in earlier. I’ll see to it that the boy attends to the fire.’
Giving up, John held out his tankard for refilling, almost feeling the two pairs of eyes that were boring into his back. Certain now that Mr Randolph had indeed worked for Sir William, for how else could he have recognised poor Hesther’s name, John conjectured as to the identity of his companion. And it would seem that he was equally the subject of speculation, for the conversation coming from the next table was now of so general a nature as to be ridiculous. Half amused by the entire situation, the Apothecary proceeded to demolish his meal with relish, sending for a second helping of tart with custard when the first was gone. Then, having secured a bottle of port, the finest the house could sell, he proceeded to the snug to await Miss Hesther’s arrival.
