by Deryn Lake
‘Hear, hear,’ answered John Fielding, and the Apothecary was left with no option but to join them in drinking to what he considered to be an utterly harebrained and somewhat dangerous scheme.
The Apothecary rose particularly early next day and penned a warning note to his father begging him to think carefully about his proposed trip to Bethnal Green. Then, somewhat sulkily, he set off for Shug Lane without eating breakfast. Yet despite the earliness of the hour, John had only been in his shop five minutes before Nicholas arrived, still clad in his worsted suit, obviously the only garments he possessed, but for all that looking very presentable. He seemed slightly surprised to see John in residence.
‘I thought you’d be about your business, Sir.’
‘No, I’ve decided to make my visits this afternoon. So, for a few hours at least, we shall be working together.’
‘If you’re called out this morning may I come with you?’ Nicholas asked enthusiastically.
‘That would rather negate the purpose of your being here.’
‘But how else can I learn?’
‘You’re not my apprentice, you know,’ John said, then wished he hadn’t spoken when the boy’s expression became utterly crestfallen.
‘No, of course not,’ Nicholas answered wistfully. He squared his shoulders, obviously used to a lifetime of disappointment. ‘Would you like me to make some tea, Sir?’ he asked in a different voice.
‘Yes please,’ the Apothecary answered, feeling quite the most cold-hearted being ever born.
‘Very good.’ And Nicholas went bustling into the back.
John dusted in silence, thinking about a bastard boy with Muscovy blood in his veins, put into the care of the parish for no sin other than that of having no money or means of support, and how near he himself must once have been to the same terrible fate. That is if it had not been for the intercession of Sir Gabriel Kent. Furious with his own behaviour, the Apothecary put down the ampulla he was holding and called out, ‘Nicholas.’
‘Yes, Sir?’ came a voice from the back.
‘You are quite right. Even though you are not apprenticed, I know Mr Fielding sent you here to learn. So if I am called to attend the sick, you may come with me. We can leave a sign on the shop door.’
Nicholas’s face, looking positively animated for someone of so pale a countenance, appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh thank you Mr Rawlings. I promise I shall behave fittingly. You see, I used to help the captain with any accidents when I was at sea. We didn’t have a ship’s doctor other than him.’
‘What cargoes used you to carry?’ the Apothecary asked curiously.
‘All sorts really; spices, tobacco, fruit. Once we transported a batch of slaves bound for Liverpool. That was terrible.’
‘Why?’
‘It was so awful to hear them groaning in the holds below. That’s how I got my limp.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was trying to clamber down to take the poor creatures some water but I fell off the ladder and broke my leg. The captain set it, after he’d given me a good flogging that is, but it left me with a permanent defect.’
‘What happened to the slaves?’
‘Those that survived were sold off in groups, the others were buried at sea. One or two managed to run away. That’s all I know. I was put ashore after that because of my injury.’
‘And then you came to London to make your way.’
Nicholas’s pallid cheeks flushed uncomfortably. ‘If you’re referring to my thieving, Sir, yes it’s true. But I only stole to keep myself alive. I would never, ever touch a penny of yours, I swear it.’
The boy seemed on the verge of tears and John looked at him, a stern expression masking the very real compassion he was feeling. ‘If I thought that of you I would most certainly never have agreed to let you work in my shop. Now, where is my tea? I did not have time for breakfast this morning and I am famished for a cup.’
Hearing this, Nicholas insisted on going to a nearby bakery to buy some rolls and so John was alone when the first customer of the day came to the door. Hearing voices outside, he stepped behind the counter so that he could be ready when the bell rang. But the couple, for the Apothecary could distinctly see a man and a woman through the window, were taking their time, standing in his doorway, talking quietly. There was something so familiar about them that John found himself peering. Then he caught the sheen of foxy red hair and could hardly believe the coincidence. Of all the many apothecaries’ shops in London, Julian and Juliette Hartfield had chosen his to visit so early in the morning;
Unaware of his covert observation, the twins continued to converse, occasionally laughing but mostly keeping a serious mien. Then, quite abruptly, Juliette, seeing the approach of some chairmen, hailed a sedan, whilst Julian turned in the doorway and entered the shop. Hastily stooping to pick up some mythical object, John took his time before standing upright.
The twin was examining some bottles of physick displayed on a far counter and started wildly as John cleared his throat warningly before saying, ‘Good morning, Sir. How may I help you?’
Julian turned abruptly and the Apothecary found himself staring into a pale, somewhat dissipated face, but one of outstanding beauty for all that, indeed almost more so than John had remembered.
The twin’s eyes widened to twice their size and Julian’s jaw sagged. ‘Good God! Mr Rawlings!’
‘Yes, Mr Hartfield. Did I not tell you I was an apothecary?’
‘You might have done. I really can’t recall.’
‘Ah well, that is beside the point. What can I get you, Sir?’
The twin gulped audibly. ‘A cure for the headache if you have one.’
The Apothecary smiled sympathetically. ‘Ah, a hard night, eh?’
Julian gave a light laugh. ‘Yes, been at the confounded gaming tables for most of it.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Precious little.’
John selected a bottle of bright green liquid. ‘There, this should help you. Forgive me, but I thought you were at Kirby Hall yesterday,’ he continued as he prepared a small glass from which Julian could drink the liquid.
The twin flushed visibly. ‘Yes, I … we … were. But I had to return last evening. I was engaged to play cards and there was no way out of it. Though I suppose I could have pleaded bereavement.’ Julian downed the physick and pulled a face. ‘Ugh! What a ghastly concoction.’
‘But very effective,’ the Apothecary said urbanely. ‘That will be one shilling, Sir. Why didn’t you?’
The twin stared at him. ‘Why didn’t I what?’
‘Make the excuse of your mourning?’
Julian flushed an uncomfortable shade of red. ‘Well, the fact is, I adore cards, you see.’
‘But surely at a time like this …’
‘It may seem uncaring but that is not the case. It is simply that Roger and my twin and I are all unconventional. We cannot bear the confines of polite behaviour. We still want to go out and about even though we are grieving,’ came the defiant answer.
‘And you care not a fig for what the beau monde might think?’
‘Since you put it like that, no, not a fig.’
‘I suppose that indicates courage, to fly in the face of convention.’
‘It indicates that we keep our grief to ourselves.’ Julian’s hands searched his pockets. ‘Damnably short of funds, I’m afraid. May I owe you the shilling?’ he added in a very different voice.
‘Of course.’
‘It won’t be too long before I can repay you. After all, my circumstances are about to change.’
‘You refer to your father’s bequest?’ John asked innocently.
Julian went from red to puce. ‘Well … er …’
The Apothecary smiled. ‘Is there not some saying about an ill wind?’
The twin gulped violently. ‘I believe there is,’ he said, and bolted from the shop without uttering another word.
Chapter Ten
It being
the custom for people to sit down to dine somewhere between the hours of three and five, John, seeing the streets outside his shop begin to clear, handed over the keys to Nicholas Dawkins and went out as planned. The Muscovite, though obviously sad to see him go, for, alas, there had been no calls for John’s services that morning and the promised practical experience of tending the sick had therefore not taken place, accepted his fate with resignation and waved the Apothecary a cheery farewell. Wishing he had been able to do more for the boy but making a silent promise that in future he would see to it, John made his way across St James’s Park to number twelve, Queens Square, the address given him by Luke Challon for Miss Amelia Lambourn.
Walking through the park, admiring the four lines of trees laid out by Charles II and the landscape contrived by the celebrated French gardener, Le Notre, John wished that his visit was not destined to be so grim. For, or so he reasoned, it would appear that he must break the news of Sir William’s death to the girl who only a few days earlier was to have been his bride. That was, of course, unless some member of the dead man’s family had had the decency to inform her. Though as none of them seemed to have a good word for the unhappy woman, the Apothecary very much doubted it.
With these thoughts uppermost in his mind, it was almost a relief to see that the door knocker had been wrapped in black cloth and that every curtain in the small but pleasant terraced house was drawn against the intrusive daylight. Adopting his sympathetic face, John tactfully ignored the knocker and rang the bell.
A mob-capped maid answered the summons and bobbed an ungainly curtsey. ‘Yes?’ she said, revealing by her very attitude that she had scant respect for the caller.
‘Is Miss Lambourn at home?’ the Apothecary asked, swiftly adjusting his features into his officious look.
‘She is but she h’aint receiving,’ the slattern replied, giving him an insolent stare.
‘I’m afraid I must insist on seeing her,’ John continued, beetling his mobile brows at her. ‘I am here on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, and it is my unpleasant duty to ask Miss Lambourn a few questions concerning her recent bereavement.’
‘What?’
‘The death of Sir William Hartfield. I want to speak to her about it.’
‘Well, you can’t. I’ve got me orders and they is to let nobody in.’ And the beastly girl started to close the door.
John inserted his foot into the aperture. ‘Obstructing the process of the law is a very serious matter, you know.’
‘I can’t help that …’ And the slut would have done his toes a mischief had it not been for a cry from upstairs.
‘Betsy, what is it?’
‘A Beak Runner’s ’ere, Miss. Says ’e wants a word with you.’
There was a shriek, then silence, then finally the voice called again. ‘In that case you had better show him up to the salon.’
‘Very good, Miss,’ the girl shouted grudgingly, and opened the door just wide enough for the Apothecary to squeeze through. ‘You’d best come in,’ she added, throwing him a malevolent look.
John made a bow. ‘Charmed,’ he said, and followed her up the stairs to the first floor.
Throwing open a door, Betsy announced him with the words, ‘A Beak Runner,’ then departed, glaring over her shoulder and saying meaningfully, ‘I shall be below if you need me, Miss.’
Making his way into the gloomy interior, John bowed once more. ‘The name is Rawlings, Ma’am. John Rawlings. Believe me, I shall do everything in my power to make this interview as easy as possible for you.’
‘Oh,’ answered Miss Lambourn, and gave a loud sob.
It would seem his fate, John thought, always to see the poor soul either in or on the verge of tears. For Amelia was presently sniffing into a large handkerchief with dark trimming, whilst she herself was clad from head to toe in starkest black.
‘May I sit down?’ he asked, and in response to a faint nod, took a seat in a chair opposite the couch on which Miss Lambourn drooped supine.
The Apothecary cleared his throat. ‘Might I just enquire who informed you of Sir William’s death?’ he asked softly.
She looked at him with the faintest expression of surprise. ‘Mr Randolph sent me a message. He worked for my betrothed.’ Amelia gulped. ‘I mean my late betrothed.’
John nodded. ‘I see. And when was this?’
‘When was what?’
‘When did Mr Randolph’s message arrive?’
‘Two days ago, in the morning. I shall never forget that.’
The Apothecary smiled encouragingly, wondering how Valentine had known of his employer’s death even before Luke Challon had called at the office to inform him of it. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me,’ he said in the same soothing voice.
‘His letter came quite early. In fact while I was about my toilette. Why do you want to know?’
‘For no particular reason other than that the Public Office is aware you did not enjoy good relations with Sir William’s family and it occurred to me they might not have had the courtesy to notify you.’ An awful thought struck John and he added, ‘I presume Mr Randolph told you how your future husband died.’
‘He wrote me that he had drowned in the river. But how, why? William and I were to have been married. The last thing he would have wanted to do was kill himself.’
‘I think perhaps,’ John said delicately, ‘that suicide does not enter the issue.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It has come to light that somebody struck your betrothed over the head before he entered the water.’
She drew in her breath with a hiss. ‘I might have guessed as much! That poor man was trapped in a nest of vipers. There’s not one of ’em would have hesitated to do him ill, including that evil old Hodkin woman.’
The conversation was taking a most unexpected turn and the Apothecary felt his thumbs begin to prick. ‘Really?’ he said, his voice ingenuous.
Miss Lambourn betrayed her origins. ‘Upon the square, Sir. They is the biggest bunch of sham cutters I ever comes across.’
‘All of them?’ John asked.
‘Well …’ She hesitated. ‘Luke was always civil to me, and Mr Randolph, of course. And Roger has very fine manners.’
‘Oh, you’ve met him?’
‘I’ve met them all in my time, all but Lady Hodkin that is. William said that to be lashed by her tongue was an ordeal he didn’t want to subject me to.’
‘Quite right!’ said John with feeling. ‘But I would be most interested to hear your opinion of the rest of the family. Would you mind?’
‘No, I’d like to say what I know. The eldest of ’em, apart from Milady, is Miss Hesther, who is a jealous cat. She’s Sir William’s sister-in-law and is totally besotted with him. Then there’s Roger, one of the biggest bloods in town, so it’s said.’ She laughed, seeming to find this funny. ‘After him comes his brother Hugh, who works … worked … for William. He oversees the import of goods to this country and often goes abroad to order merchandise. Then there’s his wife Maud, an embittered old shrew, just like her sister-in-law, Lydia. The youngest are those stupid twins, arrogant little beasts. There’s not one of that family that doesn’t wish me dead, I tell you. Afraid that I’ll get my clutches on their father’s fortune.’ Amelia’s hand flew to her throat and she let out a sob. ‘Dear God, what am I saying?’
‘It’s perfectly natural to speak so,’ John said comfortingly. ‘You are doing very well, Miss Lambourn.’
‘It’s hard to realise he’s gone,’ she answered in broken tones.
‘I hate to put you through this ordeal but if I am to find the person who killed him …’
Amelia stood up and began to pace, what light there was reflecting on her face as she strode up and down. His earlier impression of her in the church was now confirmed. She was indeed remarkably pretty, with a beautiful figure and glorious colouring. It occurred to John fleetingly that somebody, somewhere, might well have been jealous of Sir William and that hi
s death could have been at the hands of a man who both coveted and desired his bride-to-be. For no reason he found himself asking, ‘Have you met Julian Hartfield?’
‘Just once, but I know he’s a wastrel,’ Miss Lambourn answered vehemently. ‘All he wanted was to gamble his father’s money away. But Sir William had run out of patience with him and vowed to settle no future debts.’ She paused and looked at John with brimming blue eyes. ‘You don’t think …?’
‘At the moment I think nothing,’ the Apothecary answered, ‘except, perhaps, that there were several people who had a reason for wishing your future husband out of the way.’
‘He never came to the wedding,’ said Amelia, almost to herself. ‘I thought at first he had jilted me, until …’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Until what?’
‘Mr Randolph’s message,’ she answered, so hurriedly that she gave John the strong impression she had been about to say something else.
The Apothecary stood up. ‘Miss Lambourn, two more questions and then I promise to take up no more of your time.’
She stopped walking and turned to look at him, daintiness personified despite her glistening eyes and damp cheeks. ‘What are they?’
‘The first is, when did you last see Sir William alive?’
‘The night before the wedding. We dined at St James’s Square, all the rest of them being out. Lydia saw me, though. She came back early from whist. Anyway, Sir William escorted me into my carriage and that was that. I never set eyes on him again.’ She started to weep. ‘And he was so full of excitement about it all. It don’t seem fair.’
‘Was this very late?’ John asked.
‘No, he had somewhere else to go that evening. Besides I didn’t want to be tardy. I was home by seven o’clock.’
‘And you did not go out again?’
Amelia hesitated, then coloured up. ‘Er … no,’ she said falteringly.
John decided to let the obvious falsehood pass. ‘Where was Sir William off to? Did he say?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Not so much as a hint?’
‘Wherever he was going, he was pleased about it. He was smiling a good deal and his eyes were twinkling. Now, tell me your second question.’
