Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Weren’t the insults because he was married to someone else at the time?’

  She flared up at him. ‘Yus, to a bedbound invalid wiv no use of her legs or parts! What was a proper man like Sir William supposed to do?’

  ‘I’m not criticising, believe me,’ John said soothingly. ‘I have every sympathy with them. And for Amelia in her hour of grief. I only hope that there is someone on hand to console her at this terrible time.’

  The old hag glared at him. ‘You think I’m going to tell you something, don’t yer? Well I ain’t, so there.’

  The Apothecary bowed. ‘On the contrary, Mrs Lambourn, you have told me a great deal.’

  She looked aghast, frightened almost, then the situation was saved by the arrival of Samuel, who came up wearing a besotted expression that John knew well.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ he said. ‘I’ve been strolling about admiring the view.’

  ‘Admiring the girl more likely.’ The Apothecary bowed and handed over his second five shillings of the day. ‘Thank you for your help, Madam. May I wish you good day.’ And putting his hat back on his head, he strolled away.

  ‘Well?’ said Samuel.

  ‘She’s hiding something. Amelia definitely has a lover and the old woman knows all about it.’

  ‘Is it Luke Challon?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why he hasn’t been to see you? Afraid you might discover something?’

  ‘It’s no use conjecturing about his absence. The only way is for me to ask him direct. Now, let’s enjoy the rest of our time here. What would you like to do, other than elope with the water server?’

  Samuel chortled. ‘Let’s look round, then take afternoon tea.’

  ‘A good idea.’

  Perambulating slowly, the friends set off to make a tour, peering into the pretty arbours where lovers could meet and acquaintances chat, to discover who from the beau monde was at the Spa that day. Eventually, though, they found that their footsteps had led them to the raffling shop, where they stood in silence listening to the roll of the dice.

  ‘Serafina should be here,’ said John with a smile.

  ‘Does she miss her old pastime?’

  ‘She confessed to me that now and then she longs to return to it.’

  ‘Then let’s see who is in there so that we can report back to her.’

  ‘Very well.’ And they stepped within.

  Staring round, John’s eyes widened at the sight which greeted him. For seated at the board, dressed to the teeth in purple satin stitched with brilliants, despite custom his mourning clothes already cast to one side, was Roger Hartfield, throwing the dice with a great flurry of lace cuffs.

  ‘Good God,’ said Samuel, following the Apothecary’s gaze. ‘Who the devil’s that?’

  ‘The prodigious beau I told you about. He was at the funeral. The one who saved Amelia from falling into the grave.’

  ‘Roger Hartfield? He looks very different.’

  ‘He was probably on his best behaviour that day.’

  ‘Teaze and tackle, he’s much worse than I remembered!’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed John. But it was too late, Roger had looked up and was waving a large white hand.

  ‘Mr Rawlings! God’s life, what are you doing here? Is this fate or coincidence?’

  ‘Quiet!’ ordered another gambler, at which Roger, with much swishing of his coat skirts, petulantly rose from his place.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, grabbing John by the elbow. ‘How fortuitous. I have been meaning to come and see you. My sister Juliette told me you had an apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane and I intended to come in for a consultation. I’ve been having such trouble since the funeral. Cannot keep a thing down. Bilious is simply not the word for it.’ His wide-eyed gaze took in Samuel’s powerful stature. ‘Oh, quel homme. Won’t you introduce me?’

  ‘This is my friend Samuel Swann,’ said John, and almost laughed aloud at the expression on the Goldsmith’s face. ‘Samuel, may I present Mr Roger Hartfield?’

  ‘Charmed, charmed, charmed,’ Roger gushed. ‘Now why don’t we all leave here and go back to my club? They don’t serve anything stronger than ale in this place and I feel like a bumper or two of champagne. Meeting new friends – and old ones as well of course.’ He flickered his eyelashes.

  ‘Wine is very bad for you if you’re suffering from sickness,’ John said sternly. ‘Best that you go home and take a Cotiniat of Quinces, that should do the trick.’

  Roger made a truculent mouth. ‘You sound just like my father.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I was only trying to give you my professional advice.’

  Samuel gulped noisily. ‘John’s right, and as it happens I have an urgent appointment this evening. But thank you anyway.’

  ‘Another time then. As you can see, I can’t bear to incarcerate myself indoors but as soon as I am officially out of mourning I intend to give a little supper party for my friends, start entertaining again. You two must come.’

  John bowed. ‘It will be a pleasure. Meanwhile, Mr Hartfield …’

  ‘I have told you before. It’s Roger.’

  ‘… Roger … will it be in order for me to visit St James’s Square tomorrow? There are one or two questions I would like to ask your servants.’

  Did he imagine it, or did a wary look momentarily appear in the beau’s pale and protuberant blue eyes?

  ‘Of course. What time will you be coming?’

  Instantly on the alert, the Apothecary answered, ‘I really have no idea. If I might just call.’

  Roger’s gaze was suddenly covered by heavy lids. ‘Very well. I shall tell them to expect you.’

  ‘Many thanks.’ John found that he and Samuel were bowing simultaneously. ‘Goodbye, Mr … Roger.’

  The beau recovered himself and threw an extravagant kiss. ‘My dear John, until we meet again.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  During the night following his visit to Islington Spa, John Rawlings woke abruptly, certain that he could hear Samuel’s voice. But having sat bolt upright and listened, he realised that he had been dreaming, that his friend had long since gone home and that there was no one other than Sir Gabriel and the servants in the house. Yet the feeling persisted, and something at the back of John’s mind kept telling him that part of the conversation shared by himself and the Goldsmith in the pleasure gardens had contained a vital fact, a fact which he had overlooked and was continuing to ignore. A fact which, if he could only bring it into his consciousness, would have an important bearing on the mystery surrounding Sir William’s death. Quite unable to sleep with such an idea weighing on his mind, the Apothecary eventually got up and made for his shop in the dawning.

  Unbelievably, Nicholas Dawkins, who had now been issued with his own set of keys as a mark of trust, was already there, pale-faced and yawning, but none the less making tea and tackling the dusting.

  “Zooters!’ he exclaimed on seeing John come in, ‘I never thought you’d be here, Sir. I imagined you’d be about Mr Fielding’s affairs.’

  ‘I will be later,’ the Apothecary answered. ‘But first I felt I should visit the sick. Did anyone call for me yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Several people. I made a list of them.’

  ‘Was anyone too ill to wait?’

  ‘Two. I sent them on to the nearest apothecary as you instructed.’

  ‘Very good.’ John poured himself a cup of tea. ‘Tell me, Nicholas,’ he said, removing his coat and putting on his long apron, ‘what in your opinion would be the best time to visit servants in order to catch them alone?’

  The Muscovite screwed up his pallid features. ‘Well, not early, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because their masters would all be abed but would wake and demand to know who had called, lest it be a tailor or a debt collector or another of that ilk from whom they must hide.’

  John grinned. ‘I see you are a keen observer
of human frailty. Go on.’

  ‘I’d rule out the morning, too, Sir. A beau or belle could well take a good three hours to effect a toilette so would probably be at home until well past noon. Then, of course, there are the dining hours, which occupy the time between three and six, or even seven.’

  ‘So when then?’ the Apothecary asked with a sigh.

  ‘I should think early afternoon, Sir. One or half past. They will all have perambulated forth to show their fashions by that o’clock and, with luck, will have met cronies and not be returning home for a while.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ John answered thoughtfully. ‘That is the moment I will choose. Now, my Muscovy friend, let me show you what things to take when you are visiting the poorly.’

  ‘I am to come with you?’

  ‘I promised that you would. Anyway, I want to see you put to the test.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me that you did not faint at the sight of blood or wounds, that you had seen it all aboard ship. Now is your chance to prove your claim.’

  Colour blossomed in Nicholas’s cheeks. ‘You can rely on me, Sir.’

  ‘I already do,’ said John. ‘I’m sure you must have noticed.’

  In the event there were no really exciting cases to see: a child with croup, for whom John prescribed a decoction of the leaves and roots of coltsfoot, picked and dried in the previous year; a bibulous gentleman, not yet fifty but already a sufferer from chronic gout, who was given a brew of angelica and asparagus roots, lemon balm and chopped centaury, to name but a few ingredients. A third patient who had loose teeth and dared not go out for fear of losing one, came next. The Apothecary, glad that for some reason he had put this somewhat unusual cure in his bag, gave the poor woman a decoction of boiled bramble leaves, honey, alum and a little white wine. Finally, he and Nicholas both set to, rubbing oil of ripe olives into the joints of a rheumaticky cleric who had not been able to hobble from his bed for days. He pronounced himself feeling greatly restored and was able to go downstairs and take tea. This done, John went back to Shug Lane to change his coat, then set off for St James’s Square.

  Fortunately, the footman who answered the door turned out to be Gibson, the servant who had identified Sir William’s snuff box and who had been present when Roger had crashed to the floor in a faint. Silently thanking his luck, John put on his most pleasant expression and asked if he might have a few private words on behalf of the Principal Magistrate.

  ‘In what regard, Sir?’ Gibson asked cautiously.

  ‘I would like to know a little more about the night when Sir William left the house for good. Can you help me with that? A great deal depends on somebody telling me what transpired.’

  ‘I can indeed assist, Sir,’ the footman answered, such a strange expression on his face that John guessed at once the man was longing to unburden himself.

  ‘Everything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence,’ the Apothecary continued in a low voice. ‘Mr Fielding must be told, naturally. But as to your master …’

  ‘Whoever that might be.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, rest assured that none of the family will get wind of this.’

  ‘I trust your discretion, Sir.’ And with that they stepped into the anteroom, Gibson having checked carefully first that nobody had observed them.

  John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to ask a question, but was forestalled. The footman launched into speech as if the Hound of Hell was baying at his heels and he had only a few moments in which to relay his story. And probably a very good thing, John considered, in view of the fact that somebody might return at any moment.

  ‘That was an odd night, Sir, and I remember it vividly as a result,’ Gibson began in a hoarse voice. ‘Miss Lambourn came here to dine. They were to be married the next day though nobody was supposed to know it. Naturally, it was the talk of the servants’ hall, though none of us let on.’

  John got a word in. ‘What time did she come – and go?’

  ‘Early, Sir. Four o’clock and left again by six. You see, Sir William was meant to go out later and had ordered his coach for half past seven. Then, at about seven, a hackney driver came bearing a note addressed to the master – the old master, that is. I took it to him and waited to see if there was to be any reply for the man to take away. Anyway, Sir William flew into such a rage when he read it, went white as snowdrops and shook from head to toe. Then he said to me, “Tell the driver the answer is yes, I’ll be there.” Then he asked me to call Oliver, the youngest footman, to take a letter to Middle Temple Lane cancelling his appointment.’

  The Apothecary managed another question. ‘That note, the one that came by hackney coach, it isn’t still here by any chance?’

  Gibson shook his head vigorously. ‘Most definitely not, Sir. Sir William threw it on the fire and watched it go up in flames. Then he went upstairs and came down a short while later with a travelling bag.’

  ‘Good gracious! Had he intended to go away?’

  Somewhat surprisingly, Gibson answered, ‘Yes, I think he had. His valet had packed his best clothes for him and it was our belief in the servants’ hall that Sir William was going on from Middle Temple Lane to spend the night somewhere near the place where he was to be wed.’

  John digested this thoughtfully. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Sir William scribbled a letter which Oliver took off in the coach, then the master went out.’

  ‘Without his carriage?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. He must have hired a hackney to take him to wherever he was going.’

  ‘And you have no idea where that was or who wrote the note which made him alter his plans?’

  ‘No, Sir, to both.’

  John’s expressive eyebrows rose. ‘What a curious tale.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Gibson hesitated and the Apothecary, reacting quickly, said, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  The footman dropped his eyes. ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble and it might only be a coincidence …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But it seemed to me that Mrs Hartfield followed him out.’

  ‘Mrs Hartfield? Which one?’

  ‘Lydia. She was standing in the hall when Sir William left. Wearing a dark cloak and with her hair so black, it wasn’t easy to notice her. Anyway, I’d swear that she followed him.’

  ‘What for?’

  Gibson shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Sir. All I can tell you is that Miss Lydia left the house within a minute of her father-in-law, walking stealthy as a cat.’

  ‘And what time did she come back?’

  ‘That’s just the point; she didn’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her maid told me that Mrs Hartfield did not return until late next day.’

  ‘’Zounds!’ said John with much feeling, and sat down on the little sofa, the breath quite gone from him.

  But there was to be no period of quiet contemplation for at that precise moment the front door opened and voices could be heard in the hall. Gibson shot him a look of pure panic but the Apothecary raised his finger to his lips, then said in a loud voice, ‘Thank you. I’ll wait in here.’

  ‘Very good, Sir,’ the footman replied, and made as dignified an exit as he could in view of the fact that he was trembling from head to toe.

  There was the sound of murmured conversation and then the door opened once more. The man whom John believed to be Hugh Hartfield put his head round. ‘How may I help you?’ he said coldly.

  The Apothecary rose to his feet and withdrew his letter of authorisation from an inner pocket, handing it over in silence. Hugh read it, then looked up, his brown eyes hard as marbles. ‘Well?’ he enquired.

  ‘Sir, I have been asked by Mr Fielding to aid him in the search for your father’s murderer. I take it I am addressing Mr Hugh?’

  ‘Indeed you are. However, I don’t think I can be of any assistance. I was abroad at the time of my father’s – death.’
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  ‘So I believe,’ John answered soothingly. ‘But perhaps you would be good enough to tell me when you went and when you returned. A mere formality, I assure you.’

  ‘Well …’ But Hugh got no further. The door opened yet again and the woman whom the Apothecary had identified as Maud came in. She stared at John in surprise.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘My wife,’ said Hugh. He turned to her. ‘Dearest, may I present Mr …’ He glanced at the paper still clutched in his hand. ‘… Rawlings, here on behalf of the Public Office. Mr Rawlings Mrs Maud Hartfield.’

  John made an extremely flowery bow. ‘Madam, I am honoured.’

  She cast him a suspicious look and dropped the sort of curtsey reserved for people of the lower orders. ‘How d’you do.’

  ‘Mr Rawlings is here to ask questions about Father’s death.’

  ‘Does he have any right?’ Maud said nastily.

  ‘Yes, Madam, I most certainly do,’ John answered, hardening his features. ‘As Principal Magistrate Mr Fielding is within his jurisdiction to enquire into any mysterious death. Therefore I must request both of you to tell me what you know of this crime.’

  ‘How would we know anything?’ Maud continued in the same snappish tone. ‘Surely you can’t imagine that Sir William was murdered by his own kin?’

  John assumed his severest look. ‘On the contrary, Madam. The facts gathered so far seem to indicate just that. Now, pray tell me where you were on the days leading up to the thirteenth of March. Were you in London or at Kirby Hall?’

  ‘I won’t stand for this,’ she stormed angrily, only to meet with a glare from her husband.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, Maud, don’t make such a show. Simply answer Mr Rawlings’s questions and then we can forget all about it.’

  She bit her lip furiously, reminding John of a lap dog chewing on a biscuit. ‘Well, I was in town until the third of the month, when my husband sailed for France. Then I went to join my grandmother-in-law at Kirby Hall. She is Lady Hodkin, don’t you know?’