Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘I had not intended on doing anything so rude.’

  ‘Well, I went to see someone. A woman, a gypsy with a sailor husband, renowned hereabouts for reading the future.’

  ‘How very brave of you. Did she say anything interesting?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, she told me that William’s wedding would never take place, though she did not explain why.’

  ‘Gracious heavens, how extraordinary! You must give me this woman’s address. I should like to consult her.’

  ‘I’ll write it down for you,’ said Hesther, somewhat unwillingly. ‘Anyway, you were saying …’ coaxed Sir Gabriel.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That when you came back you saw Maud.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was pacing about in the garden as if she were possessed. Then, when she heard my carriage, she hid behind a tree. I saw her quite distinctly.’

  ‘How very strange. What conclusion did you draw from this unusual behaviour?’

  His companion hesitated and Sir Gabriel felt that Hesther was weighing her words very carefully. ‘I got the impression that she was waiting for someone – or something – to arrive,’ she said.

  The first assembly of the season was over, the masquerade done. At midnight everyone had removed their disguises and enjoyed a rousing dance which ended in a kiss. John’s group of four couples had claimed the wildness of youth and all the gentlemen had saluted all the ladies so that, once more and very briefly, he had been able to brush Coralie’s mouth with his. It had also given him a chance to get as close a look as he could at Julian’s sweetheart, who turned out to be of small physique, and to possess finely chiselled features, an extremely knowing expression, and a mop of daffodil coloured hair.

  But John, acutely aware that he was at Marble Hall to find things out as much as anything else, had still found it hard to concentrate on anyone other than the actress. He had come back from his few ecstatic moments in Marble Hall gardens certain of three things. The first that between he and Coralie Clive there existed something so electric, so highly charged, that its culmination could only lie in commitment or catastrophe. That they aroused in one another such powerful feelings, an immature flirtation would never suffice for either of them. He also knew that because of this fact Coralie might decide an affair with him would be too intrusive and bid him farewell for ever. The third thing of which John Rawlings was certain was that whatever happened in the future, which ever way the chess pieces moved, he would never escape from Coralie’s spell. Women might come and women might go in his life, but she would always remain his ideal, the one being with whom he could fit perfectly in every aspect of a partnership between two people.

  So it was with sadness that he said goodbye to Charles Lennox and Miss Clive, uncertain when he would see her again, then climbed into the coach with Juliette, bound for home. And it was with a great deal of astonishment that, even while he sighed, John spied through the window Julian going off with his sweetheart in a very grand equipage with a coat of arms on the door.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t realised your brother’s lady love was so well connected.’

  Juliette laughed. ‘She’s Lady Almeria Noel, the Earl of Gainsborough’s daughter. But you’re not to say a word. Her father considers Julian far too low down the social scale for one of his highborn offspring. The whole affair is completely clandestine.’

  ‘So where is Julian going now? Surely he won’t be allowed inside the Earl’s house?’

  ‘Oh, those two have a way of managing these things,’ Juliette answered mysteriously.

  ‘I wonder what it can be,’ said John, but in the darkness of the coach’s interior he was smiling.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘But I simply can’t interrupt your breakfast a second time, Sir,’ John protested vigorously as a servant showed him into John Fielding’s morning room a mere seven hours after the masquerade at Marble Hall had ended.

  ‘But, equally, I insist that you must,’ answered the Blind Beak, chewing upon a piece of pickled pork and washing it down with a great draught of tea. ‘There is obviously much to tell or you would not have called so promptly.’

  ‘There certainly have been developments.’

  ‘Then sit down, my young friend, and apprise me of everything that has transpired.’

  ‘You may speak in front of Mary Ann,’ said Elizabeth Fielding, who was sitting opposite her husband, picking at a little fruit. ‘She long ago learned to be discreet.’

  Their niece nodded her head and rolled her eyes, her mouth stuffed too full with a piece of toast and a large helping of eggs to speak. Not for the Fieldings the delicate breakfast of the beau monde, a fashion which the Apothecary despised heartily, but rather the veritable feast with which all working days should be started, at least in John’s opinion.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ said the Apothecary, taking a seat opposite the child. ‘As a matter of fact I have not yet eaten, my father being on his travels once more.’

  ‘In that case help yourself,’ said the Blind Beak, and accurately stabbed another piece of meat with his fork.

  Half an hour later the tale was told and the Magistrate was drinking his final cup of tea, the women long since gone about their daily affairs. ‘So Lydia has something to hide,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a large linen napkin.

  ‘I find it more than strange that she followed Sir William from the house and did not return till next day,’ the Apothecary answered.

  ‘Particularly as it was the night on which the poor chap was probably done to death.’

  ‘And what’ asked John, spreading conserve on one last piece of toast, ‘do you make of Luke’s story that Amelia has always had a lover in the background?’

  The black bandage turned, just as if the Beak were staring into the middle distance. ‘I find that fascinating. Indeed significant.’

  ‘Could the man have murdered Sir William in a fit of jealous rage?’

  ‘The trouble with this enquiry is that there is an abundance of motives, would you not agree?’ Mr Fielding said slowly. ‘Perhaps, when the truth comes out, we will find that it was a combination of things which finally drove the perpetrator to deliver the fatal blow.’

  Not waiting for a reply to that remark, the Magistrate once more appeared to gaze at the wall, sitting so still that John, as he had sometimes done before, wondered whether he had briefly dropped off to sleep. But the Blind Beak was speaking again, this time with urgency in his tone.

  ‘Mr Rawlings, I have just been seized by a powerful idea. Are you able to act upon it?’

  ‘If it is at all feasible.’

  ‘It is. I would like you to call upon Amelia Lambourn, now, this very next half hour. Make some excuse about telling her the contents of the will, which indeed she may well already know. Be that as it may, I want you to surprise her in her early morning boudoir. It strikes me forcibly that she might very well not be alone.’

  ‘You mean her lover may have spent the night with her?’

  ‘Indeed I do. If you go now you stand a good chance of catching the rogue with his kicks down.’ The Magistrate rumbled a laugh at this minor vulgarity.

  John grinned. ‘In that case should I take some treatment for shock with me?’

  The Blind Beak slapped his thigh, obviously a devotee of schoolboy humour. ‘Can you picture his face? And certain other parts of his anatomy, come to that?’

  ‘Vividly,’ said John, and burst out laughing.

  Mr Fielding dabbed at his sightless eyes. ‘Best be off then, my friend. Take a hackney. If you walk for your health you might miss the gentleman in question.’

  ‘Is there really a good chance he will be there?’

  The Magistrate grew serious once more. ‘I cannot be certain, of course. But with Sir William out of the way and none of the family in touch with her, it occurs to me that Amelia might have become careless.’

  John pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Then I’ll leave straight away. Than
k you for my breakfast, Sir. I shall report to you soon.’

  ‘Very good. And now, Mr Rawlings, if you would be so kind as to send Joe Jago up to me.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  Placing his hat on his head, the Apothecary ran down the stairs, had a brief word with the foxy-faced clerk, then hurried into the street, his heart pounding at the thought that he might meet Coralie Clive on her way into the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. But there was nobody about and John easily picked up a hackney carriage and directed it to the other side of the park and the house where Amelia Lambourn resided.

  It was still only eight o’clock, not the sort of time when lovers leave their bed, and as John pulled up outside twelve, Queens Square, he wondered whether Mr Fielding’s instinct had been right. Staring around for a conveyance of some kind, the Apothecary saw none, though that in itself proved nothing. Determined that this time he would stand no nonsense from the slatternly servant, John pounded the black wrapped knocker.

  A window on the first floor opened. ‘Yes?’ demanded the girl, sticking her head out.

  ‘I’ve come to see your mistress and to do so right away,’ John thundered.

  ‘Well, she h’ain’t receiving so be off with you.’

  ‘And you mind your tongue. I am here on behalf of Mr Fielding and I shall summon extra Runners to help me break your door down if you don’t do as I say. Now, open up. I’ll give you five minutes.’

  The head withdrew and John took his watch from his pocket to check how long the process took. Exactly seven minutes later he heard the sound of bolts being drawn back and a key turn in the lock. The girl, very flushed and angry looking, stood in the doorway.

  ‘Mam says you’re to wait in the downstairs room while she dresses. You’ve disturbed ’er from a nice sleep, you ’ave.’

  The Apothecary flashed his eyes. ‘I’ll wager I have at that.’

  Betsy tightened her lips. ‘Now, go in there.’ And she opened the door of a tiny anteroom and practically threw him in.

  Acutely aware that he had not been shown to the first floor as on his previous visit, John hovered on the threshold and listened. A few minutes elapsed and then in the distance he heard a door open and close, this followed by the sound of stealthy footsteps coming down the stairs. Without hesitation, the Apothecary put his eye to the keyhole but the key was in place and the crack by the hinges was too small to allow any vision at all. Throwing caution to the winds, John flung the door open just in time to see a pair of lavender breeches and two stockinged feet swiftly disappearing through the main entrance. Muttering an oath, the Apothecary hurled himself towards the window, but to no avail. The man had hared off down the road and was out of his line of sight. Whoever it was who had spent last night in the arms of Amelia Lambourn had managed to escape without his identity being revealed.

  Yet there had been something vaguely familiar about those legs, encased in their lavender kicks. And who was it who had worn a suit of that colour only recently?

  ‘Valentine Randolph,’ said John aloud. ‘By God, it was him!’ And without further ado he rushed down the hallway, raising his hat to Amelia who was just descending the stairs, his final vision her astounded face as, unable to resist, he bellowed ‘Tally ho!’ before he shot into the street.

  As it transpired, John had decided against heading straight off for Wapping. A few moments’ deliberation convinced him that Valentine would be making for his office and obviously there would be little point in trying to talk to him there. Instead, the Apothecary went home to Nassau Street, packed a change of clothes in a bag, then walked to Shug Lane where he worked alongside Nicholas until five o’clock. Then he set off for Hungerford Stairs to hire a wherry, instructing his assistant to lock up for the night.

  ‘Are you on the trail, Sir?’ the Muscovite asked, his pinched features animated.

  ‘I’m following a thread, yes. But the trouble is, Nicholas my boy, there are so many strands in this pattern that I really don’t see how I am going to sort them all out.’

  ‘I expect the moment will dawn on you.’

  ‘I only hope it does,’ John answered with feeling.

  He reached Pelican Stairs, situated beside The Devil’s Tavern, just as darkness began to fall over the river, turning the water deep purple with slashing ribbons of light reflected in its shimmering surface. The dying sun, suffusing the sky with shades of lilac and pink, harmoniously echoed the colours of the river at dusk. Just for a moment, the Apothecary stood on the top step, staring out over the Thames, his eyes absorbing every detail of the breathtaking prospect before him.

  It was low tide, so low that he had had to walk over the muddy shore to reach the bottom rung of Pelican Stairs. One great ship was out of the water, leaning to one side, waiting for the river to flood, while three others, jostling close, lay helpless in the shallows, like sea creatures plucked from their element. Everywhere was that strange salty smell which John thought of as the breath of the river, filling the air with its scent and the mind with visions of wild grey oceans and distant shorelines. In mid-stream, the ships that braved those unfriendly depths appeared almost motionless, reminding the Apothecary of caged greyhounds, forced to inactivity but longing to be set free.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw that lights were appearing in The Devil’s Tavern, at the window of the room in which Sir William’s body had been put for the night, in the attic where he had stayed. They shone comfortingly, softening, though only a very little, the haunting, mysterious atmosphere which the river at sunset seemed to conjure. Then a wind whipped across the water’s surface and the dangerous beauty of the scene caused John to shiver, before he turned and went into the warmth and conviviality of the inn.

  Having secured himself a room, the Apothecary returned to the bar to sit quietly in a corner and observe the pageant of waterside life being played out all around him. A fishwife and a pedlar were in noisy argument, a cutpurse was knocked senseless by a member of the beau monde with faster reactions than most of his kind, a dog being fed a sailor’s beer became inebriated and fell asleep beneath a table. But of Valentine Randolph, the person John most wanted to see, there was no sign.

  An unpleasant thought struck the Apothecary. Supposing his quarry had gone straight home, had rowed himself across the river to Redriff and was not going to call into The Devil’s Tavern that night. Or, even worse, had put his head round the door, seen John, and made a hasty exit. Not knowing quite what to do, the Apothecary went to the bar to enquire whether anyone had seen the office manager. And it was at that moment, with John leaning comfortably against the rail, chatting to the landlord as if he were a regular patron of the establishment, that the man he was seeking walked in.

  What happened next was very strange. For instead of looking hunted and haunted, Valentine Randolph approached the Apothecary with a beaming smile.

  ‘My dear Mr Rawlings,’ he said, clasping him by the hand and shaking it warmly. ‘How very nice to see you. What are you doing here? Or am I not allowed to ask?’

  Every instinct John possessed told him that he had made a mistake, that the owner of the vanishing legs had not been the office manager. None the less he decided to proceed with caution.

  ‘Well actually,’ he said, adopting his friendly face, ‘I was hoping to run into you. There are just one or two points I’d like to go over, that is if you have no objection.’

  ‘None at all. Shall we sit at a table?’

  ‘Certainly. Let me get you something to drink.’

  They chose a bottle of claret to share between them and managed to find room in a dark corner, as private a place as any in an inn teeming with riverside life.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ said the Apothecary, having raised his glass to his companion. ‘It seems that Sir William made two wills, the second of which was never signed. Have you heard about this?’

  ‘Yes, Luke told me.’

  ‘Did he also tell you that under the terms of the second will, you and he were
to have been left the business?’

  ‘He did. And that the bulk of the inheritance would have passed to Amelia Lambourn.’

  ‘Um,’ John replied thoughtfully. ‘As you’ve mentioned her, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no doubt that Valentine’s voice was cautious.

  The Apothecary cleared his throat. ‘How close are you to the lady?’

  Valentine stared at him. ‘What do you mean by close exactly?’

  John felt himself starting to flounder. ‘Well, you know …’

  ‘No, I don’t. If you mean am I fond, of her, the answer is yes, in a way. She was my employer’s mistress, soon to be his wife. It was not my place to disagree with his choice. Anyway, I felt sorry for the girl, reviled by the family as she was.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘What exactly are you hinting at?’ asked Valentine, his hawk features dark.

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ said John resolutely. ‘When I met you at The George on the morning of Sir William’s funeral, there was a certain look about you. I concluded that as Miss Lambourn had also spent the night under the same roof, she might be the cause of it.’

  Valentine flushed violently, drained his glass, then stared at the floor. ‘You’re bloody observant,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offence. It is just that so far Sir William’s killer is eluding me and, strange as it may seem, every little detail, however unrelated to the crime it might appear, is of vital importance. Mr Fielding taught me that originally, and I can only state that events have proved him right.’

  The office manager raised his head and his sombre eyes regarded John thoughtfully. ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘It is, believe me.’

  ‘Then I think there are certain things you should know.’

  The Apothecary felt the familiar prick of his thumbs which told him something important was about to be revealed.

  ‘You are right, of course,’ Valentine said softly. ‘I had spent that night with a woman. But it was a woman who came to The George late that evening. It was not Amelia Lambourn.’