Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘May I know the lady’s identity?’

  ‘No,’ the office manager answered violently, ‘you may not.’

  Someone I know then, John thought. Aloud he said, ‘Very well.’

  ‘Anyway, she was long gone before morning, so there’s no more to say.’

  ‘Quite. Now, what else did you want to tell me? Was it about Sir William’s whereabouts on the night before the wedding by any chance?’

  Valentine’s flush turned pale. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was just a lucky guess. Though it did occur to me that you of all people might be aware of where he went.’

  ‘I suppose you realise that Amelia spent the night here? Luke was in charge of those arrangements.’ The Apothecary nodded. ‘Well, it was my task to book a room for Sir William on the south bank, at The Angel, a waterside inn not far from where I live in Redriff village. Anyway, the agreement was that I was to meet my employer in The Spread Eagle, have a celebratory bottle there, then row him the short distance to the inn.’

  ‘Wasn’t that rather an odd arrangement? Why did he not go straight to The Angel?’

  ‘Simply because he liked the other place. I think he had fond memories of it from his boyhood in this area. Anyway, the rendezvous was late because Sir William had business to conduct in London first. Accordingly, I arrived at The Spread Eagle at half past nine. But Sir William did not come, even though I waited till eleven. By that time I began to wonder what was wrong and went to The Angel, where they told me that Sir William had not been seen. Then I. …’

  His voice trailed away and Valentine stared into the depths of his refilled glass.

  ‘Then …?’

  The office manager collected himself. ‘I went home.’

  ‘It must have been very late.’

  ‘It was. Anyway, early next day I returned to The Angel to collect the bridegroom – only to find that he had not been there. At that I panicked slightly, wondering whether to leave the office in the hands of the clerks and go to St James’s Square. In the end, though, I decided against and so worked all the morning, expecting him to appear at any second, then changed into my best suit and went to St Paul’s. The rest you obviously know.’

  John poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Mr Randolph, I cannot thank you enough for telling me this. I think I can now be certain exactly when Sir William was killed. You see, it was his intention to visit his lawyer and sign his new will that evening. But a note arrived, obviously asking him to go somewhere else, which prevented him from doing so. He left the house in quite a fury, so I am told. It is clear that wherever he went after he left St James’s Square was, alas, his final destination.’

  Valentine did not answer, emptying his glass in a single swallow, then he said, suddenly and violently, ‘He got as far as Redriff.’

  John gazed at him in amazement. ‘Did he? How do you know?’

  ‘Because somebody saw him.’

  ‘Who?’

  The office manager pulled his watch out of his pocket. ‘God’s life, is that the time? I must be off. Thank you for the wine. It was pleasant to talk to you Mr Rawlings. Good night.’ And he was gone before the Apothecary could say another word.

  How very very interesting, thought John. I wonder exactly whom he is protecting.

  But the evening of contemplation he had hoped for was not to be.

  ‘Like any fresh oysters, Sir?’ said a voice close by, and John looked up to see that somebody else he knew was about to join his table.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, and got to his feet to greet Miss Kitty Perkins, the shellfish girl, pretty as ever, and even more strongly redolent of the tangy, unmistakable stink of the sea.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Resisting Kitty’s offer of a bed, repeated several times and accompanied by the most ardent glances and gleams from her spectacular blue eyes, John avoided temptation and climbed the attic staircase alone, feeling both virtuous and pleased with himself. The thought that it might have been the strong smell of fish rather than his adoration for Coralie which had given him the strength to resist so delectable a maiden, he absolutely refused to countenance. Instead he looked at himself in the mirror and said, ‘Well done,’ before pushing up the lower sash of the window and leaning out to gaze at the river.

  The tide was in fully, and the beached barges and ships were afloat once more. John could hear the slap and suck of water against their hulls, though to see them was more difficult. For a mist had come up over the river, rolling amongst the rigging of the great vessels, allowing only the occasional glimpse of a masthead or spar through its ghostly veil. A mist which draped itself over the smaller craft so that they vanished into its vaporous depths, and which wreathed over the water’s edge like the phantoms of all those who had drowned in the dark reaches of the waterway. Looking up, the Apothecary saw that the sky had been transformed into a nether world of fog, and was seized by the strange fancy that the inn itself was afloat, adrift in a sea in which time and place no longer existed. Suddenly cold and in need of his bed, he pulled the window down and hastily retired for the night.

  He woke to a morning which belied the fact that his odd notions could have ever existed. The sun was coming up, burning the mist as it ascended, transforming the river to a blue jewel and the sky to a rose. The tide had been out but was now on the turn, so that the ships waiting with great courage to sail to the remotest parts of earth, began to feel the heave of the sea. Dirty boys, who appeared bright and burnished in the early light, played on the receding shore, grinning upwards as they heard the noise of an attic window flying up. One waved an old shoe he had found and John threw them a coin, for which they scrabbled in the mud.

  It was a morning for devouring a severe breakfast, such as The Devil’s Tavern was known to serve, and John more than did justice to the fare set before him, gladly paying for the privilege. With this happy lining to his stomach, he settled his account and went to the top of Pelican Stairs to see what was going on.

  The tide was rising fast and there was a great deal of activity aboard the ocean going vessels, sailors clambering up the rigging to unfurl the sails and passengers excitedly walking the decks. Distantly, across the expanse of waterway, the Apothecary could see the south bank, and about a mile to the right, the spire of St Mary’s Church. It was at that moment that a rowing boat with a solitary oarsman appeared at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Want a ride, my rum duke?’ he called up.

  ‘Can you take me to The Spread Eagle?’ John shouted back.

  ‘Bit early ain’t it?’ the fellow responded cheerfully.

  ‘Damme, not a moment,’ the Apothecary answered, as he clambered aboard the precariously rocking vessel.

  They set off upstream, keeping inshore for a while, then pulling across to the middle of the river and hugging the south bank, before finally mooring at some steps. Beside these stood an inn, the signpost of which read The Spread Eagle, beyond them and slightly to the right loomed the spire of a church.

  ‘Church Steps,’ said the boatman, ‘and there’s the tavern.’

  ‘And that I take it,’ John answered, ‘is Redriff.’ And he pointed to the cluster of houses and cottages centred round St Mary’s, as pretty a riverside village as he had seen for a long time.

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘And where’s The Angel?’

  ‘Upstream. Between Elephant and Princes Stairs, immediately opposite Execution Dock. My father told me Judge Jeffreys used to go there to drink and enjoy the view of the hanging corpses. It’s said his ghost still haunts the balcony where he sat.’

  ‘Not one that I’d particularly care to come across.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  These pleasantries exchanged, John paid the man his fare and went ashore, going straight into the hostelry. At this hour of the day the place was empty except for a few sailors speaking some exotic tongue and a handful of slatternly women accompanying them, all of whom sat glazed eyed but smiling stiffl
y, unable to understand a word their companions were saying. Moving as far away from them as possible, the Apothecary took a seat and looked round for any sign of a local, the sort of person who might have been present on the night that Valentine Randolph waited in vain for Sir William Hartfield. There was no one to be seen, indeed there appeared to be nobody serving, and John was just about to go to the bar and call for the landlord when there was a loud clatter of pots and the sound of gasping. A door, presumably leading from the kitchens, flew open and a boy appeared, laden with tankards, some of which still dripped water onto the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ he panted. ‘Just been below. Was you waiting long?’

  ‘Are you the potboy?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And do you work here all the time?’

  The child looked suspicious. ‘Mostly I do. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ answered the Apothecary affably. ‘Now, my lad, I’ll have a jug of ale. And what about yourself?’

  ‘Not supposed to on duty. But seeing the landlord and Betty is out, I’ll join you, duke.’

  ‘Very good,’ said John, and thought to himself that if anyone had seen anything it would be this child. For, if he was not mistaken, he was looking at a mudlark, those robust little creatures who dwelled by the river, all scavengers and thieves, many of them orphans, totally ragged and wretched, yet strong and healthy, every one, because of their vigorous outdoor lives. This boy, if the child was indeed one of that cheerfully dishonest fraternity, would be slightly different in that he had been able to find work and did not rely solely on stealing in order to feed himself.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked John, as the potboy returned with two tankards of ale

  ‘Fred, Sir. After the late Prince of Wales.’

  The Apothecary suppressed a smile. ‘And you live in Redriff?’

  ‘Not exactly, but nearby.’

  ‘Are you a mudlark?’

  ‘I was, but I saw the error of me ways. I come up before the Beak, you see, and he wanted me to go to the workhouse for me own protection. But I got out of that …’ Fred’s freckles appeared to glow as his colour came up. ‘Anyway, I give up thieving and took up work instead. Now I can live me own life and no fear of someone coming after me.’

  ‘That all sounds very commendable.’

  Fred sighed. ‘These days I just scavenge,’ he said wistfully, making it quite clear that he sorely missed his past criminal activity.

  He was a bluff, hearty child, as were all of his kind, his freckles myriad, his hair a shock of orange, standing totally on end as if he had just had a fright. In body, Fred was wiry and tough, and the Apothecary could imagine him taking to the water like a rat. Momentarily, John mused on these children of the river, the very own offspring of the Thames, living beside the waterway in empty barges or uninhabited hovels. Subjected to every kind of neglect and privation, still they emerged robust and fit, the true descendants of their implacable father.

  Staring Fred straight in the eyes which, strangely, were the colour of clear water, almost without tone except for a mossy green reflection, John produced a coin and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘My friend,’ he said trenchantly, ‘I need your help.’

  The mudlark looked somewhat alarmed and it occurred to the Apothecary that the boy might think he was making an indecent proposal.

  ‘Let me explain,’ John added hastily. ‘I am looking into the matter of a mysterious death which occurred in this area some twelve days ago. A gentleman’s body was retrieved by watermen and put in The Devil’s Tavern overnight. It transpires that the poor fellow was done to death, and it has also come to light that he was to have met a friend here, in The Spread Eagle, but never kept the appointment. Now the friend was Mr Randolph who lives in Redriff. Do you know him by sight?

  Fred squinted his crystalline eyes. ‘Are you one of them London Beak Runners, duke?’

  ‘In a sense, yes, I am. But please don’t let your early brushes with the law prejudice you against me. My task is to bring a cruel killer to book. Mr Randolph will not be harmed by your answers, I assure you.’

  The mudlark looked uncertain. ‘He’s a good chap, is that gentleman. He’s always very kind to me.’

  ‘He and I are friends, believe me. Now, can you cast your mind back and recall that evening? Mr Randolph came here late and must have sat alone for a good while. Do you remember the occasion?’

  Fred wiped his hand across his mouth and said, ‘Thirsty work, this.’

  John handed him the coin. ‘Get yourself another and keep the change.’

  There was a burst of laughter from the sailors, at which the dollscommon in their company looked even more stony faced. In the interval Fred disappeared, then returned with another tankard, brimful.

  ‘Yes, I do recall that night,’ he announced, having swigged.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, it was as you said. Mr Randolph come in about nine or half past. He sits down, orders himself a drink, just as if he was waiting for somebody, but nobody appears. Then he goes again, about eleven or thereabouts.’

  John felt a vague sense of disappointment. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, duke. True as I stand here.’

  ‘Did nothing else happen? Didn’t you see anything strange? Had anybody come in earlier, then left again before Mr Randolph arrived?’

  ‘No, nuffink like that. It was all as usual. Unless you count the drunks.’

  ‘What drunks?’

  ‘Well, we usually get a few. That was what struck me as peculiar.’

  John’s thumbs twitched. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That night we didn’t get none.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, just as I was washing the last of the pots I hears summink and I looks out onto Church Stairs, where the sound come from.’ The boy quaffed from his tankard and paused, obviously aware that John was hanging on his every word. ‘And there I sees two chaps, drunk as drumbelos, weaving their way down to the water. One so far gone in his cups that he clung to the other to keep standing.’

  ‘Not an uncommon sight, surely?’

  ‘That’s just the point, duke. They hadn’t come from here, that I’ll swear to. So where did they hail from? It couldn’t have been The Angel. They would never have got that far.’

  ‘Perhaps they were drinking privately.’

  ‘They weren’t from Redriff, I know everyone hereabouts.’

  ‘Somebody’s guests?’

  Fred shook his head violently. ‘I don’t think so. There was summink rum about them. Summink that didn’t look quite right.’

  ‘Umm.’ John fingered his chin. ‘You’re sure they were two men? One of them couldn’t have been a woman, by any chance?’

  The mudlark looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose it’s possible. It was very dark and they both wore a cloak and hat. It just could have been a lady dressed to deceive, though I’m not saying it was, mind.’

  ‘And they were coming from the direction of the village?’

  ‘That I didn’t see. But where else could it have been? Either Redriff or the church, had to be.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Apothecary said pensively. He took ten shillings from his pocket, a very handsome reward, but before he gave it to the broadly smiling mudlark, asked one more question. ‘Did you by any chance notice a stranger around on that night, a woman, tall, dark and striking?’

  Fred shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t, Sir. No one like that come here. Have you asked at The Angel?’

  ‘No, by God, I haven’t. But that’s a very good idea. Is it far to walk from here?’

  ‘No, Sir. A mile at most.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said John, standing up. ‘If you think of anything further can you get word to Mr Valentine?’

  ‘I’ll do me best. Will you be down this way again, Sir?’

  ‘Oh, I am absolutely certain that I will,’ the Apothecary answered resignedly.

  The full title of the
parish church of Rotherhithe or Redriff, as it was more commonly known, was St Mary the Virgin, Parish of St Mary with All Saints. And it was towards this imposing building that John purposefully made his way, having come out of The Spread Eagle into the harsh morning sunshine. The hostelry stood almost directly opposite the back gate to the churchyard, a mere stone’s throw away, and the Apothecary went in through this entrance, walking amongst the graves and approaching the church from the back.

  It was a relatively new building, having been erected some forty years earlier, in 1715, to replace the old church, which had become a victim of the constant flooding experienced by Redriff, and slowly rotted away. Rounding the corner, John saw a pillared entrance with steps leading up to the doorway, and guessed that before these stone columns ships masts had once stood in their place. Deciding not to go inside directly and hoping that the occupant would not take it amiss, John sat down on the grass beside a grave, his arms resting on his knees, and stared at the tombstone in front of him. ‘Elizabeth Wells,’ he read, ‘1715–1730. Beloved daughter of Louisa and David Wells. A rose plucked in the dawning.’ Then, even while he was thinking how sad it was that a maiden of fifteen should have been taken from life, the Apothecary’s eyes were drawn to something else. Staining one side of Elizabeth’s tombstone was a reddy brown mark, a mark that had trickled downwards, then dried, a mark that looked for all the world like congealed blood.

  Suddenly alert, John got up, then went down on his haunches and scraped a little of the substance into his hand with his herb knife, touching it carefully. It was most certainly blood, and blood that had turned hard, indicating that it had been on Elizabeth’s tombstone some considerable while. But what had caused it? Had someone walking through the churchyard tripped and fallen, striking his head on a gravestone as he fell? Or was there a more sinister explanation? Could this be the place where Sir William had been mercilessly beaten about the skull by a cane bearing a fox’s head for handle? John bent even closer, wishing he had got his magnifier with him. And then he saw them, fluttering in the river breeze and reflecting the sunshine, a few white hairs, clumped together and stuck to the gravestone before the blood had dried. Very carefully extracting his find, John wrapped the hairs in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket. Then after having looked round Elizabeth Wells’s grave most thoroughly and retrieving from the site a serviceable and rather boring button, which he also carefully stored, the Apothecary left the churchyard, frowning, deep in thought.