by Deryn Lake
Juliette was going redder by the second and John fought against a wild desire to laugh.
Lady Almeria seemed lost for words. ‘I’m sorry …’ she murmured.
‘And so you should be,’ the Apothecary answered, wagging a roguish finger. ‘You ladies! Oh, how cruel are all your jests.’
‘Are you drunk?’ asked Juliette hoarsely.
‘Yes,’ John replied wildly. ‘Intoxicated with your beauty and your charm. Oh Juliette, grant me the bliss of just one small kiss. Oh, fairest flower, be mine for an hour.’
‘He’s gone off his head.’ Lady Almeria had found her tongue at last and was now glaring at the Apothecary furiously. She linked her arm through Juliette’s. ‘Come along, my dear, let’s tarry no longer with this idiot. Why, I think he could be dangerous.’
John allowed his eyes to make full contact with the twin’s. ‘Oh yes, I could be very dangerous indeed,’ he said softly, far from laughing.
Juliette’s face contorted as she pulled a smile from somewhere. ‘I’m sorry if I have upset you, Sir. I did not intend to do so but, alas, I am in no mood for frivolity today. Why don’t you go and join my brother Roger? He announced his intention of visiting The Folly this afternoon in order to gamble. Perhaps his spirits might be more in tune with your own.’
The Apothecary bowed. The battle was his and he was now certain of everything that so far had only been conjecture. He could afford to be magnanimous.
‘Then I’ll bid you adieu, ladies, and hope that you enjoy the rest of your day,’ he said politely, and, turning round, walked to the river without once looking back over his shoulder, very well aware that two pairs of anxious eyes were following his every move.
Close by Cuper’s Bridge, the name given to the ornamental landing stage that led to the Gardens, was moored the most extraordinary vessel. It consisted of a large barge on which had been built a one-storeyed saloon, complete with a profusion of windows. The roof of this curious houseboat was formed by a deck platform surrounded by a balustrade, at the four angles of which stood a sizeable turret, another tower bearing a flag in the centre. Thus the whole whimsical structure gave the appearance of a floating castle and was known throughout London as The Folly. Created soon after the Restoration of Charles II, it was originally intended as a musical summer house for the entertainment of quality folk. But this delightful notion had been sadly dashed. Every whore, strumpet and draggle-tail in town had soon seen off the ladies of the beau monde and now it had become a centre for low class amorous intrigues and assignations, a rendezvous for illicit liaisons.
Yet, this decline in its fortunes had at least made The Folly available for poorer people, so that apprentice lads and their sweethearts could afford to row there for an evening’s amusement. Further, there was still some good gambling to be had at the Golden Gaming Table. While the long-sworded bullies who were The Folly’s regular clientele, actually enjoyed being crowded together in the boxes and compartments of the saloon, smoking, swearing and drinking burnt brandy. So despite its rakish reputation and debauched atmosphere, The Folly did well enough for custom. And John, who had only been to the place once in his life, welcomed the excuse of spying on Roger which necessitated his going there.
Even though the notorious boat was only a few yards from Cuper’s Bridge, there was no other way to travel than by water. Thus, John hired a wherry and was rowed towards it, an astonished grin crossing his features as he approached. For every doxy on the upper deck was scrutinising him, some leaning low over the parapet to call out, others dancing together yet watching him all the while, one lifting her skirt to give him a glimpse of a red garter. Shaking his head and calling out that he was in a hurry, John clambered up the gang plank and plunged within, wondering how long it would be before the more persistent of their number wandered down to find him.
Inside the saloon, all was total chaos. Booths were crammed with harlots and drunks, smoke from a hundred pipes choked the air, waiters sweated and fought to get round the tables, the smell of burnt brandy filled the nostrils, fighting for supremacy over all the other odious stinks. It was like a scene from hell and John was seriously wondering whether he really wanted to subject himself to it when he saw, not Roger, but Julian Hartfield, sitting at the Golden Gaming Table, white to the gills and obviously losing. So here was luck indeed, both the twins in one afternoon. Determined to add victory to triumph, the Apothecary, using elbows and feet, bucked his way through the mêlée.
‘My dear Julian,’ he said loudly, coming up unheard behind his quarry.
The twin jumped violently and peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, it’s you. The last person I would have expected to see. Whatever is a man of your profession doing in a hovel like this?’
‘I might well ask the same of you.’
‘Oh, I’m just whiling away a few hours with a little dice.’
‘And I am continuing my studies.’
‘Studies?’ asked Julian, his voice squeaking. ‘Into what?’
‘Human nature and all its vagaries. Tell me, are you winning?’
‘Not as yet. Perhaps you will change my luck.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t count on that,’ John answered cheerfully. ‘In fact, I do believe that nowadays I am considered to be quite the bird of ill omen.’
A muscle twitched in Julian’s beautiful face. ‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘I think it has something to do with the investigation into your father’s death. I imagine that the killer thinks I am drawing ever nearer to him.’
‘And are you?’ Julian asked, throwing a dice.
‘I am certainly close to unravelling several mysteries.’ John took the seat next to Julian’s, vacated by a rakehell who had just fallen onto the floor.
‘Really?’ said the twin, in a voice so deliberately casual that the Apothecary smiled to himself.
‘Yes, really. Now, concentrate on your play. We cannot have you losing everything.’
‘No.’ Julian looked tense.
‘But smile as you do so. Remember that a gentleman forfeits his money with ease and negligence, that is according to my friend the Masked Lady.’
Julian glanced up. ‘Serafina de Vignolles? Do you know her?’
‘Very well indeed. The only female in living memory who could take on the opposite sex at both cards and dice and beat them at what they believed to be their own game.’
‘Why should women not be able to play as well as men?’ Julian asked defensively.
‘There is no reason,’ John answered, his tone cheerful, ‘except that, perhaps, they do not get as much practice. However, there are those unfortunates, presumably of both sexes, who simply have no talent for gambling and end up by blowing out their brains, in debt to the house for all they have staked.’
Julian shuddered. ‘What an unpleasant thought.’
‘Very. So be careful, my friend.’
‘Are you saying that I might do such a thing? Never, I tell you.’
The Apothecary looked the twin straight in the eye. ‘Just watch the path that you are treading, that is all. Often the most apparently innocent pastime can lead one into deep waters, believe me.’
Having delivered this dramatic warning and been rewarded by Julian’s terrified stare, John stood up to go, but at that moment his gaze was caught by someone at the far end of the saloon. Having again abandoned mourning and resplendent in a dazzling coat, full mounted, fashioned in blossom-coloured velvet trimmed with gold lace, a gold waistcoat with purple spots beneath, breeches of delicate lilac hue completing the ensemble, Roger had just stamped his high-heeled way into the saloon and was staring about him to see if anyone he knew was aboard.
John waved, murmuring to Julian meanwhile, ‘Why, there’s your brother.’
The twin looked frantic, scrambling to his feet and forfeiting his turn. ‘Oh great God, he mustn’t see me. How can I get out?’
‘There’s a staircase over there which seems to lead to the deck. But why do you have to hurry away?
He can’t object to you indulging in play, surely?’
Julian did not answer, instead rushing madly for the stairs, on which he collided with two dollscommon coming down to see what custom they could drum up. John recognised one of them as the owner of the garters.
‘Hello, my fine young buck,’ she called.
The Apothecary hesitated, wanting to observe Roger unseen but equally having no wish to fall into the girl’s clutches. In the end he decided that a tactical withdrawal was the only way. Waiting until Roger had stopped at a booth to chat to an acquaintance, he hurried past, his hat well down. Then, going to the top of the gangplank, John hailed a boatman from the many clustered around the houseboat.
‘Where to, Sir?’ asked the wherryman.
‘Anywhere round here where we can watch the Folly but not be seen ourselves.’
The man nodded, unperturbed.
‘I’m spying on a dog whom I believe to be dallying with my sweetheart,’ John added by way of clarification. ‘When he appears I want to pursue him to his destination and see what he’s about. I’m sorry this is such an unusual request but there it is.’
The wherryman shrugged. ‘Nothing unusual about it, you’re the third this week, duke. Look, best I drop you at Cuper’s so that you can sit in the pavilion in comfort. Then, as soon as the fellow shows up I’ll come and get you.’
‘But you don’t know what he looks like.’
‘I’m used to this,’ the wherryman said briefly. ‘Just describe him to me and he won’t slip through my net.’
‘As a matter of curiosity,’ the Apothecary asked, intrigued, ‘what happened to the other two fares?’
The wherryman laughed. ‘Oh, the first one killed his rival as soon as they were put ashore at Tothill Fields. The second indulged in fisticuffs and gave his opponent as sound a thrashing as I’ve seen in many a day. I had my money on him and won handsomely off the other watermen who had come to watch. Sadly though, the man who was done away with was my passenger so I had no one to row home that night. But he was a gentleman and had paid me in advance.’
John was both amused and amazed. ‘So following people is not uncommon?’
‘An everyday occurrence, duke.’
Whether that was true or a piece of waterfolk’s lore, the Apothecary could not be certain. But in the event he was glad to while away his time in the rotunda, consuming refreshments brought by waiters from the Gardens and conversing with other people waiting for transport, until, some hours later, his waterman appeared with much swishing of oars and winking of eyes. John immediately leapt to his feet and got aboard the boat, whispering, ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s heading up river. Just in front of us. Take a look.’
John did so, wrapping his cloak round him and pulling down his hat, and feeling excitingly like a spy. Sure enough, Roger was in the wherry ahead, sitting perched high on the seat, the skirts of his coat spread neatly around him.
‘So he’s going back into town,’ the Apothecary muttered to himself, and felt a quiver of disappointment that Roger was probably returning to St James’s Square and that all his efforts had been wasted.
But having crossed to the north bank, the beau’s wherry did not put in at Hungerford Stairs nor, indeed, at White Hall, the two obvious places for someone making for the area of St James’s. Instead, Roger disembarked at Manchester Stairs, the landing place for those going in the direction of St James’s Park.
An extraordinary idea took root in John’s mind as his wherry slid smartly to a halt by the landing steps. And, having tipped the laconic waterman well and assured him that there wasn’t going to be a fight worth watching, it grew even stronger as he mounted the Stairs in Roger’s wake.
‘It simply can’t be,’ John said to himself. But as he strode hastily along, never losing sight of the flamboyant figure hurrying ahead of him, he grew more and more convinced that the highly unlikely was about to prove to be the answer after all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sun was just beginning to plunge behind the trees of St James’s Park as John entered the noisome confines of George Yard, certain that he knew where he was going but still hardly able to believe the proof his eyes were giving him. Ahead scurried Roger, using his beribboned cane to help him achieve greater pace. No rampant buck could rush to his mistress with greater despatch, John thought, marvelling at it all.
From the Stairs, John’s unsuspecting quarry had cut down to Bridge Street, crossed King Street, and was now in the labyrinth of alleys that lay beyond the park’s southernmost boundary. Keeping out of sight, the Apothecary had followed Roger all the way, growing more incredulous with every step. Yet by now there could be no doubt. The great beau was turning left through a mean twitten, a route which could only lead him to Queen Street.
‘You duplicitous cull,’ said John, and suppressed a hoot of laughter.
Roger entered Queens Square and having looked round, almost as if he were aware that he was being observed, went to Amelia’s front door and let himself in with a key, an action that left the Apothecary gaping.
So this was an established liaison, he thought in amazement. Well, I’ll give them an hour and then go back and see what they have to say for themselves. And this decision made, John retraced his steps and went to the Blue Boar’s Head Inn, situated within the same maze of alleyways that he had just traversed.
As things turned out, the lovers had slightly longer on their own, the Apothecary having been drawn into a discussion about perfumes, a subject dear to his heart. The instigator of the conversation was a Frenchman, a handsome devil, in London to visit the great Charles Lillie, or so he said. Having heard that John was that rare thing, an apothecary who enjoyed experimentation into other related spheres, including the blending of fine scents, he begged leave to visit Shug Lane, and John gladly gave him his card. In this way, the Apothecary set off to interview the couple in rather a more tolerant frame of mind than he would have possessed normally.
As always, the sluttish maid answered the door. But even as she opened her mouth to speak, John forestalled her.
‘I have come to see Miss Lambourn and Mr Hartfield and I will not be gainsayed by you or anyone else. Just tell them I am here and await them below.’ And, so saying, he pushed past her and into the hall.
‘You can’t do that,’ she screeched.
‘I’ve done it,’ answered John. He raised his voice. ‘Mr Hartfield, this is John Rawlings. I have come to see you and Miss Lambourn on the business of Mr Fielding. Please be so good as to come downstairs.’
From the floor above came the sound of a startled shriek followed by the muffled tones of a male voice, this followed by a long silence, broken at last by the thud of steps on the staircase. John looked up and drew breath at the awesome sight of Roger, clad in a glistening scarlet turban and robe, making his way downward.
It was then, and only then, that the Apothecary had his first true sight of the other side of the great beau, a sight that he had glimpsed momentarily at Islington Spa, even though on that occasion Roger’s heavy lids had suddenly concealed his eyes from John’s inquisitive gaze. Now he saw that beneath the beautiful clothes and elegant wigs, the perfumed powder and the ornate jewellery, lurked something else. A sensual gluttony, an immense immorality, a grand licentiousness that was almost to be admired. Flamboyant and effeminate he might be, but for all that Roger seemed quite capable of making a woman fall in love with him. In the face of such deplorable depravity, John was silenced.
Roger took the initiative. ‘So,’ he said, with a careless shrug of a silk-clad shoulder, ‘my secret is out, is it?’
The Apothecary recovered his composure. ‘It has been out a while, in a sense. I have been aware for quite some time that Miss Lambourn had somebody else beside your father. Whilst Samuel Swann got an inkling of a hidden side to you at Sir William’s funeral.’
‘Did he now?’ The beau poured himself a sherry and offered a glass to John. ‘Then I must give him credit for his perc
eption.’
‘But though I agreed with him, I am frankly amazed that you turned out to be Amelia’s lover, Roger – you did ask me to call you that, if you remember.’
‘Why? Because you thought me of another persuasion? How tiresome of you, John. Have you not heard of people who make their own rules when it comes to passion? I may be a frivolous empty-headed profligate who squanders his life away at the gaming tables and other trivial pastimes, but let me assure you that my saving grace is a love of beauty.’
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t. Not at all. What I am trying to say to you is that I care not what form that beauty takes, in what body it is housed. Now do you understand me?’
‘Of course I do,’ John answered wryly. ‘You are bi-sexual.’
‘What a hideous word! And to admit such a thing would be to fall foul of the law. Let us leave it that I am a connoisseur of all that is fine regardless of its place of origin.’
The ruthless streak that the Apothecary usually suppressed, gained foothold. ‘And does this elegance of judgement balk at murder in order to obtain its desires?’
Roger swallowed his sherry and poured himself another, the hand holding the decanter shaking very slightly. ‘And what the devil do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that your sexual mores are entirely your affair. I am not here to pass judgement on those. My concern is the investigation of a killing, the killing of your father, lest you had forgotten.’
Roger groaned and rolled his eyes, slumping back in his chair, the gorgeously turbaned head lolling slightly, giving it a strange puppet-like look. Then there was an eruption in the doorway as Amelia Lambourn flew in like a fury and rushed to her lover’s side.
‘There, now look what you’ve gone and done. He’s come over faint! How could you, you heartless wretch?’
‘No, no,’ said Roger, reviving noisily and motioning her away. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Don’t make such a fuss.’
There was a silence during which Amelia, very pink in the cheeks but still displaying that fragile loveliness which set her apart from other young women of her background, gave Roger a fraught look. He returned it with a glance which John found inscrutable. Amelia, however, obviously read the signs for she let out a deep sigh and sank to the floor to sit at Roger’s feet. He gently patted her head and the very movement spoke volumes. The beau could have been stroking anything, a pedigree hound, a handsome cat, a beautiful youth, or the woman with whom he had committed an act of enormous folly, it really was all one and the same to him. Yet again, John was consumed by a grudging respect for the blatant immorality of the man.
