Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘You had better tell me everything,’ he said. ‘And I do mean everything.’

  ‘We met five years ago,’ said Roger, after consuming yet more sherry. ‘I was thirty, Amelia ten years younger. I was involved with a group of bright young blades at the time – we called ourselves the Whisker-Splitters, as I remember it. In fact I was at Islington Spa with them that very night. Anyway, I saw Amelia and was so taken with her that I thought of her all next day. She became, for me, the butterfly that I had to have in my collection. To cut the tale short, I went back and captured her.’

  ‘But surely Lady Hartfield was alive at that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, how did Sir William become involved?’

  Roger actually laughed. ‘I devised a plan to stop the poor old goat being so mournful. I thought that if he fell in love with Amelia he would cease to be so wretched and miserable. After all it wasn’t easy for him, living with an invalid wife.’

  ‘That has to be one of the most sinful statements I have ever heard.’

  Roger laughed again. ‘Oh don’t be so pompous! It was not the credo of the Whisker-Splitters to be moralistic. Anyway, Amelia consented to the plan and I took my father to the Spa and introduced them. He fell in love with the girl at first sight and after a dignified courtship asked her to be his mistress.’

  ‘Whilst remaining yours at the same time?’

  ‘Certainly. A very erotic situation.’

  ‘You are beyond redemption.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger, quite seriously. ‘I truly believe that I am.’

  ‘Everything was all right till Sir William asked me to marry him,’ Amelia put in, her accent grating after her lover’s cultured tones.

  ‘So why, in God’s name, did you say yes to him? Purely for material gain, I suppose?’

  ‘Not quite,’ answered Roger. ‘To be honest with you I didn’t have a mind for wedding myself. We Whisker-Splitters believed in roaming freely, taking our pleasures when and how we liked. Marriage did not enter into our thinking.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Amelia and I thought that we would give the old man a last few years of happiness with a young and beautiful bride.’

  ‘With plenty of money for you both to squander and your own little arrangement unaffected.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Have you no shame?’ John asked, torn once again between disgust and an awful sense of sneaking regard for such totally unprincipled behaviour.

  ‘None at all,’ Roger answered cheerfully. ‘Do have another sherry.’

  ‘One moment,’ said the Apothecary, raising a staying hand. ‘I have two more questions to ask you. The first is, have either of you ever heard a rumour that Sir William was being blackmailed?’

  Amelia looked uncomfortable and stole another glance at Roger, who nodded. ‘Yes, I have, and it was true. He told me so himself,’ she said haltingly.

  ‘But why. What was it all about?’

  ‘Somebody was threatening to reveal the fact that he had a mistress to his fellow merchants. A terrible thing to him because he liked to appear respectable. You see, I think Sir William wanted to rise high in the world of commerce, perhaps become a man of some distinction. I don’t really understand these things, but I do know that someone was making him pay to keep silent about me.’

  ‘But he was just about to marry you so what was the point?’

  ‘The blackmailer started to threaten while my mother was still alive,’ Roger answered drily.

  ‘I shall be reporting all this back to John Fielding, of course,’ said John, trying to sound stern.

  Roger instantly sprang to his feet and a large hand flapped. ‘My dear, of course you will be. That is your duty, is it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it should certainly give the Beak something to think about. A respectable family man like him.’

  John managed a smile. ‘Tell me, what will the two of you do now?’

  ‘In what regard?’

  ‘Well, Amelia has been left penniless, while you have a share in a business, to say nothing of a considerable fortune. So who’s going to keep the young lady now? Or is she going back to Islington Spa? What say the Whisker-Splitters to that little conundrum?’

  Miss Lambourn turned an enquiring face to her lover. ‘Yes, Roger. What do they say?’

  ‘Er …’ answered the great beau.

  ‘Good night,’ murmured John, and bowed his way out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  His usual energy sapped by the day’s events yet his mind teeming with all the extraordinary things he had learned, John had walked slowly home through the green of St James’s Park, seeing none of its beauty, not even noticing the contentedly grazing cows who dwelled there, all of whom had looked up as he passed, mooed at him, then gone on eating. Almost in a trance, the Apothecary had made his way round the park’s long pond and cut into Pall Mall, then turned off towards The Hay Market and Nassau Street. But there his reverie had been rudely interrupted. Benjamin Rudge, twitching with anxiety, was still awaiting him, not consoled at all by Sir Gabriel’s assurances that it was highly unlikely his son had come to any harm.

  ‘God’s sweet life, Mr Rawlings. I’d almost given you up for dead,’ he exclaimed as John walked into the library. ‘I’ve been waiting for word since this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rudge, I really am, but there was no way I could communicate with you. One trail led to another and so it went on. But now I am all done, quite literally.’ And he sank into a chair.

  ‘Is there anything I should report to Mr Fielding?’ asked the Runner, standing up, a slightly peevish expression on his face.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell him that I will call on him tomorrow. There is so much to say that I think I should recount it personally.’

  Rudge looked even more put out and Sir Gabriel said tactfully, ‘What time will this be, John? Mr Rudge will obviously need to be there and it would be easier to tell him now.’

  ‘Would eight o’clock be too early?’ the Apothecary asked contritely.

  ‘No, Sir, I am sure that will be in order,’ Rudge said stiffly.

  ‘Then I shall see you tomorrow and I do apologise again for your long and boring wait.’ The Runner went out and John pulled a face at his father. ‘Oh dear, he is not well pleased.’

  ‘It can’t be helped. Now, my dear child, tell me everything.’

  What a pleasure it was, John thought, to sit in the familiar and well-loved confines of his favourite room and recount the story of the remarkable happenings of the last few hours to someone whose acute mind he considered equalled only by that of the Blind Beak. Indeed, even Sir Gabriel’s sagacious nods were encouraging and the Apothecary warmed to his tale, finishing it with the words, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘About the twins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That you are perfectly right.’

  ‘But could their jinket have a more baleful purpose?’

  ‘Indeed it could. I would watch them both very carefully.’

  ‘And speaking of watching people, may I ask you another great favour, my very dear Father.’

  ‘You want me to go to Kirby Hall again.’

  ‘I do. Merely to observe the doings of the three weird women who inhabit it. I am sure you cannot find out their whereabouts at the time Kitty Perkins died, without arousing suspicion. However, any information would be useful.’

  ‘I shall call on them the day after tomorrow in order to pay my respects.’

  ‘Many thanks. Now, what do you make of Roger?’

  ‘Much as I had thought, though I must confess I am surprised that he has turned out to be Amelia’s lover.’

  ‘He has collected her, so he says. He is an admirer of loveliness – in all its forms – and she proved irresistible.’

  Sir Gabriel laughed robustly. ‘What a blackguard.’

  ‘Yes, but like the twins, could his longing for wealth and beauty have
led him to kill?’

  ‘More than likely,’ said John’s father matter-of-factly. ‘Collectors – of anything – are known for their ruthlessness and eccentricity. Indeed, they are highly dangerous individuals, who would remove any obstacle in order to get their hands on the object of their desire.’

  John nodded as the import of the words fully sank in, and with them the certainty that behind the mask of Roger’s heavy-lidded eyes might well lurk a ruthless killer, prepared even to put down his own father in his search for perfection.

  The Apothecary rose early the next morning and made a flying visit to Shug Lane to see that all was in order. For once he preceded the redoubtable Nicholas, who came panting in some five minutes later with an extremely anxious expression on his face.

  ‘Oh God’s wounds, Mr Rawlings, I saw the door open and believed you had been robbed.’

  ‘No, all’s well. I just thought I ought to cast my eye over the place as I have a feeling I might be occupied elsewhere for the next several days.’

  ‘Why, is the net closing round the villain?’

  ‘I’d like to say yes,’ John answered truthfully, ‘but the fact remains that he or she still eludes me.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anyway, how is business? And what is Master Gerard like?’

  ‘Old and pompous but full of interesting ideas and remedies. I’ve taken the liberty of writing some of them down.’

  ‘Well done, I shall study those when I have a spare moment.’

  ‘When,’ said Nicholas, and smiled his thin-faced smile.

  Walking very briskly, John reached Bow Street just as eight o’clock was striking and hurried in to find Mr Fielding awaiting him in his downstairs study. There was a fresh smell of lavender about the Magistrate this morning and John could see by a nick on his cheek that he had cut himself whilst shaving, a feat which he presumably accomplished by touch. Glad that he was looking smartly presentable even though he could not be seen, the Apothecary took a seat in the chair that the Blind Beak was indicating.

  ‘I hear from Rudge that there is a great deal afoot,’ said the Magistrate, not wasting time on pleasantries.

  ‘Yes,’ answered John, and started to describe all that had transpired.

  The Blind Beak sat silently, the black eye cover turned towards the speaker, his hands motionless on the desk in front of him. Finally he nodded and said,

  ‘You are proceeding apace, I believe.’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t feel as if I am. If anything, everything seems more confusing than it did at first.’

  ‘Not at all. Continue as you are doing and very soon now you will find the link that connects the person concerned to the two murders.’

  ‘I am glad you are so confident, Sir. I wish that I thought the same.’

  The Magistrate’s hands ran over the desk, feeling the various bits of paper that lay upon it. Eventually he identified one and handed it across the space between them.

  ‘I received a letter last night from the constable in Wapping, an excellent fellow by the sound of it. He was checking that you were indeed working for the Public Office, a thorough move. Further he informed me that the funeral of Kitty Perkins takes place tomorrow. I thought you should attend.’

  The Apothecary glanced at the piece of paper and saw that even though it was written in a somewhat ill-formed hand, it none the less asked all the right questions and contained every bit of relevant information regarding the laying to rest of one deceased oyster girl.

  ‘As you say, Sir, a conscientious chap, this one.’

  ‘It strikes me, my friend, that you would do well to go to Wapping straight away. Perhaps you might be able to have further words with Mr Randolph, or even Hugh. Take Rudge with you and see what the pair of you can discover.’

  John smiled. ‘You seem very keen on the Runner accompanying me everywhere. Is it your intention that he should act as my protector?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Fielding bluntly, ‘it is. You are too close to the murderer for comfort, as the saying goes. I want him there if anything untoward should happen.’

  ‘A very kind thought.’

  ‘Kind and practical,’ answered the Blind Beak. He held out his hand. ‘Now I must bid you adieu, Mr Rawlings. The court is sitting early today. Rudge is waiting in the Public Office, keen as a hound for an adventure.’

  ‘Then I’ll see how he fares on the waterway.’

  ‘Yes. Good luck to you. Watch carefully at the burial. Oh, and by the way …’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Take the great stick with you and show it around. See if anyone can identify its owner.’

  ‘Did Joe find anything on it?’

  ‘No, it had all been washed away by the river. But do your best.’

  ‘I will, Sir.’ And with that assurance, John collected the stick and went off to find Benjamin Rudge, hoping that the Runner would be in a better mood than when he saw him last. As it turned out a good night’s sleep had done wonders for the man, and he greeted the Apothecary with enthusiasm.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rawlings. And where are we bound for today?’

  ‘To Wapping, at Mr Fielding’s suggestion. I am to attend the funeral of Kitty Perkins tomorrow, something I would have wanted to do anyway. However, I must go home first and collect my black clothes and an overnight bag.’

  ‘I’ll take you there in the carriage then I’ll do the same.’

  ‘Shall, we meet at Hungerford Stairs in an hour?’

  ‘Indeed we shall.’

  ‘Oh,Rudge …’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Would it be possible to get a note round to Samuel Swann in St Paul’s Churchyard? I rather think he might like to be at the burial.’

  ‘If you can scribble it out, Mr Rawlings, I’ll get one of the others to take it.’

  ‘Good,’ said John, and plunged into an hour of frantic activity.

  It was almost a relief to take to the river again, even though the Apothecary had spent a great deal of time either on or near the water on the previous day. In fact so soothing was its influence that John found himself thinking yet again about a house near the Thames in years to come, a daydream that was becoming ever more important to him. Rudge, too, started to grin and relax, making John wonder just how effective he would be as a guard should trouble shortly break out. But all was calm as they climbed Pelican Stairs and headed into The Devil’s Tavern, where the Apothecary booked two rooms for the night before taking a boat across to Redriff, or more specifically The Spread Eagle, in order to enquire the whereabouts of Valentine Randolph’s lodging. On this occasion, John quite deliberately left Rudge behind, the Runner’s task ostensibly to find out exactly where the late Sir William Hartfield’s office was situated. In reality because another’s presence might well inhibit Valentine should it come to an honest discussion.

  The mudlark, who was washing up in preparation for the onslaught of custom due at any moment, greeted him with enthusiasm. ‘How are you m’dear old duke? I see you’ve brought me stick back, you goodly fellow.’

  John smiled but shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you can’t have it yet. I’ve got to show it around first. See if anyone knows who owns it.’

  Fred looked crestfallen. ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I’d like to start with Mr Randolph. Have you any idea where he lodges?’

  ‘Yes, he’s with the Widow Greenhill, the end house in Elephant Lane. It’s painted blue and white. Used to belong to Captain Greenhill who drowned at sea.’

  ‘I should be able to find that easily enough.’

  ‘I hope you can ’cos I ain’t coming with yer. Remember what happened last time?’

  ‘Only too clearly.’

  ‘Anyway Mr Valentine won’t be home yet. He generally rows across about six o’clock.’

  ‘Then I’ll come back.’

  ‘Aren’t you staying for a drink?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I need to keep a clear head.’

  Yet this wasn’t quite true. In fact John wa
nted to go back to St Mary’s and stroll about the churchyard, conjecturing what had happened on the night Sir William had gone to meet the blackmailer and instead had met his end by the grave of poor Elizabeth Wells, plucked from the cruel world at the age of fifteen. For, though they could never be quite certain, Joe Jago, after examining the scrapings of dried blood and the sad white hairs taken from the gravestone, had concluded with John that this had probably been the place where the dying man had fallen, never again to rise.

  A glance at his watch told John that it was five o’clock and he turned his steps in the direction of The Spread Eagle, in order to watch Church Stairs for the return of Valentine Randolph. A balcony outside provided the ideal spot and it did not seem too long before a dot on the river grew larger and John recognised the long lean form and hawk-like features of Sir William’s office manager, dressed in sensible grey worsted, and rowing himself back home after a day at work. Keeping very still, the Apothecary watched Valentine moor his boat and make his way slowly up the stone steps. The man knew the river backwards, that much was obvious, and John thought back to the occasion when Kitty had called out that she had seen someone she recognised in a strange place, thus bringing about her own cruel death. That she knew exactly who Valentine was had been made clear on the night when John and Samuel had first met her. But surely all of the others must have been in Wapping at some time or another. Guilt did not necessarily rest on the shoulders of the local man. Glumly, John finished his drink, waited ten minutes, then followed Valentine Randolph to his lodging in the house of the Widow Greenhill.

  He was shown into the downstairs parlour and a few moments later, the man he had come to see came through the door looking extremely puzzled.