Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I do apologise for calling without prior warning. The fact is that Mr Fielding has asked me to speak to one or two people about the death of Kitty Perkins, the oyster girl. You knew her of course.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you realise that somebody has killed her?’

  ‘Yes. Redriff is a village, Mr Rawlings, and Wapping is too in its way. Everyone is talking about the girl’s terrible end.’

  ‘Did you also know there is a strong possibility her murder was connected to that of Sir William?’

  Valentine Randolph looked astonished. ‘No. That hadn’t occurred to me.’

  John decided that it was time to stop mincing words. ‘Listen, Mr Randolph, let me warn you that you are in a very hazardous position. You were in Redriff on the night Sir William was murdered, and at the right time too. Further, you were with a possible accomplice. There is talk of blackmail flying about, money being extorted by someone who knew the dead man’s private affairs. It seems to me that as far as your involvement is concerned, there are too many coincidences to be overlooked.’

  Valentine gave him a bitter glance. ‘And would he then have chosen me to be his bridegroom’s witness? If I had been fleecing him all those years, would Sir William have asked me to stand up for him?’

  ‘Quite true. But then, of course, Lydia Hartfield might have been the blackmailer and you could well have killed your employer to protect your mistress and her guilt.’

  Valentine went white and his hand flew in the air as if he were going to land a blow. ‘Don’t call her that! How dare you do so! I am in love with that woman. I would give my life for her.’

  ‘Be calm,’ said John soothingly, wondering if he was going to have to defend himself, here in Widow Greenhill’s parlour, full of pieces of delicate china and breakable little knickknacks. ‘Think rationally. Admit that things do not look good for the pair of you.’

  ‘I’ve already told you what happened that night.’

  ‘But you’ve only told me half of it! The truth is that you met Lydia Hartfield wandering about, as were you. Then you took her to The Angel and there made love to her. That’s what really happened, isn’t it?’

  Valentine sank onto the sofa, suddenly deflated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how did you know that she hadn’t just killed a man when you came across her by the river? Or perhaps you did know. Mr Randolph, when I first met Miss Lambourn she told me that you had written to her, informing her of Sir William’s death.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There was a discrepancy in the timing of that letter. If what she said was true, you had written it before Luke Challon came to your office to tell you what had occurred. So how did you know that Sir William was dead? Was it because either you or Lydia, or both of you, had killed him?’

  Valentine made a terrible retching sound. ‘No! I swear it! The fact is that I never went to sleep that night at all, and left Lydia before dawn. I told you the truth about my movements, except that I lied about coming home. In reality, after I had checked at The Spread Eagle that Sir William had not spent the night there, I went straight to work, despite the earliness of the hour. As I rowed across to Wapping, a waterman came alongside, a man I knew well by sight. He told me of his grisly errand, to fetch a body from The Devil’s Tavern and take it to the Coroner. When he described the corpse to me – he came from Redriff incidentally and would not have known Sir William – a terrible thought came to me. Then, when the bridegroom did not come to church, I guessed the ghastly truth, though I had no idea that the poor man had been murdered. I wrote to Amelia out of basic humanity, longing to remove from her the burden of having been jilted.’

  ‘I see,’ John answered quietly.

  ‘Now I’ve told you everything.’

  The Apothecary nodded, as if in agreement. ‘Then I will take my leave. There is clearly nothing more to say.’ He picked up the cane, still lying on the floor. ‘By the way, is this yours?’ he added casually.

  The office manager shook his head.

  ‘Then to whom does it belong? Have you ever seen it before?’

  Valentine’s lips tightened and his entire face became mask-like. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never set eyes on it in my life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ answered John, and left the house, acutely aware that for reasons of his own, Valentine Randolph was once again lying through his teeth.

  Obviously determined to enjoy himself, Runner Rudge had changed into a fancy waistcoat and black breeches by the time John returned to The Devil’s Tavern that evening, to say nothing of having already consumed several pints of ale in preparation for a jolly time ahead.

  ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings,’ he said jovially, slapping the Apothecary on the back with a fist like a side of gammon. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely. Otherwise it would have meant organising a search party.’

  Not knowing whether to be irritated or amused, John kept his tone light. ‘No need for that, Mr Rudge, I assure you. I wouldn’t like to think that I can’t go out without causing you worry.’

  ‘You’re my responsibility, Sir. That’s how I look on you.’

  ‘Well, give me certain freedoms, please do. Otherwise, like a naughty child, I might well run away.’

  Rudge seemed to think this was terribly funny and clapped John on the back again.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Sir?’

  ‘A glass of good claret, please.’

  ‘It shall be yours.’

  So saying, the officer of the law pushed his way to the pewter bar, supported on its base of barrels, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the waterside lowlife who crowded the inn that evening. It was then, looking round for somewhere to go, that John spotted Luke Challon, sitting by himself as usual, looking on the verge of both tears and suicide. With a sudden surge of compassion, the Apothecary went over to join him.

  ‘Luke, how are you? Last time I saw you you were fighting on this very floor.’

  Sir William’s secretary looked up and John saw that he had indeed been weeping. ‘A bitter day that was, too,’ he answered bleakly.

  ‘You lost your employment through it?’

  ‘Aye, it was a family decision that I should go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, Roger is nominally now head of the Hartfields, but gives not a damn as long as he is left alone to pursue his perversions …’

  Knowing Luke’s adoration of Amelia, John gave an inward shudder.

  ‘… but, anyway, he agreed. I have lost not only a job but also a home. I lived wherever Sir William did, you see.’

  ‘What were your future plans, had this not happened?’

  ‘I had hoped to stay on and work for the three brothers.’

  ‘Have you no parents?’

  ‘My father is a member of the impoverished minor nobility. I was his tenth child. He was only too delighted to see me make my way in the world and certainly couldn’t afford to take me back now.’

  ‘An ugly situation.’

  ‘Fortunately, Sir William left me a small bequest which I shall receive in due course.’

  ‘So what are you going to do meanwhile?’

  ‘Valentine Randolph is hoping to find me another situation. He knows several merchant ship owners and is making enquiries amongst them. He is also trying to find me lodgings in Redriff. Meanwhile, I am living here, in the tavern.’

  ‘Good gracious, I wouldn’t have thought the place to have held happy memories for you.’ John lowered his voice. ‘Did you know that Kitty Perkins is dead?’

  Luke looked uncomfortable. ‘I never actually met her. Was she the girl who called something out while I was fighting?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. Did you hear what she said, incidentally?’

  ‘No, not really. Something about somebody being somewhere?’

  John smiled ruefully, aware that he was going to get nowhere with this particular line of questioning, then he remembered the stick th
at he still held in his hand. He held it out so that the handle was only an inch or so from Luke Challon’s face.

  ‘Tell me, have you ever seen this before?’ he asked.

  ‘I certainly have,’ Luke answered promptly.

  ‘Then whose is it?’

  ‘Oh, surely you know. There’s only one person who could own an ornate thing like that.’

  ‘And who might it be?’ said John, already guessing the answer.

  ‘Why, the great beau himself. Roger Hartfield, of course,’ Luke replied with a laugh, and drained his glass to the dregs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The skies wept on the day of Kitty Perkins’s funeral. The Apothecary, waking early, looked out of the window of his attic bedroom to see that the Thames was swollen and grey, rushing at full spate, sheets of rain, so heavy that they appeared almost solid, adding to its volume. Cursing silently that he had not brought his umbrella with him, an invention from the Orient yet to become popular with the majority, John dressed in his black clothes, and went downstairs.

  Yet for once the mighty breakfast served at The Devil’s Tavern had not tempted him, too full of thoughts of the oyster girl’s fresh young beauty being laid in the earth to corrupt and putrefy and then to seethe with worms. Instead, John had contented himself with a slice of toast and several cups of coffee while he waited for Benjamin Rudge, sleeping off the effects of a heavy night’s quaffing, and read a note from Samuel sadly regretting that he could not attend the burial as business called him out of town. Restlessly, the Apothecary decided that he could wait no longer, and having scribbled a message for the Runner, he put on his hat and cloak and stepped outside.

  It was a terrible morning for a walk, yet John had felt an overwhelming urge to get out of the confines of the tavern and breathe the river air. Almost without knowing it, he found his feet taking him down Wapping High Street, that area of contrasts where warehouses and offices stood side-by-side with taverns, brothels, and dens in which narcotic intoxication caused by smoking the derivative of the white poppy took place.

  While John had been in Redriff on the previous day, Rudge had tracked down the whereabouts of Sir William’s office, and now, despite the earliness of the hour, the Apothecary decided to call there, confident that Valentine Randolph would already be at work, and thinking to make some excuse in order that he might have a look round. Yet as he climbed the staircase beside a ship-chandler’s, the window stocked with intriguing maritime gear, John heard voices and wondered whether he was going to be lucky enough to come across Hugh, and indeed fortune favoured him, for as he climbed higher the Apothecary identified the voice of Sir William’s third son.

  ‘… all seems to be in order. The ship can take fans, gloves, dresses, in fact everything desired by the ladies of Jamaica …,’ Hugh was saying, then stopped as John knocked at the door. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

  ‘John Rawlings, Sir.’

  ‘Ah, how very nice of you to call,’ Hugh answered, and opened the door, a broad smile lighting his tidy features. His face changed. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he whispered. ‘I must speak to you. The matter’s urgent.’ His voice resumed its normal pitch. ‘Do step inside.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m not interrupting?’ the Apothecary asked politely.

  ‘Not at all, not at all. Valentine and I were just deciding on our latest shipment.’ And he indicated a large ledger which lay open on a desk situated by a bay window, the office manager hovering over it.

  John looked round the large pleasant room and saw to his surprise that in a chair by the coal fire, lit to ward off the chills of the day, Maud sat, sipping coffee from a delicate bone china cup. She gave the Apothecary a freezing smile, said, ‘You’re about bright and early,’ then turned her attention back to the flames.

  Hugh signalled with his eyes. ‘I wonder if you’d be so good as to step into my sanctum, Mr Rawlings. There is a matter I would discuss with you privately.’

  Maud’s cup rattled violently in its saucer and Valentine cleared his throat.

  ‘By all means,’ said John, horribly aware of the sudden tension in the air.

  ‘Then if you would come this way,’ and Hugh opened a door leading off to the right and ushered John through.

  He was in a room not much bigger than a cubbyhole, most of the space taken up by a desk and chair. Maps of the world and a great globe occupied what was left, and it was with difficulty that John squeezed his way through to the stool that Hugh was indicating.

  ‘Oh damme,’ groaned Sir William’s son, even before the Apothecary was seated, ‘I know she is being unfaithful to me. Her behaviour is going from bad to worse. Why she was missing a whole night recently and when I challenged her with it, demanded to know where she had been, she gave some feeble explanation about a dying aunt.’

  ‘You’re speaking of your wife?’ John asked cautiously.

  ‘Of course I am. Even in my hour of need she was not there.’

  ‘I’m afraid that you are going too fast for me, Mr Hartfield. Pray tell the story from the start.’

  ‘You were present when I was involved in that terrible incident with Challon?’ John nodded. ‘Well, afterwards, when I was bruised and bleeding, I came back to this office to recover and hired a messenger to fetch her from Kirby Hall to tend me, and would you believe that she was not at home?’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Hartfield had gone to the town house.’

  Hugh’s voice choked on what sounded suspiciously like a sob. ‘No, because I returned there that night, when I had composed myself, and she had not been seen in St James’s Square all week.’

  A thought occurred to John and he had put it into words before he could stop himself. ‘Were you acquainted with an oyster girl called Kitty Perkins, by any chance?’

  Hugh stared at him. ‘What a strange question. Yes, I think I know who you’re talking about. A pretty little soul with bright blue eyes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s her. Well, she was murdered on the very night of your disagreement with Luke Challon. Mr Fielding believes the incident could be connected to your father’s murder.’

  Hugh went white. ‘You don’t think that my wife … Oh no, that could never be. She may be an adulteress but she could never …’ He did not complete the sentence, was not able to in fact, for tears started to pour down his face and the wretched man became convulsed with sobs.

  ‘Get a grip on yourself,’ John whispered, acutely aware of Maud and Valentine in the next room.

  ‘These awful suspicions,’ Hugh gasped. ‘How can I live with them?’

  ‘They may well be unfounded.’

  Hugh’s reddened eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘You know more than you are saying, I feel it.’

  ‘Nonsense. The Public Office can find nothing against your wife.’

  Recollecting the strange story of Maud’s behaviour in the garden, John decided to keep it to himself.

  ‘Nothing? Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ lied the Apothecary, and wondered whether Maud had indeed known Kitty Perkins.

  Hugh wiped his face with a sensible linen handkerchief, took a nip of brandy from a hip flask, and pulled himself together. ‘I apologise for that outburst, my friend. It was unforgivable of me to burden you with my problems. Now. You obviously came here for a purpose. How may I help you?’

  ‘I actually wanted to ask if you had ever seen this stick before.’ And John produced the walking cane from the floor.

  Hugh stared at it, then his face stiffened. ‘It was my father’s. I’d know it anywhere. Where did you get it?’

  ‘It was found on the riverbank. It is believed to be the implement with which Sir William was killed.’

  Hugh looked sick. ‘Then take the hateful thing away. I can’t bear to see it.’

  John got up. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  Hugh rose from behind the desk. ‘I apologise for my behaviour. I think that perhaps I need the sea air.’

  ‘Are you planning another trip?’
/>
  ‘I thought I might take Maud to Jamaica. If there is another man in her life then that should put paid to his little schemes. You see, I still love her, Mr Rawlings. Perhaps on that romantic island I might woo her all over again.’

  Thinking of the pair of them, the snapping-eyed shrew and the staid and stick-like Hugh, John’s imagination took frenzied flight.

  ‘I hope you have a pleasant voyage,’ was all he could think of saying as he made his way to the door, suppressing a scampish smile.

  Scorning the vile morning and the drenching rain, Sir Gabriel Kent, aware that this was the day on which a poor girl who had befriended John was to be laid to rest, dressed in his best black clothes, for once not relieving this most dramatic of colours with white accessories. Then furtively taking an umbrella from a secret drawer, having declared to his son that he wouldn’t be seen shot with such an effeminate and foreign contraption, Sir Gabriel placed a great tricorne upon his soaring wig and walked the few steps from his front door in Nassau Street to where his coach waited outside, completely blocking the narrow thoroughfare.

  ‘Where to, Sir?’ asked the coachman.

  ‘To Kirby Hall. It is high time that I paid my regards to the ladies in residence.’

  ‘Very good, Sir Gabriel.’

  The coachman cracked his whip and the equipage set off at good speed, but nature and thirst being what they are a stop was necessitated at The George, where John’s father caused a sensation as he stooped his way through the door of the low-beamed taproom.

  ‘Allow me to prepare a private drinking place for you, Milord,’ gasped the landlord, convinced that he was in the presence of a Duke, or at the very least a Marquis.

  ‘No, pray calm yourself. I am only staying a few minutes. I am on my way to Kirby Hall.’

  ‘Ah, Kirby Hall,’ repeated Frederick Bull, looking knowing. ‘I do hear that the old lady up there has been took bad, Milord.’

  ‘Do you mean that Lady Hodkin is ill?’ asked his visitor, adjusting a black lace cuff.

  ‘So they say. Though she seemed right enough the last time I saw her.’