Death at the Devil's Tavern

by Deryn Lake

  It was as windy as it had been on the day that John Rawlings first set foot in The Devil’s Tavern. Great gusts of air blew through the streets of London, rattling the shop signs and blowing gutter detritus into the faces of passers by, while cloaks filled like sails and hats sped aloft irretrievably. On the waterway, passengers were having a hard time of it. The Thames was in a wild fury, waves whipping its surface and flying spume lashing the great ships and riverside houses alike. Travellers were arriving at their destinations green in the face and soaked to the skin, while the sale of restorative spirits in waterside inns rose dramatically.

  The Apothecary had heard the tempest start up during the night and had thought how fitting it was that the sad affair was ending as it had begun. But even he, hardy sailor that he was, was not quite prepared for the anger of the river as he and Nicholas Dawkins, acting, or so John supposed, as some kind of bodyguard under the instruction of Sir Gabriel, attempted to board a wherry at Hungerford Stairs.

  John’s father, very wisely, had set forth with Miss Hodkin on the previous evening and had thus presumably enjoyed a calm and peaceful journey and a good night’s sleep. How typical, John had thought fondly, wondering if he would ever become as wise and imperturbable as Sir Gabriel Kent. And now, attempting to get aboard the madly bobbing boat, he heartily wished he had followed the older man’s example rather than spend time exposing the reckless prank played out by the Hartfield twins.

  Nicholas, lame leg or no, gave a flying leap and managed to land in the wherry. He then held out his hand to John, who accepted it and clambered on board, wondering whether he was getting old. And at London Bridge, where the cataracts between the arches foamed and roared in the wind, the Apothecary conjectured the same thing as he went ashore and walked to the next landing stage, leaving the Muscovite to enjoy the perils of the waterfalls on his own.

  The meeting at The Devil’s Tavern had been called for midday and John had left plenty of time, considering the weather to be so atrocious that progress might be slow. And so, it appeared, had the Blind Beak. For as John and Nicholas alighted at Pelican Stairs, the Apothecary saw that not far behind them followed another wherry, this one bearing the Magistrate himself, sitting bolt upright, a broad piece of ribbon securing his hat onto his head, whilst Elizabeth Fielding, somewhat pale of complexion, dabbed at her upper lip and clutched the side of the boat for dear life. Scrambling ashore as best he could, John waited politely to help the couple up the steep wooden steps, by now perilously wet and slippery as the waves of the Thames broke over them.

  In the event, he was glad that he did. For it was no mean feat for a heavily built man who could not see, to heave himself up the saturated stairway, particularly as, for once, his redoubtable wife was clearly out of sorts. John and Nicholas were straining for all they were worth at Mr Fielding’s arms, shouting orders at each other, when Joe Jago suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, called, ‘One last gigg, Beak,’ and the Magistrate sprung spryly ashore with only Joe’s grasp to guide him. The Apothecary and his assistant looked at one another, shrugged, and went within.

  Some of the company had already assembled. Valentine Randolph and Luke Challon were there, this last glaring at Hugh so violently that if looks could have killed, the head of the firm would have fallen dead at his wife’s feet. Maud, meanwhile, ignored the situation and busied herself talking to Juliette, pale as ice beneath her burnished hair. Her twin, too, was totally subdued and sat staring moodily out of the window, observing the river which raced a mere few inches below. Slightly removed from all of them and sitting close to the fire was Hesther Hodkin, Sir Gabriel hovering politely close by.

  ‘Tell me who is already here,’ the Blind Beak ordered in a loud whisper, obviously meant to be overheard.

  ‘Mr Hugh and Mrs Maud Hartfield, Miss Hesther, the geminis and the two employees, Mr Challon and Mr Randolph.’

  ‘Ex-employee,’ Hugh put in icily.

  ‘There are more coming,’ said Julian from the window, his voice flat and dreary sounding. ‘Lydia is sharing a wherry with that friend of Mr Rawlings, and right behind them is Roger … God’s teeth!’ He broke off.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s with Father’s strumpet.’

  Luke shot to the window. ‘So he is … with Amelia, I mean.’ He turned to Julian and they stared at one another blankly.

  ‘Then we’re only lacking Lady Hodkin to be complete.’

  ‘I dread the thought of seeing her,’ Hesther murmured.

  ‘Courage,’ answered Sir Gabriel and patted her shoulder, at which colour came into her cheeks.

  ‘May I suggest, ladies and gentlemen, that we make our way to the cockfighting room? I shall start without Lady Hodkin if necessary,’ Mr Fielding announced.

  There was an unenthusiastic murmur of consent and slowly the party began to troop up the staircase, to be followed a few moments later by Lydia and Samuel Swann, she looking radiantly lovely, John thought, her damp clothes clinging to her and her hair wet from the spray. Last of all came Roger and Amelia, very pointedly ignoring one another and taking seats at the opposite ends of the room.

  Oh dear, none of this is going to be easy, thought John, as his mind raced over the reputations that were about to be shattered.

  The Magistrate, sitting in a sturdy oak carver set before the window, cleared his throat. ‘Firstly, let me thank you for attending here today. I know it has not been a pleasant journey in this roaring gale for those who had to come any distance, or even for anyone who had to cross the river. However, I am aware that you all have a common interest in discovering why Sir William Hartfield was done so cruelly to death, and felt therefore that it was for the general good that the meeting proceeded despite the inclement conditions.’ The Blind Beak turned his head as if he were looking round. ‘I don’t suppose that many of you realise that it was in this very room, once used for cockfighting, now as a place for bare knuckle contests, that Sir William’s body was put for the night by the watermen who dragged it out of the Thames. And it was only by the merest chance that my friend Mr Rawlings, an apothecary, staying in the tavern that evening, happened upon Sir William’s corpse and examined it, to find an indentation upon the dead man’s skull distinctly bearing the mark of a fox’s head. Had it not been for this the murder of your father, employer, brother-in-law, might have gone undetected.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Hesther.

  ‘Because as the body began to bloat, as those that have been in the water generally do, the mark would have vanished and with it the evidence of the blow that was struck.’ The Magistrate paused, then said, ‘Mr Rawlings, would you care to go on.’

  John took up the story. ‘I examined the mark of the fox’s head by candlelight, as Mr Fielding has stated, but when, next morning, I returned to look at it again in the daylight, the body had gone, already taken to the Coroner as I was to discover later. However, the Magistrate soon became convinced that we had a case of murder on our hands and asked me to help him look for the victim’s killer.

  ‘As you already know, Sir William was to have been married to Miss Amelia Lambourn earlier that day, and most of you were in the church ready to make an unpleasant scene should this wedding have taken place. However, the poor man was already dead and therefore unable to keep his appointment, and the marriage party broke up in some confusion.’

  Mr Fielding spoke again. ‘Mr Rawlings’s task was not an easy one for it was not long before he encountered a veritable maze of lies, deceit and half-truths. Everyone, or so it seemed, had something to hide.’ His voice grew harsher. ‘Let me start with the head of the family, Mr Roger Hartfield, a man of cutting fashion and a collector of all that is beautiful and rare. It may surprise those present to know that long before Sir William met her, Mr Roger had already collected Miss Lambourn, that they had been lovers for several years, and that it was Roger who introduced his mistress to his father in order to stop Sir William being so miserable.’

  ‘God’s wounds!’ exclai
med Luke, who had gone very pale.

  ‘Further, they planned to continue their adulterous relationship once Amelia was married.’

  ‘I have never heard anything so disgusting in my life!’ boomed a voice from the doorway, and every head turned to see that Lady Hodkin, complete with pug, had arrived. She glared about her menacingly. ‘You’re filthy fornicators, the whole damned lot of you. Heaven has punished me indeed by giving me such a detestable family.’

  The Blind Beak ignored her entirely, merely saying, ‘Would you now continue, Mr Rawlings,’ to be echoed by Samuel adding, ‘Damme, what a tale!’

  John spoke again. ‘I thought at first that Roger might have killed his father in a passion but it soon became obvious that this was not so. And the idea of Amelia murdering for gain was equally untenable. For the fact remains that Miss Lambourn has gained nothing. Under the terms of Sir William’s new will, which he was to have signed on the night of his death, his wife was to have become his principal heiress. But Sir William never got to the lawyer’s office because he was called away to meet someone. Someone who, according to Mrs Lydia Hartfield, had been blackmailing him for some while. Therefore, the decision the Public Office had to make was as to whether Sir William was killed in a fit of fury or in order to stop him signing the new will, a will which would, effectively, have taken both his fortune and his business out of family hands.’

  ‘And which did you decide upon?’ asked Julian curiously.

  ‘Neither really, for we believe that the motive was a combination of the two.’

  ‘Roger murdered him,’ said Lady Hodkin forcefully, ‘just so that he could have that dirty little doxie to himself.’

  ‘Watch your language, Madam,’ growled the beau. ‘Mr Rawlings thinks differently.’

  ‘He never said so.’

  ‘Yes he did.’

  ‘Quiet!’ boomed the Blind Beak. ‘Pay attention, all of you.’ He took up the story. ‘It was obvious to the Public Office that Sir William was murdered on the night before his wedding and it therefore became vital that we should discover where he went and whom he saw during those last fatal hours. Yet investigation showed that every one of you – and that includes yourself, Lady Hodkin – seemed to have something to hide during the relevant time. Mrs Lydia, for example, followed Sir William, ostensibly to confront his blackmailer, then disappeared for the rest of the night.’

  ‘Murderess!’ yelled the old woman.

  ‘Oh be silent,’ Lydia answered furiously. ‘I spent that night in the arms of a good man and true, a man whom I love, so call me whore by all means, but a killer I am not.’

  She turned towards Mr Fielding who, just as if he could see she was looking at him, said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had known for some time that my father-in-law was being blackmailed,’ Lydia continued spiritedly. ‘It started while Lady Hartfield was alive and my guess was that the threat was to reveal his illicit affair to the world. As the family already knew about it, but the business community did not, my suspicion alighted on Valentine Randolph. Oh forgive me, my darling.’

  ‘My darling?’ Roger repeated incredulously. ‘Are you sleeping with Randolph then?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she answered, her stunning mouth forming into a smile. ‘I’ve told you, I love him. I would go to the ends of the earth with him.’

  ‘Continue your discourse, Madam,’ instructed the Magistrate severely.

  ‘I followed Sir William to Redriff but there he vanished. In fact, I was lost, wandering about alone and rather frightened, when I suddenly came across Valentine, who took me to The Angel and there we spent the night together.’

  ‘Didn’t you regard it as suspicious that he was in the area?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Lydia retorted angrily, ‘he lives there, if you remember.’ Valentine interrupted. ‘The fact is that I was looking for Sir William. He was to have met me in The Spread Eagle for a celebratory drink but did not arrive. Thinking he might have gone straight to The Angel, where he had booked to spend the night, I was making my way there to see if I could locate him.’

  ‘I find that almost too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Would you also find it a coincidence that your grandmother went missing for an hour that very night?’ John asked pointedly. ‘That your brother Roger cannot satisfactorily account for himself? That Julian and Juliette were wandering round London disguised as one another? That Miss Hesther Hodkin’s statement of where she was cannot be verified? That your own wife was seen stalking round the grounds of Kirby Hall just as if she were waiting to meet someone?’

  Hugh looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise all that.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ said Luke nastily. ‘So quick to put the blame on everyone else.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please.’ Mr Fielding’s voice drowned all others. ‘So, with so much deceit abounding, it was left to those trying to solve the puzzle to decide, firstly, who the blackmailer might possibly be, and, secondly, who would benefit most from Sir William’s death, providing he did not sign his new will. There was another point too, the murder of the poor wretched oyster girl.’

  ‘Surely that’s not connected,’ asked Amelia, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Not only is it very closely connected,’ answered John, ‘it is the key factor in the entire mystery.’

  ‘How so?’ said Maud.

  ‘During the brawl in The Devil’s Tavern, the brawl between your husband and Luke Challon, the brawl in which Roger, Julian and Valentine were all attempting to intervene with varying degrees of success, Kitty Perkins, the victim, recognised one of the men and began to make a remark, a remark which she was never able to finish, but a remark to the effect that she had seen one of them in a place where she would never have expected him to be.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So this evidence of hers, had she lived to give it, was obviously important enough to ensure that she must be silenced for ever.’

  ‘Four key things then,’ put in the Blind Beak. ‘Who knew sufficient about Sir William’s business and love affairs to be able to blackmail him? Who would lose all if the second will were to be signed? Who had sufficient access to Sir William’s office to steal Mr Randolph’s stick and use it as a murder weapon? Who was somewhere so strange that his very being there must name him murderer?’

  Valentine Randolph spoke again. ‘I suppose that I, as his office manager, knew most about his commercial ventures. And I was certainly aware that Sir William had a mistress. And the use of my stick makes things look very black for me, I realise that.’

  Luke came in. ‘I knew just as much. I was his confidential secretary. Further I had free range of the office at any time.’

  Realising that everyone was staring at him, Roger said, ‘Well, obviously, as I introduced them, I knew everything about his relationship with Amelia. But I didn’t take the damned stick. I’ve got one of my own. Anyway, I understood little of Father’s business dealings.’

  ‘You understood enough to boost your funds by blackmail, you mollying dog,’ screamed Lady Hodkin, silent for an unnervingly long time, but now clearly having gathered sufficient strength to come back in on the attack.

  ‘I deny it,’ shrieked the beau.

  ‘Well, I may be the biggest fool in Christendom and thoughtlessly have put my sister at risk,’ said Julian heatedly, ‘but I would never stoop to extortion, particularly from my own father. As for the stick, I know nothing about it.’

  ‘Never the less,’ said the Blind Beak relentlessly, ‘somebody did, and somebody killed, not one, but two people. Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘Before the murder of Kitty a portrait was beginning to build in my mind, a portrait of someone both avaricious and ambitious, of someone capable of lashing out in a rage, of someone who above all loved power. Ideas began to come to me. Memories of a conversation I had overheard, in which a man told a woman that something had gone terribly wrong; of an eye witness declaring that a female had been acting strang
ely, only for that female to deny it; of a missing button by a gravestone, not fancy enough for most men to wear, only those who adopt a plain and God-fearing attitude to life.

  ‘But, as Mr Fielding said, the real key lay with harmless little Kitty. She had seen someone somewhere out of place, so I determined to find out where that place might be. Her uncle told me that they had recently moored at Gravesend overnight, after a bad storm had shaken them up at sea. Kitty had gone ashore to have a drink and sell oysters, and had made for the inn, The Belle Sauvage. And it is to that particular inn that the coaches from the Kent coast come to drop their passengers to catch the ferry into London. So how easy it would be for anyone crossing the Channel to be put ashore at Dover, or anywhere adjacent, pick up a postchaise, then the common tilt boat, and be in London days before the ship on which he was sailing arrived at the Legal Quays.’

  There was a terrible silence during which Benjamin Rudge loomed in the doorway leading to the staircase and Samuel Swann quietly rose to his feet.

  Hugh burst out laughing. ‘I take it that this fiction is directed at me?’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered seriously, ‘it is. For only you answer all four of the criteria that the Public Office is seeking.’

  ‘But I told you, I was at sea when my father was murdered.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. You were put off at the coast and you got to London in the manner I’ve just described. The only thing that went wrong was that Kitty Perkins, who knew you well by sight, saw you at The Belle Sauvage and wondered what you were doing there.’

  ‘And Mrs Maud Hartfield is also implicated, being an accessory after the fact,’ stated John Fielding. ‘Do not deny it, Madam. You knew your husband was secretly returning from France in order to persuade Sir William, by force if necessary, not to sign his new will. However, you were not quite certain when. So you waited for him in the garden of Kirby Hall on the night he was about the filthy work of patricide. Then, when he did appear, you heard his confession that something had gone wrong and did nothing about it. You are as guilty as he is in the eyes of the law.’