by Deryn Lake
‘Do you care for me at all?’ he heard himself whisper.
‘Of course I do. I consider you a very dear friend.’
‘For God’s sake, Coralie,’ he answered roughly. ‘Please don’t mince words. Now that Richmond is off the scene, I thought you might regard me differently.’
She drew away from him. ‘The Duke and I were companions, that is all.’
‘You mean you didn’t sleep with him?’
Now he had made a mistake. Kissing in public might be one thing, but questioning her about a past relationship was another. Coralie positively smouldered.
‘How dare you quiz me about what I do? What gives you that right?’
A little light-headed through lack of sleep, the Apothecary answered recklessly, ‘The fact that I am totally besotted with you.’
‘Besotted?’ repeated the actress with contempt. ‘Old men are besotted with chitty little girls. Married women are besotted with their husband’s apprentices. Couldn’t you find a better word to describe what you feel?’
‘Oh, for the love of Heaven,’ shouted John, losing his patience, ‘I adore you. Is that any better?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ stormed Coralie Clive. ‘You lust for me, that’s the truth of it, John Rawlings. Love simply doesn’t enter into it. Good morning to you.’ And with that she turned on her high red heel and marched off towards Drury Lane without another word.
John stared after her rigidly retreating back, swore an evil oath and kicked a pile of refuse flying, then stalked back into the Public Office, his face bleached with fury.
And he was in no better frame of mind when he stormed into his home in Nassau Street, banging into the hall and clattering through the house like a tempest.
Sir Gabriel’s head appeared over the first-floor banisters. ‘Good God, boy, I thought we were under attack. Whatever are you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ John answered angrily.
‘I can only presume that something has gone wrong, judging from the fact that you are back from Winchelsea so soon and that your expression’s black as thunder.’
‘This face I must see,’ said a female voice, and to John’s astonishment Serafina de Vignolles, the woman with whom he had once been totally infatuated, her daughter, and John’s god-daughter, Italia, toddling beside her, came on to the landing from the first-floor salon.
‘My dear friend,’ she called down. ‘You look so troubled. Whatever has happened to you?’
Milking the situation, the Apothecary cast his features into an expression of deepest gloom. ‘What has not!’ he answered dramatically.
‘That means a woman is involved,’ said Sir Gabriel with asperity. ‘Come and join us, my son. We are having some champagne prior to dining early for the benefit of Italia.’
‘And how is my god-daughter?’ said John, running up the last few steps and snatching the child up into his arms.
She was a beautiful little creature, with an abundance of her father’s lustrous black hair tumbling in curls on either side of a roses-on-snow complexion. Little seed-pearl teeth showed when she smiled and her body, secure against John’s shoulder, already had the strong supple feel of Serafina’s about it.
‘I am fine,’ answered Italia with composure, and gave the Apothecary a bussing upon his cheek. ‘You’re very hairy,’ she added.
‘And that is not the first time I’ve been told that today,’ he replied grimly.
‘Has Coralie Clive been misbehaving again?’ asked Serafina, looking acute.
‘Indeed she has,’ said John with feeling, and settling himself by the fire took the glass handed to him by Sir Gabriel.
Suddenly it was very good to be at home again and in the company of those who cared for him, all listening attentively, even the child, to the tale he had to tell.
‘So,’ said John’s father, when his son had finished, ‘it seems that you have had a most adventurous time. I can hardly credit that Mrs Harcross has returned and now considers herself to be in danger. Who would want to do such a thing to so lovely a woman?’
‘She believes an old friend of Jasper’s – or one of the others.’
Serafina shook her head. ‘I can’t agree with her. All the vengeance in that terrible situation was played out long ago. As for Jasper’s many women, they have all gone their different ways.’
‘You say your spy had a coded message upon him,’ put in Sir Gabriel.
‘Yes, I am to take it to the King’s Decipherer later today.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘I am not at liberty to divulge. Mr Fielding gave me a name and an address but asked me not to pass it to anyone.’
Sir Gabriel rubbed his thin and elegant hands together. ‘What splendid stuff this is. There’s nothing better than a good tale of spies in my view. Why, I remember when the Young Pretender marched south in ‘45, London was full of Jacobite sympathisers. Everybody believed everybody else to be a secret agent for the Bonny Prince. It was all enormous fun.’
‘Some people took it very seriously,’ the Apothecary answered severely.
‘As did I,’ Sir Gabriel replied without a flicker.
In this manner they chatted on until, after John had gone to wash, shave and change into clean and more fashionable attire, they went in to dine. Then their amusement came from watching Italia attempting to imitate the eating habits of her elders, even down to the way her mother dabbed her curving lips with a napkin.
‘Why, she’s as like you as if you had spat her out of your mouth,’ said John.
‘In manner, yes. In looks I think Italia favours her French ancestry.’
‘She already has your elegance.’
‘Thank you,’ Serafina answered, and shot the Apothecary a look in the depths of which was all the old affection she had felt for him.
Without thinking, John said, ‘I wish Coralie were more like you.’
‘She really upset you this morning, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘My son,’ put in Sir Gabriel, ‘may I give you a little advice?’
‘Please do.’
‘As best you can, forget that lady. If she cares for you at all she will one day start to realise that acting alone is not enough to satisfy her, then she will come to you and tell you so. If, however, she is not your destined consort, she will turn to someone else when that moment arrives. Therefore, the best thing you can do is let the earth revolve, let time pass, and enjoy life as fully as you can without her.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ said John, with a certain reluctance.
‘Indeed he is,’ stated Serafina. She looked at her daughter, who was drooping a little. ‘Sirs, I must take my leave of you. The effort of behaving impeccably has tired Italia out. My coach is in the mews, John. May my coachman take you to your destination once he has set us down?’
‘I suppose that would be in order, provided he does not know upon whom I’m calling.’
‘The mystery will remain,’ Serafina answered with a smile.
Having been waved off by Sir Gabriel, who had announced his intention of going out to play whist, Serafina slipped her arm through John’s in the warmth of the coach’s padded interior, while the child sitting on her lap fell straight into a deep sleep.
‘My dear, I have something to ask you,’ the Comtesse said.
‘What is it?’
‘Do you think your father still has a tendresse for Elizabeth Harcross?’
The Apothecary thought in silence. ‘If he has, he gives no sign of it. He is a remarkable man, you know. I think when she disappeared abroad after Jasper was murdered, he positively forced himself to forget her.’
‘Oh, that we could all have such self-control.’
Wondering exactly what she meant, John tensed, remembering only too clearly the state of Serafina’s marriage when he had first met her. ‘There’s nothing wrong between you and Louis, is there?’ he asked hesitantly.
She sighed. ‘Not exactly, no.’
Not sati
sfied, John added, ‘Answer me straightly, Serafina. Has he gone back to his old philandering ways?’
She turned to look at him, her eyes shining. ‘No, I am sure that he has not. He has become an excellent father and husband. It is just that he has seemed so preoccupied recently. There is something on his mind, I feel certain of it.’
‘Would it help if I had a word with him this evening? I could catch the same early morning coach to Hastings that I did last time.’
Serafina squeezed his arm. ‘I would be most grateful if you did. Louis trusts and likes you. If there is anything worrying him I feel certain that you will find it out.’
‘If I can be of service,’ said John.
The Comtesse kissed him soundly. ‘You are so good. I simply can’t imagine why I didn’t take you for a lover all those years ago.’
If only you had, thought John, as he gazed out of the window and watched the light begin to fade from that eventful day.
Chapter Seven
Having dropped Serafina and her sleeping child at their home at number twelve, Hanover Square, the Comte de Vignolles’s coachman, after clipclopping smartly round the quadrangle, turned out of the precinct into Little Brook Street, then went left into New Bond Street, making his way towards that highly fashionable area, still in the final throes of its development, situated behind Berkeley Square. Greatly favoured by the wealthy and powerful, moving out of the city towards the open spaces of Hyde Park, the locality bore the name Mayfair, taking its title from a somewhat rowdy fair which always began on May Day, held annually on a plot of land situated to the east side of the park. Like all events of this nature, the May Fair was a great attraction to the rowdy and the drunk, and John, having visited it the year previously, thought he had never seen such a collection of evil villains and dirty whores amongst those present, and wondered whether the fair could continue much longer, particularly with the influx of such influential people into the area. Indeed, so fine a neighbourhood was this becoming, that the Earl of Chesterfield himself was campaigning to have the public executions which took place at Tyburn, a mere stone’s throw away at the corner of Hyde Park, removed elsewhere, and the name of Tyburn Road changed.
Slowing the coach, for Mayfair was not yet familiar to drivers, Louis’s coachman drove around Berkeley Square and out into the smart streets of newly-built houses lying at the back of it.
‘What address did you say, Sir?’ the man called from his box.
The Apothecary looked at the piece of paper John Fielding had given him. ‘Twenty-four Hill Street,’ he answered out of the window.
‘That must be it over there,’ and the driver pointed with his whip.
John looked in the direction indicated and his eyes grew wide. A most elegant new mansion, far grander than anything he had imagined would be occupied by a spy, stood imposingly in this street of highly desirable residences. The Apothecary glanced at the paper again but the address was correct.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he replied.
A footman answered the door and on hearing that the visitor was calling on behalf of John Fielding, showed the Apothecary into a somewhat austere anteroom, hung with pictures of ecclesiastical buildings, including a rather fine painting of St David’s Cathedral in Wales. John had just got to his feet to examine this more closely when the servant reappeared.
‘My lord will see you now,’ he announced.
The Apothecary stared at him. ‘My lord … ?’ he repeated.
‘Follow me, please,’ the footman answered, ignoring the visitor’s startled expression.
They proceeded across an elegant hall into a stunningly beautiful room.
‘Mr Rawlings, my lord,’ intoned the footman expressionlessly, and bowed his way out.
John looked around him, amazed by what he saw. Three huge windows, each with a padded seat, draped in gold to match the long and magnificent curtains, looked on to the attractive garden beyond. Above his head, the cornice was picked out in a matching gold, while below it the frieze, though of different design, complemented the colour exactly. But the most exciting element of the room was its shape. For the window wall curved gently outwards, meeting the adjoining walls in a pillar-like configuration which added a pleasing symmetry to the whole effect. This, together with the angled setting of the windows, gave an impression of delicacy and lightness, unequalled by anything John had ever seen.
Modern architecture at its best, the Apothecary thought, and before he could stop himself exclaimed, ‘What a wonderful house. Who designed it, if I might ask?’
The man seated behind the desk placed in front of a window, his back to the light so that he appeared in silhouette, looked up from his papers. ‘A new young man, a Scotsman, name of Robert Adam. I’m glad you like it. Now, my dear Sir, I believe you have been sent here by Mr Fielding. How may I help you?’
‘It’s about this document,’ said John, fishing in his pocket. And then he stopped speaking and gazed in frank astonishment as the man got to his feet, etched dark against the spring sky behind him, and came round the desk towards his visitor. For a clergyman stood there, a clergyman in black leather gaiters, full-skirted formal coat and waistcoat, both black, and stark white cravat. A very tall clergyman of large build, with a big horse-like face and small observant eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir,’ John stammered, totally flustered. ‘I’ve obviously made a stupid mistake. I was looking for the King’s Decipherer. I’ve come to the wrong house.’
‘Did you want to see Dr Willes?’ replied a booming voice.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then you’ve found him. I am he whom you seek.’
‘You!’ exclaimed the Apothecary. ‘But Dr Willes is a master spy, Sir.’
‘Dr Willes is a decoder,’ replied the other severely. ‘He cracks ciphers, reduces them to the simplicity of a child’s primer. But if that, in your view, is being a spy, then indeed I am one. I am also, but that is merely by the by, Bishop of Bath and Wells. I combine the two callings.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed John, wholly astounded.
‘Amen to that,’ said Dr Willes piously. He extended his hand. ‘And you, Sir, who are you? Other than an associate of Mr Fielding’s, that is.’
John, still reeling with shock, gave a somewhat jerky bow. ‘John Rawlings, my lord, Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly. It has been my privilege to work with the Principal Magistrate in the past. And now he has sent me here to ask if you might decipher this.’ And he handed Dr Willes the document which had been concealed in the lining of the scarecrow’s coat.
‘Let me see now, let me see,’ answered the Bishop, producing some spectacles from an inside pocket. Putting them on, he carried the paper to the light, studying it silently for a moment or two. Then he looked up. ‘Where did you get this?’
As best he could, John explained, leaving out no detail.
Dr Willes listened in silence, then said, ‘189 1504 598 2211 1905 500 665 2099, la Grenouille et le Papillon de Nuit. Well that’s fairly straightforward. It’s the new French code, only about two months old. They started working on it as soon as war broke out. But we began to decipher it almost as quickly as they invented it, if you know what I mean.’
Stunned, John answered, ‘What does it say?’
Dr Willes looked faintly surprised. ‘Oh, yes, you’d want to know that, of course. Well, it’s direct and to the point.’
‘Yes?’
‘It reads, “You are ordered to give secret instructions immediately to the British spies, the Frog and the Moth.” Then it says, “You will find the pair in Winchelsea. Contact them as arranged.”’
‘So the dead man was French?’
‘Either that or carrying French papers on him. But I would imagine that the former is the case. The Scarecrow, as you call him, was sent over here to awaken two sleepers.’
‘By that you mean spies who do little in peacetime except take their money.’
The Bishop’s eyes peeped over his glasses at John. ‘Preci
sely, Sir. There are, in my reading of the situation, two of them, both in Winchelsea, perhaps working together, perhaps not even knowing of each other’s existence. In any event, the Scarecrow had come over here to give them their orders.’
The Apothecary nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And perhaps one of them objected to that, violently.’
Dr Willes grimaced. ‘And did away with the spy master in order not to obey? Yes, very probably you are right. You will be returning to the Romney Marsh to try to unmask them, I take it?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Then tread carefully, my friend. Spies are a curious breed.’ He laughed suddenly, his big face splitting into a toothy smile. ‘I should know, after all.’
‘Indeed, you should, my lord,’ the Apothecary answered, thinking that the saying about God working in mysterious ways had never been more true than in the case of Dr Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Decipherer to the King, head of the Secret Department and British master spy.
Before they parted company, John and Serafina had arranged that he should call at Hanover Square at seven o’clock that evening in order to visit Louis de Vignolles. So, with an hour or so to spare, the Apothecary hurried to Shug Lane to check that all was well with his shop which, much to his surprise, he found full of customers.
‘… a perfume of passion,’ Nicholas Dawkins was saying to an excited audience of female customers. ‘My Master, as fine a scent maker as you’ll find in London, albeit he is an apothecary and not a perfumer, mixed it personally from a secret recipe smuggled into this country from Muscovy, while I, his humble apprentice, named it for my Russian ancestors. Ladies, I give you Snow Violets, the fragrance of the Tsars.’
‘I’ll take a bottle,’ called John from the back, and Nicholas had the good grace to blush, while Master Gerard, watching benignly from the doorway of the compounding room, laughed heartily.
