by Deryn Lake
‘By he do you mean your husband, James?’ John asked quietly.
Clarice Martin wept all the more, her eyes lowered so that she would not have to meet his gaze.
‘Please leave me,’ she whispered pathetically. ‘There is nothing further that I have to say to you now.’ Then she closed her eyes with such an air of finality that John had no option but to withdraw.
It was dark by the time he came out of the house in Portugal Street, and this time the Apothecary took a hackney back to Shug Lane where he hoped to do another hour’s trade before closing for the night. And in the event he was glad he had not gone straight home, for while he had been away a note from Serafina had been dropped through the door.
‘My dear friend,’ it read. ‘I earnestly enjoin you to come to Supper at Hanover Square at six o’clock Tonight. Pray do not Change but come straight from your Shop. There is much of Interest that I would discuss with you. Dear Sir, your Faithful Friend, S. de Vignolles. Post Script: I have written Same to Samuel Swann.’
John took his watch from his pocket and saw that it was already five. Deciding to remain open another half hour, he made a quick toilette in his compounding room, where he kept a jug, bowl and towel, together with a brush and razor, and finally set off at quarter to six to walk the short distance between Shug Lane and Hanover Square.
The quickest way was to go through the narrow confines of Marybone and Glass House Streets, then to turn right into Little Swallow Street which eventually widened out into Great Swallow Street, off which led Hanover Street and the square itself. Not relishing the darkness of these constricted walkways, John none the less took the lantern he kept for such occasions and set off at a brisk pace.
It seemed that the cold had driven everyone indoors for there was hardly a soul to be seen and there was certainly no sign of a linkman. Hurrying through the blackness, his brave light throwing a small circle of radiance around him, John crunched over the cobbles, no doubt getting the most unspeakable things on his shoes as he did so. And it was as he was pausing to avoid just such a puddle of filth, dimly reflected in the lantern’s light, that he heard a noise behind him, a noise which stopped as soon as he did, a noise which sounded suspiciously like somebody following him through the darkness.
The Apothecary spun round but could see nothing except a wall of blackness, the outlines of dingy houses just visible on either side of the narrow street.
‘Who’s there?’ he called, his voice echoing down the deserted alleyway.
There was no reply but it seemed to him that something shimmered in the doorway of an empty shop. Raising his stick, John rushed towards it, but its only occupant was a large grey cat which hissed as he approached. And yet he was not alone in that street, he was certain of it.
‘I know you’re watching,’ he shouted again.
Nothing stirred and there was no alternative for him but to set forth once more. With ears straining and every nerve tense, John strode into the darkness, listening for the sound of footsteps behind him. And, sure enough, very faintly but still audible, he heard them. Now the Apothecary panicked, certain that whoever was stalking him was either Jasper Harcross’s killer or, at the very least, a foot padder who would rob and probably injure him.
Nearing the junction with Little Swallow Street as he was, John broke into a fast run and headed away from his destination towards the main thoroughfare of Piccadilly where there would be people and linkmen and, with luck, a sedan chair for hire. At his back, his pursuer also broke into a run but gave up when he realised that his quarry was heading fast towards civilisation and, or so it seemed to the Apothecary, turned off into the mean alley of Little Vine Street from where he, or she, could disappear completely into the maze of streets that lay round Golden Square. For all that the sound of the follower had died away, John did not stop running until he reached Piccadilly and had breathlessly secured himself a chair to take him the rest of the way.
Even though he had calmed down by the time he got to Hanover Square, his host must have sensed that all was not well with his supper guest.
‘My dear friend,’ he said, his French accent somewhat pronounced in his agitation, ‘whatever is the matter? You look decidedly pale.’
‘It’s nothing really,’ said John, trying to laugh the matter off. ‘Someone followed me in the street, with evil intent I believe, however I managed to lose him so there’s no harm done.’
‘What’s all this?’ asked Serafina, sweeping down the graceful stairway.
‘John was followed by some villain,’ Louis answered. ‘Really it is too bad. Why, I swear it is hardly safe to set one’s foot out of doors these days.’
Serafina frowned thoughtfully. ‘Was it connected with the murders, do you think?’
‘It could have been. Who’s to tell? Anyway I shook my pursuer off.’
‘You must be very careful in future. Perhaps you are drawing nearer to the killer than you imagine.’
‘I really don’t think so. Neither Mr Fielding nor I can see a gleam of daylight as yet.’
‘Well, I have something very interesting to tell you,’ said Serafina, linking her arm through his and leading him up the stairs. ‘Samuel is already here so let us have some wine and I will recount my story.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Louis, my darling, even though you’ve heard what I have to say, will you join us?’
‘Just to be in your company is enough,’ he answered gallantly, and they exchanged a fleeting kiss.
A huge fire crackled in the hearth of that most exquisite room, throwing scintillating arrows of light onto the walls and the curtains, and gleaming in the rich red wood of the furniture. With only few candles lit and the chandelier dark except for its gleaming reflections, the place at once became mysterious, like some opulent cavern, simultaneously warm, inviting and sensual. Sipping his glass of claret, which shone red as rubies in the glow of the fire, John felt himself grow dreamy as Serafina began to speak.
‘Well, my friends, I went to the village of Kensington today to buy some lace. There is a woman there whose craftsmanship is second to none and I often visit her in order to make purchases. Anyway, having completed my transaction, I was walking down the main street towards the inn, where I sought a glass of toddy to warm me for the journey home, when who should I pass, looking mighty furtive I might add, but Miss Amelia Verity.’
‘How do you know her?’ asked John.
‘Very simply. She makes all my hats for me. I wouldn’t go to anyone else. She is, beyond doubt, the finest milliner in London. But be that as it may, I could not think what she was doing in Kensington.’
‘Perhaps she was visiting a client,’ said Samuel, somewhat defensively John thought.
‘Perhaps, but the story gets ever more mysterious. She did not see me and hurried into the inn. Naturally, I followed, doing my best to keep out of sight. To cut the story short, there she met with her brother, Adam, and between them ensued a most agitated discussion which, I admit frankly, I did my best to overhear. However, only snatches of conversation came my way, such as, “She’s not at home”, and “What do I do now?”, this last from Adam. Then he said, and I found it chilling, “If the truth comes out I am finished. Should I go to the Public Office?”’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed John. ‘What can they have been talking about?’
‘I think it was Mrs Harcross,’ said Serafina triumphantly. ‘They are, without doubt, her missing children.’
‘That doesn’t make them murderers,’ Louis stated reasonably.
‘No, but it certainly draws them into the web. Why should they both be working in the very theatre in which the victim performed regularly? Mere coincidence? I think not.’
‘What did Amelia answer to the question about the Public Office?’ John continued.
‘That I could not hear. Anyway, shortly afterwards they got to their feet, hurriedly paid the bill and left. They did not see me and I presume they went back by public stage. Now, what do you make of that?’
‘It’s certainly very strange that they should be in Kensington of all places.’
‘But they could have been about their normal affairs,’ Samuel persisted doggedly.
‘If you had seen them you would not have thought so. They were agitated, furtive, and generally acting most oddly. I think you should tell Mr Fielding of it, John.’
‘I will certainly.’
Serafina smiled. ‘Then hopefully I have been of some use in helping you to solve this terrible case.’
The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I cannot say that this leads us any nearer, Serafina. It is just possible that the Veritys were behaving strangely for some entirely different reason.’ He finished his wine and looked round the lovely, mellow room. ‘My friends,’ he went on, ‘I must ask you to keep what I say now in confidence, but tonight is the last I shall spend in Nassau Street until this sorry business is resolved, one way or another. The fact is that under cover of darkness, indeed very shortly now, Sarah Delaney and her husband will be removing themselves from Berkeley Square and Coralie Clive and I will taking their places.’
‘But why?’ asked Louis, spreading his hands and looking delightfully Gallic.
‘Because Mr Fielding hopes to lure the murderer into a trap.’
‘He thinks that the killer is going to attack Sarah, is that it?’ asked the Frenchman.
The Apothecary looked reflective. ‘Something was said to me earlier today, something which seemed to make total sense.’
‘Namely?’
‘That the killer is trying to wipe Jasper Harcross and his seed off the face of the earth. You see, it all fits into place. The killing of the boy, the careful placing of Sarah’s bow, then a glove that was thought to be hers, in the places where murder had been committed.’
Serafina shivered. ‘So Coralie, for whom a disappearance has been so cleverly arranged, did agree to assist Mr Fielding after all?’
John smiled in the firelight. ‘I think you helped to make that come about, my dear.’
‘For that I am delighted, of course. But guard her well, John. I would not like to think that her desire to help brings her face to face with mortal danger.’
‘I will do my best,’ the Apothecary answered, but even as he spoke his heart plummeted at the thought of the very real menace that lay ahead for both of them.
Neither he nor Samuel wished to be late home so, at ten o’clock punctually, Comte Louis de Vignolle’s coach and four came round to the front door of the house in Hanover Square. Much as the friends had insisted that they would be perfectly safe and would find themselves a carriage, both Serafina and her husband, perhaps picking up the dangerous atmosphere that John had brought through the front door with him, had urged their own conveyance upon them. Accordingly, the two of them had climbed into the black coach with the de Vignolles coat of arms emblazoned upon the door, and had gone off in the darkness towards Nassau Street.
‘You’ll stay with us?’ John asked, as the lightly sprung conveyance made its way through the blackness.
‘Gladly. I took lodgings in Little Carter Lane today, to be near to my premises. But it’s a fair stretch and there’s a strange feeling in the air tonight.’
‘Things are moving,’ John answered, his voice far away.
‘I don’t know how, or why, but the conclusion is drawing nearer.’
They fell silent, each too full of his own thoughts to speak, and were reaching the point of drowsiness when Comte Louis’s coach pulled up before the end house in Nassau Street. Somewhat to John’s surprise he saw that the candles were still lit and wondered if Sir Gabriel were entertaining for supper and cards. Yet the house was not alive with conversation as he and Samuel stepped through the front door.
‘Is my father still up?’ the Apothecary asked the footman who took their cloaks and hats.
‘Yes, Master John, he has a guest in the library.’
‘Then we shall go and pay our respects.’
And so saying, the two young men made their way down the corridor towards Sir Gabriel’s favourite room. John swept open the door with a flourish but his greeting died upon his lips. Sitting in the chair opposite his father’s was a familiar figure.
A face once beautiful but still with a loveliness all its own looked towards him. ‘Good evening, Mr Rawlings,’ said its owner.
‘Ah John, my dear,’ added Sir Gabriel. ‘I have managed to persuade Mrs Harcross to leave Kensington. I know that you will be delighted to hear that she will be staying with us until this present dangerous situation is over.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Breakfast at number two, Nassau Street, the following morning, had been a somewhat strained occasion. John, quite convinced that Sir Gabriel was up to some stratagem of his own, longed to get a private word with his father, whereas his parent seemed equally intent on not confiding in him. So it was in a state of considerable irritation that the Apothecary left the house early, Samuel Swann by his side, in order at long last to make the fateful visit to Mrs Camber of Chelsea. But yet again he was to be frustrated. No sooner had they got to the end of the road than a child making its way along Gerrard Street was sent flying by a carthorse and lay senseless amongst the detritus of the gutters. With no physician available it was up to John to revive the wretched creature and try to locate her parents, a task which proved fruitless as the girl turned out to be living rough. This sad fact immediately tore at Samuel’s heartstrings and he insisted that they took the poor little being to the Foundling Hospital in a hackney, a task which occupied the entire morning. Torn between his desire to help and his longing to track down the Egleton children, John found himself growing edgy and bad tempered.
‘What else could we have done?’ said Samuel, sensing his friend’s annoyance and therefore acting defensively. ‘We could hardly leave her wandering round in a daze.’
‘But the city is full of children living on the streets.’
‘All the more reason to rescue one when it crosses your path. Come on, John, you wouldn’t have left her to die, now would you?’
‘No, of course not. It’s just that fate seems determined to thwart me at every turn.’
‘Go to Chelsea tomorrow.’
‘I’m supposed to be in the shop. Which reminds me, why aren’t you in yours?’
‘The final coats of paint go on over the next few days so I’ve decided to keep out of the way. Look, I’ll take care of Shug Lane for you tomorrow.’
‘But you wouldn’t be able to prescribe.’
‘No, but I could sell medicines for coughs and so on. Oh, let me help, John. I’m as keen to solve the mystery of the Egletons as you are.’
The Apothecary smiled. ‘Then I accept. Now, there being nothing further planned, what shall we do with the rest of the daylight hours? For tonight, don’t forget, when it is well and truly dark, I am due to move my few possessions into Berkeley Square.’
‘I would like to call on Miss Verity,’ Samuel answered decisively.
‘What? Now? In her shop?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you can’t go and buy a hat.’
‘No, but I could pretend to be looking at one for a friend.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ said John, his grin growing.
And together they made their way through the thronging city to New Bond Street and Miss Amelia Verity’s fashionable establishment.
It was crowded with ladies, all trying on elegant items of headgear then staring at themselves fixedly in mirrors. Miss Verity, looking as fashionable as her creations, stood supervising, while a little apprentice milliner, who somehow reminded John of Polly Rose, ran about with feathers and bows and veiling, an extremely harassed expression on her face. There was a ripple of surprised amusement from this most exquisite of clientele as two gentlemen walked in, and the owner herself came forward to greet them.
‘Mr Rawlings, how nice. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
‘Miss Verity, may I present to you Mr Samuel Swann? He is an old
and dear friend of mine. I believe he is seeking an item of headwear for an ancient female relative.’
‘How do you do,’ said Amelia and curtsied neatly.
‘Samuel, this is Miss Amelia Verity.’
Mr Swann bowed respectfully, said ‘How dee do,’ and the introduction was complete.
‘Now,’ said the milliner, getting back to business, ‘have you anything in particular in mind, Sir?’
‘No, I’ll be guided by you,’ Samuel answered.
And they went chattering on, discussing the various merits and demerits of certain hats on the heads of the elderly, leaving John to wonder at the cunning of all human creatures when they are interested in a member of the opposite sex. A half hour passed, then it obviously grew near the dining hour for the shop began to empty of customers, all of whom placed orders as they departed, some very large.
‘You have a thriving business here,’ Samuel said admiringly.
‘Yes, I have been fairly successful,’ Amelia answered modestly.
‘I suppose you have customers from out of town as well?’ he continued.
‘Most certainly. From all over the country, in fact. Some people order by post, you see.’
‘Do you ever go and visit distant clients?’ Samuel ploughed on, in a far from subtle manner.
Miss Verity’s expression became slightly guarded. ‘Yes. Why?’
Samuel became horribly casual and John cringed. ‘Oh, it’s only that a friend of mine thought she saw you in Kensington yesterday, but I said it could not possibly have been.’
‘I do visit Kensington from time to time. I have customers at Holland House and at the Palace for that matter. I take hats for them to consider.’
‘Oh, that would be it, then,’ said Samuel, clearly relieved. ‘I said that that was what you would be up to.’
Miss Verity looked cold. ‘I fail to see what you were doing discussing me in the first place, Mr Swann. Why, I have only just met you. Of what possible interest could I be to you?’
