Death at Apothecaries' Hall (10 page)

‘Do you mean the Butler or one of the kitchen staff?'

‘I'm not quite sure who I mean yet,' John answered, and with that made his farewells, promising to fix a dinner appointment just as soon as Sir Gabriel returned from Kensington.

As luck would have it, John left the shop at the most fortuitous time. Just as he approached the arched entrance to the courtyard leading to the Hall a coach drew up outside, and from it leapt Joe Jago, Mr Fielding's clerk and right-hand man, holding up his hand to assist the Blind Beak to alight. Seeing John, Jago called out, ‘Mr Rawlings. How are you, Sir?' And the Apothecary hurried forward to join them.

One of the Magistrate's legs emerged from the carriage and swung somewhat uncertainly in the air. Jago placed the foot on the carriage step, then helped the other foot find the cobbles below. It was clearly a much practised exercise and one carried through most smoothly.

‘Did you say Rawlings?' asked the Beak, gaining his balance.

‘Yes, he's here, Sir.'

‘Good morning, gentlemen,' said John, and bowed.

Mr Fielding returned the compliment, the fact that he was pointing in the wrong direction not mattering at all. ‘I've come to see the Master. It is imperative that he is now informed of events.'

‘Is he forewarned of your visit?'

‘I sent a Runner round this morning with a letter. He came back with the reply that I would be welcome to call.'

‘Did you say what it was about?'

‘No. It was too delicate a matter to put in writing.'

‘He's in for an enormous shock.'

‘He is indeed.'

They made their way across the courtyard then into the entrance hall, Mr Fielding taking Joe's arm, John following behind. At the bottom of the Great Staircase all three men drew to a halt.

‘And where are you going now, Mr Rawlings?' asked Joe, his fiery hair glinting in a sudden ray of winter sunshine, his light blue eyes narrowing as if he were looking out to sea.

‘To the kitchen.'

Mr Fielding turned to the Apothecary. ‘How are you getting on with your enquiries?' he asked in a quiet voice.

‘Very well, Sir. It would seem that three different people might have had a motive for poisoning the flour.'

‘Speak to them all, then come and see me if you will.'

‘Gladly, Sir.'

The Blind Beak nodded his head, said, ‘Well done,' and started to climb the stairs, his clerk beside him.

John, having seen them safely up, turned right and went into the kitchen. Somewhat to his disappointment there was nobody about. Not the ideal conditions at all for practising sleight of hand. However, within a few seconds the door opened and Jane Backler walked in. She stopped on seeing John and stared at him.

‘Mr Rawlings, what are you doing here?'

Knowing that the Blind Beak was at this very moment apprising the Master of the true facts about the poisoning, John decided to tell the truth, only glad that he had not let the monkey out of the sleeve on the previous evening. ‘I've come to tell you the results of the autopsy on the mouse.'

‘I thought you were calling last night. I waited for you.'

The Apothecary felt himself grow hot but continued regardless. ‘The mouse had eaten flour, within which were grains of arsenic. The poisoning at the Livery Dinner was deliberate.'

The Butler slumped into a chair, plunging a suddenly white face into her hands. ‘Thank God,' she said. ‘Oh, thank God.'

John looked at her curiously. ‘You don't seem surprised.'

‘I am surprised, astonished even. But much more than that, I am relieved. My good name has been restored to me. You will never know what I have been through since that accursed Dinner. Sly looks, snide remarks, whispering and gossip, but no open accusations, not one. Nobody had the courage to come out and accuse me to my face of buying unfit food.'

She wept at this, very suddenly, her sobs loud and uncontrollable. John let her cry for a few moments then went to Jane's side, laying his hand on her shoulder. ‘Mrs Backler, enough of your grieving. The worst is behind you. What lies ahead is the monumental task of discovering who put the poison in the flour, because, since the death of Master Alleyn, that person has now become a murderer.'

With the tears still streaming down her face, Jane stood up, making a heroic effort to rally. ‘Yes, you're right. How can I help you?'

‘I told you a lie about why I came here. The real reason was to discover whether someone could meddle with the flour in front of a kitchen full of people.'

The Butler looked at him shrewdly. ‘Don't waste your time, my friend. Nobody could unless, of course, they were a member of my staff.'

‘Quite.'

She took in the entire meaning of that short answer and squared her shoulders before she replied. ‘Mr Rawlings, present in the kitchen that day were myself and my two daughters, Abigail and Ruth, who come in from time to time to assist at more important occasions. Also here was a French cook who works for me on the same basis. My husband, the Beadle, put his nose round the door from now and then to see how things were getting on.'

She paused and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, then looked at the Apothecary very straightly. ‘I can assure you, Sir, with my hand upon my heart …' she laid it there ‘… that I have no reason for poisoning the apothecaries. They pay me an annual salary of six pounds, and Sotherton's status is much enhanced by his position. Even though we still have a shop, it is from the Court of Assistants that most of our benefits flow. You must believe that I would not bite the hand that feeds me.'

Despite Mr Fielding's warning, John felt certain that she was telling the truth. Jane Backler had a blaze of sincerity about her woebegone features.

‘As for my daughters,' she continued, ‘the little innocents wouldn't harm a fly. Why, they are scarce out of the cradle.'

He looked surprised. ‘Yet they work here? How old are they?'

‘Fourteen and sixteen.'

John burst out laughing. ‘Hardly babies.'

The Butler allowed herself a small smile. ‘No, I grant I exaggerate, but, believe me, they know very little of the politics of the Society.'

‘Are there politics?'

‘There are always politics in every group, large or small.'

‘How very true. So that leaves the French cook.'

‘He was born here but studied with one of the master chefs. His name is Jacques Genet and he works for himself, hiring out his services to any who will employ him.'

‘Could he have any motive that you know of for poisoning the flour?'

‘Of course not, but I expect you will want to see him none the less. He lives, so I believe, somewhere near Drury Lane. The Beadle will have a record of his address.'

‘Then,' said John, coming directly to the point, ‘if none of you tampered with the flour, who did? And when was it done?'

A fearful expression crossed Jane's face, the gap in her teeth suddenly making her look like a frightened child. ‘Mr Rawlings, can I say something?'

‘Yes.'

‘This Hall, beautiful as it is in the daylight, is very different at night. Then it is a place full of shadow. I tell you true, I don't like being here on my own after dark.'

‘Are you saying something unworldly poisoned the flour?'

‘Of course not. What I
am
saying is that I am not alone in my feeling. That people, men included, don't care to remain here for long when nobody else is about.'

‘So?'

‘So someone who wanted to steal back after nightfall and put poison in a place where it could do most harm would encounter very little to stop him.'

‘But surely there's a watchman?'

‘An old fellow who dozes half the night. He could easily be avoided.'

‘So that is how you think it was done? By a midnight walker?'

Jane shivered. ‘Yes, that is what I think.'

‘When did you last use the flour?'

‘On the previous day. The Master was entertaining guests and a high sauce was made to go with his meat. After that it was not touched until the Livery Dinner.'

John rubbed his chin hard. ‘Does that suggest to you that the killer has precise knowledge of this place? Knows that the watchman dozes in the small hours? And knows exactly where the flour is kept?'

‘Maybe not the last. But cooking components are stored in pantries. All that he …'

‘Or she,' the Apothecary interrupted.

Jane conceded with a nod of her head. ‘… needed to do was locate the kitchen and the rest would be easy.'

The Apothecary nodded slowly, then he took Jane's hand and raised it to his lips, a gesture that clearly pleased her. ‘I shall call on you tonight, if I may. I need to talk to your husband.'

She suddenly looked extremely defensive. ‘What about?'

‘Just about the situation in general,' John answered vaguely, and hoped that with that reply the Butler would be content.

It would seem that for the time being John had achieved all that was possible at Apothecaries' Hall. He had been given the names of three people with grudges, one against the Master personally, the other two against apothecaries in general. The Butler had confirmed that only a member of the kitchen staff could have poisoned the flour during the preparations for the Livery Dinner. It was also her opinion that the substance was tampered with on the night before, an opinion with which John tended to agree.

Finally, innocent though he believed him to be, the Apothecary had invited Michael Clarke to dine, in order that he might question him more closely. With these thoughts and many more tumbling around in his mind, John left the Hall in order to get a little air and exercise and clear his head.

It was fast approaching the hour to dine and dusk was just starting to fall over the river. Not only that. A November fog was creeping over the water, vaporous and sinister, its white fingers curling round the boats that lay moored at Black Friars Stairs.

John stood silently, remembering how Josiah Alleyn had leaned against this very railing, sick to his stomach. He had little thought then what a strange trail would open up from such an unpleasant but seemingly innocuous beginning. But then nothing was ever quite what it seemed. Did Jane Backler's gap-toothed smile hide a woman ruthlessly protecting her husband? Or was Michael Clarke's bulging-eyed enthusiasm a mask for a disturbed and cruel mind?

John shook himself, thinking that the fog had entered into his brain, then, for no obvious reason, drew back as the sound of footsteps, firm and confident in their tread, approached the place where he stood. Without seeing the Apothecary, Francis Cruttenden strode by and descended the steps, his rippling grey cloak blending so evenly with the mist that he was scarcely visible.

‘Barge,' he called, and at the sound of his voice disembodied oars rose upwards in the fog, and a phantom vessel, or so it seemed to John's overactive imagination, began to make its way silently through the vapour.

Though Master Cruttenden had obviously been at the Hall, seeing the Liveryman was still something of a shock and the Apothecary found his thoughts turning to the glorious Emilia Alleyn, wondering again whether Cruttenden had been the focus of her youthful yearnings, or if it had been another sister who had loved him. On a completely crazy impulse John found himself creeping down the stairs from which the Liveryman had just departed and calling to the sole wherryman who had braved the ghastly night and sat in his boat waiting for a fare.

‘Boatman.'

‘Yes, Scholar?'

‘Keep close behind that barge. I've a mind to see where it goes.'

The waterman spat into the river to show his contempt for idiots. ‘It'll cost you, Scholar. Double for the fog.'

‘Just get on,' answered John and sat down on the plank seat, the dank atmosphere already settling on his cloak.

Master Cruttenden's barge was ahead of them, barely visible through the ever descending mist, pulling across the river towards the south bank. Not quite certain why he was embarking on such folly, John sat in silence, listening to the quiet dipping of the wherryman's oars, feeling as if he were acting out a part in a dream.

The barge vanished from view, the only clue to its whereabouts the sound it made as its oarsmen strove across the tide.

John leant towards the wherryman. ‘Have you any idea where they're heading?' he whispered, breath fluting in the vapour.

The fellow shrugged, his face yellow beneath the lantern he carried on a pole. ‘Could be anywhere.'

‘What stairs are there on the Southwark side?' John persisted.

‘Marygold, Bull, Old Barge House. How would I know which one they want?' His face changed and he held up a hand. ‘Listen, they're pulling downstream.'

The Apothecary strained his ears but could hear nothing except the distant stirring of water. But his boatman, with a sturdy heave on the right oar, was turning his craft, also to head downstream, and, eventually, towards the open sea.

‘Not Paris Garden,' he muttered.

‘How do you know?'

‘They would have started to pull in by now.'

‘Your knowledge is quite amazing.'

‘Nay, Scholar, so would yours be if you'd been born in a boat as I were.'

They relapsed into silence, listening for the sound of Francis Cruttenden's barge, now completely lost to view. Finally, the wherryman pointed a gnarled finger at the shore and nodded his head. ‘Mason Stairs,' he whispered.

With absolutely no idea how he was going to get back across the river, John paid the man off, gave a generous tip, and set foot on the slippery stone steps. As he did so, he glimpsed the barge, which was being taken off to a boathouse situated, as far as he could tell through the fog, on the river frontage some further yards downstream. Hoping that he would not lose his quarry, the Apothecary set off in pursuit of Liveryman Cruttenden, his feet overloud on the crunching gravel, or so it seemed in the silence.