Death at Apothecaries' Hall (11 page)

At the top of Mason Stairs a walk way ran to both right and left, whilst ahead appeared the shadowy outlines of a timber yard. Beyond that, John could see nothing. He stopped, listening for the sound of movement, and a faint footfall told him that Francis Cruttenden had gone forward. Cautiously, the Apothecary crept on, discovering as he did so that a rough track lay beside the yard, obviously leading to some dwelling place beyond. With extreme care John followed, peering ahead as he did so.

Directly in front of him the hinges of a gate squeaked as it opened and closed. The Apothecary stopped dead, realising that he had caught the Liveryman up and was in danger of coming up so close behind him that Cruttenden might turn and recognise him. He waited several minutes, then cautiously moved on again, finding himself a moment later in front of a tall and ornate iron gateway. Peering through its bars, John could make out a path leading through a formal garden. Beyond that, and scarcely visible in the fog, reared the shape of a large house. Exercising extreme care, the Apothecary eased the gate open a small amount and squeezed his way through without opening it fully. Wondering what possible explanation he could give if he were caught, he proceeded quietly up the path.

The house emerging from the mist was one of extreme magnificence, and John's head tilted back as he took in its grandiose elevation. His mouth fell open in sheer surprise at such splendour. Francis Cruttenden was obviously a man of great means, if this was indeed his home. If not, the Liveryman clearly moved amongst an elite circle of rich friends.

There was the sound of an opening door and John had literally to throw himself behind a bush as a shaft of light coming from the hall illumined the pathway. Through the open doorway he glimpsed a liveried servant, rich carpeting, paintings upon the wall and a glittering candelabra, before the door closed again and he was once more alone in the fog.

Crouching behind the sheltering shrub, John considered his plan. There was no point in proceeding further. Francis Cruttenden had gone indoors, either to his own home or visiting. Further, there was Sotherton Backler to be called upon, then Samuel, hopefully for a night of claret and jolly conversation. The best thing he could do at this moment would be to find someone to row him back to the north bank, and there visit a tavern where he could appease the grumbling of his empty stomach. Without hesitation John turned on his heel and retraced his steps.

Was it luck or just the appalling weather, or perhaps the large tip he had given him, that led the Apothecary to find the same boatman, smoking a pipe and taking his ease at the bottom of Mason Stairs? A weather-beaten face was raised through the fog. ‘Is that you, Scholar?'

‘It is.'

‘Did you find him?'

‘Yes,' said John, settling himself on the damp plank. ‘And very surprising it was.'

‘How's that?'

The need to discuss overcame the Apothecary's usual discretion. ‘Well, the man concerned is only a Liveryman of the Society of Apothecaries. When I say only, don't misunderstand me. They are great men, advanced men, but I would not have thought their position sufficient to enable them to own a mansion of quite such noble stature as the one I saw tonight. That is, if he does own it.'

The wherryman spat into the water. ‘Scholar, are you talking about Pye House?'

‘I don't know. It's a huge place set back in its own beautiful gardens.'

‘Then you are. There's only one great house round these parts.'

‘And who owns it?'

‘Master Cruttenden. He's the richest man for miles.'

John gaped. ‘How did you come by all this knowledge?'

‘I told you I was born in a boat, didn't I? I'm river folk, Sir. Have you not come across them before?'

Remembering all that had happened to him in the great Devil's Tavern at Wapping, John nodded his head. ‘Oh yes. I most certainly have.'

‘Then I'll say no more,' answered the wherryman as they set off through the mist towards Black Friars.

Sotherton Backler's house was rather like its lady, the Apothecary thought, attractive, not new, and somehow understated. It stood amongst its neighbours, its facade plain almost to the point of dullness, yet with an underlying appeal of simple charm that could not be missed. Within, as John was shown into the parlour, the same quality occurred. The decoration was confined to the lightest and most sparely applied plaster work, yet the fireplace was exquisite. And the Butler, devoid of her plain and practical work clothes and dressed in rustling skirts, was on the point of being a lovely woman.

‘Good evening,' said John, and kissed her hand.

Sotherton Backler rose from his place beside the fire and regarded his visitor with all the aloof grandeur of a dignitary of the Worshipful Society. As Beadle he was its chief ceremonial officer and held a position of considerable importance.

‘I believe that you are assisting Mr John Fielding with his investigation into the alleged poisoning at Apothecaries' Hall.'

John bowed low, humble as only a Yeoman could be. ‘Sir, I wish that I could concur with the word alleged. Unfortunately the poisoning was a fact. A fact that led to a death.' He straightened and looked the Beadle in the eye. ‘If only it were not so.'

Sotherton Backler stared at him with a gaze intended to cut the little upstart to size. John assumed his official face, all the while smiling politely and thinking that Mr Fielding had obviously changed his mind: the tactic of gleaning information by means of social chit chat had been replaced by a smack of officialdom. Wondering what his future would be in the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries in view of all this, John continued to smile.

The Beadle glared. ‘According to Mr Fielding an unknown hand deliberately poisoned the flour used in the high sauce. Now what possible motive could there be for that? Personally I find it almost impossible to believe.'

John looked contrite. ‘It seems, Sir, from what I have learned so far, that certain persons bear a grudge against apothecaries in general, whilst others have a particular dislike of the Master. It is quite conceivable that one of those people added arsenic to the food simply to make everyone ill, perhaps never dreaming that in one case the dose would prove fatal.'

At the back of the room Jane rustled slightly, then said, ‘I am thankful, Sotherton, that the arsenic was found. Up till that moment I had been living with the reproach of others. It was one of the worst experiences imaginable.'

The Beadle looked across at her, then pursed his lips, apparently on the point of speaking. John attempted an encouraging expression. Finally, Sotherton Backler cleared his throat. ‘No doubt it is common knowledge that the Master and I fell out on the morning of the Livery Dinner.'

Realising how much it must have cost him to make such a statement to a mere Yeoman, John spontaneously shook the Beadle's hand, then bowed. ‘I thank you for telling me, Sir.'

‘Had you heard the rumour?'

‘No,' lied the Apothecary, saving all kinds of trouble.

Sotherton Backler relaxed slightly, his tall, rather full-bellied frame easing its stance. ‘It was over a point of internal business. We did not see eye to eye about a certain administrative matter.'

John nodded but remained silent.

‘To my shame I must admit that we shouted at one another and I believe that our voices carried.'

‘They did,' said Jane succinctly.

‘But …' stated the Beadle with emphasis, ‘… I most certainly didn't conceive the idea of making the Master ill or of disrupting the Dinner. Such a spiteful act would be beneath me.' His light blue eyes, dominated by a pair of bushy black and white eyebrows, stared at the Apothecary with an almost pleading expression.

‘I trust that my word is good enough, Mr Rawlings.'

‘Of course, Sir.'

‘He's telling the truth,' said the Butler, flashing one of her gappy smiles. ‘Had he come into the kitchen and gone to the flour pot I would have seen him.'

‘Where exactly was the pot kept?' John asked. ‘You mentioned something about a pantry.'

‘No, it wasn't there. It was on the dresser. A big earthenware jar standing on the bottom shelf'

‘That would indicate that whoever did this knew precisely where it was stored.'

‘Not necessarily. I did indeed say to you, Mr Rawlings, that a stranger entering the Hall at night could most likely find his way to the kitchen area and from thence to the pantries.'

‘Yes.'

‘Equally, if they were looking for something to which to add white arsenic, the flour sitting there on the dresser in a storage jar would prove exceptionally handy.'

John stroked his chin. ‘Somehow I don't think your theory is right, Mrs Backler. I believe that the person concerned knew exactly where they were going and what they were going to do when they got there.'

She shivered. ‘I don't like that thought.'

‘It is not a pretty one, but then murder rarely is.'

‘But was it murder?' asked the Beadle. ‘Or was it simply the wish to wreak havoc?'

‘Whatever,' John answered, ‘it has become a killing now.'

Sotherton regarded him steadily. ‘How, in the name of heaven, are you going to track the guilty party down?'

‘By asking questions and observing, that is the only way.' John changed his tone. ‘May I just enquire about something else while I'm here?'

‘And what is that?'

‘Liveryman Francis Cruttenden. Is it true that he is very wealthy?'

The Backlers exchanged a glance, and Jane spoke. ‘I believe he inherited a great fortune. He certainly lives in a grand house with many servants.'

John went out on a limb. ‘Is he a married man?'

‘Why the interest in him?' asked the Beadle.

The Apothecary shrugged. ‘Nothing really. I met him when I tended Master Alleyn. Mr Fielding told you of that?' Sotherton nodded. ‘I thought him quite an interesting character, clad all in grey and with an air about him smooth as silk.'

Jane burst out laughing. ‘What a good description. Personally I can't abide the fellow, but that is between these four walls. However, I believe the ladies adore him, particularly the younger ones.'

‘That's idle gossip,' said the Beadle severely.

‘Then he has no wife?'

‘Not he – he enjoys himself too much to be tied to one woman.'

‘What age is he?' asked John curiously.

The Butler answered him. ‘He's prematurely grey, of course. Indeed I do believe he had grey hair when he became a Yeoman. I think he is not much over forty.'

‘How interesting.'

Yet again, as she had several times that day already, Emilia Alleyn came into the Apothecary's mind. The question was out before he could control it. ‘Do you know by any chance how many daughters Master Alleyn had?'

Jane Backler gave him the oddest glance, but answered, ‘Only one. Four boys and a girl were his offspring.'

John smiled. ‘I thought that might be the case.'

‘But what has that to do with his sad demise?'

‘Nothing whatsoever,' the Apothecary answered, and wondered why he felt a pang of disappointment that it was Emilia who had been in love with that grey shadow, Master Cruttenden.

‘'Zounds!' said Samuel. ‘This is going to be one of your hardest enigmas to solve, my friend.' He rubbed his hands excitedly. ‘What an excellent kettle of fish. A deranged poisoner stalking through Apothecaries' Hall. Couldn't be better.'

John grinned at his old friend's enthusiasm and poured himself a deep glass of wine. ‘I don't recall mentioning the words deranged or stalking,' he said from his place at Samuel's table, where the remains of a hefty supper were still laid out.

‘But that's what it amounts to, doesn't it? Clearly anyone who goes in for a mass poisoning has to be crazed,' responded the Goldsmith, tipping back his chair and thrusting his legs forward.

‘Why?'

‘Well, a hatred for an entire group of people is hardly rational, is it?'

‘No, that's true enough. And yet …'

‘What?'

John shook his head, the idea that had just scurried through his mind gone again like a will-o-the-wisp.

Samuel boomed a laugh. ‘You looked downright daunted then. I think you're going to need my help.'

The Apothecary winced, remembering all the occasions on which Samuel had made a gaffe with those who needed delicate handling. ‘I'll let you know when I do.'

Typically, his loyal friend mistook his meaning. ‘Don't worry about keeping me from my business. Ezekial is more than capable of looking after things for a day or two. When can we start?'

As ever, John groaned within but could not bring himself to hurt Samuel's feelings. ‘Well, tomorrow I am going in search of Garnett Smith and Tobias Gill, the two who are known to bear a grudge against apothecaries.'

The Goldsmith looked wise. ‘And what of the third, Sotherton Backler? Do you believe him to be innocent of trying to poison the Master?'

‘As far as I can tell, yes. Anyway, his wife thinks him to be so, and I imagine her to be a very good judge of character.'

‘Even about her own husband?'

‘It is possible to look at one's spouse without prejudice.'

Samuel's mind made a grasshopper leap of such predictability that John almost laughed aloud. ‘Changing the subject, how is Coralie these days?' he asked.

‘She is well.'

‘No nearer entering the married state?'

‘I'm afraid not.' A desperate need to confide overcame the Apothecary and he drew his chair closer to Samuel's, pouring another glass of wine for them both. ‘I sometimes wonder if she ever will be.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I discovered something odd the other night. Apparently Kitty was married very young, just at the beginning of her career. She chose the theatre rather than her husband, and Coralie is terrified of making the same mistake. I believe it has affected her more deeply than she realises. She may go on and on until she feels herself to be ready for marriage, only to find that she has left it all too late.'