Death at Apothecaries' Hall (13 page)

‘Francis Cruttenden,' muttered John. ‘What the devil was he doing here?'

‘Is he the man you followed last evening?'

‘Yes, the same.'

‘Surely it's too much of a coincidence? It has to be someone else.'

‘Yes, you're right. I've got the bastard on the brain. None the less, the description tallies very closely. What happened?'

‘They walked along together, talking earnestly, then they kissed and parted company.'

‘Kissed, eh? That sounds like the dirty old wretch. He is besotted with younger women.'

‘You sound very vehement. Why?'

‘Because of Emilia Alleyn.' And John told the Goldsmith what he had heard from the girl's mother.

Samuel nodded wisely. ‘No wonder you dislike him. But what about you? Tell me what happened.'

‘We went over all the old ground. Apparently he fell out with the Society over money. He was accused of not paying certain dues and resented the fact. It was all water under the bridge a long time ago but he's one of those small, neat, obsessive men who bear grudges. He has very tiny feet, did you notice?'

‘No.'

‘Well, he has. They are the sort of feet that I associate with pettiness.'

Samuel laughed rumblingly. ‘I've never heard that theory before.'

‘That's because it is one of my own. Be that as it may, he resents the Society of Apothecaries and everything they stand for. But for all that, he has an account of what he did the night before the Livery Dinner and was in his shop all day when the event actually took place.'

‘Do you believe him?'

‘I'm not sure. His story relies very heavily on the word of his daughter.'

‘Did you question her?'

‘No, I didn't. She had such a look about her when I left the shop that I couldn't bring myself to do so. But I shall return and catch her unawares, I assure you.'

‘Do you think the man she was with was Cruttenden?'

‘I'm going to make it my business to find out, even if I have to follow her one day.'

‘So what do we do next?'

‘Catch Garnett Smith before he sits down to dine, and ask him a few pertinent questions.'

‘He won't tell you anything.'

‘I know that,' the Apothecary answered with a sigh, ‘but sometimes what they don't say is just as important as what they do.'

Michael Clarke had given John a rough idea of where Garnett Smith's dwelling could be found in Thames Street, but, as luck would have it, it was at the furthest end from the City, close to Samuel's shop, from which point they had originally set out. Huddled into their cloaks to fend off the cold, the two friends fought their way back, walking into the whipping wind, and arrived somewhat rosy cheeked and out of breath.

‘Is this it?' asked Samuel, staring at the imposing mansion with its commanding view over the river.

‘Yes,' John answered, looking at the piece of paper that Michael Clarke had given him.

‘I doubt we'll gain entry here.'

‘You may be right at that. Let's withdraw to your place and formulate a plan.'

Glad to get out of the biting wind, the two men turned up Puddle Dock Hill and hastened into the warmth of the Goldsmith's shop. It was three o'clock, an hour before the time to dine, and Samuel set about mulling some wine.

‘I think,' said John, having taken a mouthful, ‘that the best thing I can do is go back to my shop, collect some physick and pills, and deliver them to Mr Smith's house, then claim, when he denies ordering them, that I must have come to the wrong address.'

‘And what do you hope to gain from that?'

‘When he realises that I am a much-hated apothecary, I might be able to draw him out.'

‘I suppose it could work.'

‘Can you think of a better idea?'

‘Frankly, no.'

‘I dislike using the official line. I rarely get as much information.'

‘You're perfectly right. Today was a case in point. By the way, when is Master Alleyn's funeral?'

‘Tomorrow at three o'clock at Chelsea.'

‘I shall come and observe,' said Samuel portentously. ‘You never know what valuable points I might pick up.'

With a grave expression hiding an affectionate smile, John nodded agreement, then stepped out once more into the icy afternoon.

The plan worked. After a delay of some ten minutes, during which the Apothecary insisted that he was to hand the medicines to Mr Garnett Smith and no other, he was finally ushered into a small salon where the man himself sat solitary, imbibing fine sherry. He looked up as the stranger came through the door, beetled his brows and said in a gravelly voice, ‘What tomfoolery's this?'

John bowed low. ‘I have brought your physicks, Sir, as ordered by your servant.'

‘What servant? Don't you play your knavish tricks with me, Sir. Who the Devil are you?'

John bowed once more. ‘John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane. A footman came in earlier today and told me you were suffering from the quinsy. I duly prescribed and am now making delivery.'

Garnett Smith shot to his feet. ‘Out you go, Sir! Out you go! I swore that no apothecary would ever set foot in this house again, and by God I intend to keep that rule, even if it means throwing you out personally.'

John thought fast, but not a single idea came to him. Suddenly, however, fate played into his hands. Garnett, who was quite clearly halfway to being drunk as a lord, swayed then slumped slightly against the side of his chair.

In a split second John was at his side, laying a cool hand upon the other man's brow, whipping his salts from his pocket, gently easing Garnett to sit down. He spoke in a quiet voice. ‘We are not all rogues and villains, Sir. I studied long and diligently to become qualified to heal. All I wanted was to ease the suffering of others. It is obvious that at some time an apothecary has played you false, but I beg you not to condemn the entire profession because of it.'

‘You're all bastards,' said Garnett and burst into a drunkard's tears.

‘Not all of us,' John answered soothingly, and passed a handkerchief imbued with the faint smell of calming herbs.

Garnett applied it to his eyes. ‘I lost my son because of one of your kind.'

‘Such words cut me to the heart,' answered John, meaning what he said.

‘He had a wen in his neck which swelled to the size of a bullfrog's. When I finally took him to a physician, he said that the apothecary had misread the signs, that the boy had a cancer and he could have saved him had my son been taken to him earlier.'

‘That simply isn't true.' John kept his voice free of any emotion. ‘No one on earth, physician or apothecary, can cure cancer's spread once it has a hold.'

‘Are you saying that the doctor misled me?'

‘Yes. Sir.'

‘And the apothecary?'

‘Tell me what he prescribed.'

‘Figwort. He said there was no better herb for removing knobs, kernels, bunches or wens upon the body.'

‘Nor is there if those growths are caused by anything other than malignancy. But if a foul tumour is at work, then nothing on God's earth will shift it. I fear, Sir, that your son's case was beyond human help and so I should have told you had he been brought to me.'

Garnett Smith looked at the Apothecary with a bleary eye. ‘But he wasn't, was he, young man? It was Master Alleyn who killed him, and now, or so I hear, he has paid for that mistake with his life.'

John stared at him in surprise. ‘Master Alleyn?'

‘The gossip is all over the City. It is said in the coffee houses that someone stole in to Apothecaries' Hall and poisoned the flour, and that everyone at the Livery Dinner was taken ill. But Master Alleyn died of the poison. I'm told, and I rejoice because of it.'

‘Is that not rather harsh.'

‘My son's death was harsh. And Alleyn caused it.'

‘He did not, Sir,' John maintained stoutly. ‘Not knowing what provoked the wen, he acted correctly in treating it with figwort. When the growth did not respond, he probably realised the truth and advised you to attend a physician. Am I not correct?'

Garnett nodded slowly, pouring out two glasses of sherry and motioning John to sit down. ‘It's true enough.'

‘Then it simply isn't fair to accuse him of negligence.'

The older man downed his drink in one. ‘You're probably right. Maybe I've been a bigoted fool.'

‘Did you kill Master Alleyn?' John asked in a quiet voice.

Garnett shook his head. ‘No, though I've often felt like it.'

‘Did you send a hired assassin?'

‘Most certainly not.'

The sherry was going down in large measures now, and the Apothecary knew that this was the moment, just before Garnett became incapable, to pose the last few questions.

‘Which physician told you he could have saved your son?'

‘Dr Betts of Cheapside,' Garnett answered and started to cry again, the long slow sobs of a weeping drunk. ‘My sweet son. He was all I had in the world. He was hoping to marry, had even met the girl of his choice. I should be surrounded by grandchildren. I shouldn't be left to eke out my existence in this vast, empty house.'

His self-pity was becoming very slightly nauseating. ‘I'm sorry,' was all John could think of to say.

Garnett gulped but made no reply and the Apothecary stood up to go. ‘I'll leave you in peace.'

The older man held out a hand. ‘Thank you for spending time with me.'

‘I hope that I have been of some help.' Rather disturbed by what he had heard, John none the less turned in the doorway.

‘May I ask how you knew Master Alleyn, Sir?'

‘His daughter was my son's betrothed.'

John felt frozen to the spot. ‘Surely you don't mean Emilia, Mr Smith?'

‘Yes, Emilia Alleyn. Why, do you know her?'

‘We met once,' the Apothecary answered as he hurried from the room.

The funeral of Master Josiah Alleyn was bizarre. The fog, blown away by the bracing wind on the previous day, had returned doublefold, reducing visibility to a mere few feet. Standing beside an unobtrusive gravestone where, somewhat to his astonishment, John discovered Joe Jago already
in situ
, sent to observe by Mr Fielding, the Apothecary had the uncanny experience of seeing the arriving mourners loom through the mist, none looking more like phantoms than the Liverymen of the Worshipful Society. They had turned out in force, clad formally in black gowns, their faces sombre, as they packed silently into the churchyard to await the arrival of the body, remembering one of their own who had been unfortunate enough to die from a poison which had affected them all.

It was an unnerving sight, and Samuel Swann, fractionally out of breath as he came into view from the direction of the river, looked suitably uneasy as he went to stand beside the Apothecary. ‘Is Master Cruttenden here?' he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

John shook his head, afraid that his voice might carry, while Joe cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

As if they had conjured him up, the very next figure to appear, descending from a beautifully polished carriage, was the man they spoke of. Today he was a black seal, a vast fur-lined cloak shimmering about him, a dark hat sitting above a fully curled wig.

Samuel shook slightly with excitement as the Liveryman approached through the vapour. ‘That's him! That's the one who kissed the redhead. Beastly old lecher!'

Overcoming a violent desire to knock Cruttenden's hat clean off his head, John stood silently, not wanting to draw attention to himself. But Samuel's hissing sibilants had already alerted the newcomer to the fact that a group of people stood amongst the tombstones. His eyes swivelled round and when he saw John, the Liveryman gave a small and somehow sardonic nod of his head.

‘Bastard,' said the Apothecary under his breath, and felt better for it.

It was the custom for mourners to wait outside the church to pay the dead man honour as he was carried within, but on this particular day the tradition amounted to an ordeal as the grievers waited in the fog, quiet as the graves that surrounded them, not one of them escaping the chill of the cloying mist which seemed to penetrate even the thickest clothing. It was one of the eeriest scenes John had ever observed, the people dark as rooks, the tombstones like jagged shards of bone, silence coming back at them from the wall of mist, nobody moving. Eventually, though, there came the distant sound of respectfully muffled hooves, signalling that the wait was over and the cortège was approaching the church.

The first to come into view, grotesque because of his size, was the dwarfish figure of the undertaker's mute, a child employed to lead the departed to his final resting place with solemn tread. Shining black horses bearing black plumes upon their heads appeared behind him like creatures from legend, the glass-sided hearse and the pathetic coffin within, quite unreal.

The Apothecary shook himself to restore a sense of normality. Then a glance at Joe Jago reassured him that life was still on an even keel. The fog had brought a sheen of moisture to that craggy individual's wig, and beneath it could be seen the outline of the tight red curls that always fought wildly with any kind of headgear Mr Fielding's clerk adopted.

Sad and solitary, the casket arrived at the church door, then the great black mourning coaches appeared through the mist behind it. The four brothers Alleyn, even more alike in their identical black clothes, stepped forth from the first carriage and shouldered their burden, assisted by two other young males, presumably Josiah's nephews. There was a momentary pause, then the exquisite Emilia alighted from the next coach, solicitously handing out her weeping mother.

To the Apothecary, already on a flight of fantasy, the girl's stark clothing only enhanced her beauty, to the point at which she appeared to him like a dark rose. As if to endorse his thoughts, Samuel, most inappropriately in the circumstances, whistled beneath his breath and said, ‘I see what you mean. She's gorgeous.' Overcome, the Apothecary felt his heartbeat quicken. But there was no time for private thoughts, the cortège, led by a vicar chanting in an unworldly voice, was going into the church. Thankful that at long last they were getting out of the damp, the congregation thronged inside behind it.