Death at Apothecaries' Hall (15 page)

‘I see.' The Apothecary determinedly changed the subject. ‘Do you know anything of a family named Cruttenden, Sir? I think they must be wealthy merchants of some kind. Have you ever come across them?'

‘Cruttenden.' Sir Gabriel repeated the name several times. ‘No, I don't believe I have.'

‘It's very odd that. Joe Jago didn't know it either, yet the man lives in a vast mansion on the south bank, across the water from Apothecaries' Hall. He can't have made his money just by being a Liveryman.'

‘Perhaps he has a rich wife.'

John shook his head. ‘He's not married.'

‘A wealthy patron?'

‘It's possible, I suppose.'

‘You don't like him, do you?' asked Sir Gabriel, darting a quick look at his son's dark face.

‘Not in the least. He hangs around younger women like an old vulture. And he's smooth as cream and just as glutinous.'

‘How very unpleasant.'

John downed his sherry. ‘He's horrid, Sir. Horrid.'

His father laughed. ‘Somehow I must attempt to meet this creature. It sounds as if it might be an interesting experience.'

‘I don't know how we would contrive it, but I would most certainly like to have your opinion of him.'

‘Then I shall think of something.' Sir Gabriel emptied his glass. ‘You haven't forgotten Serafina's soirée tomorrow, have you?'

Somewhat shamefacedly, John nodded. ‘I'm afraid I had.'

‘It is only to be a small gathering of intimate friends. Her child is due very soon and she can no longer entertain the
beau monde
.'

‘I look forward to seeing her.'

‘I have heard that Coralie is to be there,' said Sir Gabriel slyly.

The Apothecary did not move a muscle. ‘Then I look forward to the occasion all the more.' He rose to his feet. ‘Shall we go in to dine?' he said, and stood to one side to let his father leave the room first.

The letter came early, delivered by one of the Beak Runners. Opening it while he consumed his breakfast, John read the following:

My dear Mr Rawlings,

I write in Haste and send this out with Hope that said Communication will reach you Before you Leave for your Premises in Shug Lane. May I Presume to Ask that you Meet me at the Apothecaries' Hall at Ten O'Clock. The Master has Requested Such and I Wish to Oblige Him, though not at Gross Inconvenience to Your Good Self Signed, ever your Friend,

J. Fielding.

Very slightly put out as he had hoped to spend the morning compounding with Nicholas, John bolted the rest of his food and took a hackney coach to his shop in order at least to see that all was well. There was a goodly crowd within, all apparently buying, and the Apothecary, making his way through to the back of the premises, was gratified to see his apprentice handling the situation with apparent ease. Gradually he noticed that most of the customers were female, aged between fifteen and twenty, and vying with one another for Nicholas's attention.

John stared in surprise, never having thought the Muscovite particularly handsome, then considered a fact about which he was becoming more and more positive: that most people possess a hidden attraction only certain others can see, and it would appear that his apprentice's concealed appeal was apparent to quite a few of the young ladies of the
beau monde
, as well as those of less exalted position. Two or three pampered girls, out shopping with their maidservants, were buying beautifying potions, all the while giggling as Nicholas tried to explain to them the various merits of each one.

‘Good morning,' said John cheerfully, and was met with hostile looks from the young females for daring to interrupt their delightful flirtations.

A year previously, Nicholas would have died of embarrassment at this, but these days he was quite a man of the world and merely caught John's eye and grinned over the top of the collection of dainty heads. ‘Good morning, Master.'

John reflected on the fact that to his own apprentice he was known as Master, although the actual master of them all was the Master of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, that dignified bloodhound of a man, William Tyson. An annual appointment, Tyson had succeeded earlier that year following the death in office of his predecessor, Andrew Lillie. John dreaded the thought that one day Liveryman Francis Cruttenden might take on that most powerful of positions.

Going through to the compounding room, John turned to Nicholas who had hurried in after him. ‘I can't stay long. Mr Fielding has requested that I meet him at the Hall.'

‘How is the investigation going, Sir?'

‘Slowly.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it.'

‘I shall have to see the three people with a possible motive again, there's no help for it.'

‘Probably one of them has not told you all of the truth.'

‘Or none of it. Anyway, it's a tedious business because this time they'll be even more hostile, having answered a series of questions once.'

‘Perhaps you could disguise your visit as a social call.'

John looked thoughtful. ‘You may be right at that. I'll give it some consideration. After all, one is the Beadle and the other owns a shop.'

‘And the third?'

‘Garnett Smith? A far more difficult proposition. Unless …'

‘Unless?'

But the Apothecary refused to say more and relapsed into a pensive silence until he called Nicholas to his side to start compounding simples.

In the event, the difficulty of questioning Sotherton Backler further was easily overcome. On arrival at Apothecaries' Hall, to which John, Joe Jago and the Blind Beak travelled together, the Apothecary having gone straight to Bow Street from his shop, the three men parted company. Joe led the Magistrate up the stairs to where the Master waited, and John, instructed to join them after fifteen minutes had elapsed, made his way to the pantry and there found Jane Backler in conference with her husband.

Putting his head round the door, John said, ‘Am I disturbing you?'

Jane turned. ‘Oh, it's you, Mr Rawlings. No, not at all. Please join us.'

Today there was something strained about the Beadle's face, as if the events of the last few days had finally caught up with and hit him hard. ‘Are you all right?' he found himself asking.

Sotherton drew back his lips in a parody of a smile. ‘It has all been rather terrible. The death of Josiah, the poisoned flour, the suspicion that I might have had something to do with it.'

It was a golden opportunity and John leapt straight in. ‘This argument you had with the Master …'

‘It concerned monies which I had expended, on behalf of the Court of Assistants. It was serious but not serious enough to make me wreak revenge.'

John regarded the Beadle closely. ‘Tell me, Sir, do you support your wife's theory that someone came in here after dark and poisoned the flour?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘I've asked this before, but I'll ask it again. Would that rule out an outsider?'

The Butler started to answer but her husband raised a hand to silence her. ‘I believe it probably would.'

Jane exploded. ‘Nonsense. Anyone with a glimmering of knowledge could find their way round. The watchman is always asleep. It would be a simple matter.'

John decided to change the topic. ‘Have either of you heard of Garnett Smith? Or Tobias Gill for that matter?'

The Backlers exchanged a glance, then the Beadle spoke. ‘Of course. They are well known for their views.'

‘I believe that Garnett Smith wanders into Apothecaries' Hall from time to time, and on occasion has had to be forcibly removed.'

Jane answered. ‘He does it when he's drunk, poor devil. I pity him. The loss of a child must be more than any parent could possibly endure. It's against the natural order of things. A tragedy that the human soul is not built to withstand.'

‘I believe it was Master Alleyn who treated the young man.'

‘It certainly was,' Sotherton answered. He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘You don't think …'

‘That he was murdered out of revenge? I must say the thought did cross my mind, although, of course, it isn't possible.'

‘Why not?' demanded the Beadle.

‘Oh don't be silly,' the Butler answered him. ‘How could the poisoner, attacking everyone as he did, possibly know that it was going to be Josiah who would die? His death was a fluke, an accident almost.'

‘Still,' persisted Sotherton doggedly, ‘it's damned odd.'

John assumed the most innocent face in his repertoire and turned a wide-eyed look on Jane. ‘Was there not some family connection between Smith and Alleyn? Weren't they related in some way?'

She smiled her gap-toothed smile. ‘Not related, my dear, but connected most certainly. Andrew Smith, the young man who died, was betrothed to Emilia, Josiah Alleyn's daughter.'

‘How strange!' John exclaimed convincingly. ‘But surely they must have both been very young.'

‘She was seventeen, Andrew two years older. Josiah was called in to treat young Smith because he was a friend of the family.'

‘With what bitter results.'

Sotherton interrupted. ‘It keeps going round and round in my head that Garnett wanted Josiah dead, and that he has succeeded in that wish.'

‘If the poison hadn't been spread so randomly I would agree with you. But as the case stands, Master Alleyn just happened to be unlucky,' John answered.

‘Still …'

The Apothecary nodded. ‘I know. It is a weird coincidence.' He pulled his watch from his pocket. ‘I'm sorry, I must leave you now. If anything should occur to you, however insignificant, I would be most obliged if you could communicate with me. You have a note of my address of course.'

‘Of course,' said the Beadle, and opened the door to let him out.

As he climbed the great wooden staircase towards the Master's private room, John knew that this would be one of the most difficult moments of his life. For a simple Yeoman of the Society to be thrust beneath the Master's nose as a cohort of the famous John Fielding was bad enough, but for Master Tyson to be asked to co-operate with such an underling was surely going too far. With a gulp of apprehension, John gave the tiniest tap on the door then waited nervously in silence.

‘Enter,' said a sonorous voice, and he did so, almost on tiptoe.

The sight that greeted him was so convivial, so very much the opposite of what he had expected, that John almost broke into a smile.

The Master, Mr Fielding and Joe, were all seated in comfortable chairs before an extremely healthy fire, drinking pale sherry out of gleaming crystal glasses. ‘My dear William …' the Magistrate was saying, and John realised he should have guessed that John Fielding, who knew everyone who was anyone in town, was more than likely to have been acquainted even with the Master of the Worshipful Society.

Master Tyson looked round as the newcomer made an extremely self-seffacing entrance. ‘Mr Rawlings, isn't it?' he said.

‘Yes, Master.'

‘I hear that you're a sly dog.'

‘I'm sorry, Sir?'

‘My old friend Mr Fielding tells me that you have assisted him several times in the past and that he thinks of you very highly. Tell me, are you any connection with Sir Benjamin Rawlings who was Master three years ago?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know, Sir.'

‘What's that you say?'

‘I am adopted, Master. The son of Sir Gabriel Kent. My family name was Rawlings but whether I am kin to Sir Benjamin I honestly can't say.'

‘How very interesting,' said William Tyson. ‘How fascinating to think that one might have relatives walking the streets of London at this very moment, of whom one might be totally unaware.'

‘It used to worry me at first,' John admitted. ‘But now I never give it a thought.'

‘You interest me, said the Master. ‘Take a seat, young man.'

He
was
like a bloodhound, John thought, particularly around the eyes, with their droopy sad expression and heavy bags beneath. Also his legs and arms were rather short for his body, another canine characteristic. But the Master was as alert as the dog he resembled. In fact it wouldn't have surprised John in the least to see him sniff the air in order to detect trouble.

‘Would you like a sherry?' Master Tyson asked.

‘Yes please, Sir.'

‘Then help yourself, young fellow. And you may refill the other glasses while you are about it.'

John gulped audibly, still not believing that he was standing in the Master's room pouring drinks for the great man and his guests, to say nothing of himself. Mr Fielding, whose hearing was extremely acute, growled a laugh at the sound and the Master visibly preened himself that he was being seen to be generous in his patronage.

The Magistrate spoke. ‘We have been discussing the matter in hand, Mr Rawlings and certain conclusions have been reached. Before we go further I wonder if you would report your findings so far.'

‘They are precious few, I fear,' John stated nervously. ‘Three names were given me as people who might bear a grudge against the Society of Apothecaries. One of them – forgive me, Master – is the Beadle, Sotherton Backler, the other two a Garnett Smith, whose son died after a misdiagnosis by Master Alleyn, and a Tobias Gill, who felt he had been slighted by the Court of Assistants. I have seen all three. Mr Backler I am convinced had nothing to do with the matter. Mr Gill I am not so certain about. The most complex of them, however, is Mr Smith who drinks more than is good for him …' John became horribly aware of the sherry glass in his hand. ‘… and who has the strongest motive for killing Master Alleyn. Yet the facts don't add up. White arsenic was put in the flour so that everyone at the Livery Dinner would be taken ill. It is mere chance that the victim died.'