Death at Apothecaries' Hall (2 page)

He disappeared to the back of the premises, where hung row upon row of different plants, each one with a neat label attached. Alone, John turned to look out into the street through the shop's window, peering towards the left where stood the arched entrance to Apothecaries' Hall. Sure enough, the Dinner was over. Several dignified figures were leaving the building and were heading through the gloomy afternoon in the direction of the river, their way lit by a bevy of linkmen who trotted briskly beside the Liverymen, flaming torches held high. The Apothecary, knowing that one day he would be called to take Livery, watched with a certain feeling of awe as the procession made its way.

‘Ah!' exclaimed Michael Clarke from the storeroom, and came back into the shop, the herb John had requested in his hand. ‘Will this be enough?'

‘I should hope so. My patient only wishes to enhance his performance, not sire every babe in London.'

‘Be careful to warn him about the dangers of overdosing.'

‘I certainly will. By the way, how is it used to cure poisoning?'

‘Well, you know that the seeds and berries combined are compounded to create the aphrodisiac?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you ignore those and make a tincture from the fresh plant itself, it not only acts as an emetic but eases the inflammation caused by the poison; a double-pronged attack against the presence of toxins.'

‘Once again I stand in awe of your knowledge,' said John, reaching into his pocket.

‘That will be one shilling, Sir.'

‘A bargain. Good day to you, Mr Clarke.'

‘I wish you a safe journey, Mr Rawlings.'

These pleasantries exchanged, the two men bowed to one another and John made his way into the dusk-filled confines of Water Lane. Looking at his watch once more, the Apothecary saw that it was a little after four o'clock, and strode out briskly, hoping that he could hire a wherry with no difficulty, having scarcely an hour left before total darkness fell.

It was just as he reached the top of Black Friars Stairs, at the foot of which he had earlier observed so many craft awaiting their owners, that John felt rather than saw a figure leaning against the wooden balustrade which offered passengers their only means of support as they ascended or descended the perilous steps to the water. The Apothecary's hand flew to the pistol he always carried when travelling late and alone, but a faint groan reassured him that this was probably no footpad lurking in the shadows, though he still kept his weapon close.

‘Who's there?' John asked in a sibilant whisper.

‘Oh, help me,' came the agonised reply. ‘I'm sick to my stomach.'

Sure enough, there came the sound of vomiting and an unpleasant plop as the contents of the man's guts landed in the water below. Hoping that there were no boatmen beneath, John took a step towards the voice, only to draw in his breath in shock as a Liveryman of the Society of Apothecaries put out a feeble hand in his direction.

‘My God, Sir,' John exclaimed, ‘what has happened?'

The older man shook his head. ‘I've been at the Livery Dinner. There must have been … bad meat.' His words ended in a gasp and he was violently ill once more.

‘If that is the case, you must rest and receive treatment. Shall I escort you back to the Hall?'

‘No, young man, no. My barge waits below. I would sooner return home. I can lie down in the cabin.'

‘But if you are suffering from food poisoning, Sir, you should not undertake a journey without assistance. How far must you travel?'

‘To Chelsea …' The older man's voice died away and he was again seized by a painful spasm which caused him to bend double, his thin hands clutching his stomach.

‘You are in no fit state to proceed alone,' John said firmly, knowing what he ought to do but thinking of the warm fire in his father's library and wishing he were already sitting beside it.

‘My good young person, I will be all right provided I stay quiet. I am an apothecary after all.'

‘So am I, Sir. Though only a Yeoman.'

Despite his pain, the Liveryman chuckled. ‘We were all only Yeomen once.' He seemed to recover slightly. ‘My barge is moored over yonder. Be so good as to call them in, my friend. I doubt my voice would carry at the moment.'

‘And what name shall I say, Sir?'

‘I am Josiah Alleyn.'

John descended three of the steps and stared out over the river. Beyond the stairs, where a mass of wherries had collected in the hope of gaining custom, several barges bobbed at mooring. Most impressive of all was the Society of Apothecaries' own barge, today being used by the Master. On ceremonial occasions this magnificent craft was decked overall with banners and streamers of crimson and blue silk, and although it bore no extra decorations that evening it was still a wonderful sight. It rode the river tricked out with the Society's great shield, painted and gilded, while the barge's woodwork displayed exuberant moulded foliage, fluted Corinthian pilasters, and carved figures of the four seasons, all of them dwarfed by the depiction of several gods, including Apollo, Hercules and Neptune, cheek by jowl in a chariot drawn by sea lions. A large dolphin was painted on the rudder, providing the finishing touch to this voluptuous decor.

Beyond this floating tribute to the woodcarver's art lay several smaller, more modest vessels. Cupping his hands round his mouth, John called in their general direction, ‘Would Master Alleyn's barge come in please,' and was rewarded by the stirring of six pairs of oars rising in the air simultaneously before dipping into the water and rowing towards Black Friars Stairs.

Conscious of the fragility of the older man, John helped Master Alleyn down the wet and slippery surface of the steps.

As they reached the bottom, John said on impulse, ‘I would like to go with you, Sir. That is, if you permit.'

The Liveryman was about to answer, presumably in the negative, when he was sick once more, fortunately missing the steps and the wherries immediately beneath. ‘I … I …' he gasped.

John became terribly firm. ‘I'm sorry, Master Alleyn, but no protest will sway me. Short of you actually forbidding me to board your vessel, I intend to escort you to your home.'

The old man was beyond arguing. So weak that the Apothecary almost had to carry him, he made no demur as they struggled aboard his barge.

‘Your master has been taken ill. Please head for Chelsea as quickly as you can,' John explained to the tillerman as he assisted Master Alleyn into the small cabin.

‘Very good, sir.'

And with that, the Apothecary had to be content as the oarsmen struck out for mid-river and began the long haul back to Chelsea.

There was little space in the interior, but John made the best of what there was, laying Master Alleyn down on one of the two bench seats and placing a chamber pot conveniently close to his head. There was little more he could do except dip his handkerchief in the river and put it on the poor fellow's brow. Cursing that he did not have his bag with him, John watched helplessly as Master Alleyn was violently ill once more.

His sense of ineptitude caused the journey to take on a nightmarish quality. John stared moodily out of the window as the barge drew level with the Venetian-style bridge over the River Fleet, then passed the swinging wooden cranes unloading timber and coal, and the warehouses storing beer and dyes and limes. But with the tide in the barge's favour, the commercialism of these ugly wharves was soon replaced by The Temple, where sweeping lawns and legal chambers formed an open quadrangle to the river. This was the furthest point reached by the Great Fire of London, and though many of the lawyers' buildings had been destroyed in the blaze, Middle Temple Hall and the round church of the Knights Templar still stood intact and visible.

A slight gasp from Master Alleyn made the Apothecary swiftly turn to his patient, whom he was reassured to see had fallen into a doze. Wondering how he would ever get home this night, John continued to contemplate the river in the rapidly fading light of a cold November evening.

They were drawing level with The Strand, and his thoughts turned to his mistress, Coralie Clive, who lived in Cecil Street, one of several thoroughfares leading between the main road and the river. She was as beautiful as night with ravishing dark looks and emerald green eyes. She was also passionate and clever, witty and wise. Indeed, Coralie was everything that he had always dreamed a woman should be, for the Apothecary was not an admirer of loveliness alone. If there were a flaw in the diamond, however, it was that Miss Clive, like her sister Kitty before her, was a committed actress with absolutely no desire at this stage of her life to become anyone's wife.

‘I love you but don't push me too far,' John muttered beneath his breath as he considered their relationship, and the wretched Liveryman stirred in his sleep at the murmured sound.

The light was fading fast now and the Apothecary could barely glimpse the Water Tower, the most impressive gateway to the river, built to the east of the Duke of York's estates. And it was fully dark by the time the barge drew level with the Duke of Richmond's beautiful riverside home. The Duke, though the Apothecary saw little of him these days, had always been friendly to John, who, for his part, had been ridiculously jealous of the young aristocrat's flirtation with Coralie, a false alarm as things turned out.

Braving the cold, the Apothecary went on deck to wet his handkerchief once more and cleanse the chamber pot, shivering as the chill river wind cut through to his very bone. Hoping that he would be offered a bed in Master Alleyn's household, he spared a thought for all the other Liverymen who had been at the Dinner earlier that day, wondering whether they, too, had been taken as ill as the poor old fellow lying so miserably in the cabin below.

In common with all those who owned houses of substance near the fishermen's village of Chelsea, Master Alleyn had his own private landing stage. And it was with much relief that John finally felt the barge head for the shore, where two servants waited on the lantern-lit jetty, obviously alerted to their employer's arrival by the lights of the homecoming craft.

Leaning over the side he called in an urgent voice, ‘Run to the house and have a bed prepared for your master. He has been struck down with food poisoning and needs immediate treatment.' The two stared at him foolishly, clearly unused to emergencies. ‘One of you catch the rope, the other go,' he instructed. Finally the younger of the two, a mindless-looking boy of about fifteen, sped off on spindly legs. Returning to the cabin, John, assisted by the chief waterman, who had put his oar to rest now that they were berthed, carried Master Alleyn out of the barge and up the path, which was lit by flares placed at intervals in the ground. Ahead of them lay the house, a generously proportioned place from what John could see in the torchlight, and coming towards them down the track was someone of equally generous proportions. Mrs Alleyn was running to meet them, an expression of fearful anxiety on her face.

‘What has happened? What is going on?' She stopped short on seeing John. ‘Who are you, pray?'

As best he could with her husband's head and shoulders in his grasp, John bowed. ‘An apothecary, Madam. I happened to come across Master Alleyn as he attempted to board his barge. He had already been taken ill. I fear that he may have suffered food poisoning caused by the Livery Dinner.'

‘They should be ashamed of themselves,' she answered roundly. ‘What are things coming to? That anyone should be poisoned in the Hall, of all places, is utterly ludicrous.'

John assumed his honest citizen face, layering it with a look of immense sympathy. ‘A pretty pass indeed, but then I suppose even the Society's Butler is not exempt from buying rotten provisions.'

‘She should know better.'

The discussion was becoming pointless and a groan from Master Alleyn gave John the opportunity to change the subject. ‘With respect, Madam, I think we should talk of this another time. I believe our main concern must be to get your husband to bed.'

‘Of course. Come with me, my sweetheart.'

Robust though Mrs Alleyn was, however, she could not support the dead weight of her husband, who appeared to have lost consciousness and was now pale as death, a sticky sweat about his ghastly features.

If only I had my bag, John thought for the hundredth time, then hit his head with the palm of his hand as he recalled the other use of one of his recent purchases.

The Liveryman's wife looked at him sideways. ‘What is it?'

‘Madam, this afternoon I bought some herb true-love when I visited the Society's shop. One of its benefits is against poisoning. If you will be so kind as to let me compound in your kitchen, I can extract from the leaves a tincture which should clear the poison from your husband's system.'

A pair of very round blue eyes surveyed him. ‘Who did you say you were?'

‘John Rawlings, Madam. A Yeoman of the Society. My shop is in Shug Lane near Piccadilly.'

The eyes grew very tight, an extraordinary sight in Mrs Alleyn's somewhat moon-like countenance. It was perfectly obvious that even while she was helping her fainting husband bedwards she was summing up the stranger. Eventually her expression cleared. A decision had been reached and a half smile appeared, displaying a set of gappy teeth.

‘I thank you, Sir, for your concern. My husband is usually treated by Master Cruttenden, a fellow Liveryman, but it is somewhat late in the day to send for him, I fear.'

‘Further, if he also attended the Dinner, he might well be ill himself,' the Apothecary pointed out.

Mrs Alleyn's chins fell. ‘I hadn't thought of that. You'd best compound your tincture, young man.' She paused. ‘It couldn't make my husband worse, could it?'

‘Temporarily, perhaps, but once it has cleared his system of the toxins it will soothe any inflammation caused.'

‘You are very knowledgeable for one so young.'