Death at Apothecaries' Hall (20 page)

Eventually some sort of calm was restored and Mr Fielding's words rang out. ‘Joe, what is happening?'

‘The prisoners are retaken, Sir. The public have assisted. Don't think it would be right to charge them with contempt.'

‘Indeed not,' said an older female, scrambling down from her chair.

‘Silence,' boomed the Beak in her direction, and she subsided, even though wobbling with annoyance.

‘Is anyone injured?' Mr Fielding continued.

‘Several,' said Joe succinctly.

‘Is there a physician in court?'

‘I'm here, Sir,' called out John, making his way to the front with considerable difficulty, the swooning young man still in his grasp.

‘Ah, Mr Rawlings. In for the sport as usual.'

‘Yes, Sir,' John answered drily.

‘Patch 'em up if you will, there's a good fellow. You can use the Public Office as a surgery. There's water near by and someone will find you bandages.'

‘I'll do my best to help, Sir, although I actually came for a word with you.'

‘Can that wait?'

‘Not really. I have guests for dinner tonight, so am somewhat pressed for time.'

‘Um. I shall remain in court till you are done, then we shall converse briefly. To make amends I shall send you home with the two Brave Fellows, that will save a half hour.'

During the last part of this conversation the beau had been making mewing noises and now opened his dark-ringed and very messy eyes, a look of amazement in their depths. ‘Who are you?'

‘An apothecary,' answered John, setting him on his feet.

‘Don't put me down, I'm poorly.'

‘You're perfectly all right. Let me have a quick look at your nose and mouth.'

The beau, giving a simply fearful grimace, presented them for inspection then parted his carmined lips in a winsome smile. ‘What is your name?'

‘John Rawlings.'

‘Nice.'

‘Just keep still.'

‘You're very masterful.'

John groaned aloud. ‘The last thing I need is you trying to flirt with me. Just hold your tongue.'

‘Why don't you?'

‘What?'

‘Hold it for me.'

‘Oh go away,' said the Apothecary, much aggrieved.

The rest of the patients were far more straightforward; bruises, cuts and one badly damaged nose which John sent straight round to the physician who dwelt near by. Then it was finished, though he glimpsed the beau, hat pulled well down over a rapidly bruising eye, loitering in the doorway. With firm tread, John headed back into the courtroom and closed the door behind him.

Mr Fielding still sat in his high chair, his eyes, as ever concealed by a black bandage, turned towards the sound of the Apothecary coming in. Beside him, Joe Jago said, ‘Mr Rawlings is here.'

‘My very dear friend, how can I ever thank you enough? What a fracas. Alas, as ever we are underfunded. I need more trained men about me.'

The Apothecary nodded. ‘Indeed, Sir, indeed.'

‘Now what is it you wanted to talk to me about?'

‘You received my letter? The one in which I reported that the watchman had gone missing.'

‘Yes. I sent a Runner straight away to make enquiries both at the lodging house and at Timber Wharf. There's no sign of him.'

‘I fear that he has been disposed of,' John stated grimly.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's my contention, Sir, that whoever poisoned the flour either bribed the man to keep silent or stole into Apothecaries' Hall then realised that Griggs had awoken and was observing him.'

‘Are you saying that he has been murdered?'

‘Yes, I believe I am. I think he knew the identity of the poisoner and, with the chase beginning to warm up, was proving dangerous and had to go.'

The Blind Beak leant forward, his bandaged eyes only an inch away from John's own. ‘Have you any idea who perpetrated this crime?'

The Apothecary sighed. ‘No, Sir. There were three obvious suspects which I have now whittled down to two. Yet Tobias Gill does not quite fit the bill. As for Garnett Smith, I really don't know. He has family connections with Master Alleyn which do indeed make him highly questionable.'

‘What are these connections?'

‘Garnett's son Andrew was betrothed to Alleyn's daughter, Emilia. Because of this, it was Master Alleyn who treated the boy before he died. I believe that Smith still blames him for his son's death.' John paused, then said, ‘It is very odd that it should have been Master Alleyn who consumed a fatal dose, when he is the object of so much hatred.'

There was a long silence, during which the Magistrate sat so still he appeared to be frozen. Neither John nor Joe spoke, knowing that the Blind Beak was actually deep in thought. Finally he said, ‘Is it possible that Master Alleyn was the intended victim all along?'

‘But how could that be?'

‘Perhaps the Liveryman sitting beside him slipped additional arsenic into his food.'

‘But everybody was taken ill.'

‘Indeed they were, although that could have been a deliberate ploy. Were we meant to think that a maniac with a grudge tried to poison all the apothecaries, when really the fatal dose was just meant for one?'

‘Then how was it done?'

‘The poisoner crept into Apothecaries' Hall the night before the dinner. I think you have established that beyond doubt, Mr Rawlings. Then, the next day, at the Dinner itself, he contrives to put extra poison into Master Alleyn's portion.'

‘Um. I'm not happy about that. Supposing he were caught in the act?'

Mr Fielding nodded solemnly. ‘I agree with you, my friend. The argument is flawed, but for all that, I think we should now begin to look at this case from a different viewpoint.'

‘But it would mean questioning absolutely everyone present at the Dinner,' John said unhappily.

‘I would not expect you to take on such a thing. You would never get any work done at all. I shall put the Runners on to it, three of them, I think. Meanwhile, Mr Rawlings, I would like you to concentrate on the others – Mr Clarke and Apothecary Gill, imagining for the sake of argument that the mass poisoning was a bluff, that Master Alleyn was the one chosen to die.'

‘What about Garnett Smith?'

‘You must visit him again with the same premise.'

‘But if the murder was committed at the Dinner that would automatically rule him out.'

‘Not if he were acting in league with someone.'

John struck his forehead with his hand. ‘This is becoming truly complex. Are you suggesting a hired assassin?'

‘Anything is possible.'

‘I am daunted by the whole prospect.'

‘Don't be. You are already starting to peel away the layers.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Look at the information you have gathered so far.'

Joe spoke up. ‘We are further down the road, Mr Rawlings, even if you can't see it.'

John got to his feet, ready to take his leave. ‘Well, I'll continue to do my best. You can be sure of that. Now, what action do you want me to take about the missing watchman?'

‘Keep your ears open, that's all. Meanwhile, we'll stay in touch with the morgue keepers in case he's brought in.'

‘Whoever this killer is,' John said sombrely, ‘he's a ruthless bastard. I fear for anyone who stands in his way.'

‘Then have a care for yourself, my young friend. He may already be aware that you are on his trail.'

Thinking of Master Alleyn's cruel death and the swiftness with which George Griggs had vanished, the Apothecary shivered slightly as he left the comforting confines of the courtroom and stepped into the carriage which was waiting to take him home.

Harriet Clarke was not at all what John had expected. Possibly because she had an invalid son, he had formed a mental picture of rather a drab little lady, weighed down by the cares of the world. Instead, a very striking woman was shown into the small salon where John was receiving his guests. A bony but arresting face, dominated by a pair of grey eyes, bright as jewels, immediately caught his attention. Thick hair, dark as a gypsy's, was gloriously abundant beneath her head-dress.

‘Mr Rawlings,' Harriet said, as she made a formal curtsey, ‘I have been so looking forward to this moment.' And she extended a hand with long firm fingers which the Apothecary kissed with enthusiasm.

Away from the shop and dressed for the evening, Michael Clarke presented a better image than that of his work-a-day self, while Dr Hensey, as ever neat and dapper, had put on a canary silk waistcoat embroidered with red and pink roses. In short, though the company was small it was elegant. The only thing missing, in John's view, was a hostess, and his thoughts immediately went to Emilia, and his heart ached as he wondered what she was doing.

Earlier that evening, before the guests had arrived, a letter had been delivered to the door from Coralie Clive. Had its tone been very slightly curt? John had wondered. Commenting on the fact that she hadn't seen him since Serafina's soirée, the actress had said that she would ignore this and went on to invite John to escort her to an Assembly on the following Saturday. Knowing that it would be wrong of him to refuse, the Apothecary had hastily penned a letter of acceptance and returned it with the messenger. And now here he was, standing amongst his dinner guests and thinking of Emilia just as if the last four years, during which he had wooed and finally won Coralie, had never taken place at all. Considering himself a regular wretch, John turned his attention to the alluring Harriet, who smiled enigmatically and took his arm as they went through the open doors in the archway which separated the salon from the dining room.

Sir Gabriel Kent, ever considerate, had accepted an invitation to whist, so that his son might act the role of host without competition. So it was that the Apothecary sat at the head of the table with Harriet Clarke on his right, Dr Hensey to his left, and Michael Clarke opposite.

Murder not being the ideal topic for dinner party talk, the conversation ranged over a variety of subjects including John's adventures at Bow Street earlier that day.

‘It's so easy, is it not,' said Michael Clarke, ‘to forget about the war, that is unless one has one's nose permanently affixed to a newspaper. It needs something like Mr Fielding's warning that the press gang will be waiting at the prison doors to remind us that it is still on.'

‘Of course, it was very much uppermost in our thoughts when I first met Mr Rawlings, nearly two years ago now,' Dr Hensey answered. ‘Fate took us to Romney Marsh where it was all talk of spies and such like.'

‘Not just talk either,' said John. ‘One of them, French as they come, though you would never have believed it to meet him, delivered me a crack on the jaw fair set to put me out for a week. If it hadn't been for Dr Hensey here, I believe I might only just now be regaining consciousness.'

‘So you are a physician?' asked Harriet, leaning in the doctor's direction.

‘I am, Madam.'

‘What do you know about the falling sickness? My poor boy is badly afflicted and there's not one apothecary worth the name – and there's not many of those, I fear …'

John thought this quite the most extraordinary remark.

‘… who can do a thing about it.'

Dr Hensey sipped his wine. ‘Strange to tell, the falling sickness is a speciality of mine. I studied in Paris under an eminent man, Professeur Henri Collard, and he had definite theories about it.'

‘Which were?'

‘The use of certain physicks, combined in most specific quantities, can control it for the rest of the patient's life.'

One of Harriet's strong white hands flew to her throat. ‘Do you mean this?'

‘I most certainly do, Madam, and it would be my pleasure and privilege to visit your boy if that is what you would like.'

‘I
would
like it, I would like it very much indeed.' She turned to her husband. ‘Michael, what do you think?'

‘Anything that might help our son would be gratefully appreciated.'

‘In that case I shall make it my first duty as soon as I have attended my other patients.'

He continued to talk to Michael, who listened avidly, and unable to help himself, John drew Harriet's attention.

‘I hate to pry, Madam, but what did you mean by your disparaging comment about apothecaries?'

She smiled a slow and cynical smile. ‘My experience of them has not been too good over the years.'

‘But you're married to one.'

‘Well?'

John was nonplussed, not knowing at all how to answer.

Obviously sensing his confusion, Harriet patted his hand over the dinner table. ‘My dear Mr Rawlings …'

‘Please call me John.'

‘John, then. There is no need to look quite so put out. An apothecary tended me when I was pregnant and suffered greatly from sickness. He prescribed such terrible things, terrible things …' She paused for a moment and looked positively ill. ‘… that I have never been certain from that day to this whether they had anything to do with my son being born the way he is. That's all. I have nothing against you or my husband. Now, can we talk of other things?'

While she had been speaking Harriet's face had undergone a series of changes, a dark, almost vicious look gradually being replaced by the kind of expression demanded by social nicety. Convinced that there was an underlying message to what she was saying, John felt powerless to question her further. He changed the subject.

‘Do you enjoy living on the south bank?'

‘It's very quiet but I quite like that. Although I was born in Spitalfields, my parents moved across the river when I was small, so one could say that I am used to it.'

‘You must know Francis Cruttenden, a Liveryman of the Society. He lives in Pye House, quite close to you.'

Harriet's sculpted features turned into those of a cat. ‘Yes, I know him,' she said.