Death at Apothecaries' Hall (3 page)

John bowed and looked duly modest, omitting to say that he had never heard of the remedy until that afternoon.

At last they reached the bedchamber, which, like everything else in the house, was rather fine and large, echoing the status of its owner. Further servants appeared bearing bowls and towels and fresh white linen and, with relief, John handed his patient over.

He turned to his hostess.

‘If I might use your kitchen …'

She held up her hand. ‘Most certainly not. My husband has his own compounding room. Do not you?'

‘Only in my shop alas.' John rather wistfully let his imagination dwell momentarily on a home he would own one day, where one of the first priorities would be a good-sized workplace in which he could not only experiment with herbs but continue his researches into water, an element that held an enormous fascination for him.

Now he followed Mrs Alleyn down a corridor and watched as she threw open a door at the end of it. A gasp of spontaneous admiration escaped the Apothecary's lips as he stepped inside the room that lay beyond. Scrubbed tables lined three of the four walls, each laid with pewter pans set over oil lamps, so that herbs might boil and bubble within. The shelves above stood crowded like an Eastern bazaar with retorts and distilling apparatus, alembics, crucibles and long necked matrasses. Jars of both glass and earthenware, filled with coloured liquids, interesting pastes and exotic powders, rubbed shoulders with vials of oleaginous oils. The remaining available space left was filled with leather bound books, which were crammed into every corner and even piled up on the floor.

John sighed. ‘Paradise,' he said.

Mrs Alleyn smiled, her expression softening very slightly. ‘Well, here is your workroom, Mr Rawlings. Now go to and quickly.' She paused in the doorway, turning back to see John already putting on a long apron. ‘Is Josiah's life in danger? Can food poisoning kill a man?'

He looked up, tying the strings behind him, his gaze dark. ‘Yes, Ma'am. It can be fatal.'

The round blue eyes suddenly filled with tears and Mrs Alleyn's dumpling cheeks bunched as she screwed up her face. ‘Oh save him, young man, save him.'

‘I'll do my very best.'

She rushed at him, pulling him off his feet in a frantic embrace. ‘God be with you,' she said, then was gone from the room like an unhappy breeze.

Half an hour later it was done: the tincture, dark green in colour like its mother plant, cooling in a cup into which John had poured a small amount of white wine in order to disguise the bitter taste. Taking a mouthful in order to test its strength, the Apothecary removed his apron and, picking up a candletree, made his way down the corridor, his curling hair, from which he had long ago snatched his wig, glowing cinnamon in the light of the flames. Pausing at the door of Josiah's bedchamber, he wondered briefly what sight would greet him. But one glance at the great bed reassured him. Though white as linen and out of the world, the Liveryman still breathed.

Mrs Alleyn looked up frantically. ‘Have you done it? Is the tincture made?'

‘It is, Madam. Now fetch me a spoon and let me give it to him, drop by drop.'

It was no easy task to administer the antidote to someone as deeply unconscious as Josiah, but with his wife holding his head, a manservant keeping the Liveryman's jaw open, and John patiently placing droplets of fluid into his mouth, the contents of the cup finally vanished.

The Apothecary turned to Mrs Alleyn. ‘I think you should leave the room, Madam. Soon he will be violently sick.'

Her round face glared at him angrily. ‘I wed Josiah when I was fifteen, Sir. There is nothing about him that I do not know, no experience that I have not shared. I shall stay where I am.'

‘Very well. Best order bowls and towels. The poison will quit him by the usual exits,' John answered drily.

It was over by midnight. Weak as a new-born babe, Josiah lay in a clean bed, the vomiting and purging finally at an end. His breathing had become regular and the colour was returning to his cheeks as the soothing effect of the herb began to take hold.

John looked at a weary Mrs Alleyn, who had survived the ordeal like a seasoned soldier. ‘You did well, Madam.'

The round face was like a pale pudding as she returned his glance. ‘So did you, young man. He's out of danger, isn't he?'

‘Yes. Now all he has to do is rest and recover.' The Apothecary stood up. ‘I think I can safely leave the room, so would it be too much trouble for your servants to prepare a bath? I feel a little stained.'

Mrs Alleyn rose also. ‘There is nothing that I would not do for you after what you have done for us. A bath you shall have and some fresh clothes. What you are wearing must be taken away and destroyed.'

John shuddered delicately, thanking his stars that he had been relatively soberly dressed for his visit to Apothecaries' Hall for, addicted to high fashion as he was, the very thought of good garments being destroyed by flame was one that he did not care to contemplate.

‘It's been a difficult night, Ma'am. To have come through with just a ruined suit is a small price to pay.'

For the first time, Josiah's wife smiled properly, her gappy teeth and apple cheeks suddenly youthful looking. ‘You shall be rewarded with enough to buy you several suits, my dear. And when Josiah is fully recovered I shall tell him to look out for your progress. You are a coming man, Mr Rawlings. I feel it in my heart.'

Warming to her enormously, the Apothecary raised her hand to his lips. ‘You are very kind.'

‘Kind, fiddlesticks. It does no harm at all to have friends in high places. Now, to be practical. Shall a bed be prepared for you?'

‘I would like that very much.'

‘And in the morning you shall travel back in my husband's barge.'

‘In that case I shall return to Apothecaries' Hall. I need to replace herb true-love, and, much more than that, I want to find out how many others were afflicted by this mysterious poison.'

‘That,' said Mrs Alleyn, nodding wisely, ‘would be very interesting to know.'

The scene was an exact replica of the one that had taken place twenty-four hours earlier. John Rawlings stood in the shop at Apothecaries' Hall, the November day gloomy outside, buying the herb known as true-love. The only differences being that on this occasion he wore different clothes and both he and Michael Clarke were buzzing with intrigue as they discussed the extraordinary outbreak of food poisoning which had stricken the Liverymen who attended the Dinner on the previous day.

‘My dear Sir, today has been utter chaos. Nothing but a stream of servants demanding remedies for their masters. Those who are well enough are prescribing for themselves, and those who are not are relying on me.'

John looked pensive. ‘I do believe that Liveryman Alleyn might well have died was I not able to make him a tincture from herb true-love. Thank God you told me of the remedy.'

‘And that very afternoon at that. It was fate, Sir. Fate. It was obviously not meant that he should go.' Mr Clarke's eyes bulged.

John shivered slightly. ‘What do you think could have caused the outbreak?'

‘Bad meat or fish, I presume.'

The Apothecary fingered his chin thoughtfully. ‘But the kitchens in the Hall are so well run. I find it hard to credit the Butler would allow anything to be cooked that she had not examined personally first.'

Michael gave a half smile. ‘The Butler, Sir, is in an hysteric. She says, most volubly I might add, that this is a slur on her reputation and is threatening all manner of things from resignation to suicide.'

‘And the Beadle?'

‘Remaining silent as all wise husbands do.'

‘Come now.'

‘I beg pardon, Sir. I had forgot your intended wife was of a different breed. Anyway, poor Sotherton Backler.'

‘A name to conjure with.'

‘Indeed, Sir, indeed … is not only suffering from his wife's outbursts but is deeply distressed himself at this turn of events.'

‘Small wonder. Was everyone present poisoned?'

‘As far as I can tell from the reports I have received so far, all those who attended the Dinner were taken ill to varying degrees. Even the Master vomited.'

John shook his head, overawed by the thought that someone as grand and as dignified as William Tyson could do anything so commonplace.

‘What did they have to eat, do you know?'

‘A winter menu. I believe venison was served as well as various other dishes.'

‘Perhaps it had hung too long.'

‘I don't suppose we shall ever discover that,' said Michael Clarke.

‘No,' John answered, longing to make further enquiries into the mysterious affair but well aware that it was not his province to do so.

‘Well, at least you were able to help poor Master Alleyn.'

‘Yes, his wife was more than generous to me in payment for my services.'

‘Quite rightly so,' replied Mr Clarke, his attention wandering as yet another servant came in with a written request for a cure for food poisoning. John stepped from the shop into the cold afternoon, a strange feeling about him. He had left Chelsea that morning, transported to Apothecaries' Hall by Master Alleyn's barge, but that had gone long since and now he had to make his own way home. Walking down to Black Friars Stairs, John hailed a wherry to take him over the icy waters to Hungerford Stairs, from whence a brisk walk across The Strand and up St Martins Lane would bring him to Leicester Fields, and finally to Nassau Street, where Sir Gabriel would be waiting to discover with his usual charm and tact, why his adopted son had not returned home on the previous night.

Much as John had expected, the older man was sitting by the fire in his library. His old-fashioned three-storeyed wig, a quirk of Stuart fashion which Sir Gabriel had never abandoned, had been removed and presently rested on a mock head fashioned from wood which resided in his bedroom. In its place, as was John's father's custom, he sported a stiff black taffeta turban adorned with a short but stunning cockade of white feathers. Draped about his long lean frame, for this early evening Sir Gabriel was most definitely
déshabillé
, was a flowing black gown that would not have disgraced the most affluent of Eastern potentates.

‘Sir, you look fine,' said John in admiration, from the doorway.

His father turned his elegant head. ‘Ah, my dear, there you are at last. I take it your non appearance was in some way connected with the outbreak of food poisoning at Apothecaries' Hall.'

‘How did you know about that?'

‘It was reported in
The Public Advertiser
.'

‘Good gracious, news does spread. I wonder how they got hold of that story.'

‘The gentlemen of the press have their methods no doubt.'

‘Clearly they do. But yes, in answer to your question, one of the Liverymen was so ill, a Master Alleyn to be precise, that I accompanied him back to Chelsea, and there, I say without false modesty, I believe I saved his life.'

‘How did you do that?'

‘Let me sit in comfort and I'll tell you.' John removed his cloak to display a most extraordinary suit of clothes provided by Mrs Alleyn, which, according to her, had once belonged to one of her sons, and which fitted the Apothecary where it touched and no further.

‘Good gracious,' said Sir Gabriel mildly.

John winked an eye. ‘Mine was ruined.'

His father quivered. ‘Say no more of it. My mind races.'

‘Then allow it to race on. Let me just tell you that nobody knows quite what happened yesterday. It would seem that the venison, or some other dish, was mouldy and that everyone present was affected, though none, as far as I know, quite so badly as Master Alleyn. Father, I thought at one point that despite all my efforts I was going to lose him.'

‘Describe what occurred.'

John did so, sipping the soothing sherry that Sir Gabriel handed him and going over every detail of all that had taken place on the previous afternoon.

‘And you say Mrs Alleyn paid you well.'

‘She did indeed, Sir. Much put out that my suit was ruined, she gave me more than enough to buy several more.'

‘Then it is your duty to your patient to visit him tomorrow.'

John sighed. ‘You are quite right, of course. Despite the difficulties of the journey, I shall make it my business to be there in the morning.'

‘Then may I make a suggestion?'

‘Certainly.'

‘That you leave the shop in the capable hands of Nicholas Dawkins for a day or two, and that you and I set forth in the coach to Chelsea, where we rest for a night, and then on to Kensington, to which benighted place, it seems, you have every intention of retiring me.'

Sir Gabriel's tone was playful but John was not amused. ‘Father, really! Kensington is a delightful spot. Not only is there the palace, with a lively community gathered round, but also Holland House. To say nothing of the Bishop of Ely's residence.'

‘And these delights are supposed to attract me?'

‘It is high time,' said the Apothecary firmly, ‘that we had a country retreat. Somewhere we can escape to when the pressures of London become too great.'

Sir Gabriel raised a cynical brow, smiling behind his sherry glass. ‘My dearest child, I can envisage it now. I am put out to pasture in a rural backwater while you remain here, sporting with your many friends, particularly Miss Clive I imagine.'

For no real reason, except that he was tired from the night before and in no mood for criticism, however jestingly meant, the Apothecary was deeply stung. He rose to his feet.

‘How cruel and how unjust of you. I had thought to buy a house out of town for the sake of both your health and mine. I believed that the sweet air would be beneficial after the stinks of London, but I see that my good intentions have been entirely misread. Good evening, Sir Gabriel. I shall go and seek the company of Miss Clive as you suggest.'