Death at Apothecaries' Hall (7 page)

‘Be that as it may, Mrs Backler,
something
went wrong. However hard you tried, everyone at the Livery Dinner suffered from food poisoning. And now with fatal consequences for one of their company.'

Poor Jane's hand flew to her throat and her cheeks flushed. ‘I know, I know. But what am I to do? How can I clear my name?'

John spoke quietly. ‘Would it be acceptable for me to search in the kitchen? It is just possible that the source of the outbreak might still be there. Then, if it were something over which you had no control, the matter could be resolved satisfactorily.'

She looked at him curiously, her eyes and face still attractive despite her anxiety. ‘But what sort of thing could that be?'

The Apothecary looked vague. ‘Perhaps some poisonous substance, yew for example, might have hidden itself amongst the vegetables.'

‘But the vegetables were thrown out after the dinner, as were the meats, fish and fruits. Normally I make bundles for the poor with what is left over, but as soon as news came to me of the outbreak of illness, I burnt everything.'

John's heart sank. ‘What about the flour? The one used for the high sauce? Has that gone too?'

She nodded, a wisp of light brown hair flying out from the sensible cap she wore. ‘I destroyed everything, Mr Rawlings. It seemed wiser to do so.'

Barely disguising a groan of annoyance, the Apothecary said, ‘None the less, Madam, I would appreciate a look round.'

Mr Clarke became officious. ‘I believe we should take this matter very seriously. I agree with Mr Rawlings.'

Jane Backler turned a stricken face on them. ‘I
am
taking the matter seriously. If only something
could
be found to disprove my supposed negligence.'

‘One never knows,' John answered, without much hope. ‘Lead the way, Madam.'

They fell into step behind her as Jane walked from the parlour, through the entrance hall, then opened a door on the left. From there a narrow passageway led to a large kitchen, a fireplace adorned with spits and hanging cooking pots dominating the far wall.

‘Were those used to prepare the Livery Dinner?' John asked, pointing.

‘Yes, but they've been scrubbed since.'

‘Still, may I look?'

‘Of course,' the Butler answered, and began taking the pots down, one after another.

‘Will you help me inspect them?' the Apothecary asked Mr Clarke, who was growing ever more large-eyed.

‘Yes, but what are we meant to be seeking?'

‘Traces of food, traces of anything. In fact any residue at all. Scrape it out with your herb knife.'

They set to, holding the pots up to the light, scouring round the surfaces, removing anything they could find and depositing it on a piece of paper that Michael Clarke hurried back to the shop to fetch.

‘What are we to do with all this?' he whispered.

‘Analyse it.'

‘For what?'

John could not resist looking up and winking a very solemn eye. ‘Poison.'

Mr Clarke started violently. ‘Did you say poi …'

‘Shush!' warned the Apothecary, staring round as if he expected interlopers. He raised his voice to normal level. ‘Where did you keep the flour, Mrs Backler?'

‘In the big pot up on that shelf. It's empty now.'

And it was. Further, unlike the cooking vessels, there was not a trace of residue left in it. Every last grain of flour had been rinsed away. The pot stood devoid of any clues. Disappointed, John handed it back to the Butler and stood thinking for a moment before dropping to his knees and examining the stone flags that made up the floor.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Looking for any particles that might have fallen. No disrespect to your housekeeping, Madam.'

Jane sniffed a little, but said nothing as John continued his search, joined after a few moments by an ever more astonished Michael Clarke, who had given up asking and now just followed the Apothecary's lead.

Opposite the fireplace, taking up most of the wall space, stood a rather unusual piece of furniture known as a dog kennel dresser, the name deriving from the arched open cupboard beneath. Laden with plates, the dresser's purpose was purely functional, namely aiding service at mealtimes. John sat back on his heels to examine its solid symmetry, thinking that in earlier times such a piece might well have stood in the dining room, bursting with silver to impress the guests. Then he glanced, almost without thinking, at the open cupboard, the so called dog kennel, situated between the two closed ones.

A mouse lay within its dark recess, unmoving and quite dead, a pathetic little figure despite its nuisance value. Taking out his handkerchief, John gently removed the corpse and wrapped it up.

‘Well, I can't think where that came from,' said the Butler, sniffing more than ever.

John raised an admonitory hand. ‘Madam, please. If this poor creature died because of something it ate from the floor, it might well be the key to the whole wretched affair.' He looked across at Michael. ‘Mr Clarke, may we go to your compounding room?'

‘Certainly. It will be …' Once more he lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘… private there.'

The Society had its own laboratory, situated beneath the Great Hall and of much the same size, but the shop manager clearly did not want anyone else to know what was afoot at this stage.

The Apothecary turned to the Butler. ‘Do you want me to come back to tell you what we find?'

‘Please do. But remember that I go off duty and home for the night at six o'clock.'

‘Where do you live? Perhaps I could call on you there?'

‘In Pater Noster Row, close to St Paul's. Number twenty.'

‘I will make a point of seeking you out, though it may not be until tomorrow evening.'

‘Good. Then you can also meet my husband, the Beadle.'

‘I look forward to it.'

Both men bowed politely, Mrs Backler curtsied, then they parted company, the two apothecaries hurrying back through the gloomy afternoon to the compounding room at the back of the shop. There they laid the mouse on a cloth on the scrubbed wooden table and, taking a sharp knife from a drawer, the shop-keeper made a neat incision, parting the skin to reveal a small, somewhat bloated stomach. This, too, he cut open, delicately removing the contents.

‘Flour!' said the Apothecary excitedly. ‘The poor little wretch ate some flour.'

‘What are you saying exactly?'

John looked up from where he had been crouching over the minute corpse, admiring Mr Clarke's skill with so tiny an autopsy.

‘I'm saying that it is my belief we are going to find white arsenic mixed with it.'

The manager's bulging eyes positively ballooned. ‘What?'

‘There is something a little too glib about this outbreak of poisoning. Something that doesn't quite ring true. I have a premonition.'

‘Shall I do the experiment?'

‘Yes. It would be an education to watch you.'

Picking up the lumps of flour with tweezers, Michael Clarke placed them in a copper pan which he held above an oil-lamp, breaking them up and slowly drying out the fluids of the mouse's stomach. Then, when all the moisture had gone, he put them onto a sieve and gently shook the lumps till they turned into grains. These he returned to the pan, adding a cup of water before he heated the contents. Vapour began to rise as the water slowly evaporated.

‘Wait till it has all gone and then we'll know,' Mr Clarke said solemnly.

Finally it was done. The water had vanished and with it the remnants of the flour. But lying at the bottom of the pan were a couple of tiny white crystals. Sombrely, the Apothecary and the shop manager each took one on a finger and licked it. Then the two men looked at one another.

‘Arsenic,' they said in unison.

‘So the food for the Livery Dinner was deliberately poisoned?'

‘Clearly yes.'

‘What shall we do?'

‘In view of Master Alleyn's death this is now a case of murder.'

‘You are going to inform the constable?'

John shook his head. ‘No, I shall take a hackney straight to Bow Street and there acquaint Mr John Fielding with the facts of the case.'

Mr Clarke looked suitably earnest and impressed. ‘The Principal Magistrate himself?'

‘There is no one else capable of dealing with such a monstrous crime,' John Rawlings answered firmly as he put the grains of arsenic into a vial and made to take his leave.

The hackney coach which John Rawlings had been lucky enough to hire in Fleet Street drew to a halt. Turning his head to look out of the window, the Apothecary allowed his gaze to wander over the tall thin house outside which it had stopped, remembering the very first time he had seen the place. That had been in 1754, four years earlier, when he had been barely twenty-three and under suspicion of murder. To say that he had been terrified was a laughable understatement, and his first meeting with the great John Fielding, the Blind Beak, had been even more alarming. It was just as if those sightless eyes could see straight through the black bandage which always concealed them and right into the very mind of the person being questioned. That opinion of the Magistrate's unnerving gift had not changed in the intervening years, during which John had come to know the man solely responsible for keeping the peace in the wild streets of London.

‘The Public Office, Bow Street. We're here, Sir,' the driver called down.

‘Yes, I know. Thank you,' the Apothecary answered, clambering out and feeling in his pocket for the fare.

‘Rather you than me, Sir.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They say that the Blind Beak can punish hard if he feels so inclined.'

‘Fortunately I'm not in line for correction at the moment. This is a social call.'

But was it? Even as he said the words John knew that in fact this was the start of another exhaustive search for a killer. He and John Fielding had worked together to bring a murderer to justice on five different occasions. Now the discovery of arsenic in the kitchens of Apothecaries' Hall was clearly the beginning of a sixth. With a rather solemn tread John climbed the three steps leading up to the open doorway of the Public Office and went inside.

It was a tradition, founded by the first Bow Street magistrate, Sir Thomas de Veil, that the justice and his family live over the court and public rooms, and John Fielding and his household had followed this custom. Above the functional ground floor there were four more storeys, the last being in the roof itself, where two large dormer windows indicated the servants quarters. However, Mr Fielding's favourite receiving area for social visits was on the first floor, a large comfortable salon where, in summer, the windows often stood open to let in the air. But on this gloomy evening a jolly fire threw its glow onto the walls, setting the shadows dancing and enhancing the candlelight.

The Magistrate turned his head as John entered the room, having knocked politely first. Just for a moment there was complete silence, then the Blind Beak said, ‘Mr Rawlings?'

Mr Fielding's intuition was uncanny and, as always, the Apothecary felt daunted. ‘How did you know?'

‘Your tread, Sir, and the odour of you. Not a foul stink, let me hasten to add, but your own highly individual scent. I would know you anywhere, my good friend.'

Again by habit, John bowed. He had always, in common with so very many others, treated the Magistrate as if he were sighted, and now this habit was totally ingrained.

‘As ever, Sir, you astound me.'

Mr Fielding rumbled his wonderful mellow laugh. ‘I'll get some hot punch sent in. No doubt you'll need warming after the misery of the streets.'

‘It is indeed very raw out there.'

The Magistrate rang a little bell which stood on the table beside him and after a moment or two a light step was heard in the corridor outside. This was no servant coming to answer, however: instead, a ravishingly pretty girl entered the room, a girl barely thirteen years old but already one of the beauties of town. A girl so naughty with her flirting that the temptation to box her ears was never very far away. The Apothecary gave her the most severe glance he could manage in spite of her radiant smile.

‘Why, Mr Rawlings,' said Mary Ann Whittingham, Mr Fielding's niece, ‘how very pleasant to see you again. I was only thinking the other day that I had not set eyes on you since the summer.'

Vividly recalling how he had rescued her from a brothel where poor wretched children were offered to the old and beastly of London, and thinking that the little madam seemed totally unperturbed by the experience, John looked positively ferocious.

She dimpled at him. ‘You frown, Sir. Have I done anything to upset you?'

He stuck out his tongue, happily aware that the Magistrate could see none of this. ‘Of course not, Miss Whittingham. How could you?'

He crossed his eyes and made a face like a gargoyle.

‘Why,' she answered, grinning, ‘I do vow and declare that you grow more handsome every time I see you.'

‘Enough,' thundered the Magistrate. ‘Mary Ann, stop teasing our guest. Ask one of the servants to make a jug of strong punch and bring it to us as soon as it's ready.'

‘Yes, Uncle,' she answered demurely, thumbing her nose at the Apothecary, who thumbed his back.

Mr Fielding sighed gustily as the door closed behind her. ‘What a creature! After her fright last summer I swear she's bounced back to be cheekier than ever.'

‘She's certainly a handful.'

‘Of course my wife, having no child of her own, positively dotes on her. That's the root of the trouble.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Marry her off, I suppose, as soon as she's of a reasonable age.'

John's heart sank at the very prospect of trying to keep the little imp under control for another three or four years.