Death at the Devil's Tavern (28 page)

An unpleasant thought struck the Apothecary. Supposing his quarry had gone straight home, had rowed himself across the river to Redriff and was not going to call into The Devil's Tavern that night. Or, even worse, had put his head round the door, seen John, and made a hasty exit. Not knowing quite what to do, the Apothecary went to the bar to enquire whether anyone had seen the office manager. And it was at that moment, with John leaning comfortably against the rail, chatting to the landlord as if he were a regular patron of the establishment, that the man he was seeking walked in.

What happened next was very strange. For instead of looking hunted and haunted, Valentine Randolph approached the Apothecary with a beaming smile.

‘My dear Mr Rawlings,' he said, clasping him by the hand and shaking it warmly. ‘How very nice to see you. What are you doing here? Or am I not allowed to ask?'

Every instinct John possessed told him that he had made a mistake, that the owner of the vanishing legs had not been the office manager. None the less he decided to proceed with caution.

‘Well actually,' he said, adopting his friendly face, ‘I was hoping to run into you. There are just one or two points I'd like to go over, that is if you have no objection.'

‘None at all. Shall we sit at a table?'

‘Certainly. Let me get you something to drink.'

They chose a bottle of claret to share between them and managed to find room in a dark corner, as private a place as any in an inn teeming with riverside life.

‘I'll come straight to the point,' said the Apothecary, having raised his glass to his companion. ‘It seems that Sir William made two wills, the second of which was never signed. Have you heard about this?'

‘Yes, Luke told me.'

‘Did he also tell you that under the terms of the second will, you and he were to have been left the business?'

‘He did. And that the bulk of the inheritance would have passed to Amelia Lambourn.'

‘Um,' John replied thoughtfully. ‘As you've mentioned her, may I ask you a question?'

‘Yes.' There was no doubt that Valentine's voice was cautious.

The Apothecary cleared his throat. ‘How close are you to the lady?'

Valentine stared at him. ‘What do you mean by close exactly?'

John felt himself starting to flounder. ‘Well, you know …'

‘No, I don't. If you mean am I fond, of her, the answer is yes, in a way. She was my employer's mistress, soon to be his wife. It was not my place to disagree with his choice. Anyway, I felt sorry for the girl, reviled by the family as she was.'

‘And that is all?'

‘What exactly are you hinting at?' asked Valentine, his hawk features dark.

‘I'll be honest,' said John resolutely. ‘When I met you at The George on the morning of Sir William's funeral, there was a certain look about you. I concluded that as Miss Lambourn had also spent the night under the same roof, she might be the cause of it.'

Valentine flushed violently, drained his glass, then stared at the floor. ‘You're bloody observant,' he muttered.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause offence. It is just that so far Sir William's killer is eluding me and, strange as it may seem, every little detail, however unrelated to the crime it might appear, is of vital importance. Mr Fielding taught me that originally, and I can only state that events have proved him right.'

The office manager raised his head and his sombre eyes regarded John thoughtfully. ‘Is that the truth?'

‘It is, believe me.'

‘Then I think there are certain things you should know.'

The Apothecary felt the familiar prick of his thumbs which told him something important was about to be revealed.

‘You are right, of course,' Valentine said softly. ‘I had spent that night with a woman. But it was a woman who came to The George late that evening. It was not Amelia Lambourn.'

‘May I know the lady's identity?'

‘No,' the office manager answered violently, ‘you may not.'

Someone I know then, John thought. Aloud he said, ‘Very well.'

‘Anyway, she was long gone before morning, so there's no more to say.'

‘Quite. Now, what else did you want to tell me? Was it about Sir William's whereabouts on the night before the wedding by any chance?'

Valentine's flush turned pale. ‘How did you know that?'

‘I didn't. It was just a lucky guess. Though it did occur to me that you of all people might be aware of where he went.'

‘I suppose you realise that Amelia spent the night here? Luke was in charge of those arrangements.' The Apothecary nodded. ‘Well, it was my task to book a room for Sir William on the south bank, at The Angel, a waterside inn not far from where I live in Redriff village. Anyway, the agreement was that I was to meet my employer in The Spread Eagle, have a celebratory bottle there, then row him the short distance to the inn.'

‘Wasn't that rather an odd arrangement? Why did he not go straight to The Angel?'

‘Simply because he liked the other place. I think he had fond memories of it from his boyhood in this area. Anyway, the rendezvous was late because Sir William had business to conduct in London first. Accordingly, I arrived at The Spread Eagle at half past nine. But Sir William did not come, even though I waited till eleven. By that time I began to wonder what was wrong and went to The Angel, where they told me that Sir William had not been seen. Then I. …'

His voice trailed away and Valentine stared into the depths of his refilled glass.

‘Then …?'

The office manager collected himself. ‘I went home.'

‘It must have been very late.'

‘It was. Anyway, early next day I returned to The Angel to collect the bridegroom – only to find that he had not been there. At that I panicked slightly, wondering whether to leave the office in the hands of the clerks and go to St James's Square. In the end, though, I decided against and so worked all the morning, expecting him to appear at any second, then changed into my best suit and went to St Paul's. The rest you obviously know.'

John poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Mr Randolph, I cannot thank you enough for telling me this. I think I can now be certain exactly when Sir William was killed. You see, it was his intention to visit his lawyer and sign his new will that evening. But a note arrived, obviously asking him to go somewhere else, which prevented him from doing so. He left the house in quite a fury, so I am told. It is clear that wherever he went after he left St James's Square was, alas, his final destination.'

Valentine did not answer, emptying his glass in a single swallow, then he said, suddenly and violently, ‘He got as far as Redriff.'

John gazed at him in amazement. ‘Did he? How do you know?'

‘Because somebody saw him.'

‘Who?'

The office manager pulled his watch out of his pocket. ‘God's life, is that the time? I must be off. Thank you for the wine. It was pleasant to talk to you Mr Rawlings. Good night.' And he was gone before the Apothecary could say another word.

How very very interesting, thought John. I wonder exactly whom he is protecting.

But the evening of contemplation he had hoped for was not to be.

‘Like any fresh oysters, Sir?' said a voice close by, and John looked up to see that somebody else he knew was about to join his table.

‘Well, well,' he said, and got to his feet to greet Miss Kitty Perkins, the shellfish girl, pretty as ever, and even more strongly redolent of the tangy, unmistakable stink of the sea.

Resisting Kitty's offer of a bed, repeated several times and accompanied by the most ardent glances and gleams from her spectacular blue eyes, John avoided temptation and climbed the attic staircase alone, feeling both virtuous and pleased with himself. The thought that it might have been the strong smell of fish rather than his adoration for Coralie which had given him the strength to resist so delectable a maiden, he absolutely refused to countenance. Instead he looked at himself in the mirror and said, ‘Well done,' before pushing up the lower sash of the window and leaning out to gaze at the river.

The tide was in fully, and the beached barges and ships were afloat once more. John could hear the slap and suck of water against their hulls, though to see them was more difficult. For a mist had come up over the river, rolling amongst the rigging of the great vessels, allowing only the occasional glimpse of a masthead or spar through its ghostly veil. A mist which draped itself over the smaller craft so that they vanished into its vaporous depths, and which wreathed over the water's edge like the phantoms of all those who had drowned in the dark reaches of the waterway. Looking up, the Apothecary saw that the sky had been transformed into a nether world of fog, and was seized by the strange fancy that the inn itself was afloat, adrift in a sea in which time and place no longer existed. Suddenly cold and in need of his bed, he pulled the window down and hastily retired for the night.

He woke to a morning which belied the fact that his odd notions could have ever existed. The sun was coming up, burning the mist as it ascended, transforming the river to a blue jewel and the sky to a rose. The tide had been out but was now on the turn, so that the ships waiting with great courage to sail to the remotest parts of earth, began to feel the heave of the sea. Dirty boys, who appeared bright and burnished in the early light, played on the receding shore, grinning upwards as they heard the noise of an attic window flying up. One waved an old shoe he had found and John threw them a coin, for which they scrabbled in the mud.

It was a morning for devouring a severe breakfast, such as The Devil's Tavern was known to serve, and John more than did justice to the fare set before him, gladly paying for the privilege. With this happy lining to his stomach, he settled his account and went to the top of Pelican Stairs to see what was going on.

The tide was rising fast and there was a great deal of activity aboard the ocean going vessels, sailors clambering up the rigging to unfurl the sails and passengers excitedly walking the decks. Distantly, across the expanse of waterway, the Apothecary could see the south bank, and about a mile to the right, the spire of St Mary's Church. It was at that moment that a rowing boat with a solitary oarsman appeared at the bottom of the steps.

‘Want a ride, my rum duke?' he called up.

‘Can you take me to The Spread Eagle?' John shouted back.

‘Bit early ain't it?' the fellow responded cheerfully.

‘Damme, not a moment,' the Apothecary answered, as he clambered aboard the precariously rocking vessel.

They set off upstream, keeping inshore for a while, then pulling across to the middle of the river and hugging the south bank, before finally mooring at some steps. Beside these stood an inn, the signpost of which read The Spread Eagle, beyond them and slightly to the right loomed the spire of a church.

‘Church Steps,' said the boatman, ‘and there's the tavern.'

‘And that I take it,' John answered, ‘is Redriff.' And he pointed to the cluster of houses and cottages centred round St Mary's, as pretty a riverside village as he had seen for a long time.

‘Yes, that's it.'

‘And where's The Angel?'

‘Upstream. Between Elephant and Princes Stairs, immediately opposite Execution Dock. My father told me Judge Jeffreys used to go there to drink and enjoy the view of the hanging corpses. It's said his ghost still haunts the balcony where he sat.'

‘Not one that I'd particularly care to come across.'

‘Nor I.'

These pleasantries exchanged, John paid the man his fare and went ashore, going straight into the hostelry. At this hour of the day the place was empty except for a few sailors speaking some exotic tongue and a handful of slatternly women accompanying them, all of whom sat glazed eyed but smiling stiffly, unable to understand a word their companions were saying. Moving as far away from them as possible, the Apothecary took a seat and looked round for any sign of a local, the sort of person who might have been present on the night that Valentine Randolph waited in vain for Sir William Hartfield. There was no one to be seen, indeed there appeared to be nobody serving, and John was just about to go to the bar and call for the landlord when there was a loud clatter of pots and the sound of gasping. A door, presumably leading from the kitchens, flew open and a boy appeared, laden with tankards, some of which still dripped water onto the floor.

‘Sorry,' he panted. ‘Just been below. Was you waiting long?'

‘Are you the potboy?' John asked.

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘And do you work here all the time?'

The child looked suspicious. ‘Mostly I do. Why?'

‘No reason,' answered the Apothecary affably. ‘Now, my lad, I'll have a jug of ale. And what about yourself?'

‘Not supposed to on duty. But seeing the landlord and Betty is out, I'll join you, duke.'

‘Very good,' said John, and thought to himself that if anyone had seen anything it would be this child. For, if he was not mistaken, he was looking at a mudlark, those robust little creatures who dwelled by the river, all scavengers and thieves, many of them orphans, totally ragged and wretched, yet strong and healthy, every one, because of their vigorous outdoor lives. This boy, if the child was indeed one of that cheerfully dishonest fraternity, would be slightly different in that he had been able to find work and did not rely solely on stealing in order to feed himself.

‘What's your name?' asked John, as the potboy returned with two tankards of ale

‘Fred, Sir. After the late Prince of Wales.'

The Apothecary suppressed a smile. ‘And you live in Redriff?'

‘Not exactly, but nearby.'

‘Are you a mudlark?'

‘I was, but I saw the error of me ways. I come up before the Beak, you see, and he wanted me to go to the workhouse for me own protection. But I got out of that …' Fred's freckles appeared to glow as his colour came up. ‘Anyway, I give up thieving and took up work instead. Now I can live me own life and no fear of someone coming after me.'