Death at the Devil's Tavern (29 page)

‘That all sounds very commendable.'

Fred sighed. ‘These days I just scavenge,' he said wistfully, making it quite clear that he sorely missed his past criminal activity.

He was a bluff, hearty child, as were all of his kind, his freckles myriad, his hair a shock of orange, standing totally on end as if he had just had a fright. In body, Fred was wiry and tough, and the Apothecary could imagine him taking to the water like a rat. Momentarily, John mused on these children of the river, the very own offspring of the Thames, living beside the waterway in empty barges or uninhabited hovels. Subjected to every kind of neglect and privation, still they emerged robust and fit, the true descendants of their implacable father.

Staring Fred straight in the eyes which, strangely, were the colour of clear water, almost without tone except for a mossy green reflection, John produced a coin and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

‘My friend,' he said trenchantly, ‘I need your help.'

The mudlark looked somewhat alarmed and it occurred to the Apothecary that the boy might think he was making an indecent proposal.

‘Let me explain,' John added hastily. ‘I am looking into the matter of a mysterious death which occurred in this area some twelve days ago. A gentleman's body was retrieved by watermen and put in The Devil's Tavern overnight. It transpires that the poor fellow was done to death, and it has also come to light that he was to have met a friend here, in The Spread Eagle, but never kept the appointment. Now the friend was Mr Randolph who lives in Redriff. Do you know him by sight?

Fred squinted his crystalline eyes. ‘Are you one of them London Beak Runners, duke?'

‘In a sense, yes, I am. But please don't let your early brushes with the law prejudice you against me. My task is to bring a cruel killer to book. Mr Randolph will not be harmed by your answers, I assure you.'

The mudlark looked uncertain. ‘He's a good chap, is that gentleman. He's always very kind to me.'

‘He and I are friends, believe me. Now, can you cast your mind back and recall that evening? Mr Randolph came here late and must have sat alone for a good while. Do you remember the occasion?'

Fred wiped his hand across his mouth and said, ‘Thirsty work, this.'

John handed him the coin. ‘Get yourself another and keep the change.'

There was a burst of laughter from the sailors, at which the dollscommon in their company looked even more stony faced. In the interval Fred disappeared, then returned with another tankard, brimful.

‘Yes, I do recall that night,' he announced, having swigged.

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Well, it was as you said. Mr Randolph come in about nine or half past. He sits down, orders himself a drink, just as if he was waiting for somebody, but nobody appears. Then he goes again, about eleven or thereabouts.'

John felt a vague sense of disappointment. ‘Is that all?'

‘Yes, duke. True as I stand here.'

‘Did nothing else happen? Didn't you see anything strange? Had anybody come in earlier, then left again before Mr Randolph arrived?'

‘No, nuffink like that. It was all as usual. Unless you count the drunks.'

‘What drunks?'

‘Well, we usually get a few. That was what struck me as peculiar.'

John's thumbs twitched. ‘What do you mean?'

‘That night we didn't get none.'

‘So?'

‘So, just as I was washing the last of the pots I hears summink and I looks out onto Church Stairs, where the sound come from.' The boy quaffed from his tankard and paused, obviously aware that John was hanging on his every word. ‘And there I sees two chaps, drunk as drumbelos, weaving their way down to the water. One so far gone in his cups that he clung to the other to keep standing.'

‘Not an uncommon sight, surely?'

‘That's just the point, duke. They hadn't come from here, that I'll swear to. So where did they hail from? It couldn't have been The Angel. They would never have got that far.'

‘Perhaps they were drinking privately.'

‘They weren't from Redriff, I know everyone hereabouts.'

‘Somebody's guests?'

Fred shook his head violently. ‘I don't think so. There was summink rum about them. Summink that didn't look quite right.'

‘Umm.' John fingered his chin. ‘You're sure they were two men? One of them couldn't have been a woman, by any chance?'

The mudlark looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose it's possible. It was very dark and they both wore a cloak and hat. It just could have been a lady dressed to deceive, though I'm not saying it was, mind.'

‘And they were coming from the direction of the village?'

‘That I didn't see. But where else could it have been? Either Redriff or the church, had to be.'

‘Yes,' the Apothecary said pensively. He took ten shillings from his pocket, a very handsome reward, but before he gave it to the broadly smiling mudlark, asked one more question. ‘Did you by any chance notice a stranger around on that night, a woman, tall, dark and striking?'

Fred shook his head. ‘No, I didn't, Sir. No one like that come here. Have you asked at The Angel?'

‘No, by God, I haven't. But that's a very good idea. Is it far to walk from here?'

‘No, Sir. A mile at most.'

‘Thank you for your help,' said John, standing up. ‘If you think of anything further can you get word to Mr Valentine?'

‘I'll do me best. Will you be down this way again, Sir?'

‘Oh, I am absolutely certain that I will,' the Apothecary answered resignedly.

The full title of the parish church of Rotherhithe or Redriff, as it was more commonly known, was St Mary the Virgin, Parish of St Mary with All Saints. And it was towards this imposing building that John purposefully made his way, having come out of The Spread Eagle into the harsh morning sunshine. The hostelry stood almost directly opposite the back gate to the churchyard, a mere stone's throw away, and the Apothecary went in through this entrance, walking amongst the graves and approaching the church from the back.

It was a relatively new building, having been erected some forty years earlier, in 1715, to replace the old church, which had become a victim of the constant flooding experienced by Redriff, and slowly rotted away. Rounding the corner, John saw a pillared entrance with steps leading up to the doorway, and guessed that before these stone columns ships masts had once stood in their place. Deciding not to go inside directly and hoping that the occupant would not take it amiss, John sat down on the grass beside a grave, his arms resting on his knees, and stared at the tombstone in front of him. ‘Elizabeth Wells,' he read, ‘1715–1730. Beloved daughter of Louisa and David Wells. A rose plucked in the dawning.' Then, even while he was thinking how sad it was that a maiden of fifteen should have been taken from life, the Apothecary's eyes were drawn to something else. Staining one side of Elizabeth's tombstone was a reddy brown mark, a mark that had trickled downwards, then dried, a mark that looked for all the world like congealed blood.

Suddenly alert, John got up, then went down on his haunches and scraped a little of the substance into his hand with his herb knife, touching it carefully. It was most certainly blood, and blood that had turned hard, indicating that it had been on Elizabeth's tombstone some considerable while. But what had caused it? Had someone walking through the churchyard tripped and fallen, striking his head on a gravestone as he fell? Or was there a more sinister explanation? Could this be the place where Sir William had been mercilessly beaten about the skull by a cane bearing a fox's head for handle? John bent even closer, wishing he had got his magnifier with him. And then he saw them, fluttering in the river breeze and reflecting the sunshine, a few white hairs, clumped together and stuck to the gravestone before the blood had dried. Very carefully extracting his find, John wrapped the hairs in his handkerchief and put them in his pocket. Then after having looked round Elizabeth Wells's grave most thoroughly and retrieving from the site a serviceable and rather boring button, which he also carefully stored, the Apothecary left the churchyard, frowning, deep in thought.

Nor did the walk by the riverside help to clear his teeming brain. Striding along by the wharves and warehouses, then through fields and market gardens, John hardly saw the colourful scenery, and remained oblivious to his surroundings until he practically fell over the entrance to The Angel. He stepped back to look at it.

Just as the mudlark had told him, this ancient den of thieves and smugglers stood directly facing Execution Dock and did, indeed, have a balcony running along its water frontage. Furthermore, the size of the building indicated that it was a place where travellers stayed. Hoping that he was about to get the information he so desperately needed, John went in.

Like all others of its kind, The Angel had reserved a parlour for gentry folk but John headed for the other bar, certain that this was where he would hear gossip. But even his stout spirit quailed at the sight of the custom already present. So rough a bunch of rogues was gathered there that the Apothecary doubted anyone could put up much of a fight should the mood turn ugly. Raising his hat politely, he beat a tactical retreat and ended up sitting by a pleasant fire in the snug, alone but for a jolly young fellow who introduced himself as a general workhand.

‘And will you be requiring a room for the night, Sir?' this bright spark enquired, having fetched John a meal and some claret to keep him going.

‘Alas, no. Not on this occasion. Perhaps next week.'

‘I take it you come from London, Sir?'

‘Yes, but my business brings me here from time to time.'

The workhand was obviously not that interested but said politely, as he had no doubt been taught, ‘Oh? And what business might that be, Sir?'

‘I,' John answered dramatically, ‘am a Runner, acting on behalf of Mr Fielding.'

The young man's face underwent a series of interesting changes. ‘You're not going to investigate them as sometimes comes here, are you, Sir? You see, I really wouldn't advise it. We keep them well away from the other folk because that's best all round.'

Deducing that he was talking about the smuggling fraternity, John answered, ‘No, I haven't come about them. As a matter of fact I'm here to ask about somebody else. I just wondered if you might have seen either, or both, of these people.'

And he launched into an accurate description of both Sir William and his daughter-in-law, Lydia, ending with the words, ‘Their family name is Hartfield, by the way. And I believe they might have stayed here about twelve nights ago.'

‘I know Sir William,' the workhand answered promptly. ‘But I never saw him on the night you mean. He was booked to stay here but didn't appear. His bed was not slept in and it was Mr Randolph, he works for Sir William and is a resident of Redriff, who settled the bill in the morning.'

‘And the woman I described? What about her?'

‘Oh yes, I'm sure she was here. She came in late, very disturbed and flustered, said that a hackney had dropped her in Redriff and she had no idea where she was. She walked to The Angel apparently, alone and in the darkness.'

John's eyebrows danced. ‘Did she and Mr Randolph come across one another? He called here that particular night, didn't he?'

A shutter came down over the workhand's face. ‘I really wouldn't know about that, Sir. I was busy serving food and drink and saw little of those who were staying. The girl dealt with them, and she's gone to market.'

John nodded slowly, an idea taking shape. ‘I understand,' he said. And he thought he did – a great deal. He drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Two o'clock. I must get back to London. What is the tide doing?'

‘Coming in, Sir.'

‘Then I'll be off. Thank you for your help.'

‘I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more.'

The Apothecary smiled. ‘Please don't apologise. I can assure you that one way or another I feel I have learned a very great deal.'

Despite the fact that it was six o'clock in the evening, John was amazed to see that light was shining from the courtroom attached to the Public Office in Bow Street, and there was a general air of bustling activity about the place. Realising that the court must be in late session, the Apothecary crept inside, only to find to his amazement that all seats reserved for the public were full and there was standing room only. Even though it was a fashionable pastime amongst members of the
beau monde
to come and watch a blind man administer justice, John would have thought that this clash with the dining hours might have emptied the place, though clearly not. Then he looked towards the dock and saw that over thirty people stood there, surrounded by Beak Runners, all severely armed, and realised that something untoward must have occurred.

‘What's been going on?' John whispered to the Runner who stood guarding the courtroom door.

‘A riot at Drury Lane last night, Sir. The galleries got out of hand. It took every man we had to quieten 'em down. You're seeing the tail end of it.'

‘Just as well I was out of town,' answered John wryly.

‘It was an ugly scene,' the Runner replied with feeling.

‘Shush,' said somebody close by, and both of them stopped speaking as they realised that John Fielding was about to pass judgement. Joe Jago shouted, ‘Silence,' and there was a ripple of response as the Magistrate cleared his throat.

‘It is my solemn duty to pronounce sentence in this case, though before I do so I would like to make certain comments. Of late, several persons have been detected at both the Theatre Royal and Covent Garden Playhouse, scandalously throwing things out of the galleries into the pits, not only contrary to law, but to common sense, nay to common humanity. These actions have contributed to the disturbance, annoyance and danger of the rest of the audience. Last night, being authorised by the management of the Theatre Royal to put an end to such rumpus, certain members of its staff did enter the galleries in order to restore order. Thereupon, those persons who had been responsible for this injurious comportment set upon those who had come to calm the situation in a manner that can only be described as barbarous. Further, those foolish and immature enough to make capital of the situation, responded with equal bad behaviour, and I refer in particular to young Lord Dartmouth. This last was seen to jump from a stage box and assault an actor when the fighting began. I therefore have no hesitation in committing the prisoners to Newgate for the term of a whole year. Let me make it quite clear that I will spare no pains to punish to the utmost extremity of the law, all those who shall be found guilty of thus distressing fellow members of the audience.'