Death at Apothecaries' Hall (6 page)

‘It is said by those who know such things, that conditions like these are ideal ones in which to find a new residence.'

‘How do they conclude that?' asked John, wiping the mud from the back of his stockings.

‘Very simply. If a house appeals in dismal light, dripping with wet, then it will seem like paradise on a beautiful day.'

‘A logical thought indeed.'

The carriage turned westwards out of the inn yard, passing some important looking residences on the left, though nothing so fine as the enormous gardens of Kensington Palace, the chimneys and spires of which could be glimpsed over the fields to the right hand side.

It had been William III of Orange, husband of Queen Mary, who had retreated to rural Kensington. A chronic asthmatic, he had sought to escape the fogs of London and had set up his court there. Thin, weak, solemn and with a constant cough, the Dutchman had started a fashion for the place, which was now
de rigueur
. A street directory purchased by Sir Gabriel indicated that not only did the Bishop of Ely have a residence in the village but also His Grace the Duke of Rutland, together with the Countess of Yarmouth. Then, of course, there was Holland House, in which currently resided the politician Henry Fox and his wife, the former Lady Caroline Lennox, sister of the Duke of Richmond.

The coach turned right off the High Street, proceeding past an imposing church, and went on up Church Lane. Two rows of houses, elegant and no more than twenty years old, faced one another across the cobbled street.

‘A little too close for my liking,' commented Sir Gabriel, gazing out of the rain streaked window. ‘If I'm going to live out of town then, damme, I want to feel as if I am.'

The lane grew more rural as the King's kitchen gardens appeared on the right, somewhat damp and miserable looking now but obviously bursting with delicious fruit and vegetables during the summer months. Adjacent to the gardens were one or two cottages, clearly belonging to the gardeners. Opposite these was a neat little row of fifteen houses or so, all with gardens behind and around them. At the end of the lane, before it turned left and became the way to the gravel pits, stood a large and imposing parsonage complete with gardens and fields.

‘Rural enough?' asked John.

‘Perfectly so. Yet in easy access of all the great houses.'

John hid his smile, well aware that his father was already planning what he would wear as he paid his initial visit to the new neighbours, bearing calling cards. Indeed, it would not have surprised him if Sir Gabriel had announced his intention of leaving one at the palace itself.

‘What about you, my dear? Do you care for this row?'

‘Very much,' said John, who was already casting an eye over all the garden space and starting to plan where he could grow herbs.

‘Then let us go in search of whoever owns these houses and talk of rentals and leases. I must say I quite care for the end of terrace, should that prove available.'

Taking the street directory from his father's hand, John glanced at it. ‘The parsonage is occupied by the Reverend Waller, I see. And the next three houses to his are occupied by Mrs Trump, William Horniblow and Mr Forgus. There's no indication which, if any, stand empty.'

‘Leave this to me,' said Sir Gabriel firmly. ‘I am well versed in the way of finding out such things.'

So saying, he called out to the coachman to turn back to the High Street where, or so he claimed, the professional and trades people were bound to be situated.

An hour later it was done. Though not actually empty, the end of terrace house was about to become so. Mrs Trump, the elderly widow who lived there, was considered by her family to be too frail to be left on her own any longer and was due to leave to reside with her daughter. So it was in the pouring rain and full of the old woman's somewhat smelly furniture, John Rawlings first saw what was destined to become a beloved home.

‘I shall take it,' Sir Gabriel announced grandly, having finished his tour of inspection and seen beyond the gloom to the house's intrinsic grace.

John looked at him with much affection. ‘You are quite sure?'

‘Quite, quite, my dear. I plan to divide my time between this place and town. Not as you will, on a regular basis, but in a more leisurely fashion.'

‘So will you mind if I return to Nassau Street in the morning?'

‘My dear boy, it would be obvious to anyone who claims even a slight acquaintance with your good self that you are straining like a greyhound before a race. Go back and solve the mystery of why Master Alleyn so sadly died.'

‘Yes, that,' answered the Apothecary, ‘is what I most certainly intend to do.'

The downpour continued throughout the journey back to the capital, turning the ways into brooks and Tothill Fields a quagmire. Ross, Sir Gabriel's new coachman, clad in oilskins, cursed his luck, and the four beautiful white horses arrived home bedraggled and spattered with mud to their necks. No one was more thankful than John when the poor creatures were finally led round to Dolphin Yard, situated behind Nassau Street, to be stabled and the carriage housed.

‘Let them rest for a day before you return for Sir Gabriel,' he instructed the driver.

‘Very good, Sir.'

John answered the unasked question with a grin. ‘Don't worry, Sir Gabriel will find himself some sort of conveyance in the meantime, you can be sure of that. He simply has to stand there and people run to serve him.'

‘I had noticed that, Sir.'

‘Then all of you take a good rest. The travelling conditions were appalling.'

‘Thank you, Sir. Good afternoon.'

‘Good afternoon.' And John went into the house and sat by the library fire until dinner was served. Pictures came into his mind. Pictures of Josiah Alleyn fighting for his life and seeming to win; pictures of Mrs Alleyn and her unstinting devotion; pictures of settling down with Coralie and becoming as united as the old couple had been.

As usual, that particular train of thought came to an abrupt halt. The younger Miss Clive, though perfectly willing to share her bed with him, seemed equally unwilling to share her life. As he sat there, sipping Sir Gabriel's excellent sherry, his adopted son wondered just how much longer he would be prepared to put up with the situation. Last June he had celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, and though he was still in no desperate hurry to marry, he now cherished hopes that within the next three years that situation might come to pass. However, the beautiful, ambitious Coralie appeared to have no such plans and though he loved her, was totally besotted with her in many ways, he could not see himself allowing this state of affairs to drag on indefinitely. Something of Maud Alleyn's compassionate love for her husband reached out and tugged at John's heart, and suddenly he found himself wishing that his beloved was a very different kind of woman.

Despite all the differing shocks and sadnesses that he had recently experienced, the Apothecary slept well that night and woke at first light, grey and sullen and wintery though it was.

Downstairs, Nicholas Dawkins was chewing his breakfast before setting off to open the shop in Shug Lane. He looked up, surprised, as John came into the room. ‘Master, good morning. I hadn't expected you back so soon.'

‘There has been a strange twist in events.'

‘Master Alleyn?' John nodded.

‘Not dead, surely?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘But how? I thought you said he was out of danger.'

‘So I believed.' And the Apothecary related to his apprentice everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. ‘What puzzles me is the differing symptoms that the Liverymen suffered. According to Michael Clarke some were mildly ill, others seriously. I suppose everything depended on how much of the rotten food they consumed.'

‘Unless of course the dinner itself were tampered with,' said Nicholas slowly.

John stared at him. ‘What do you mean?'

‘That some foreign agent were introduced and that some Liverymen received a greater amount of it than others.'

‘But what substance could do that?'

‘You know perfectly well, Master.'

‘Are you saying …'

‘I'm saying arsenic, Sir. White arsenic. This may sound fanciful, but if someone with a grudge against apothecaries put poison into their food, arsenic would produce symptoms very much like the ones you've just witnessed.'

‘But that's impossible.'

‘Is it?' said Nicholas, thoughtfully carving a slice of meat. ‘Is it really? I think it is a possibility that should be seriously investigated, not denied.'

‘But who would do such a thing?'

‘Someone with a diseased mind. Someone who believed that an apothecary was responsible for the death of a loved one perhaps. You of all people, Master, should know that there are some very strange individuals roaming the streets.'

John sat silently, his enthusiasm for enormous breakfasts for once at a standstill. ‘You know, you may have hit on something,' he said eventually.

‘So when you investigate do you intend to proceed cautiously down that path?'

‘How did you know I meant to investigate?'

‘Because you are yourself, Master,' Nicholas answered, a rogue's smile transforming his pale features.

‘As it happens, I plan to return to Apothecaries' Hall this morning.'

‘Then bear what I say in mind, Sir. There's something odd about this business. I feel it in my old Russian bones.'

The frisson of fear that occasionally gripped the Apothecary when a situation boded no good, ran down his spine at the very words. ‘I wonder if you could be right.'

‘If I am, then you will find it out,' Nicholas answered with unnerving confidence.

‘How to begin without upsetting a great many important people? That is the difficulty.'

‘Oh, you'll charm them, Sir.'

John looked at his apprentice severely. ‘The difference between charming ordinary witnesses and charming the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries is a considerable one, young man.'

‘I'm sure it is, Master,' Nicholas answered cheerfully, and swallowing down the last bite of his breakfast went whistling off to work.

‘I simply can't credit it,' said Michael Clarke, eyes bulging. ‘He must have had a total relapse. The entire occurrence beggars belief.'

‘As a result, I feel my treatment has been called into question,' John replied gloomily. ‘Almost as if the poor man's death is a slur against my professionalism.'

‘But your treatment was perfectly correct. Did I not tell you of it that very afternoon?'

Knowing that this was going to be a powerful weapon with which to persuade Mr Clarke to help him, John put on a sad face and sighed deeply. ‘Indeed you did, Sir. Indeed you did.'

‘Then my judgement must be called into question equally with yours.'

‘It is noble of you to say so.'

Michael cleared his throat. ‘I feel, in view of all that has happened, we need to know more about this mysterious outbreak. What caused it and how such a terrible thing can be avoided in the future.'

‘So do I. If I am to rest easy in my bed I would like to know what substance it was that could not be cured by normal means.'

‘There's only one thing for it,' Michael Clarke said with determination.

‘And what is that?'

‘Jane Backler must come out of her hysteric and tell us exactly what ingredients went into that dinner.'

‘Indeed she must,' responded the Apothecary vigorously, and assumed his not to be thwarted expression.

Moving as one in what could only have been an hilarious fashion, John realised, the two men left the shop and marched purposefully under the arched entrance to Apothecaries' Hall, across the courtyard and through a door on the right that led inside the building itself. Immediately facing them was the mighty wooden staircase rebuilt after the Great Fire, ornately carved and rising magnificently to the Hall above. Beyond that, small but functional, lay an area known as the pantry, the province of the Butler herself.

Tapping on the door, Mr Clarke was rewarded by a faint voice calling, ‘Come in.' His pale eyes popping with intrigue, the shop manager beckoned John to follow him.

The Butler was seated on a stool before a wooden table which also acted as a desk, listlessly going through a sheaf of bills. She looked up as the two men entered the room and gave a feeble smile, in that her eyes continued to look hunted and haunted though her lips parted to reveal a set of teeth with an intriguing gap between the front top two.

‘Yes, Mr Clarke?' she said politely.

‘Mrs Backler,' he replied with a faint bow, ‘have you heard the grave news?'

The Butler dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘About Liveryman Alleyn? Yes, indeed I have. I have not slept since.'

‘How did you find out?' John asked, curious.

Jane Backler gave him a penetrating glance. ‘I'm afraid I haven't had the honour …'

He bowed low. ‘Excuse me, Madam. I forgot myself. John Rawlings, Yeoman of the Society. I attended Master Alleyn when he returned from the Dinner. I chanced upon him by Black Friars Stairs and considered him too ill to travel alone.'

She rose and curtsied stiffly, obviously defensive. ‘Everyone is blaming me, Sir, for buying rotten foodstuffs, but I swear to you upon my honour that I did not. The only conclusion I can come to is that the flour used in the high sauce was in some way tainted. God be my witness, I have run a clean kitchen since Sotherton was appointed Beadle. I have taken my duties most seriously. I simply cannot understand what has occurred.'

The gap in her teeth made her look curiously child-like and vulnerable, despite the fact that she must be fifty, and it was all John could do to stop himself putting his arms round her and comforting her. Mr Clarke, however, narrowed a protuberant eye.