Death at the Devil's Tavern (34 page)

‘Yes, she comes to sell in The Spread Eagle sometimes.'

‘Have you any idea where she lives?'

‘In a lodging house in Star Street, just by King James's Stairs.'

‘What number?'

Fred shook his head. ‘That I'm not sure of.'

‘Could you take me there?'

‘I'm to be at work at half past seven.'

‘That's in three quarters of an hour. Please, Fred. I think it could be important.'

They rowed back in the boat John had borrowed, the great stick lying safely on the bottom. But this time they did not moor at Pelican Stairs but went upriver to the next landing stage where the mudlark secured the boat, then jumped out.

‘This is King James's. Come on, Mr Rawlings. The landlord will skin me alive if I'm late.'

The boy had such a sense of urgency about him that John found himself breaking into a run and was panting slightly when they stopped before a tall, seedy-looking house, badly in need of a coat of paint. There appeared to be no street door to the place and John found himself following Fred down a small passageway and into a kitchen. Beside a miserable fire sat a thin sour-faced woman in a grey dress and apron, while a haggard and wretched girl swept the floor.

‘Morning, Mam,' Fred said, clearly having encountered the landlady before. ‘This gentlemen come for Kitty.'

The woman of the house shot John a knowing look. ‘Upstairs, first on the left,' she said.

‘Is Miss Perkins home?' the Apothecary asked anxiously.

She mimicked his voice, ‘Is Miss Perkins 'ome?' then roared with laughter. ‘How would I know? I ain't seen 'er. Go up and try your luck.'

‘Come on!' urged Fred.

‘Do you want to go back?' John asked. ‘I can manage now.'

‘I'm sure you can,' the woman said with a leer.

He ignored her. ‘I don't want to make you late.'

‘I can stay another few minutes,' the mudlark answered, and led the way up a dark and dirty staircase.

‘Poor Kitty. What a terrible place to have to live in,' the Apothecary said, staring round.

‘It's cheap, Sir. Probably only a shilling a week.'

‘Oh my God,' said John with feeling.

The landing was as dingy and foul as the stairs, and it was with some difficulty that John located the first door on the left, feeling his way along in total dimness. But eventually he identified Kitty's room and gave a tentative knock. There was no reply.

He turned to look at the mudlark, whose orange hair seemed to glow in the darkness. ‘What shall I do?'

‘Go in. She might be asleep.'

‘Yes, she could be.'

‘She won't mind you having to wake her, honest.'

Feeling like an intruder and not relishing his actions, John turned the doorknob and went in. Then he let out a breath of relief as he saw that Kitty
was
there, lying on a crude truckle bed, sleeping as Fred had predicted. Her back was turned to him and her dark hair was spread like black lace over the heap of shawls that served as a pillow.

‘Kitty,' John called softly, ‘wake up. I'm sorry to disturb you but I'm about to return to London and wanted to have a talk before I went.'

She did not stir and the Apothecary felt, rather than saw, the mudlark stiffen beside him, then cower in the doorway. Walking quietly, John approached the bed and put a hand on the oyster girl's shoulder. She turned beneath his touch, then fell back heavily so that she was staring up at the ceiling. Or would have done, had it not been for the fact that though her eyes were open, Kitty could no longer see. A trickle of dried blood ran from the corner of her mouth down to her chin, obscenely dark against the snowdrop whiteness of her skin. And round the oyster girl's neck, twisting like a thin black serpent, was the piece of knotted cord that had put an end to the life of Kitty Perkins.

The day that had started in the glow of early sunshine had by now turned into a nightmare. Only wishing that the Public Office had been near at hand but knowing that he would be failing in his duty if he delayed reporting his ghastly find, John had sent Fred running to fetch the constable. Then, left alone with Kitty's corpse, he had set about the grisly business of examining it. This was the first time in his experience that the Apothecary had been forced to study the body of someone who had been a friend, albeit of only short duration, and he found the experience grim and distressing. Yet look he must, for Mr Fielding would want to know everything there was to tell about the way the oyster girl had died.

Hastily and hating it, John sought for evidence of sexual molestation. But there was no ripped clothing or bruising of the privy parts, and his guess that Kitty had been killed in order to silence her, became a conviction. Oddly, there was no sign of a struggle of any kind, which led the Apothecary to conclude that the girl's attacker must have crept in while she was asleep and that poor Kitty would have woken to find the life already being choked out of her, too late to defend herself.

As soon as he had touched the body, John had discovered fully established rigor mortis, and from this had concluded that the oyster girl had met her death during the previous evening or, possibly, late afternoon. Had Kitty returned from fishing and taken a short rest before going to meet himself and Samuel? And during that sleep had either one of the five men involved in the fist fight in The Devil's Tavern or someone they had been able to warn, come creeping back to close her mouth for ever? Cursing the fact that he had not gone searching hours sooner, the Apothecary wept in the silence of the death room, a tear splashing down onto Kitty's cold cheek as he kissed her a final farewell.

Realising that he could now get caught in the spider's web of officialdom, John instantly informed the constable, who arrived puffing and harassed after an hour had elapsed, that he was working for John Fielding of Bow Street and was in the area investigating another death. He failed to mention, however, that he believed the two murders to be connected, fearing infinite complications and hours of delay might well result if he did.

‘So how was it you come to be in this house, Sir?' the constable asked, showing a certain flair for the job, considering that he was a fishmonger reluctantly chosen by rote to fulfil the office for a year.

‘I had arranged to meet Miss Perkins last night in The Devil's Tavern, where I have been staying with a friend. When she did not make an appearance I decided to come and look for her, but unfortunately too late to rescue her from her killer. By the way, I was in that friend's company throughout the evening and he can vouch for me completely.'

‘And what makes you think she was murdered then and not this morning?' the constable asked.

‘The body is cold as ice and completely stiff, suffering that condition known as rigor mortis. As rigor takes roughly twelve hours to wear on and lasts another twelve once it is established, I think it is safe to conclude that she was killed early last evening.'

The constable looked extremely surprised. ‘Well, well! Are you a medical man, Sir?'

‘In a manner of speaking. I'm an apothecary. Now, do you wish me to give you a statement about how I found her?' John asked wearily.

‘I'm sure the Coroner will want to know. And you, boy, what's your name, you'd better make one as well.'

‘I can't sign me signature,' said Fred, alarmed.

‘Then you'll just have to put a cross, won't you. Now, I'd best get this poor creature taken to the mortuary before she starts to rot.'

The constable ushered them out but John turned in the doorway for one last look at the oyster girl, reflecting on her death in such squalid surroundings, and, indeed, her life in them as well.

‘Fred,' he said impulsively, ‘you must try and make something of yourself. Get away from here. Don't get caught in Kitty's trap.'

The mudlark stared at him blankly. ‘But I'm happy as I am and so was she. She weren't trapped.'

‘But this terrible place. How could she stand it?'

‘She only slept here,' Fred stated simply, as if he were explaining to a child. ‘When she got up every morning she went straight to the river. Then she was all right again. We're water folk, see?'

John smiled harshly. ‘Perhaps I do,' he said.

In the end, with the wretched business finally concluded, he had left Wapping in the late afternoon, by which time the Apothecary had descended into a state of deep depression. Disregarding cost, he had ordered the wherryman to row him all the way to Hungerford Stairs, from which The Strand was but a moment's walk. From there, John took a hackney coach to Shug Lane, determined to have a few minutes alone and, even more importantly, to mix himself a potion to cure his mood of melancholia. Indeed, so dark were his thoughts, that the Apothecary had quite literally forgotten about Nicholas Dawkins and was momentarily surprised when he went to let himself into his shop, only to find the door unlocked.

‘Who's there?' he called suspiciously, and felt every kind of a fool when Nicholas's pale face looked up at him from beyond the counter.

‘Mr Rawlings!' the boy exclaimed. ‘We were getting worried about you, Sir. You were away longer than you said.'

‘I'm lucky to be here at all,' John answered, setting his bag and the great stick down on the floor. ‘By God, things have become horribly ugly.'

‘Come through to the back and sit down,' Nicholas answered anxiously. ‘You look fit to drop. Here, I'll prepare a concoction to restore you.'

‘Do you know how?' John asked, his whole manner melancholic.

‘You showed me last time we were together, don't you remember?'

‘I'm sorry, no. So much has happened.'

‘Do you want to speak of it?'

‘Not at the moment.'

Nicholas nodded but did not answer, busying himself with various bottles and jars and finally returning with a glass of extremely potable liquid which John, not caring whether he was being imprudent, gladly consumed. After he had drained every drop, the Apothecary asked what was in it.

‘It is your recipe, Sir. Honey, sweet wine, and powder of dried feverfew, gathered and stored last year. Then I put in a special ingredient of my own.'

‘And what was that?'

‘Apparently my Russian great grandfather swore by corn poppy. So I chopped some and put it in.'

John smiled. ‘Do you want me to fall asleep?'

‘No, just to be more relaxed.'

‘That's going to be difficult. I need to see Mr Fielding to give him this stick, then I have to talk to my father. And all I really want to do is go somewhere quiet and mourn for a girl who was being cruelly choked to death while I sat in a hostelry less than a mile away, enjoying myself and doing nothing to save her.'

‘But how were you to know?'

‘I think perhaps I should have guessed.'

‘You're not a gypsy fortune teller, Sir. Meanwhile, may I make a practical suggestion?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's that you go to Bow Street, now, by hackney coach, and take the stick with you. Meanwhile, I will run to your home with your bag and ask Sir Gabriel to join you at the Public Office. Then all the right people can be together at the same time.'

John held out his glass. ‘Mix another decoction and I'll go. I'm starting to feel a little better. It must be the corn poppy.'

‘That's good news,' said Nicholas seriously, and started to bustle about his mixing once more.

An hour later, the Muscovite's plan had come to fruition. John sat in the Blind Beak's salon awaiting Mr Fielding's return from court and being cosseted by Elizabeth, who thought privately that she had never seen him look more grey. Meanwhile, the wheels of Sir Gabriel's coach could be heard on the cobbles below, followed shortly by his firm tread and Nicholas's limping gait ascending the stairs. And no sooner was John's father settled than Joe Jago hurried into the room to say that the Magistrate was on his way.

At that, Nicholas put his head round the door. ‘Shall I serve punch, Mrs Fielding?'

Elizabeth fluttered. ‘I don't like you acting as a servant, my child. Not now that you have found employment with Mr Rawlings.'

‘But I couldn't just come and sit with you.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because until I'm apprenticed somewhere I'm still the boy you rescued from the streets.'

‘A hint I believe,' said Sir Gabriel with an amused smile as the door closed behind the Muscovite. He turned to his son. ‘My dear child, as soon as Mr Fielding comes you must tell your story and then let me take you home. You look fit to drop.'

‘It has been a very extraordinary few days, I must admit.'

‘Clearly a great deal has happened.'

They got no further. The door opened once more to admit the Blind Beak, his arm tucked through Joe Jago's.

‘My good young friend,' he said, his manner direct. ‘What has occurred that you are so distressed?'

‘How did …?'

‘Joe said it is writ on your face for all the world to see. Now, unburden yourself.'

It was a command and John obeyed it, telling everything that had happened from the moment he and Samuel Swann had arrived at The Devil's Tavern till the terrible discovery that very morning, and its aftermath in the constable's house. When he had finished speaking, there was a moment of horrified silence, until John Fielding broke it.

‘This killer has to be stopped before he or she strikes again, at you, Mr Rawlings.'

‘But why should he do that?'

‘The murderer may fear that he silenced Kitty Perkins too late. That she might have already revealed to you the name of the man she saw in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

‘So the guilty party is definitely one of the five men involved in the fight?' asked Sir Gabriel.

The Blind Beak's wig swung as he shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. I recall a conversation that you overhead at Kirby Hall, Mr Rawlings. If my memory serves me correctly, it was between a man and a woman whom you believed to be the twins. But just suppose it was two others, the killer and an accomplice.'