Death on the Rocks (28 page)

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, John had striven hard to make it as joyous as possible. On the morning of the burial he and Rose had visited Sir Gabriel for the last time. John had placed a kiss on the old man’s cold cheek and Rose had placed an autumn rose in the coffin. Then the lid had been nailed down and the mourners – nearly eighty of them – crowding outside the house had walked in procession to the church at the end of the lane. Dispensing with tradition, John, Joe Jago, Louis, Samuel, Gideon and Nicholas Dawkins, the Muscovite, bore the coffin on their shoulders for the short journey to the church.

John had had sets of mourning gloves of finest kid made for all the mourners, and could not help but smile at Fred’s look of pure joy as he had placed them on his hands.

‘Me first pair,’ he had whispered to Robin Hazell, who had winked at him but remained silent.

After the miserable ceremony of throwing earth on the grave – most of John’s friends threw flowers – they walked back to the house and enjoyed a wake, which went on rather a long time. So it was that John, quite solitary, walked down to the graveyard where Sir Gabriel now lay next to his tragic little daughter-in-law, Emilia Rawlings. He stood for a long time, staring at them silently, thinking how different everything would have been if Emilia had not been brutally murdered by a jealous, crazed soul. Then he realised the futility of such thoughts. Things were as they were and it was up to him to make the best of them for the sake of the young people. Sighing, he scattered rose petals on both graves, said ‘Adieu,’ to them and, bracing his shoulders, walked out by the church and into the waiting carriage in which his daughter sat quietly alone.

So the cycle of life went on. The week after the funeral there was a wedding in St Ann’s, Soho. Mrs Fortune, now at the peak of her beauty, was walked up the aisle by Nicholas Dawkins, whose wife had made the happy introduction between Jacquetta and John. And what a family affair it was. Gideon, John’s former apprentice, was the happy bridegroom, and though one or two of the more gossipy members of the congregation might have mentioned that the bride looked a deal older than the groom, the general jollity of all present overcame such remarks and all proceeded merrily. Afterwards, the guests trooped down to the grave of John’s mother, Phyllida Rawlings, and Jacquetta laid her wedding bouquet by the headstone.

The breakfast was held at number 2, Nassau Street, and there was much feasting and drinking, followed by dancing. Serafina stood in front of John and asked him to dance. He made a face and pointed to his mourning clothes.

‘Oh, sweetheart, do you think Sir Gabriel would have minded? Why, he would have been the very last. I can almost hear him saying, “Come along, my boy”.’

John got to his feet and bowed. ‘How right you are, my beautiful friend.’

They joined the long line of dancers and whirled into ‘Man in the Moon’ with great enthusiasm. And the Apothecary could have sworn that, narrowing his eyes very slightly, he could see a stately figure dressed in stunning black and white, cavorting close by.

Later that evening, when all the children were asleep, the last guest had left and the house had reverted to its usual peaceful state, John managed to look at the day’s post. One letter in particular drew his attention because it had journeyed from Boston, come all of that long and fearful journey across the Atlantic. John turned it for a moment between his fingers, wondering who it could possibly be from. Then he noticed that on the outside of the envelope was printed the sender’s name, one Josiah Hallowell, The Orange Tree Tavern, Boston. More than a little excited, John undid the seal and read the contents.

Sirs,

I was recently introduced by a Niece of mine to a Delicious Sparkling Water which had upon it the name and address of J. Rawlings, 2, Nassau Street, London. My Niece recently crossed the Atlantic Ocean to live with me in the Colonies and brought said Bottle for me to sample. I must tell you now that the Long and Arduous Journey did not affect the Quality of the Water at all, but I found it both Delicious and Thirst Quenching.

To come to the Point, dear Sirs. I wonder whether it would be possible for one of your Representatives to make the Journey to visit my Establishment in Boston with a view to entering into a Business Agreement whereby your good selves would ship out to us so many bottles Per annum. Of course it would be a Long and Tedious Journey but you would be assured of the Warmest of Welcomes when you Arrive. Written in the Hope of Hearing from You Soon.

Respectfully Yours,

J. Hallowell.

The Apothecary sat for a long time in the darkening library, thinking about what he had just read with an amused smile teasing his lips. Then he began to think seriously about it. Though his business was doing quite well, it was actually small, more a cottage industry than anything else. It would be impossible to send Gideon, newly married as he was, and Mrs Fortune – or rather Purle – was out of the question. He could hardly send Robin Hazell, and John actually laughed aloud, though not unkindly, at the thought of choosing Fred as his emissary. That left himself.

The Apothecary suddenly sat bolt upright. Why not? And then he thought of his young children and his heart plummeted. Very well to send himself, aware of all the dangers of the voyage, but to subject the twins to such a hazard would be unspeakably selfish. With a sigh, John picked up a book and tried hard to concentrate. But before his eyes rose a vision of a vibrant new land, full of an exciting mix of peoples striving to build a life. He could almost hear the bells of Boston ringing and smell the sharp, salty aroma of the harbour. The call to adventure which dwelt within him, never far below the surface, rose up and John seriously began to consider the prospect of going.

For once the courthouse next to the Public Office in Bow Street was empty, and on making an enquiry as to the whereabouts of Sir John Fielding with the Runner on the desk, John was told that court proceedings had risen early and that Sir John had left for his country house in Brompton, near Kensington. Irish Tom obediently turned the horses in the direction of Piccadilly and trotted away briskly.

They found Sir John sitting outside in a very finely wrought iron chair with arms and a strong back. He was totally relaxed, his great wig removed, showing his short cropped hair beneath, the ribbon which covered his eyes also gone so that he looked like a man asleep which, perhaps, he was. However, as the carriage clattered along the small lane leading to the house, Sir John stirred and sat upright, a fine figure clad in a white cambric shirt, his coat carelessly spread on another chair, his socks and shoes removed so that he could wriggle his toes in the autumn sunshine.

He went very still as John dismounted and approached. ‘Give me a minute,’ he called. ‘Let me identify you from your tread.’

John pulled a face at Tom and advanced slowly, walking with a slight limp.

‘It’s Lord Suffolk,’ the Magistrate cried triumphantly. ‘And you’re suffering with an attack of gout.’

John burst out laughing, put on a gruff voice and said, ‘You’re right, Sir John. M’gout has swollen m’foot up like an air balloon, so it has.’

‘John Rawlings,’ said John Fielding, ‘you do one of the worst imitations I have ever heard. And I’ve heard a few, you can believe me.’

John bowed before him, while Tom went off to the servants’ quarters, Meanwhile, Sir John had called out for a jug of punch and two glasses.

‘Well, my lad,’ he said to John, ‘you find me
en deshabille
but delighted by the pleasure of your company. It is a long while since we last met. Let me say how sorry I was to hear about the death of Sir Gabriel. The world will miss him.’

‘It will indeed, as do I. I don’t think anyone could ever quite replace him in my affections.’

‘Quite rightly so. Now tell me your adventures. And miss out nothing. I long to hear a bit of gossip away from the courts.’

The punch arrived and, having sipped from his glass, John embarked on his tale, while Sir John listened in that intense silence of which only he was capable. Crouching forward slightly, his body rigid, the look on his face severe, John knew that he was imparting the details of the death at Hotwell to the keenest brain in London. Eventually the Magistrate spoke.

‘So it was the wretched Lady Tyninghame all along?’

‘I came to the conclusion, Sir John, that she was mentally impaired in some way. It was as if two people lived inside her. The most terrible thing was that she tried to kill her own son. Or so Gilbert Farr, the Constable, wrote to me recently.’

‘I remember a case I had before me some while ago. It concerned a Frenchman named D’Eon. To come to the heart of the matter, rumours flew that he was a woman impersonating a man. I thought otherwise. I believed him to be a man who truly believed that he was a woman. Not quite the same as the Tyninghame case, but I am quite positive that such mental disorders can sometimes be found.’

John nodded, then said, ‘There is something else that is of concern to me.’

‘I had wondered if there was.’

‘I have had a letter inviting me to go to Boston on a matter of business. I would like to go, but how can I? How can I leave my children?’

The Magistrate thought for a few minutes, then said, ‘Can you not take them?’

‘But the hardships of the journey … Would it not be wrong to expose them to such?’

Sir John scratched his chin with a long, shapely finger. ‘The twins are under three, are they not?’

‘You are very well informed.’

‘Jago keeps me up-to-date with all that goes on, and if he leaves anything out my wife more than compensates.’

The Magistrate rumbled his great laugh, which was so addictive that John found himself laughing alongside.

‘But Rose is at school and loves it so much. It would be cruel to take her away.’

The Magistrate poured himself another glass of punch and offered one to John, who accepted.

‘Well, it seems to me that you must do the least cruel thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘To take the children with you. The boys hardly know who you are – or so I’ve been told – and by the time that you return from such an excursion would regard you as a complete stranger. As for Rose, her love for you is so important to her that to break the bond would be ruthless. They have schools in Boston, don’t they? Or are the Colonies breeding a race of savages? So there’s your answer, my dear fellow. Take your talents to the Americas.’

John sipped from his glass. ‘Thank you, Sir. Do you know, I would not have even considered such an action had my father been alive. But now …’

He did not finish what he was about to say and it was the blind man who spoke.

‘Here’s to your great adventure, my friend. May the Colonies bring you well-earned success.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘God bless you, John.’

And John Rawlings was so surprised to be addressed by his first name that he could merely answer, ‘That is only the second time you have done that, Sir.’

‘What?’

‘Called me John.’

The Magistrate bellowed a laugh. ‘Well, damme, so it is, Mr Rawlings. So it is.’

So it had come at last. The moment of departure. John felt at that second that he didn’t want to go, that he would change his mind at the last minute and stay with his friends on the quayside. For they were all there: Samuel, extremely weighty; Serafina, extremely thin; Joe Jago, looking raffish; Jacquetta and Gideon, looking in love; Nicholas Dawkins and Olivia, she with another baby on the way; and last but very far from least there was Robin Hazell, now on the threshold of manhood, and young Fred, scarcely an inch taller.

John had made the household arrangements some weeks earlier. He had written to Josiah Hallowell and told him that he would be obliged if he could find lodging for six people, three adults and three children. Hannah had jumped at the chance of going to the Colonies, while Irish Tom had wept when John had given him notice and declared that he would rather work as a hand on the ship than be separated from everything he held dear. Number 2, Nassau Street, had now become the residence of Gideon and his wife, while the shop at Shug Lane would become Gideon’s domain, along with the two apprentices.

‘But it’s not as if I’m going for ever,’ said John as he hugged Samuel closely.

‘I should damned well say you’re not,’ replied his oldest companion, applying a large handkerchief.

Joe Jago, man of mystery and dear friend, gave John a low bow and said, ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you, my good Sir.’

Serafina, the former Masked Lady and the greatest gambler in London, threw her elegant racehorse frame into John’s arms and cried openly.

Gideon grinned farewell and his wife wept. Nicholas buried his face in his wife’s shoulder, while little Fred and Robin bowed in unison as John and his party mounted the gangplank. A fiddler started to play and everyone was shouting out ‘Goodbye’ as the elegant cutter,
Breath of the Sea
, slipped its moorings.

John’s eyes were full of tears as Rose said in her politest voice, ‘May I walk round and see the ship, Papa?’

‘Yes, but be very careful. I don’t want you falling overboard.’

‘I promise to be good.’

John was weeping like a child and it was only the steadying arm of Tom that stopped him swimming to shore.

‘Hang on, John. ’Tis a great adventure we’re going to have.’

‘I’m a fool,’ the Apothecary answered, wiping his eyes.

Rose came running back, bubbling with fun. ‘Oh, Papa, I’ve met such a nice man. He bowed to me and I gave him my best curtsey.’

‘You little witch. What pranks are you playing talking to strange men.’

‘But Papa, I know you’re really going to like him. He told me his name.’

‘And what is it, sweetheart?’

‘It’s Julian Wychwood. He said he was going to the Americas to find his mother’s fortune.’

John turned to Tom and they stared at one another before they both started to laugh.

‘Well, well,’ said John Rawlings, ‘this is going to be a very strange adventure indeed.’

Old readers of the John Rawlings series will know that he actually lived and dwelt in eighteenth-century London, serving as an Apothecary. The adventures which I have given him have, of course, been works of fiction. I have had one or two enquiries from readers who believed that I have abandoned John Rawlings in favour of Nick Lawrence, an inoffensive vicar in a village in sleepy Sussex. This is most definitely not the case and John will continue as long as I do, I promise. But Nick and his fellow villagers are quite charming in their way and I suggest that you might be interested in dipping into one of their adventures by way of a change.