Death at the Devil's Tavern (6 page)

Sir Gabriel inclined his head. ‘Just so. A wise decision.'

‘I am glad you agree,' said his son, attempting to look serious.

The third house on the left-hand side of Bow Street, that is if one had made one's entrance from Russell Street, looked very much like the others, in fact there seemed nothing remarkable about it at all. Tall, four storeys indeed, and thin, it was built in similar style to the rest of the property in this mainly residential area. But here resemblance ceased. For it was this house which, some seventeen years earlier, had been the dwelling place of Sir Thomas de Veil, Colonel of the Westminster Militia and Justice of the Peace. And it was from here, his own home, that he had administered equity to the city of London. Thus the Public Office in Bow Street had been born. After Sir Thomas's death, the house had been occupied by the author and magistrate, Henry Fielding, but his declining health had led to his half-brother, John, taking his place. And it was to see this man, already becoming something of a legend because of his blindness, an affliction which seemed to handicap him not in the least, that John Rawlings was presently making his way.

As Sir Gabriel's coach, a dark affair drawn by snow white horses, pulled up before the door, the Apothecary got out swiftly, remembering the stark terror he had felt when he had first laid eyes on the place, suspected as he had been at the time of committing a murder. Now, though, he was glad to see the house's graceful lines rise before him, knowing that he could share the burden of his belief that a man had been done to death, with one of the sharpest brains in London. It was a disappointment, therefore, to be told that not only was the court not in session but that Mr Fielding was away from home, having driven out with Mrs Fielding for the purpose of visiting friends.

‘Would you like to see Mr Jago, Sir?' asked the fellow in charge of the Public Office.

John nodded gladly. ‘Indeed I would.' For if the formidable Magistrate was not available, the next best thing was to talk to his clerk, the foxy faced, sandy haired Joe Jago, a man whose origins were something of a mystery to John, for he spoke with the accent of one who had started life amongst the criminal fraternity yet worked on the side of law and order.

‘Then take a seat, Sir, and I'll go and fetch him.'

But already a voice was saying, ‘Why, bless me, if it ain't Mr Rawlings,' and Joe himself was coming into the room, some papers in his hand. ‘Well now, Sir, and what can I do for you?' he went on.

The Apothecary stood up and made him a polite bow. ‘There is a certain matter I have to report to this office. May I talk to you?'

‘By all means. Step into Mr Fielding's study. He's gone abroad with Mrs Fielding and Mary Ann. But if you tell me what you want to say, I shall report back to him faithfully.'

The clerk sat down on the other side of a paper-covered desk, pushing back his wig and scratching his head with his quill pen. ‘Now then, Mr Rawlings, I'm all attention.'

‘I'll come straight to the point, then. Last night I stayed at The Devil's Tavern in Wapping. I was there with Samuel Swann, my friend the goldsmith, whom you know of old, celebrating the fact that yesterday I was made Free of the Company.'

‘And about time too. Well done, Sir.'

‘Thank you. Anyway, just as we were going to bed a waterman came in, soaking wet, and told the landlord that he needed the cock fighting area. This seemed to be some secret code between them because Samuel and I were rapidly shown to our room. After that I heard the sound of footsteps and something being carried up an outside flight of stairs. Later, when all was quiet, I went to investigate and found a dead man lying on a table in one of the first floor rooms.'

He paused for effect and Joe Jago said, ‘And in the morning he was gone, I suppose.'

John gaped at him. ‘How did you know?'

The clerk scratched his head so hard that his wig fell over one ear. ‘Because the watermen would have moved him on to the mortuary by then. Bless you, Sir, for every body they bring in they are entitled to a reward from the Coroner of anything between four shillings and sixpence and five shillings. Obviously, late at night they cannot deliver the goods, so to speak, so they would leave it somewhere until morning. No doubt they have an arrangement with the landlords of various hostelries to lodge the corpses with them till daylight comes. There's nothing illegal about that.'

The Apothecary nodded. ‘My father suggested as much. But there is one thing, Mr Jago, that I feel you ought to know.'

‘And what might that be?'

‘I examined the body, albeit in very poor light, and came to the conclusion that this particular man had not drowned, either by accident or his own hand. There was a mark to his head which had left a pattern of the object that made it. And can you guess what that mark was?'

Mr Fielding's clerk sat up straight. ‘No, Sir, I cannot.'

‘It was an ornamental fox's head. Unless I am much mistaken, the victim was given a blow to the skull by a great stick bearing a handle of that design, then was thrown into the river, either dying or dead, in order to make it appear that he had drowned.'

‘Or hopefully to vanish for ever more,' Joe said thoughtfully.

‘Or that too.'

The clerk drew a piece of paper towards him and began to write on it, then looked up as a thought struck him.

‘Were there any identifying effects on the body, Mr Rawlings? What was in the dead man's pockets?'

John smiled grimly. ‘The victim's rings and watch were missing …'

‘Anything that might fall off in the river does so, if you take my meaning, Sir,' interrupted the clerk, smiling cynically.

‘Quite, but concealed in his pockets were valuable snuff and pill boxes.'

‘Did you remove them?'

‘I did not like to do so. Such an act smacks of grave robbing.'

Joe Jago gave another wry grin. ‘Whether they are still on him when we go to look depends on the honesty of the mortuary keeper. You should have taken them, Mr Rawlings. They might have helped with the matter of identification.'

John ignored the mild rebuke and produced his trump card. ‘I did, however, remove this.' He took the paper from his pocket. ‘It is a marriage licence in the name of Sir William Hartfield. Acting upon it, I went to see the priest at St Paul's Church, Shadwell, earlier today. From his description it is safe to assume that Sir William and the victim are one and the same man.'

A look of admiration stole over Joe Jago's features as he examined the licence to wed, then he gave a loud, appreciative guffaw. ‘Well, bless my cods, if that don't beat all. We don't need the Runners with rum dukes like you around, that's for certain.'

The Apothecary winked an eye. ‘To be honest, I had a sniff of it before I found the document upon him.' And he explained to the clerk, who wrote it all down carefully, exactly what he had seen in the church on the previous day.

‘So it looks as if one of his family might have done away with the poor wretch in order to stop him marrying his pretty young bride,' Joe said thoughtfully.

‘It is certainly possible.'

The clerk scratched his head violently then readjusted his wig. ‘Tell you what, Mr Rawlings, I shall relay all this to the Beak as soon as he returns. No doubt he will be in touch with you straight away. Tomorrow, we shall send a Runner to the mortuary for the Wapping area to try to find the remains of Sir William.'

‘Will he be there?'

‘I am sure of it, Sir. Remember that the watermen do not get their reward until the body is delivered.'

‘And what will happen after that, do you think?'

Joe Jago screwed up his ragged face. ‘I reckon someone or other will have to go to Sir William's home and find out what's what amongst that family of his.'

‘I see,' said John, an ominous feeling coming over him.

The clerk's bright eyes glinted. ‘Course, who that someone is depends entirely on the wishes of the Principal Magistrate. It is he and he alone who will decide precisely how to deal with this particular case of murder.' His grin broadened. ‘Well, Mr Rawlings, I reckon you're going to be kept very busy. In fact it would be my guess that you're probably going to be very busy indeed.'

‘What exactly do you mean?' asked John cautiously.

‘Now that you've been made Free, of course,' answered the clerk innocently. ‘What else could I possibly be talking about?'

Relieved that Sir Gabriel Kent was not entertaining friends to cards and supper, John Rawlings had gone to bed early that night, mixing himself a draught before he did so to ensure that he got a good ten hours' rest. Then, feeling somewhat hypocritical in view of his recent remarks regarding Samuel and his sleeping habits, the Apothecary had retired at nine o'clock, the hour when the
beau monde
was customarily setting forth to seek its nightly entertainment.

He woke the next morning in rather a fine mood, certain that Mr Fielding was going to ask him to assist in the investigation of Sir William Hartfield's death, and pleased about the challenge. He was also pleased, though he would not admit it even to himself, that this would probably mean meeting the beautiful female twin and getting to know her better. In high humour, John tied his cravat with a large bow atop, and whistled his way down the stairs.

‘I see that you are quite restored from yesterday's excitements,' said Sir Gabriel as John arrived at the breakfast table.

‘Indeed I am,' answered his son, ‘but will you forgive me if I do not have more than a cup of coffee with you? I am most anxious to get to my shop before the rumour goes round the neighbourhood that it has closed down permanently.'

‘A wise precaution,' answered his father, and smiled to himself as John took a seat, decided to spread a piece of toast with a large helping of fruit conserve, murmured something about eating lightly but none the less took a second slice, then gulped down his coffee and departed.

As was always his habit when the weather was fine, John walked the short distance between Nassau Street, Soho, and Shug Lane, Piccadilly, passing down Gerrard Street, then turning left towards The Hay Market, hurrying the last quarter of a mile in order to get to his shop. For whenever he stepped through its door, into his magic world of exotic bottles and jars, of alembics and crucibles, of pewter pans which shone brightly, and row upon row of herbs hung aloft to dry, then he was truly happy. And today was no exception. As the Apothecary put on his long apron and started to remove the dust covers from the counters of pills and perfumes, he felt the contentedness of familiarity come upon him. In fact he was so far away in thought, enjoying his routine and thinking of a brew he wanted to make for the cure of loose teeth, that he did not hear the tramping feet of two chairmen, nor notice that they had set their burden down outside his shop. It was not until the door opened and the bell rang, that John finally looked up, only to have his day made complete. Serafina de Vignolles stood radiantly in the entrance, holding out her hands to him.

‘My dear friend,' she said, ‘how very nice to see you.'

‘Madam,' John answered, and bowed, before taking her fingers between his and kissing them. ‘May I say that your beauty grows daily,' he added, meaning it.

Serafina grimaced slightly and put her hand to her body. ‘Something down here is growing daily. Why John, I resemble a grape. But it is kind of you to be so flattering. Indeed that is why I came. To hear soothing words from my favourite young apothecary – and to buy a remedy for heartburn.'

They knew each other so well, John having met her during the dangerous summer of 1754 and fallen madly in love with the challenge of her, that now he took the liberty of surveying his visitor from head to foot, his expression professional. ‘On the contrary, Comtesse, you are carrying your child gracefully. And you are still one of the loveliest women in London, and always will be for that matter.'

She smiled up at him. ‘Why did I not take you for a lover when I had the opportunity?'

The Apothecary smiled back. ‘We could never be the kind of friends we are now if you had.'

‘And talking of lovers,' said the Comtesse with a glint in her eye, ‘how is Miss Coralie Clive these days?'

John shook his head so that a curl of dark cinnamon-coloured hair appeared from beneath his wig. ‘I haven't seen her since Christmas. Not since that time when we were all together at Sarah Delaney's home, in fact.'

Serafina raised her exquisite eyebrows. ‘Why is that?'

The Apothecary turned away, busying himself looking for a bottle. ‘She is very occupied with pursuing her career as an actress. I believe it is her intention to become as famous as her sister, Kitty. Furthermore, I hear tittle-tattle that the Duke of Richmond is set to make her his Duchess.'

Serafina allowed herself an undignified snort. ‘Oh, what stuff! For a start Richmond will marry another title, you can be sure of that. For a second, I do not see Coralie as the kind of girl who would sit around, incarcerated in his estates, doing nothing but stare at the wall. When she marries it will be to someone of enormous interest, not to a lecherous little Duke.'

John chuckled. ‘How colourfully put. Let it be hoped that you are right.'

‘Of course I am. My dear, why don't you write to her, invite her to meet you? She does not work in the theatre every night of her life surely.'

The Apothecary found the bottle that he was looking for and took it down from the shelf. ‘Here you are, Comtesse. Drink this after each meal, warm and with a little sugar. Your digestive problems will vanish.'

Serafina took the physic and stared into its depths. ‘What is in it?'

‘Star anise, camomile flowers, gentian roots, lemon balm, to name a few of the ingredients. All perfectly harmless, I assure you.'