Death in Hellfire (28 page)

“Well, that’s understandable. Have you anywhere particular in mind?”

“Somewhere a little out of the heart of London. Perhaps Chiswick or Chelsea.”

John smiled at him. “I can just see the pair of you living in the country and relishing it. I suppose I could not tempt you back to Kensington?”

“I would love to, but I want to work for myself.”

“Quite right too,” John answered, but in his heart of hearts he thought that everything was beginning to change and nothing would ever be quite the same again.

The address in Little Britain was relatively easy to find. John had picked up a hackney coach from the stand in Piccadilly, having lent Irish Tom to Sir Gabriel that evening, and had proceeded down the Hay Market to Charing Cross. Then they had gone up Fleet Street to St Paul’s, then proceeded along St Martins le Grand and finally turned left into the winding confines of Little Britain. A little further on, on the south side of West Smithfield market, to which livestock were herded through the open streets of the city, lay the great St Bartholomew’s Hospital, occupying exactly the same site as when it was founded in the early twelfth century.

Little Britain abounded in bookshops but John and Nicholas identified the number fairly easily and climbed up the narrow staircase which lay beside the establishment. At the top they found a fairly decrepit front door on which the Apothecary was forced to bang with his cane, there being no knocker. As he could have predicted, there was total silence.

“What do we do now?” asked Nicholas.

“We seek him out at the hospital,” John replied and proceeded back down the stairs. But he was forestalled, for a tall, slim young man wearing a tricorne hat which was just a fraction too large for him and was prevented from descending over his eyes by a pair of jolly jug ears, was starting to make his way upwards.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely, his accent revealing that he came from across the Atlantic.

“Dr Bancroft?” John enquired.

“Yes, sir, I am. How may I assist you?”

The Apothecary could not help but notice that the American’s hand had gone to an inner pocket where he clearly carried a pistol.

John hastily added, “Your name has been given to me by Dr Pitcairn, so I do hope you don’t mind me calling unannounced.”

“And why did he give you my name, may I ask?” the other answered.

“Because, sir, it is known that you are something of an expert on exotic poisons.”

Edward Bancroft visibly relaxed. “I see. May I ask who you are, sir?”

John fished inside his cloak. “My card, Dr Bancroft.”

The man studied it carefully, then looked up and held out his hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr Rawlings.” He peered at John in the gloomy light. “But your face seems vaguely familiar to me. Have we met somewhere before?”

John stared at him, then went bright red. “I believe it might have been at Medmenham Abbey,” he said, and gave a wry grin.

“Well, bless me, so it was. I think we’d better step inside, Mr Rawlings.” His look took in Nicholas. “And you, too, sir. Any friends of Sir Francis are friends of mine.”

Nicholas merely smiled and the two of them were ushered into Edward’s very neat and comfortable set of rooms.

Half an hour later they were seated by the fire, which Dr Bancroft had lit for the look of it, sipping dry sherry.

“So you were a monk, Doctor?”

“Yes, I have been for some time,” the other answered carelessly, giving a broad grin.

John, considering how robust the monks were about their sexual excesses, totally unashamed and brashly honest about the whole situation, decided that rather than being embarrassed about his connection with the place, might as well join in with the general hearty attitude.

“Terribly good fun, wasn’t it?” he said, giving a rollicking laugh and at the same time shooting a glance at Nicholas, who, rather than looking shocked, appeared extremely interested.

“Yes. Suits me, anyhow,” replied the American doctor, giving another broad smile.

“Tell me,” asked John, “did you ever discuss any of these exotic poisons when you were at the Abbey?”

“Truth to tell, I did, Sir Francis seemed very interested and I discussed one poison in particular with him and the other apostles.”

The Apothecary pricked up like a hound. “All of them or just a few?”

“About four. As well as Sir Francis there was Sir Henry Vansittart, Lord Sandwich and Lord Arundel.”

“And what particular poison were you discussing?”

“One made by the Accawau Indians who live in Dutch Guiana. I was telling them how they make it, store it and then envenom the points of their tiny arrows, which they then blow through a pipe.”

John stared at him as light slowly began to dawn. “You say that the poison is administered by use of a blowpipe?”

“Yes. The Indians hunt with them. The smallest quantity of the poison, conveyed by a wound into the red blood-vessels of an animal, causes it to expire in less then a minute.”

“So taken internally it would do no harm?”

“Precisely,” Dr Bancroft answered. “It has to enter the blood to kill.”

“Sir,” said John solemnly, “there is something I have to tell you.”

And there, in the quiet of the Doctor’s apartment the Apothecary told him the entire story of the deaths of Lord Arundel and Lady Orpington, the two lovers finally united in hell.

Edward looked shocked. “I knew them both, as you know. And you say that the woman had a small mark on the back of her neck?”

“Yes. The only evidence I could find for her strange demise. Other than for that it could have been of natural causes.”

“Then somebody has either acquired or made a blowpipe and blown a little arrow into her.”

“And Lord Arundel? What of him?”

The Doctor shook his head. “You say the poor wretch had the Great Pox?”

“He did indeed.”

“Was there a chancre anywhere on his body?”

“Yes, in his groin. But you don’t think…”

“If a killer were to mix up a little poison and if that were put on the chancre…”

“What would be the results?”

“Why, in that case the chap would suffer muscle paralysis and might well go blind and stagger out into the gardens.” John stared at him aghast, while beside him Nicholas drew in a sharp breath.

“You are serious about that?”

“Completely,” the Doctor answered. “That is what the effect would be.”

There was a profound silence and then Edward Bancroft spoke again. “By the way, I dined privately with the Arundels, and his wife - the former actress Coralie Clive - expressed a great interest in the poison. So much so that I gave her husband a little of it. He said he wanted to experiment with it on a cat.”

Outside in the street John leant hard against the wall, feeling slightly out of breath. “God’s blood, Nick, that was something of a shock.”

“I should say it was, sir. Let’s go in here and have a brandy.” They were passing a tavern - a small disreputable-looking place - but still they made a concerted dive into the grimy confines.

“You look terrible, John,” said Nick, who was none too calm himself. “Let me get you a drink.”

He went to the bar, having found two seats in a dark, wretched corner first, and returned a moment later with glasses in his hand.

“What a revelation,” he said.

“Yes,” the Apothecary replied grimly. “But despite that I cannot believe she did it. I have known her for years and am certain that however immense the provocation she could not possibly have killed her husband.”

“But, John, you were once in love with her. Surely that might prejudice your opinion.”

The older man emptied his glass and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But who else? Who else? Who could have such a specialist knowledge of poisons?”

Nick shook his head thoughtfully. “Who is there? Well, the child is ruled out at least.”

“Is she? Supposing she overheard a conversation and actually saw the substance they were talking about. After that she would be quite capable of forming some primitive wooden splint to act as an arrow, I feel certain of it.”

“In that case the field is open, with Sir Francis Dashwood as favourite.”

John nodded gloomily. “But you’re not saying what you really think, Nick. Namely that Coralie, compelled by despair, actually got rid of her disease-ridden husband.”

“And her rival for his affections? That doesn’t quite make sense to me.”

“No.” John allowed a small smile to appear. “I would rather imagine that Coralie - being utterly sensible - would have thought poor wretched Lady Orpington was welcome to him.” Nick looked at him. “Who do you think did it, sir?”

John raised his shoulders. “I have absolutely no idea. But one thing is sure. We should search for that blowpipe. For I feel whoever has it will turn out to be the killer.”

“But how do we go about that?”

“Let us call on each person in turn.”

“But that could take some while.”

“Nevertheless, it is what we must do.”

So saying, John stood up and was making to leave when he suddenly sat down again.

“What is it?” whispered Nick.

“That couple who have just come in. I know them.”

Nick stared and saw two people, both of whom looked extremely out of place in the dingy surroundings.

“Who are they, John?”

“None other than cronies of Sir Francis Dashwood and regular attendees at Medmenham Abbey. James and Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe.”

John’s voice must have carried more than he intended for two pairs of eyes swivelled round and stared at him. There was a momentary frisson, followed by a rapid glance of suspicion, then Betsy metamorphosed into her usual self.

“Why,” she gushed, “if it isn’t Mr O’Hare. How divine to see you. What are you doing in this part of the world?”

And without waiting for a reply she crossed over and joined him, elbowing Nick out of the way and leaning across the table in a most familiar manner. James followed more slowly, clearly embarrassed, though whether through being seen or by his wife’s behaviour, John was not quite certain.

The Apothecary and his assistant rose to their feet and bowed, at which James returned the greeting.

“How do you do, sir and madam? How nice to see you again,” John said politely.

“My dear, have you heard the news from West Wycombe?” asked Betsy without preamble. “Lord Arundel is drowned and Lady Orpington has died in the grounds. Isn’t it terrible?”

“The fact of the matter is that they were both murdered,” John answered, cutting straight to the point.

James looked shocked but John thought he detected a knowing look on Betsy’s face. Despite this she said, “Oh, surely not. You must be mistaken.”

John’s vivid sense of recall brought back a picture of Sir Francis leering happily at his fellow monks as he had picked his “bride”, Betsy Avon-Nelthorpe, and he wondered, as he had done at the time, exactly what her relationship with her husband could possibly be.

“I can tell you most assuredly, madam, that those are the facts. The pair of them were attacked with an exotic poison little known in this country.”

“And how do you know all this, sir?” asked James. “Because,” John answered bluntly, “I work with the Public Office - Sir John Fielding himself, to be exact - and have done so for some years.”

There was a silence during which James sat down, somewhat heavily.

“Well, we have nothing to say to you. We were not present at the time,” he said.

“I am aware of that. But I am hoping that you might be able to tell me what the association between Charles Arundel and Sir Francis was.”

“They were both apostles and took part in the monks of St Francis’s secret ceremonies.”

“Anything else?” John asked.

“No, nothing,” Betsy replied. She looked suddenly militant. “But you were a guest there, Mr O’Hare. You should know.”

Nick, who had remained silent up to this point, said, “Surely as an old friend of Sir Francis, you must be able to tell us something, madam.”

Betsy regarded him coldly, taking in his pale, dark, arrestingly handsome looks. John watched her visage change and suddenly become both coy and arch.

“That’s as may be, young sir. But I can tell you that Sir Francis was a better friend of my husband than he was of myself, wasn’t he James?”

“We played cards together occasionally,” her husband replied shortly.

So was that the way of it, John thought. Did James Avon- Nelthorpe play deep with Sir Francis Dashwood and had the older man wiped out his debts in return for his wife? Not that he had received a very good bargain out of it, the Apothecary considered with a certain amusement.

James stood up. “Have you asked all your questions, Mr O’Hare? Are we free to go?”

“Of course. I had no intention of interrogating you. And by the way the name is actually Rawlings. I used the other to hide my true identity.”

Betsy rose also, not sure whether to titter or be angry. “Well, good evening to you, sir. I trust that if we meet again it will be in happier circumstances.”