Death at St. James's Palace (13 page)

“What? The widow?” asked Samuel incredulously.

“They mostly bear more grudges than anyone else. Did they have any children?”

John answered. “Not jointly, no. But she had a son by her first husband. I think she said his name was Frederick.”

“Where is he?”

“At boarding school in Kensington, the Brompton Park strangely enough. I must ask Lucinda if she knew him.”

“How is the girl settling down to her new life?”

“Very well. She is hard-working and conscientious.”

“I’ve made a list, Sir,” said Joe, who had been scribbling away on paper produced from an inside pocket. “Where would you like us to begin?”

“First we must trace the identity of the three strangers. But meanwhile, Mr. Rawlings, I think you should presume on your acquaintanceship with Mr. Turnbull and find out as much as you can. What went on behind the scenes at today’s ceremony, if anything.”

“Sir,” said Samuel tremulously, “I know that I wasn’t present when the murder took place but I would so love to help if I can.”

A slight air of resigned despair crept into the atmosphere, for John’s friend was not the most tactful of creatures and had been known in the past to frighten witnesses into silence.

“Of course,” Sir John answered, over-heartily. “I think your opinions would be most welcome. May I just cogitate a little as to how you can best serve us.”

“By all means,” said Samuel, and drained his glass jollily.

Emilia appeared in the doorway. “Gentlemen, have you finished your discussion?”

Sir John rose and made a bow in the direction of her voice. “We have just concluded, Mrs. Rawlings.”

“Then perhaps you would like to come to the table. A repast awaits you.”

“I can think of nothing more delightful,” said the Blind Beak, and slipped his arm through Joe’s that he may guide him from the room.

“Damn that girl,” said Emilia, undoing the last lace of her stays and throwing them across the room with a great sigh of relief.

“Who?” said John from the depths of their bed, where he had retired almost as soon as their guests had left, completely exhausted by the day’s events.

“Lucinda, of course. Didn’t I tell you what she did? Or rather didn’t do?”

“Sweetheart, forgive me. My mind is still full of the many, varied things I saw today. All that pomp and beauty to be followed by such a starkly horrible death.”

Emilia turned before the mirror. “My stomach is swelling.”

“So it is. Come here and let me kiss it.”

She did so, well pleased as he put his lips to the rounding. Then she looked contrite and said, “I’m sorry, it was selfish of me to talk about domestic things.”

“Not at all. What was it you had to tell me?”

“The new girl is a little wretch.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I thought I did too. But I’m furious with her after today’s performance.”

“What did she do?”

“She disobeyed my instructions and left the house. She must have gone down to the Palace to see the crowds.”

“But she was here when we got back.”

“Yes, and in fine disarray. Panting and dishevelled. None of the fires were lit as I had instructed.”

“Did you have it out with her?”

“No, I thought you could do that as she is your protegee.”

The Apothecary groaned. “Are you sure she went out?”

“Yes, the boy told me. Slipped out of the house as soon as the coast was clear. Then came rushing in and went straight up to the attic, so he said.”

“Well, she’ll have to mend her ways or I’ll put her out.”

Emilia’s angelically impish smile appeared. “You know perfectly well you’d do nothing of the sort. Nor would you take her back to the school. You’re all bark, Mr. Rawlings, with not an ounce of bite in you.”

John bared his teeth. “I could still sink these into your delightful little bum, my dear.”

“I doubt you’ll do anything of the kind.”

“I wouldn’t wager a fortune on that.”

“You are taking advantage of a pregnant woman,”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“Oh John!” said Emilia, and giggled wildly as he blew out the candle and drew her down beside him in the darkness.

Chapter 8

I
t would be impossible, thought John Rawlings as he dressed in sober clothes, the kind he wore when attempting to convince people that he was a fit person to ask questions about their lives, to track down Digby Turnbull without further details of his whereabouts. In fact the man who moved from palace to palace, organising servants for special events, would probably be the more difficult to contact of the two people Sir John Fielding wished him to see. This left Miss Chudleigh, possibly still in residence at St. James’s Palace or, more likely, in Kensington, fled there to recover from the shock. Not knowing quite how to proceed, John went downstairs to breakfast, after kissing Emilia, who was still asleep.

Nicholas had already left for the shop and the house was quiet, the servants no doubt gossiping about the investiture and its terrible aftermath in their own quarters. This gave the Apothecary the opportunity he needed. Ringing a bell, he asked for Lucinda to be sent to him.

As soon as she came into the room she exuded a strange mixture of defiance and guilt, yet her amazing eyes refused to meet John’s as he cleared his throat portentously.

“I am highly displeased with you,” he said, leaning forward on the table and glaring at her. She opened her mouth to reply but before she could get a word out, the Apothecary continued, “Since your arrival in this house there have been nothing but bad reports of your behaviour. I personally saw you creeping out late to post a letter, long after the maids had gone to bed. Gossip has reached my ears that you are walking round London hand-in-hand with my apprentice, and now you defy my wife’s instructions and leave the home when she particularly asked you to stay in and light the fires.”

There was a long silence, then Lucinda said, “Are you giving me notice, Sir?”

“No I am not, though I am sorely tempted. But I would like an explanation.”

She replied like a barrister, enumerating points. “The letter I posted late was for my brother, who is still at the Brompton Park school and far from well. And it is true that Nicholas has befriended me and sometimes takes my hand when we are walking out together. As to leaving the house yesterday, yes I confess that I did give in to temptation and run behind your coach to share the excitement. I had intended to be out only a few minutes but became distracted by all that occurred.”

It was very difficult to be angry in the face of this artless account and John strove hard to maintain a stem manner.

“Lucinda, you must not go on like this if you wish to remain in this establishment. I agree that yesterday was a very special occasion but the fact remains that you flouted the orders of Mrs. Rawlings.”

She hung her bright head. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Hardly likely, considering that investitures are not weekly occurrences. Now, prove your worth and bring me a decent breakfast. All the excitement of yesterday has given me an appetite. And Lucinda ...”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I would rather that Nicholas did not fall in love with you. His indentures do not come to an end for another year.”

“I will do my best to discourage him,” she replied with a slight edge to her voice, then left the room.

John picked up
The Daily Courant
which was lying on the table and saw that the sensational news of the death of Sir George Goward within the confines of St. James’s Palace and immediately following the levee at which he had been knighted, had reached the ears of the gentlemen of the press. They referred to the murder as a ‘fatal fall’ and a ‘tragic accident’. However, the story went on for pages, probably being one of the most extraordinary it had ever reported. The Apothecary read the whole thing through, tucking in toa robust repast as he did. Then, his plans laid, he left the house to walk to Bow Street.

Sir John Fielding had taken no time off to celebrate his new honour and John saw as he approached the Public Office, the building in which the Magistrate both lived and worked, that those butterflies of society, the
beau monde,
were flocking into the public galleries of the court in droves, probably titillated by the fact that Sir John had been present when George Goward had crashed to his death on the previous day. Hoping that he hadn’t missed Joe Jago, who always sat in court with the Magistrate, John hurried inside and gave his name to the official at the desk.

But he was to be disappointed. “Mr. Jago has left, Sir. He and Mr. Fielding - I mean, Sir John - have just made their way inside.”

“Damnation,” said John forcibly, and behind him another voice, female, echoed the same sentiments. He turned and saw, somewhat to his surprise, that Elizabeth Chudleigh had followed him into the tall, thin house, third on the left as one entered Bow Street, and was now standing disconsolately, also wondering what to do.

The Apothecary bowed flamboyantly. “Miss Chudleigh, good morning to you.”

“Oh, Mr. Rawlings. I did not recognise you in such dark clothes. It seems we are too late to see Sir John or Mr. Jago.”

“So it appears. And I’m afraid I do not have the time to sit in court and await them. Therefore, dear Madam, may I accompany you to the shops or wherever you are bound?”

“No,” she responded, “you may take me to Will’s Coffee House. It is but a step from here and besides they know me.”

“It is a very male preserve. Miss Chudleigh. You are certain you will be welcome?”

To this she snapped her fingers. “If they want me to leave they will have to carry me out physically. Now come along, good Sir, I feel the need to talk.”

And she stepped out of the building, walking briskly, with the Apothecary in hot pursuit.

Will’s Coffee House, situated at the comer of Bow Street, was the establishment in which the wits and literary men of the day foregathered. Henry Fielding and William Wycherley had been regular visitors, together with an Admiralty secretary named Samuel Pepys. Indeed, it had the reputation of being the meeting place from which poetry emanated, for every coffee house in London had its own particular following. The
beau monde
went to White’s in St. James’s Street; intellectuals to the Grecian in Covent Garden; men of the church to Truby’s or Child’s; while financiers patronised Jonathan’s in Exchange Alley. Merchants interested in shipping would go to the coffee house run by Edward Lloyd in Lombard Street, which had grown from a humble meeting place to premises in which ships were auctioned, as well as producing its own newletter of shipping intelligence.

There were also coffee house of a less materialistic nature. Theatre people, both audience and actors, poured into the Bedford, where every branch of literature and every performance at the various playhouses was weighed and determined. Further, Tom Fung’s was notorious for its clientele of fashionable fops and noblemen, bloods, bucks and choice spirits of London. Even politicans bowed to the decree. The Whigs congregated at the St. James’s or the Smyrna, Tories could be found at the Cocoa Tree or Ozinda’s. But in none of these places were women expected to be present and so it was with a great deal of courage, in John’s opinion, that Elizabeth Chudleigh swept into Will’s and demanded a box.

Yet it was typical of her. She cared nothing for convention - her appearance virtually naked at a court ball gave evidence to that - and her liaison with the Duke of Kingston, scandalously discussed in the great salons of the land, was indiscretion gone wild. But her beauty, though slightly faded, was powerful and her arresting manner hard to resist. Despite all the many points against her, John found that he liked her more and more.

Now she looked at him very directly with those wide limpid eyes of hers and said, “Why were you calling on Mr. Fielding?”

He kissed her gloved fingers. “It’s Sir John now. And why were you?”

“Because a strange rumour has reached my ears.”

“Which is?”

“That George Goward’s body was taken to the mortuary and will not be released until the coroner has been notified.”

“The death was sudden and violent.”

“But natural.” She paused. “Wasn’t it?”

John weighed up the odds and decided she would be of more help to him if she knew what was going on, though on the other hand wondering whether the Magistrate should be the one to inform her.

“Your silence tells me a great deal,” said Miss Chudleigh, raising a cup of hot chocolate to her lips. “I can only presume there is suspicion of foul play.”

“Sir John thinks so,” the Apothecary answered slowly. “But I think I had better let him speak about that personally. But meanwhile you might answer a question or two for me.”

A cloud appeared at the back of the sensational eyes but Miss Chudleigh continued to sip her chocolate, apparently unperturbed.

“Do you recall being on the staircase when Sir George fell?”

“Yes, I was standing quite close to him.”

“Who else was there?”

The beauty frowned. “Let me see now, Sir John, of course, and dear Joe. Yourself and Mary Ann.”