Death at St. James's Palace (15 page)

"And in front of her?"

"Sir John Fielding, his clerk, his niece and yourself. On the step beneath yours were Mr. and Miss Witherspoon and Jack Morocco. In front of them stood Lady Mary and Sir George Goward."

"Anybody else close by? Anybody at all?"

"There were footmen and pages-of-honour on alternate stairs, that is all."

"I see," said John.

He dropped to his knees and while Digby held the candle- bra high, began examining the staircase with his fingertips. But whoever had cleaned had done an excellent job. There was nothing.

"Is Goward still in the mortuary, poor wretch?" Digby asked tentatively.

"Yes. I believe the coroner is about to release the body but leave the case open."

The older man cleared his throat. "Mr. Rawlings, have you seen enough? I would prefer that we continued this conversation in my quarters which are just across the courtyard, in an older part of the building."

"Very well," John answered, and at that moment a door on the landing above opened and shut twice again. "Is there anybody up there?" he asked Digby nervously.

The other shook his head. "No, it does it by itself. Come along, my friend, this is not a place to linger after nightfall."

"I totally agree with you, said the Apothecary, and hurried down the corridor without looking back.

True to his word, Digby Turnbull had provided an excellent cold collation and a good burgundy in his three roomed apartment in St. James's Palace. Further, a fire burned brightly. casting a glow on the heavily beamed and ancient room in which he was entertaining his guest.

"I can't help wondering if Sir John is right," he said, sipping his wine. "What do you think, Mr. Rawlings?"

"Over the years I have learned to trust the Magistrate's judgement. He has the hearing of a bat and swears something was muttered just before George Goward fell. That, together with the sound of exhaled breath - exhaled because of effort - led him to the conclusion that the man was pushed."

"But why didn't anybody see anything?"

"Because everyone had turned to stare at the Queen. She is still a novelty to the likes of us, you know." John paused. "But you will have seen her before, of course. Did you look at her, Mr. Turnbull, or did you keep an eye on the staircase?"

Did the answer come just a little too hastily? "No, I turned with everyone else. I am only a minor servant and don't see that much of Their Majesties."

"Then anything could have happened while attention was engaged elsewhere."

"Yes, I suppose it could."

"And you noticed nothing untoward, nothing at all?"

Digby shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."

"It must have been done at the speed of light." John paused, considering. "The pages and footmen - surely one of them might have seen something."

"They are all instructed to keep their eyes forward and nearly all of them do. The footmen are trained staff, of course, but the boys are not, being pages-of-honour."

"What is that exactly?"

"They are not servants but all members of the nobility. They help on state and important occasions. Ordinary pages are of lower rank than footmen."

John drained his wine. "The boys all seemed very helpful, doing their best. Indeed, I thought how well behaved they were." He watched as Digby refilled John's glass. "Is there some sort of tradition about there being thirteen of them?"

The other man stared. "What is that you say?"

"Why do you have thirteen pages? I always thought it was considered an unlucky omen."

Digby Turnbull shook his head. "There are only twelve, Mr. Rawlings. We would never have thirteen. As you say, it is not a happy number."

"But there were thirteen present at the levee. I counted them myself."

"I think you must have been mistaken, my friend."

"But how? I noted it particularly."

"Impossible," answered Digby Turnbull, and looked slightly annoyed.

John relapsed into silence, sipping his wine and thinking hard. If he pressed his new acquaintance on the point it was obvious that he was going to get angry, yet the Apothecary knew quite certainly that he was right. There had been thirteen pages in attendance that day, there was no doubt about it, he had counted them and for sure had noted the strange number correctly. This meant that an extra boy had been present at the very time that George Goward fell to his death. An odd coincidence to say the least of it. Yet to antagonise Digby Turnbull over the issue would be fatal. The Apothecary assumed his 'foolish me' expression.

"I must have been mistaken. I do beg your pardon. However, I am sure Sir John would be interested to speak to the pages who were present. Would it be a great bother for you to give me a list of them?"

"Not at all," Digby answered, cheerful again. "I'll get one drawn up tomorrow. What about the footmen?"

"I'm sure the Magistrate would like to have a record of them as well."

"You're going to have your work cut out, you Public Office people, talking to all those involved."

"Indeed we are," John answered, affecting a sigh. He changed the subject. "Did you know George Goward at all?"

"A little. His first wife came from Devon, from whence hail both Miss Chudleigh and myself."

"His first wife!" John exclaimed. "I had no idea that he had been married before he wed Lady Mary."

"Not many people have. It all took place in the West Country. I lived near Ashton, a remote village some fair distance out of Exeter. Miss Chudleigh spent her youth in Ashton - her family were local and have places bearing their name - and as I came from just outside so we were acquainted. Hannah Wilson lived in Exeter itself. She was a local beauty and several of us fell in love with her but George Goward, who was visiting relatives in the city, married her by eloping on the day of her twenty-first birthday."

"How fascinating. What happened to her?"

"I think he rather regretted what he had done, despite her great physical charms. He kept Hannah in the country, in very meagre circumstances, while he pursued his career in polite society in London. Then she became pregnant and died in childbirth. He arranged the funeral and promptly forgot all about her. A few years after that he married the widowed Lady Mary."

"What happened to his child?"

Digby Turnbull stared into the fire. "It was taken in by relatives. I don't know anything further than that. I lost all contact with Devon after I made my home in London."

"What an extraordinary story. Do you think Lady Mary knew that her husband had been married before?"

Digby shrugged. "I have no idea. I certainly didn't mention it."

"But Miss Chudleigh could have said something."

"She might. Who knows?"

There was a silence during which the clock in the great Tudor Clock Tower chimed nine. John finished his glass of claret.

"Mr. Turnbull, you have been of great help to me. I thank you for your time and patience."

"It is nothing. If Sir John is right and an act of murder has been committed within the palace walls, then it is my duty to give you every assistance. I shall send the list of pages-of- honour to the Public Office tomorrow, together with the names of the footmen who attended."

"You are most public spirited," said the Apothecary, getting to his feet.

"Anything I can do to help. I shall be removing to Kew Palace shortly but you can contact me at any of the royal residences."

"I thank you for your courtesy, Sir."

"Allow me to escort you across the courtyard, Mr. Rawlings. Do you know, legend has it that Henry VIII tethered his horse to that tree there."

"How incredible," said John as they strode out together into the darkness.

With a great feeling of guilt that Nicholas was being left alone too often in charge of the shop, and with a secondary notion that he might quiz his apprentice about Lucinda and her erratic behaviour, John set out really early for Shug Lane. So early indeed that he caught his apprentice up as he limped his way through the back alleys, heading in the direction of Piccadilly.

"Master," said the Muscovite, turning round and staring in surprise. "I had not thought to see you about at this hour."

"Then more shame me. I have been neglecting my duties."

"Not at all, Sir. How goes it with you and Sir John Fielding?"

"We have a complicated affair on our hands."

"I thought as..."

But Nicholas got no further. For at that moment a door in the alleyway flung open and a negro boy about nine years of
age, his hair cropped almost to nothing about his pathetic head, his clothing a worn and terrible grey serge suit, far too large for him, came careering into the road pursued by a redfaced man bearing a formidable whip.

"Help!" the child shrieked as he ran like a hound down Great Windmill Street towards Piccadilly.

"Come here varmint, come here nigger," yelled his pursuer, cracking the whip on the ground in the most terrifying manner.

"Dear God," said John and gave chase, followed by Nicholas, running as fast as he could.

But there seemed little hope of catching them up and the poor child started to scream as the red-faced man began to gain on him. Then came a moment of pure theatrical magic, or so it seemed to John. With a leap that would not have shamed a gazelle, the most beautifully dressed black man that the Apothecary had ever set eyes on jumped directly into the path of the chase, scooped the boy up and pushed him behind his back, in the same movement drawing a sword and putting the point straight to the pursuer's genitals as he panted to a halt.

"Out of my way, damn you," shouted the chaser.

"Out of mine," drawled the negro.

He spoke superbly, with the accent of a true English aristocrat, and every move betrayed a first-class education. John laughed audibly, aware that he could be looking at none other than that exquisite, that buck, that fop of fashion. Jack Morocco himself.

Morocco whirled the sword in his hand, as only a master of fencing could, and thrust the point right at the man's penis. "Well?" he said.

"Don't you dare attack me, you black dog."

"Don't insult me, Sir, or you'll sing soprano. Now be off with you."

"Give me back my slave."

"No, Sir, I'll not return the wretch to a life of beating and degredation. Here ..." Morocco reached into the pocket of his beautiful white breeches and negligently produced a coin which he flipped in the direction of the red-faced man. "... there's a guinea for you. I'll buy him"

"I want him, not your damned money."

"Really?" said Morocco, affecting a yawn and throwing another coin after the first. "Good day to you."

And he sheathed his sword and walked off, taking the weeping child by the hand. What happened next was very, very fast. The red-faced man lunged at Morocco's retreating back and in that split second the negro turned and floored him with a fist to the jaw that would have crashed down a man twice the size.

"Oh Masser, Masser, he'll kill us," shrieked the boy hysterically.

"On the contrary," Morocco answered. "And it's Master, by the way. If you are to stay with me you must learn to speak properly." He flicked his fingers and a coach which had been trundling at some distance behind him, came smartly up alongside. "Take this child back home and give orders that it is to be scrubbed and deloused," Morocco instructed the coachman. "Then return for me at White's. I've a mind to attend a morning concert at Ranelagh today. I shall breakfast there, I believe." He bowed in the direction of John and Nicholas, who were standing goggle-eyed, and sauntered down the road, buying some flowers from an early-morning seller and sniffing them as he went.

Nicholas turned to his Master. "Who was that?"

"Jack Morocco, it has to be. There simply couldn't be two answering that description. Strangely, he was at the levee the other day but I can't say that I really noticed him with everything else that was going on. And now I have to question him about the death of George Goward."

"Go to Ranelagh," said the apprentice with determination. "You can contrive to bump into him socially. It would be worth it just to meet him, let alone anything else."

"But Nick, I have to work."

"No, Sir, go home and fetch Mrs. Rawlings. Stir Irish Tom into a frenzy and he'll get you there in a trice."

"Nick, my friend, you are beyond price," answered John with enthusiasm.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find a way of rewarding me," answered the Muscovite, and with that gave his Master a look in which thoughts of Lucinda were clear to see.

The wonderful pleasure gardens at Vaux Hall had a great and formidable rival in the Ranelagh Gardens, which bordered onto the Hospital of Maymed Soldiers at Chelsea. Yet even though Vaux Hall excited, Ranelagh was by far the most fashionable of all the London gardens. With an exorbitant entrance fee of two shillings and sixpence, the hoi-polloi were kept firmly at bay, even though this colossal charge did include tea, coffee, punch and other beverages. Added to this cost was the general expense of refreshments, the high prices ensuring that one mixed with only the very best people. It had been said of Ranelagh that in the genteel walks one could meet the first persons of the kingdom and it was for this reason, and this alone, that those who wished to be considered
bon ton
willingly paid the money to attend.