Death at St. James's Palace (18 page)

"I think she could be in danger."

"Then allow me to accompany you, my friend. I promised Sir John that I would help and I have no wish to delay longer."

There was no way in which Samuel could be dissuaded without hurting his deepest feelings and loving his old friend as he did, the Apothecary had no intention of doing that. However, there was a possible way out.

"I intend to leave for Kensington very early tomorrow morning. What about your shop?"

"My apprentice can manage for a day or so. May I beg a bed for the night?"

"Of course," John said with resignation.

"Then it will be just like the old days," Samuel answered cheerfully, leaving the Apothecary to smile to himself and wonder when, if ever, his old companion would finally grow up.

Despite Nicholas Dawkins's pleading looks, John did not waiver but sent his apprentice off to Shug Lane even earlier than usual. Then, deciding that they would breakfast at The Hercules Pillars, he and Samuel set off.

It seemed that the world and his wife were out that day, for the coaching inn was packed with a wonderment of characters. Two stages had arrived simultaneously, pouring their contents within, and at the same moment a private coach had disgorged its elegant passengers, very finely dressed in shades of crimson and puce, all these varied people rubbing shoulders together in the confined space inside. Lawyers and countrymen, aristocrats and actresses, excited children, a crying baby, tripped over one another in the fight to get fed and watered. In the midst of all, the same dog lay on its back, farting as it slept. A thin-boned woman with a myriad of red veins in her cheeks, dressed in the most unfortunate shade of pea green, decided to have an hysteric because of the crush and crashed down upon the unfortunate animal, forcing it to howl loudly in shock. John looked at Samuel.

"Shall we move on? This place is a bear garden."

"Worse. We'll eat somewhere else."

But at that moment, into the view of both of them, running her fine eyes over the assembled masses, tall and elegant, giving not an inch as she progressed, even though the osier hoops of her gown struck all those she passed, came Elizabeth Chudleigh.

"We stay," said John and Samuel in one voice.

"Attract her attention," instructed the Apothecary, and Samuel's vast height and windmill arms swept into action. Snatching his hat from his head, he waved it aloft like a flag.

"Miss Chudleigh," he boomed. "Over here, Ma'am."

She turned her head, her high hair crowned with a brimmed creation making an arc of colour as she did so. "Gentlemen, good morning," she called.

"Allow us to escort you to the dining parlour," shouted John.

"Gladly. But how to get through this melee?"

"Allow me," said Samuel and charged through the crowd to where she stood, sweeping her into his arms, osier hoops rising to preposterous heights above both their heads, then carried Miss Chudleigh as best he could towards the hall from which the dining parlours led.

"Oh Mr. Swann," she said, and fluttered girlishly, leaving John to think that his friend was not, after all, without his uses.

Once seated at the breakfast table, a difficult feat which had involved bribing a waiter, some semblance of order was restored.

"I'm on my way to Kensington, of course," Miss Chudleigh announced. "I take it that that is where you are heading, Mr. Rawlings."

"Quite correctly, Ma'am. I have a small errand to perform." He omitted to say what it was and a slight pressure to Samuel's elbow indicated that he should do likewise.

"Well, I am returning home for a few days, partly to oversee the building work, partly to get away from all this horror. It is now commonly spoken of that George Goward was pushed to his death but no one seems certain who could have done it. I believe it was his wife, of course."

"Why?" asked Samuel, genuinely interested.

"Because he had had several mistresses, including one particularly immature one, I believe, and Mary knew it."

"Really?" said John, eyebrows flying. "Who was the young lady?" Miss Chudleigh frowned, her beautiful face suddenly severe. "That's the problem. I don't know. Nobody did. The
beau monde
discussed it for a while but as no-one could come up with the answer they lost interest and went on to the next scandal."

"But surely Lady Mary must have realised who it was"

"Very probably. Perhaps she intends to kill her next." Miss Chudleigh's eyes sparkled and she warmed to her theme. "That may well be it, you know. She lost patience with the entire situation and is hell-bent on revenge."

"Did you know that George Goring had a daughter by his first wife?" John slipped his key question in quietly.

Elizabeth fell into the trap. "Oh yes, though he tried to keep the matter well concealed."

"So not many people were aware of it?"

"Not many."

John's pictorial memory switched back to that other occasion in The Hercules Pillars. Digby Turnbull, the dog voiding wind, the unseen couple and the words they had uttered: "Guilty conscience and guilty conscience alone," the man had said. To which the woman had retorted, "You bastard! Never forget that you are not without guilt." As they had gone out they had looked familiar. Had it been Miss Chudleigh and George Goward? Had it been they who had discussed terrible secrets. Had one of those secrets been that he had a hidden daughter? Or was it possible that both of them had daughters they wished to conceal?

"Does the name Lucinda Drummond mean anything to you?" John asked suddenly.

The wide eyes grew wider. "No, I don't think so. Lucinda Drummond..." Miss Chudleigh repeated. "No, I do not know her."

She was either a consummate actress or telling the truth.

"So she's not Goward's daughter?" John persisted.

"No."

"What is his child's name then?"

The great eyelids drooped, disguising the pupils beneath. "I believe she was named Georgiana after her father."

"Is she in London these days?"

Miss Chudleigh rallied. "Now how would I know that, Sir? George once told me that he had a child which was being brought up by relatives who lived not far from Chudleigh, a village named after my family, don't you know? As far as I am aware the girl is still breathing the fresh Devon air, a county famous for the beauties it produces."

She made a coy moue which John felt belittled her.

"So how old would the girl be now?"

"Again you ask me things I do not know. I imagine about sixteen or so - but that is only a guess," she said, confirming exactly what Digby Turnbull had said.

"So it is possible the beauty has left the county and come to London to make her way."

"One would hope not. Town is no place for a child. I was twenty before I first came to London, chaperoned by my mama, of course."

"Of course."

Miss Chudleigh shot the Apothecary a very direct glance to see whether he was mocking her but was met with an expression of straight-faced sincerity.

"Perhaps," said John thoughtfully, "Lady Mary Goward will know something of the girl's whereabouts. After all she is the child's stepmother."

Miss Chudleigh burst into a peal of tinkling laughter. "Oh my dear young friend, how little you understand of the ways of the
beau monde.
Lady Mary, I'll have you know, has absolutely no idea that her husband's offspring even exists."

"Mr. Sebastian will not see you," said the servant, "and that, Sir, is final."

"Then you can tell him from me that I shall report the matter to Sir John Fielding himself."

"I doubt that will be of much concern to him, Sir." And the door of the Brompton Park Boarding School was banged shut in the faces of John Rawlings and his companion Samuel Swann.

"God's mercy," said John, angrily banging his great stick on the ground. "Now what do we do?"

"Find a pupil," answered Samuel solemnly.

The Apothecary stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"What I say. Wait until evening when they all climb out over the walls, as you tell me they do, then nobble one and bribe it."

"You make them sound like chimpanzees."

"Well, they act little better, do they not?"

John nodded. "Not a great deal, it's true." He frowned. "But I wanted to get home. Emilia does not care for nights alone in her present condition."

"Well, as soon as we've caught one we can go."

"But that may not be until late. No, I'll send Irish Tom home and tell him to call for us in the morning. I think a night with my revered father is indicated."

"Oh good," said Samuel, rubbing his hands together. "It is always a pleasure to be in Sir Gabriel's company."

And the Apothecary had to admit that the thought of spending time with his father, to dine with him and perhaps play cards, was enormously pleasurable. He wondered, very far from the first time, whether he was a suitable sort to be a husband and could only console himself with the fact that he was doing his best.

"So where to now?" said Samuel.

"Straight to Church Lane. It is just possible that Sir Gabriel might have picked up some information. He gets around the great houses playing whist and is bound to have heard gossip of one kind or another."

"Excellent," Samuel answered.

But this plan was to be thwarted. No sooner had Irish Tom turned the equipage in the direction of Kensington than they cast a wheel and the two passengers plus the coachman were forced to disembark.

"Now where?" the Goldsmith asked uncertainly.

"The Swan," John answered. "It's a coaching inn so they'll be able to tell us where the nearest wheelwright is placed and meanwhile we can sit down and take our ease."

"And listen to other people's conversations in case we learn something?"

"Certainly."

But as it turned out, in contrast to The Hercules Pillars, The Swan was almost empty, the stage and flying coaches having just left. So empty indeed that Irish Tom, having discovered the whereabouts of the wheelwright, asked in a jocular way whether there was a plague upon the place.

The landlord fortunately took this remark in good humour. "We have several visitors in the snugs, Sir. The Duke of Guernsey himself is in The Ram, entertaining his brother to breakfast."

John turned to Samuel. "Now where have I heard that name before? And recently at that."

"I've no idea."

"Guernsey, Guernsey?" John repeated, but got no further. For from within The Ram came the sound of a chair crashing to the ground, followed by the thump of a falling body.

"You little bastard," shouted a voice, its tones aristocratic. "You dirty little gammer-cock. Why, I'll take my crop to you. Just see if I don't."

"No, Michael, no," shrieked a younger voice. "Please, no."

But there was the unmistakable sound of a thwack followed by a yell of pain.

John looked at the landlord questioningly. "Should we go in?"

"I'm not sure. It's the Duke and his brother."

"But we can't let one beat the other to death. I'll take full responsibility. Come on, Sam."

"Right," said John's friend, looking cheerful. "I'm in the mood for a good mill".

"Well now you've got one."

With that the Apothecary threw open the snug door and used the element of surprise to full advantage. Looking down at the two young men wrestling on the floor, he put his quizzer to his eye and drawled, "Your Grace, be so good as to stop, if you please. You're frightening the ladies, to say absolutely nothing of the horses."

"Quite right," boomed Samuel. "Stow your whids, Sir. Stow 'em, I say."

Chapter 11

I
n the event, the Duke was too angry to stow anything and went on beating his brother round the arse with his riding crop despite the fact that by now he had a small audience. It was all too tempting to the onlookers just to leave them to get on with it, but the younger boy had contrived to get an injury to his neck and had started to lose blood. The Apothecary, looking with a professional eye, decided that it really must stop and, striding out to the stable yard, picked up a bucket of water which he pitched with deadly aim over the two combatants. There was a mutual gasp at the shock and the youths drew apart. Samuel and the landlord stepped in, pulling the lads to their feet and holding them fast.

“Well,” said John laconically, thinking that he could hardly make matters worse for himself, “that is the first time I have ever thrown water over a peer of the realm.”

“And you had better make it the last,” said the younger boy, apparently not in the least grateful that he had been saved from a beating.

The Duke, who was mopping his face and hair with a handkerchief, glowered at him. “You should be overjoyed, you stinking cully. I’d have killed you else.”

John held up his hand. “Gentlemen, please. This is not the place to air your private grievances. Now, your Grace, with your permission I will tend your brother’s wound. I am an apothecary by trade and know how to staunch the blood flow.”