Death at St. James's Palace (3 page)

“Miss Chudleigh,” he said, and gave an unenthusiastic bow, still angry that she had snubbed Emilia.

She gave him the full beam of her attention, rather alarmingly so. “And you are, Sir?”

“John Rawlings, Madam, Sir Gabriel’s son. And this is my friend of many years standing, Samuel Swann.”

Oh how that woman could curtsey! A polite bob for

Samuel, a somewhat deeper salute for John, indicating respect for his father’s status. The Apothecary decided that he definitely didn’t like her, though he was still unable to find the word that described this daring and difficult socialite.

She was leading them into an inner saloon glittering with crystal chandeliers and rich furnishings. Within, a positive throng had already gathered, many of whom were local to the neighbourhood. John recognised Benedict Mitchell, who lived nearby, close to the Brompton Park Boarding School, and the Duke of Rutland, whose property bordered on to that of Miss Chudleigh. To add the royal seal of approval - though the Apothecary surmised that most of these people had probably come out of curiosity rather than to pay their respects to the blind magistrate - John saw that the old King’s mistress, Amalia Walmoden, Countess of Yarmouth, whose grounds were adjacent to the Duke’s, was sitting in a high-backed chair close to the fire. He turned to his father.

“I had not expected anything quite like this.”

“Mr. Fielding is always a big attraction,” Sir Gabriel answered cynically.

And indeed it was perfectly true. The court at Bow Street was perpetually packed to the doors by those idle people with nothing better to do with their time; come to see a sightless man dispensing justice to the criminal classes.

“But where is the great fellow?”

Sir Gabriel raised his quizzer. “Not in the room, though I do spy Mrs. Fielding over there.”

“Together with that bundle of trouble, Mary Ann.”

“Yes,” said Samuel enthusiastically, revealing that his interest in the Magistrate’s sixteen year old adopted daughter had not waned since he had last seen her. John, who had known the girl since she was a child, gave his friend a slightly amused stare which Samuel stoically ignored. Yet it was certainly true that she had developed into a stunning beauty for all her mischievous ways and the trouble in which she had been involved in the past. And she was presently surrounded by men of all ages, gazing at her midnight hair and sparkling eyes.

“Oh for heaven’s sake go and talk to her,” said John, bursting into laughter, “your tongue is hanging clean out your mouth.”

“What a hideous description. But I shall not do so. I know you think I am far too old for her.”

“A touch mature, perhaps. But, my dear friend, I cannot tell you how to conduct your life. She is now of an age. If you wish to pay court to her, you must do so.”

Samuel, his cheeks rathered reddened, opened his mouth to reply, but the entrance of the Blind Beak into the room brought about a sudden hush. John, who had been his friend for so many years, stood in silent admiration, reappraising the man whom he respected nearly as much as his own father.

John Fielding, soon to be Sir John, stood a vast six feet in height, tallness being a characteristic shared with his famous half-brother, Henry. And not only was he tall but broad, a big powerful lion of a man at the height of his powers. His long wig flowed to his shoulders, his handsome face with its prominent nose seemed to personify strength. Only his eyes, hidden from the world by the black bandage that he always wore, revealed the flaw in the diamond, the one thing that made this colossus vulnerable. Yet he strode in with dignity, his clerk, Joe Jago, barely seeming to touch his elbow as he guided him.

Elizabeth Chudleigh hurried forward. “My dear Sir, there are more friends arrived to greet you.”

Sir Gabriel led his party towards the Magistrate but before he could speak Mr. Fielding said, Mr. Rawlings is here I believe.”

He had done it before, many times, but still John marvelled at the uncanniness of it. It was just as if the man could see.

“My essence?” he said.

“Just so. People have their own particular perfume; yours is quite distinctive.”

John laughed. “I trust it is not of the kind that you would go out of your way to avoid.”

A melodious rumble came from the Magistrate’s chest. “Not at all. Those are the sort that confront me each day in court.”

Miss Chudleigh interrupted and it occurred to John that she was not the sort who would remain silent a moment longer than she had to. “Is it true, Sir, that you can recognise over two thousand villains by their voices alone?”

“I believe claims of such a nature are made about me. Though the accounts do differ.”

“In what way?”

“Why, Madam, sometimes it is one thousand, sometimes three.”

“And which is true?”

Mr. Fielding smiled, his full, rather sensual, mouth curving. “I have no idea. Miss Chudleigh. I have never kept a record. You would have to ask Mr. Jago.”

Elizabeth turned a ravishing smile on the Magistrate’s clerk, that craggy faced, foxy haired individual who not only acted as John Fielding’s eyes but who was sent to assist in investigating crime when the need arose. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise he noticed the colour suffuse Joe’s neck as that wide-open limpid gaze fixed on him.

“Well, Sir.”

The clerk bowed stylishly. “Madam, it would be indecorous of me to reveal the secrets of the courtroom.”

Miss Chudleigh tapped him lightly with her fan and this time the man coloured violently. If John hadn’t been so astonished, he would have felt sorry for Joe. But now it was his turn to receive the gaze.

“Mr. Rawlings - and Mrs. Rawlings, of course ...” Her eyes swept over Emilia who had been standing silently all this while. “ ... come with me. There are people here that I want you to meet.”

John turned to his wife. “My dear?”

Not looking too happy about it, Emilia said, “A pleasure.”

But Miss Chudleigh had already swept on. Glancing back, the Apothecary saw that Samuel had given in to temptation and joined the buzzing group of males surrounding Mary Ann, while Sir Gabriel was deep in conversation with the Magistrate and his wife. Once more he observed with astonishment that Joe Jago, just as if he were being pulled by an invisible string, was tagging along behind Miss Chudleigh despite the fact that she hadn’t even noticed him.

“Are you all right?” the Apothecary mouthed at his wife.

She pulled a face. “I feel so drab.”

“But you’re beautiful.”

“I look an old-fashioned frump. And soon I shall be fat into the bargain. Oh dear!”

“I thought you were happy to be with child.”

“I am. It’s just that I have no
amour propre
today.”

“You need some champagne,” the Apothecary answered firmly, and taking two glasses from a passing footman handed one to his wife and watched while she took a sip. “Better?”

“A little.”

“Good. Now brace up, we’re about to be presented.”

Miss Chudleigh was already in full flow.

“Lady Mary, may I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings, kinfolk of Sir Gabriel Kent?”

A fat woman with an even higher coiffure than her hostess’s and a pale plump face, much rouged on the cheeks, nodded graciously. “Oh certainly,” she said in a high, childish voice which did not fit at all with her roly-poly appearance.

Emilia curtsied low and John gave his second-best bow. “Your servant, Ma’am,” they chorused.

“Lady Mary Goward,” Miss Chudleigh continued. Sheturned to the woman’s escort. “Mr. Goward, Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.”

Further salutations were made and Mr. Goward proclaimed himself as “Chawmed.” He was an absolute ass, the Apothecary felt sure of it, but clearly believed himself tremendously clever for having married into the aristocracy.

“Do you live in Kensington, Sir?” John asked politely.

Mr. Goward neighed a laugh. “No, I prefer Islington, more to do, you know. We have a country place there. But I like town life, never been one for buccolic chawms myself.”

Lady Mary chimed in in her little-girl voice. “My son spends his days at the Brompton Park Boarding School. We are here on a visit to him.”

“How old is he?” asked Emilia, desperately trying to look interested.

“Twelve,” answered Lady Mary. She turned to her husband, “Frederick is twelve, isn’t he?”

Mr. Goward shrugged. “I believe so. Something like that.”

Emilia raised her eyebrows and he continued, “Not my child, you see. The lady wife was married very young. Frederick is the fruit of that early union.”

“My first husband passed to his rest as the result of a riding accident,” she added by way of explanation.

Leaving a rich widow ready for the plucking, thought John uncharitably, shooting a covert glance at her husband, who was devouring both Emilia and Miss Chudleigh with his eyes, the rogue.

“Do you have any other children?” Emilia was gallantly attempting to keep the conversation flowing.

Lady Mary appeared to get short of breath, her plump pale hands flying to her fluttering bosom. “No, fate did not decree that to happen.” She rolled an anguished eye. “Do you find it very warm in here, Mrs. Rawlings?”

“Not particularly.”

Lady Mary turned to her hostess. “Miss Chudleigh, I would take a turn in the fresh air. Could you show me to the garden door?”

“Certainly, it’s this...”

But Miss Chudleigh got no further. Lady Mary’s hands went up to her enormous hairstyle, she swayed giddily, then, turning in a large spiral, crashed to the floor, taking poor Emilia down with her.

“I say,” said Mr. Goward, looking to where she lay, very white and very still,” I do believe the lady wife has fainted.”

Chapter 2

J
ust for a moment the Apothecary battled a strong desire not to get involved, certain that whatever move he made, the Gowards, husband and wife, would find fault with it. Then his professional training got the better of him but not before he had tended to Emilia, who was lying conscious but squashed beneath Lady Mary’s billowing form. Rolling the fainted woman to one side, not the easiest of tasks, John helped his wife to her feet.

“Sweetheart, are you all right? Are you hurt in any way?”

“I don’t think so.” Her nose wrinkled mischievously and Emilia lowered her voice. She’s damnable heavy though.”

“You had no blow to the abdomen?”

“No. She simply knocked me flying then crashed on top of me.” Her face changed. “You don’t think the baby has been damaged?”

“No, but I will take you to a physician as soon as we leave here. Meanwhile, go and sit down. Let me just restore Lady Mary to consciousness and then we can make our excuses.”

He knelt over the prostrate form.

“Have a care,” said Mr. Goward protestingly.

“It is all right, Sir. I am an apothecary. I have been trained to tend the sick.”

“Oh. I see. Very well.”

John applied salts, a bottle of which was permanently in his pocket. Lady Mary’s plump cheeks quivered but there was no other reaction. Looking up at the small crowd that had gathered round them, his gaze met Miss Chudleigh’s.

“Madam, can you organise your footmen to carry Lady Mary upstairs?”

She looked astonished. “Why? Is she seriously ill?”

“No, the fact of the matter is that her stays are impeding her breathing and should be loosened immediately.”

“And who will do that, pray?”

“I thought perhaps one of your maids.”

“Very well, but I insist that you accompany her. I would not like a friend of mine to be left without medical attention when she is in distress.”

“Terrible affair,” said Goward suddenly. “Poor Mary. Not men’s business though. Good luck, Rawlings.”

By this time four stout footmen had been called and were heaving the unfortunate woman shoulder high. Very solemnly and walking extremely slowly beneath their burden, they started in procession up the staircase, John following like a mourner behind a coffin. The hilarious side of the situation suddenly struck him and it was all the Apothecary could do to stop himself laughing aloud. Unfortunately at that moment he looked down the stair well and caught the eye of Emilia, sitting meekly on a sofa. Her lips twitched and he was forced to cough to disguise the fact that his lopsided grin had broken out.

The footmen proceeded along a short passageway, then a door was opened by yet another servant and Lady Mary was deposited on a bed in the fashionably furnished room revealed. Miss Chudleigh appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Rawlings, I shall send a maid directly. But now I must return to my guests. I’m sure you understand.”

In her faint. Lady Mary was groaning in distress, and the Apothecary called over his shoulder, “If she is not here in a moment I will loosen these stays myself. The poor woman has been unconscious too long.”

“Oh la!” answered his hostess roundly. “What would you know about corsetry? Here, give her to me.” With that she heaved up poor Mary’s petticoats, thrust her hoops into the air, and began to attack the formidable garment that lay beneath.