Death at the Beggar's Opera (30 page)

‘I think so.’

‘Anyway, they ignored me completely. I became even more solitary than an only child would normally be. Thus I grew up hating them. Then came the great day when George went off to be a ‘prentice. You never heard such goings on from that vile little Lucy. She kicked and screamed and thrashed about. Then she wouldn’t eat. How my mother had the patience to bear it I will never know.’

‘But what happened after that?’ said John, disturbed by what he was learning, even though he had been half expecting it.

‘I don’t know. Nobody does. George ran away from his Master, then stole here in dead of night and took Lucy out of the house. We never saw either of them again, God be praised, and my mother never had so much as a letter of thanks.’

‘So their current whereabouts are completely unknown to you?’

‘I couldn’t hazard a guess. I presume they went to London but I have no proof of it.’

John leant forward, looking at Mrs Atkins anxiously. ‘And the person who came here recently asking the same question as I. Who was that?’

She made a scornful gesture. ‘Why, ’twas their mother of course, much aged but still handsome. I had the pleasure of informing her that she was fifteen years too late.’

‘And how did she react?’

‘She said that she knew her fault and now had to live with the guilt. Then she asked if I had any idea of their present address for she desperately needed to find them.’

The Apothecary’s svelte eyebrows rose. ‘How very interesting. She actually used the word desperately?’

‘She did indeed.’

‘I see.’

There was a silence broken only by the splutter of the flames in the hearth, the rhythmic snores of the elderly Mrs Camber and the high, light breathing of her granddaughter. It seemed that the conversation had drawn to its natural conclusion and yet the surging disappointment in John’s heart would not let him leave without one final attempt.

‘Is there nothing more you can tell me about them? Nothing at all?’

Mrs Atkins shook her head slowly, considering. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Where did they sleep? Could I see their rooms? It might be of help.’

‘George had his bed in the attic, a pleasant enough little place, while Lucy slept on the floor below. Where my daughter now has her cradle.’

‘Would you mind?’

Mrs Atkins looked slightly reluctant. ‘I won’t leave the baby, she might wake at any moment. But you take a look on your own. Lucy’s room was to the right of the staircase, George’s up the steep ladder.’

Quite glad that she was not with him, the Apothecary climbed up the stairs, then went to the attic first. The bedroom was minute, with a sloping ceiling and one little window. These days it seemed to be used mainly for storing lumber and, looking round, John thought there were few signs that it had once been occupied by the son of a famous actress. Disconsolately, he went back down the ladder and into what had been Lucy Egleton’s room. Nowadays it was very much a nursery, a carved cradle occupying the central position, a few wooden toys scattered round the place. The only decoration was a large and beautiful sampler, hanging just above the crib. John gazed in appreciation, being a particular admirer of this form of needlework.

The sampler ended with the date in which it had been executed, 1691, during the joint reign of William and Mary. And then it gave the name of the child who had so painstakingly stitched it. John read it, and then he read it again before his vision blurred with shock and excitement. A veil lifted and he knew the answer, though not quite all of it. Biting back the cry of triumph that came to his lips, the Apothecary went downstairs to where Mrs Atkins sat feeding her baby, his chest tight with apprehension at the question he still had left to ask her.

‘That’s a very fine sampler you have in the nursery,’ he said ‘Has it always hung there?’

‘Oh yes,’ she answered, ‘it’s been on the wall as long as I can remember. My mother stitched it when she was ten years old. I told you she had a talent with her needle’

John bowed. ‘Madam, you have been of enormous help to me. I simply can’t thank you enough.’

Mrs Atkins looked mildly surprised. ‘But I have done nothing except tell you a few stories from the past.’

‘On the contrary,’ John answered, bowing once more. ‘This house, or should I say its contents, has answered all the questions that I needed to know.’

* * *

The Apothecary had found his driver in The Seahorse and in that hostelry had himself consumed several glasses of the best claret in the house in order to celebrate his remarkable discovery. Then, slightly tipsy, he had climbed into the coach, which had set off in the early afternoon in order to negotiate the bends and twists of the hazardous Sloane Lane during the daylight hours. The driver taking the extra care of one who has had slightly too much to drink, went at a snail’s pace, and they arrived back in Berkeley Square past the official hour for dining. Paying him off handsomely and bidding the man a grateful farewell, John hurried into the house through the back entrance and, without ceremony, went to find Coralie Clive.

He had decided during the journey to say nothing to her of his findings, neither wishing to worry nor upset her, but for all his good intentions he was still in a state of some exuberance as he went into the small salon in which Rudge had said she would be found. But there the Apothecary stopped short in the doorway, his mouth opening in surprise at the sight that awaited him.

A perfect facsimile of Sarah Delaney sat upon the sofa, sipping a sherry and reading a book. Gone were Coralie’s midnight curls and in their place bounced a lively red wig, as like the hair of her fellow actress as made no difference. The dress Miss Clive wore, if not actually belonging to Lady Delaney, was a perfect imitation of the style she adopted, and Coralie had even gone so far as to pad herself out, so that John had a sudden and overwhelming impression of how she would look if she ever became pregnant.

‘My goodness,’ he said, and his crooked smile lit his face.

‘Mr Rawlings,’ Coralie replied in formal tones, then her manner changed and she got up and went towards him, taking hold of one of his hands. ‘I am so very pleased to see you back. I have been quite nervous in the house on my own.’

John looked heroic. ‘There’s no need for that. I’m here now.’

Coralie gave a shimmering smile and he had the nasty feeling she might be suppressing a giggle. ‘Have you dined?’ she asked, clearly dropping the subject of danger.

‘No, have you?’

‘I decided to wait.’

‘How very kind. Can you give me a few moments while I change?’

‘Oh please don’t bother, this is hardly the time to be formal.’

‘No, it isn’t, is it?’ And offering her his arm, John led her into the dining room.

It was rather a haphazard meal, obviously cooked by a Runner’s wife and served by Rudge with the aid of a peacher.

In fact so strange was it that John was almost glad to rise from the table, hungry though he remained, and retire with Coralie to the safety of Lord Delaney’s library, where they sat with a decanter of port and a blazing fire.

‘Tell me,’ he said, looking at her and thinking how utterly lovely she was, even in her extraordinary disguise, ‘why are you dressed as Sarah?’

‘Because Mr Fielding asked me to do so. He said to leave the curtains undrawn in those rooms overlooking Berkeley Square and to walk about them in Lady Delaney’s attire.’

‘And did you?’

‘Oh yes. Earlier tonight I sat in the reception room trying to read. The candles were blazing, the windows bare, and I felt like an exhibit at a fair. It was most unnerving.’

‘Did anybody see you, do you think?’

‘I felt as if I was being watched continuously.’

‘You are a very brave woman,’ said John. ‘Has anybody ever told you that?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘And you are also very beautiful.’

Coralie laughed. ‘I
have
been told that.’

John got to his feet. ‘Then I’ll say no more. I don’t want to be classified as yet another of your many admirers.’

‘I didn’t know that you did admire me.’

‘Then why do you think I kissed you that night?’

‘Probably because I was being irritating.’

‘Yes, that was part of it,’ the Apothecary admitted, ‘and there was also a great deal more.’ He looked brisk. ‘But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. There’ll be no more port for either of us. Lock your door, Coralie, and put this under your pillow.’

And crossing to Lord Delaney’s desk, John removed one of Sir Gabriel’s duelling pistols from its elaborate box and handed it to her.

‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘I shall be in the room opposite and will be awake, never fear.’

‘I do fear,’ Coralie answered quietly.

‘So do I. But when he – she – they – come for us, I shall be ready and then they’ll never know how afraid I was.’

‘What a strange philosophy,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, then doing it a second time, and letting her lips linger fractionally longer. ‘But then, of course, you are a very unusual man.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied seriously, and brushed her mouth with his, before he took one of the candelabra and escorted her upstairs, their shadows throwing strange distortions onto the wall and down into the hall beneath them.

He had fully intended to stay awake all night and with this purpose in mind had put more wood on the bedroom fire and drawn up a chair before the flames. Then John had removed his coat and sat down in his shirt, breeches and waistcoat, the duelling pistol on his knees, staring into the glow and wondering what dangers awaited as the darkness grew deep. But the excitements of the day, coupled with the early hour at which he had arisen, to say nothing of the fair amount of wine he had consumed, proved too much to contend with, and the Apothecary’s eyelids had drooped then closed.

Almost at once he had experienced an extraordinary dream. He dreamt that he was back in the fisherman’s cottage in Jews Row looking at the sampler. This time, however, the name at the bottom was different but, try as he might, John simply could not decipher it. He raised his quizzing glass and peered and peered but all to no avail. The identity of the person who had created this masterly piece of needlework was obscured from his sight. At this point in the dream Mrs Atkins had rushed into the nursery and said that he was to come downstairs at once, her baby had fallen out of its bassinet and was lying unconscious. Filled with a sense of danger, John Rawlings awoke.

The bedroom was almost in darkness, only one candle still burning, the others all having guttered and flickered out, leaving just the solitary flame and the dull embers of the dying fire to throw any light. John strained his ears knowing that anyone coming to attack Coralie would, of necessity, have to climb the stairs. The window which had been deliberately left open led from the area behind the house into the kitchens, so that an intruder would have two squeaking staircases to contend with before he drew near his victim. Silently, John got to his feet and stood facing the door, the pistol in his hand.

There was no sound anywhere except for the low rumble of rhythmic snoring coming from the direction of Rudge’s bedroom. So much for the alertness of the Beak Runners, John thought grimly, and wondered what had happened to the man who was meant to prowl the house all night, keeping guard. Then he stiffened, his heart racing with fear, as another noise, faint but distinct and very close at hand, penetrated his consciousness. John cocked the pistol and stood rigid, hardly breathing, as he realised where the sound was coming from. Slowly but surely his bedroom door was opening.

The Apothecary watched in horror and for the first time knew the reality of being frozen to the spot as, inch by inch, the gap grew wider. Then he saw a hand, its knuckles very white in the dimness, insert itself into the space, to be followed by an arm clad in black.

At last he was released from his catalepsy. ‘One more step and I’ll blow your brains out,’ he called, but strangely softly, as if it were wrong to shout in this house of enormous quiet.

The arm drew back, then pushed the door wide, and a figure slipped into the room, almost snake-like in the way it slithered through. ‘Don’t shoot,’ said a voice, and John lowered his gun in astonishment. It was Polly Rose.

He stood staring in utter amazement, quite unable to believe what his eyes were telling him. ‘God’s wounds!’ he managed eventually, his voice grating in this throat. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘What do you think?’ she answered, and threw back the black velvet hood which had been concealing her face.

Trembling with shock, John stared at her speechlessly. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he finally managed to utter.

‘Oh come now,’ she said, closing the door behind her and advancing into the room with arms outstretched. ‘I thought we made an agreement?’

‘Agreement?’ he echoed stupidly.

‘That we could pleasure ourselves with each other whenever we wished. And tonight I wished for you.’

‘But how did you know where I was?’

‘Very simply. I followed you.’

John shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this.’

‘Why?’ said Polly, sitting down on the bed and removing her cloak and shoes.

‘Because my whereabouts are meant to be strictly secret, yet you found me without difficulty.’

‘Ah, but I am your mistress,’ the seamstress answered, and with nimble fingers started to unbutton her gown.

Putting down the pistol, John crossed towards her. ‘Polly, don’t. Not tonight of all nights. We are in great danger in this house. You really must leave at once.’

She lay back on the bed and in the dimness her mouth was a red rose in full bloom, flagrant against the lily of her skin. ‘I thought you desired me.’