Death at the Beggar's Opera (33 page)

‘Will she be told all this?’ asked Amelia Verity.

‘No doubt she will discover it,’ John answered heavily, ‘but I for one intend to remain silent.’

Again there was a murmur of agreement, sufficiently strong to give him hope that the terrible truth about Mrs Harcross’s children would not come from the people of Drury Lane. Somebody unseen asked the inevitable question. ‘How did Dick and Polly die?’ The Blind Beak’s voice sounded amazingly matter-of-fact. ‘Dick wounded a Runner and, in turn, was shot himself. Polly chose suicide and put a pistol to her head. She obviously could not face Tyburn Tree.’

Coralie spoke again. ‘And you really had no idea about her, John?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘Mr Jago, the Magistrate’s clerk, swore that I would know the identity of the murderer after the announcement that you had disappeared. And, strangely, I did intercept a look Polly gave me. It was dark and black, unreadable. But I thought she was annoyed with me over some trivial matter and did not interpret it for what it actually was. In other words I closed my mind to the idea that she could be guilty, even though the evidence was there all along.’

‘I see,’ said Coralie, and John thought, Oh God, she does!

Mr Fielding broke in. ‘Are there any more questions?’

David Garrick spoke for the first time. ‘Fellow members of the company, I believe that we owe a great debt of gratitude to John Fielding, whose brilliant brother contributed so much to the literary splendour of this fair realm. And also, of course, we must give thanks to John Rawlings, the young apothecary who first tended both Jasper and Will, and who has helped so much in bringing their slayers to book.’

There was a round of mild applause which died away, it obviously being considered a tasteless way of expressing appreciation. The Blind Beak got to his feet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope one day to meet you again in more pleasant circumstances,’ and with that he tapped his way across the stage and vanished from view.

Everyone stood up, all looking slightly stunned, and though John was longing to stare round at Coralie, he felt it wiser not to do so. Then the Veritys came towards him, smiling broadly, and his attention was distracted elsewhere.

‘Mr Rawlings,’ said Amelia, holding out a hand which he kissed, much to the annoyance of Samuel. ‘I do vow and declare you thought Adam and I were the Egletons at one stage. Am I right?’

‘You most certainly are. Particularly after the Comtesse de Vignolles saw you behaving somewhat strangely in Kensington, a fact which she reported back to me.’

Adam’s bright eyes flashed. ‘Ah, yes. Well … er … there is an explanation for that.’

John gleamed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking for it.’

“Zounds, but you’ll hear it none the less, my dear fellow. The truth is that I have been indulging in a liaison with a married lady of some renown, titled in fact. Well, not to mince words, my fancy has recently strayed elsewhere, you know the way it does?’

‘Only too well,’ said the Apothecary, and sighed.

‘Anyway, she cut up damnably awkward and said she would tell her husband all if I did not stay with her. She got so savage about the whole thing that I had a mind to tell the Public Office of her blackmailing threats. Amelia, who is a damn fine woman as well as being my sister, came with me to Kensington, where the lady in question has a country place, and we attempted to see her to beg her to be lenient. But she was out and there was an end to it.’

‘How did it all resolve?’ asked Samuel, open-mouthed at such frank revelations.

‘Amelia conceived the brilliant notion of introducing her to a friend of ours, another actor from the Haymarket, much better looking than I. The stratagem worked and Madam has decamped with my supposed rival.’ He burst out laughing.

The Goldsmith, who was obviously longing to say something, could be seen adopting a bold stance before he asked, ‘Mr Verity, if you are agreeable, I would like to invite Miss Verity to accompany me to a ridotto at Ranelagh Gardens on this forthcoming Friday.’

Adam grinned. ‘That depends entirely on my sister’s wishes.’

Samuel whirled, windmill like, to face Amelia. ‘Madam, it would give me great pleasure if you would allow me to escort you.’

‘How could I refuse so charming an invitation,’ she replied, and curtsied.

Samuel lit up like a beacon and John suddenly felt rather saddened and alone, memories of poor dead Lucy, completely crazy though she clearly had been, filling his thoughts.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Adam, sensing something of the Apothecary’s unhappy feelings and trying to put things right. ‘May I invite you to New Bond Street to sink a bumper or two? There’ll be no more work for me today.’

‘Nor me,’ said Amelia spiritedly. ‘I’ll put the shop in the hands of my head girl.’ She turned to look at John. ‘Anyway, my dears, sad though it is, I feel we should drink to the safe passing of troubled spirits. May they rest in peace.’

‘Yes,’ answered the Apothecary quietly, ‘may they all rest in peace.’

That Christmas of 1754, Sarah Delaney, large with child and glowing with triumph, gave a ball in order to show off her new house to all her friends. She had returned from the country, once assured that danger was past, and immediately announced to her adoring husband that she could never set foot in the Berkeley Square home again. Having spent one night there and thrown into the argument a pale ghost with a peony red mouth who roamed the place crying out and weeping, her doting spouse, thinking of his unborn son, had given way and had bought his vivacious wife a splendid new establishment.

Situated in a prime position in Pall Mall, its elegant exterior decorated with a frieze depicting classical figures, its interior sumptuously filled with crystal chandeliers and alabaster pillars, Lady Delaney’s residence was considered one of the most beautiful places in London, and invitations to the house warming had been fought over by members of the
beau monde.
But despite the smattering of Princes and Dukes amongst the guests, Sarah had not forgotten her old friends, and everyone from Drury Lane theatre had received one of the highly-prized gilt-edged cards, together with all those who had been involved in the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of Jasper Harcross.

An orchestra played music for dancing in the first-floor circular saloon, reputedly one of the finest rooms in England, its walls made up of sparkling mirrors in which the lovely clothes worn by the guests were most splendidly reflected. Tables had been set for supper in the drawing and dining rooms, and card tables put up in the library and music room. In this last John Fielding sat, his wife beside him whispering the denominations of the cards he held, playing whist with the Duke of Marlborough, the Duchess of Bedford and Sir Gabriel Kent, one of the most exquisitely dressed men present, his usual garb of silver and black heightened by a great flurry of diamonds. Not to be outdone, his son, so very highly regarded by the host, was wearing a new suit of deep purple figured silk embroidered with clusters of glittering rhinestones, shiny black shoes with fancy buckles upon his feet, and a lilac coloured silk ribbon tying the queue of his wig.

In order to celebrate the Yuletide, the incomparable house had been decorated throughout with trails of greenery, and yule logs spluttered in every fireplace. A huge silver punch bowl, constantly topped up by servants with steaming jugs of potent spicy brew, stood amongst festoons of holly and ivy, scarlet ribbons tied to its handles and to the great ladle that lay beside it. One glass having a very powerful effect yet being utterly delicious and demanding a second be consumed, there was consequently a good deal of merriment, and conversation flowed easily, particularly amongst the younger people.

Standing near the bowl, glass in hand, talking to Samuel and the Veritys, John, noticing the effects of the punch give him a slightly heady feeling, found himself constantly glancing into the great overmantel mirror above the fireplace, looking to see whether Coralie Clive had come into the room. She was in the house somewhere, he knew, having watched her arrive in company with her sister and the celebrated actress Peg Woffington, David Garrick’s mistress. But after a charming smile in his direction, she had disappeared to join the dancers, and he had not been brave enough to follow her.

After the double tragedy in the house in Berkeley Square they had drawn close to one another for an enjoyable few days, comrades in misfortune. Then, when Coralie had recovered sufficiently to return home, a noticeable distance had grown between them. Of course, John had to admit, the actress’s coolness had coincided with his admission to the Drury Lane company that he had been unable to accept Polly Rose, born Lucy Egleton, as a murderer. An admission which anyone with any knowledge of the world must surely have been able to see through.

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Amelia, breaking in on his train of thought.

The milliner wore the most interesting headdress in the entire gathering, a swirl of flowers and butterflies, shimmering and iridescent, and all made up of rainbow hues. An excellent advertisement for her own establishment.

John smiled at the clever little business woman. ‘I was thinking.’

Amelia exchanged a glance with Samuel with whom, it was perfectly obvious, she now enjoyed a certain degree of intimacy.

‘Mr Swann, our friend is in a fit of gloom. What are we going to do with him?’

‘I suggest we all dance,’ her escort answered gallantly.

‘An excellent thought! Let’s find some partners,’ put in Adam, grabbing John by the arm. ‘Look, there’s Melanie Vine without either of her lovers. I’ll ask her.’ And he bowed low before his fellow thespian, who graciously extended her hand.

The Apothecary looked round, seeing whom he might lead into the ballroom, and there was Elizabeth Fielding, released from her duties at the card table, heading towards the punch bowl.

‘Madam,’ he said, with a flamboyant salute, ‘will you do me the great honour of joining me in a dance?’

She smiled delightedly. ‘Mr Rawlings, it would be a pleasure,’ and Elizabeth put her arm through his.

The saloon glittered with a hundred extra candles, the reflections of which shimmered and sparkled in the gilded mirrors and in the jewels of the dancers. Everyone was there, jolly Tom Bowdler puffing round the room with Peg Woffington, while Garrick himself danced with his legal wife, Madame Violetta. Jack Masters was leading out Madame Ruffe, who had once employed poor Polly, while Clarice and James Martin danced together, John was much touched and gladdened to see. Even Sir Gabriel had come into the room, his son observed, his partner none other than the Comtesse de Vignolles, now noticeably rounding, while Comte Louis danced with Kitty Clive. Of the girl John wanted most to see, there was no sign at all.

The music,
Bonny Dundee,
came to an end and the orchestra struck up a new refrain, a longways dance,
Would You Have a Young Virgin.
Everyone led their partners into position and it was then that the Apothecary saw Coralie Clive, flushed and laughing, and dancing with none other than that celebrated young rake, the Duke of Richmond. Jealous yet torn, because Richmond was someone whom John held in high regard and deep affection, he turned all his attention onto Elizabeth Fielding, who was obviously enjoying the rare pleasure of being able to dance.

The music changed again, this time to
Maid in the Moon,
a round for six. There was a general shuffle about and the Apothecary found that his immediate partner had gone to join a circle of others and he was now standing with Sir Gabriel Kent, Serafina de Vignolles, Samuel Swann, Amelia Verity and Coralie Clive.

‘Well,’ said Serafina, slanting her eyes at the others, ‘this could be a reflection of our situation, do you not think?’

Amelia looked blank. ‘What do you mean, Comtesse?’

‘Why, that this dance reflects our lives. When I first met Sir Gabriel, Samuel and John, we formed a quadrille as we slowly discovered the truth, each about the other. Now here we are, six of us, who no doubt will meet again and continue to dance round one another as time goes by.’

Sir Gabriel spoke, looking down at his fellow guests from his commanding height, his heavily powdered nine-storey wig making him seem taller than ever. ‘My dear Serafina, what a pretty conceit. Is it your contention that the weaving threads of fate are, then, but a dance?’

‘And that life is a series of steps, some of which might make us fall over, whilst others send us leaping on?’ asked Samuel. Then, not waiting for an answer, added, ‘I think it is a splendid notion, don’t you, Amelia?’

The milliner smiled happily and nodded, the faintest hint of deepening colour appearing in her cheeks as the fiddle struck the opening chords.

Emboldened by the punch and the brilliant surroundings and the generally heightened atmosphere, John took Coralie’s hand in his.

‘And what about you, Miss Clive? Will you continue to dance in our circle of friends or, indeed, in my circle? Or will you seek other partners?’

Her green eyes were as bright as the mistletoe berries which garlanded the mirrors and cascaded down from the chandeliers.

‘That remains to be seen, does it not?’

‘And what do those words mean exactly?’

‘That we are both young yet and have a great deal of living to do.’

‘I see.’

The music was starting up and John glanced quickly round the room. The Martins were still together, as were the Delaneys, sitting out the dance but surveying their guests with obvious pleasure. Melanie Vine, standing in her circle, had Jack Masters and Tom Bowdler on either side of her, Mr Garrick doing likewise with Madame Violetta and Peg Woffington. That loveable fox, Joe Jago, had appeared from nowhere and was now partnering Mrs Fielding. While sitting in a high chair besides his hosts, the Blind Beak was tapping his foot and had turned his bandaged eyes towards the musicians, obviously enjoying their lively sound.

There was only one missing face in all that bright company; the beautiful, haunted countenance of Elizabeth Harcross. John had never questioned his parent, not feeling it his right to do so, about what had happened when the terrible news concerning her children had finally reached her, as inevitably it must. All the Apothecary knew was that she had been missing for several days from the downstairs rooms in Nassau Street, confined to her bedroom, and that his father had spent a great deal of time talking to and comforting her. Finally, though, the unhappy woman had moved back to Kensington, leaving Sir Gabriel strangely quiet and pensive.