Death at the Beggar's Opera (7 page)

‘Miss Clive! Is anything wrong?’

‘I just wanted a private word, that’s all.’

Staring at her closely, the Apothecary saw that she was as pale as glass, her skin blanched and stretched so tightly over her cheekbones that her face looked almost mask-like.

‘You’re ill,’ he said quietly. ‘Come and sit down.’

She shook her head violently. ‘What I have to say can be said as well standing.’

‘Then how can I assist you?’

‘Once, long ago, in a very clumsy way, I helped to save your life. Now it is my turn to ask a favour.’

‘What is it?’

‘I know that Mr Fielding admires and respects you …’

‘Yes?’

‘So I want you to persuade him that I did not kill my lover.’

John’s heart lurched wretchedly. ‘I take it you mean Jasper Harcross?’

A tear trickled from one of Coralie’s glorious eyes. ‘Oh yes. You see I was fatally attracted to him at one point. Indeed it was he who took away my innocence, more’s the pity. But my only reward was to be discarded cruelly. To him I was a toy, a trifle, a mere bagatelle. You can well imagine that I wished him dead, Mr Rawlings.’

‘I would rather not hear this.’

‘Why, are you afraid of what I might be about to tell you?’

‘Yes,’ said John simply, ‘I think I could be very afraid indeed.’

‘None the less …’ started Coralie, and then in the darkness of the stage something moved behind them.

‘Who’s there?’ called the Apothecary, wild with fright.

But there was only the sound of the theatre boy sighing as he turned in his sleep, and the closing of the stage door as somebody unseen went quietly out.

The villages of Chelsea and Kensington, lying only a few miles from the City of London, yet both being places of unequalled rural splendour, had a simple charm about them which John Rawlings had always found utterly captivating. With the river lapping against its shores, Chelsea had once been a fishing village and nothing more pretentious than that. Yet nowadays, with the building of the great Ranelagh Gardens, the most exclusive of all the pleasure gardens with its exorbitant entry fee of 2/6d., the
beau monde
came to Chelsea in droves, mainly for the somewhat boring delight of walking round and round Ranelagh’s Rotunda in order to see and be seen. Kensington, however, could boast no such grand entertainment, not lying on the river and therefore not having the easy access provided by the waterway. Instead it lay, small and unassuming, in the midst of sweet green meadowland, geographically near to the metropolis but a million miles from its noise and strife.

The rich and famous had long since discovered these idyllic retreats. Sir Thomas More had moved to Chelsea whilst still Chancellor of the Exchequer; King Charles II had built The Hospital of Maymed Soldiers there; Jonathan Swift had taken lodgings near the river because he enjoyed the stroll into London. Kensington, in turn, could boast a palace, built by Wren for King William, who had shared a crown with his wife, Mary. Also situated outside the village was Holland House, owned by the politician Henry Fox, one of the most impressive buildings for miles around. But it was to a much smaller residence, standing just a little way from the cart track running through the centre of Kensington, that John, together with Samuel and a Beak Runner, now made their way, their unpleasant duty to inform Jasper Harcross’s wife that she had only a short while ago become a widow. They had left London early after very little sleep, returning to Nassau Street in the small hours, then being too excited to rest. Over and over again, John had thought of Coralie Clive and her urgent, whispered words, and had shuddered to think of their implications. That she had been the dead man’s mistress was alarming enough, but the idea that the actress was guilty of murder and might be using her scant acquaintanceship with the Apothecary to attempt to clear herself, frankly appalled him.

‘God dammit,’ he had exclaimed angrily over a hastily snatched breakfast, causing Sir Gabriel Kent, up early to find out what was going on, to look at him quizzically, while Samuel raised his jolly eyebrows until they almost met his wig. In the carriage sent by the Principal Magistrate to take them to Kensington, John’s mood had not improved a great deal. Staring out of the window, he soon relapsed into silence and left it to Samuel and Benjamin Rudge, the Runner, to exchange pleasantries. Even the journey through countryside that grew ever more pastoral and remote, failed to excite him, enthusiastic traveller though the Apothecary normally was. In short, he felt worried and depressed and could hardly wait to see Coralie Clive again, to ask her to explain herself more fully.

‘Well,’ said Samuel, rubbing his hands together in somewhat nervous anticipation and dragging John’s attention back to the ordeal that lay before them. ‘I wonder what Mrs Harcross is going to be like.’

‘I wonder if she’s going to be our killer,’ added Benjamin cheerfully.

John shook his head. ‘I doubt it, somehow. It would be quite a feat to come across country during the night, then make one’s way to the theatre in order to saw the gallows floorboards through.’

‘But think of her motive, or motives!’ Samuel replied. ‘Why, her husband seems to have been sleeping with everybody.’

‘I don’t know where some people get the energy,’ said the Runner, roaring and slapping his thigh at this fairly unfunny remark.

‘I expect he took pills,’ answered Samuel earnestly. ‘There are tablets for that sort of thing, aren’t there, John?’

‘Indeed there are. I should say a good third of my income comes from mixing compounds to keep the ageing male population of London performing lustily in the boudoir.’

‘What a depressing thought.’

‘Yes, isn’t it.’

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said the Runner, grinning broadly. ‘There’s no need to be upsetting yourselves. You’ve time on your side, which is more than those old goats have. And as for Mr Harcross, well, his time ran out, didn’t it?’

‘I wonder what his wife’s going to be like?’ Samuel repeated, sounding bewildered and slightly nervous.

‘We’ll know in a minute,’ John answered grimly. ‘Isn’t that the house described to us over there?’

‘Yes, that’s it, Mr Rawlings. Just where Mr Garrick said it would be.’

‘I still think it strange that he kept the fact of the marriage secret,’ Samuel continued in much the same tone of voice.

‘David Garrick, d’you mean? Or Jasper Harcross?’

‘Well, both really. It seems so odd that none of the other actors appeared to know about it.’

‘In my view, there might lie the motive,’ put in Benjamin Rudge.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That somebody happened on the fact that her lover was already married and therefore merely trifling with her affections. And, as a result, love turned to hate – with fatal consequences.’

Remembering the tightly stretched skin of Coralie’s face, almost as if it were frozen, John audibly drew in his breath.

‘We must not rule out the male sex from this affair. Any one of them might well have loathed Jasper Harcross enough to do away with him.’

The Runner nodded. ‘That’s true enough. Now, gentlemen, shall I undertake the task of breaking the news? Then you can stand by to give medical aid if need be.’ He looked at the Apothecary.

‘Very tactfully put,’ John answered. ‘I’d rather you than me.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Samuel, as the carriage drew to a halt before a small, neat house of pleasing proportions.

Swiftly checking his bag for the correct remedies to treat shock, John alighted with the others and mounted the two steps that raised the front door from the level of the street. Then he stood, staring in anticipation, as the Runner gave a loud and portentous knock.

‘Who’s there?’ called a voice. ‘Jasper, is that you?’

‘No, Ma’am,’ Benjamin Rudge shouted back. ‘I’ve come from the Public Office at Bow Street. Would it be possible to speak to you for a moment?’

‘Of course,’ the voice replied, and John heard the sound of bolts being drawn back and a key turning in the lock. Then the front door opened.

The Apothecary did not know what he had been expecting, though he had harboured vague notions of a fresh-faced country girl, a bucolic milkmaid, as the only sort of person who could be married to Jasper and not be aware of his philandering. But the woman who stood in the doorway was most certainly none of those things, indeed it was an intelligent, humourous and sophisticated face he found himself regarding. Framed by a cloud of silver hair which she wore swept up beneath a lace cap, were a pair of shrewd eyes, crystal grey, the lines of experience and worldliness round them revealing that this woman was far from young, indeed had probably seen her fiftieth birthday some while ago. Her nose, too, strong and aquiline as it was, had grooves running beneath it. While her lips, sensuous still, were surrounded by that faint tracery of lines which denotes the passing of the years.

It shot through John’s head that this could only be Jasper’s mother-in-law, and before he could stop himself he found he was saying, ‘We are sorry to trouble you, Ma’am, but we wondered if we might have a word with your daughter.’

The woman frowned. ‘My daughter?’

‘Yes,’ John blundered on. ‘For she is Mrs Harcross, is she not?’

She shot him a glance of amused contempt, as if she were thoroughly used to this kind of remark. ‘No, I am Mrs Harcross.’

‘Mrs Jasper Harcross?’ asked the Runner incredulously, compounding John’s terrible gaffe.

She cut across him impatiently. ‘What is all this? You said you came from the Public Office. Kindly state your business.’

‘May we step inside?’ asked Benjamin.

‘No you may not. How do I know who you are? You could be any kind of thief or blackguard.’

‘Then I am afraid you must prepare yourself to receive some bad news where you stand, Madam.’

John found himself automatically opening his bag and slipping his hand in for salts as the voice of authority continued, ‘I am sorry to have to inform you that Mr Harcross met with an accident in the theatre last night.’

Her skin went the colour of her hair but she did not falter otherwise. ‘An accident?’

‘Yes, Mrs Harcross. I am grieved to say that your husband died as a result of a misadventure on stage.’

Now she clung to the door for support and John automatically ran to help her, administering the salts as he led her inside and sat her in a low chair. Close to Jasper’s widow like that, he could feel the grace with which she moved and sense the power of her charm. It occurred to him in that split second that she had once been an actress, and in that fact lay the key to the extraordinary relationship she and her husband shared.

‘This misadventure,’ she asked, in a low beautifully modulated voice which only served to confirm John’s theory. ‘What was it exactly?’

The Apothecary decided to tell the truth, knowing that to protect her further was only going to delay and worsen the shock.

‘I’m afraid he was hanged during the gallows scene. The planking beneath his feet had been tampered with so that he fell through. The fall broke his neck.’

Mrs Harcross’s hands flew to her throat. ‘Oh how terrible! Who could have done such a thing?’ Then her face changed and a worldly-wise expression crossed her features. ‘But how silly of me to ask. Jasper played with fire and has done so for years. One cannot treat women as if they are gloves to be picked up, used, and then tossed aside. I suppose one could say that retribution has finally caught up with him.’

There was a noise from the doorway as Benjamin and Samuel, tired of waiting, entered the small hall. Mrs Harcross drew John’s head down so that she could murmur in his ear and, seeing her so closely, he was struck by the fact that she had once been a great beauty.

‘Listen to me,’ she said urgently. ‘Return here tomorrow and bring the Blind Beak with you – yes, I know all about him, I do visit town you know. I am prepared to tell him everything I can to help him find Jasper’s killer but I refuse to bare my soul in front of those two. Now I shall play faint so please to tend me.’ And Mrs Harcross swiftly rose from her chair, flung herself down on the sofa, and closed her eyes. John could not help it, his curved smile appeared before his expression grew serious and he went to fetch a damp cloth for his patient’s brow.

‘Is she fit to answer questions?’ asked Benjamin anxiously

John shook his head, keeping his face very straight. ‘I’m afraid not. She is weak with shock and should rest for a while. I think it might be better if someone came back tomorrow.’

Samuel groaned. ‘Well, I can’t for a start. My father and I are going to look at possible premises for the goldsmith’s business I hope to open soon. I must devote some time to my own affairs.’

The Runner scratched his head. ‘This is very awkward. I shall have to consult with Mr Fielding.’

The Apothecary nodded, adding in an undertone, ‘That would be the best plan. Being the extraordinary sort of woman she is, it occurs to me that the Beak might like to question Mrs Harcross himself.’

Benjamin Rudge looked relieved. ‘I reckon you’re right there, Mr Rawlings.’ He turned his attention to the figure on the sofa. ‘Now, Ma’am, do you have a neighbour who can keep an eye on you? For the fact of the matter is that these gentlemen and I will have to return to town. But that won’t be the last of it I’m afraid. The Public Office is duty bound to ask you some questions about your late husband, and to that end someone will return here tomorrow when you are more in control of yourself.’

Mrs Harcross smiled faintly. ‘It is kind of you to be so considerate. And, yes, I shall be perfectly all right. This is only a small village and everyone is very friendly.’

‘Then I shall leave you some compound,’ John said solemnly. ‘Swallow a spoonful every hour to help you keep calm. And tonight I would like you to take some of these tablets so that you will get a good night’s sleep.’

‘I will do as you say,’ she answered, then added in a softer voice, ‘Until tomorrow, Sir.’

‘Until then,’ John answered as he made his departure.

The carriage arrived in Bow Street shortly after one o’clock, but John, knowing that he was to dine with the Blind Beak that evening, resisted the temptation to call on Mr Fielding. Instead he directed the driver to Nassau Street, where the Apothecary enjoyed a luxurious soak in his bath tub before changing into twilight clothes and going to seek out his father in the library. By the time these preparations were done it was dark, there being little light after three o’clock on such bleak November days, and John, as always, felt a glow of almost sensual pleasure as he walked into the exquisite room to see the rich floor-length curtains drawn against the night, the candles lit and the fire gleaming in the hearth. These were the feelings he always associated with his father, comfort and companionship coupled with two rather oddly related attributes, style and rare intelligence.