Death at the Devil's Tavern (11 page)

‘On the contrary, you are grieving for him in your heart so smiles are not forbidden. Now, is that the picture of your family complete?'

‘All but for Luke, though he is not actually related. My father took him on as secretary some years ago. I believe he is a younger son of some noble house with no hope of an inheritance. Anyway, despite the fact that he is not tied to us by blood, he lives with the family and seems one of us. He is as devoted to Papa as a dog. Was as devoted …'

Her voice trailed away sadly and Julian put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Shall we go now? Controlling emotions can be very difficult and the strain is beginning to tell on you, I think.'

Intensely sorry that two such burnished and beautiful individuals were having to carry so cruel a burden of sorrow, John got to his feet.

‘I regret that I have been the bearer of such grievous news.'

‘Someone had to tell us,' Julian answered sensibly.

‘But a family member might have been better.'

‘Not at all,' Juliette continued. ‘They are all so strange, in their different ways, that I preferred to hear the facts from you.' She curtsied and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye Mr Rawlings. I hope that we can meet again soon.'

‘So do I,' said John, and bowed.

A voice spoke from the doorway and all three of them turned to see that Roger, very white in the face and clad from top to toe in black, in fact in the very same clothes he had worn to Sir William's wedding, had come silently into the room.

‘Lydia has informed me that you wish me to accompany you to the mortuary, there to lay claim to my father's remains,' he said theatrically.

‘And to make formal identification of the body to the Coroner.'

‘I thought that had been done.'

‘No, Sir. Identification has been surmised from the effects. It is the duty of a close friend or relative to do the rest.'

Roger staggered slightly. ‘I hope I am up to this.'

‘Of course you are,' said Julian shortly, as he led his twin from the room.

‘It's all very well for him,' remarked Roger pettishly as the door closed behind his younger siblings. ‘He hasn't got to do the ghastly task.'

‘I'll be there,' said John. ‘And I can give you some physic before you go in which will help to keep you strong.'

Roger looked at him moist-eyed. ‘How very charming of you, my dear fellow. I shall hold you to that.'

‘Do,' said the Apothecary and held the door politely as his companion went out.

In order to avoid putting any extra strain on Roger's fragile nerves, it was decided that the first part of the journey, beyond London Bridge as far as Billingsgate Stairs, should be undertaken by coach. Consequently, John found himself bobbing down the length of The Strand and Fleet Street in one of the most luxurious and expensive equipages in which it had ever been his good fortune to travel. Wealth and opulence breathed from the highly polished wood of the body work, the large and finely balanced springs ensuring as comfortable a ride as possible to the passengers, while the four generous windows allowed a good view of the passing parade. Outside, the carriage was decorated by panels depicting roses and fat naked cupids with bouncing buttocks. Within, luxurious padded red velvet covered the seats and there was a hand-painted chamber pot discreetly hidden beneath one of them lest there should be an urgent call from nature.

Seeing John's admiring glances, Roger said carelessly, ‘Do you like it?'

‘Very much.'

‘It's mine. Father would never have allowed such ornamentation on his carriage. He was somewhat staid, you know.'

‘Not as regards keeping a mistress, though.'

Roger frowned. ‘Oh you've heard about that, have you? It's true, alas. He fell in with a grasping chit who insisted upon marriage once my poor mother had gone to her rest.'

‘But Sir William never attended the ceremony. Presumably because he was already dead.'

The beau blanched even paler. ‘Oh don't talk about it! The very thought turns my stomach.'

‘Will you be all right to travel by water?' the Apothecary enquired anxiously.

‘Probably not.'

John's heart sank and he fished in his bag. ‘Do take this, Mr Hartfield. It is pleasant to the taste and really should help to settle any queasiness.'

‘What does it contain?'

‘A little secret of my own,' the Apothecary answered swiftly, covering the fact that he had filled his holdall in such a hurry he could scarcely remember what he had put in it.

Roger uncorked the phial and downed the contents in a single swallow. ‘Excellent,' he said, his eyes lighting up. He lowered his lids. ‘By the way, do call me Roger.'

John gulped noisily. ‘Er … yes … of course.'

Climbing Ludgate Hill and Ludgate Street, the carriage skirted round the back of St Paul's Church Yard and into Cheapside, where the daily market was in full swing and the conveyance reduced to walking pace in order to avoid the various stalls. Passing St Mary-le-Bow, whose famous Bow Bells had rung out the curfew in the Middle Ages, they made their way along Poultry, then into Cornhill, where they turned right as if going down to London Bridge itself. However, after a sharp turn into Thames Street, the coachman came to a halt, the way no longer being wide enough to permit entry. Cautiously, John alighted, realising that they were right by Billingsgate Fish Market, as famous for its foul oaths as it was for its fish. Guessing that one sight of Roger, albeit in black, would set the fishmongers off, John walked with eyes down, his ears assailed by obscenities, most of them casting doubt on Roger's masculinity, until he and his companion had reached the relative safety of Billingsgate Stairs where, clustered amongst the many tall masted ships riding at anchor, some wherrymen waited for custom. It was a profound relief to take to the water and finally escape the catcalls.

Contrary to the Apothecary's worst fears, the beau endured the journey well and showed no further signs of faintness until they reached the morgue itself. But once there the sickly scent of death that pervaded the place, despite the herbs and other aromatic substances used to combat the odour of decay, proved too much for him. Dragging a lace trimmed handkerchief to his nostrils, Roger let out a high pitched shriek and leant heavily on his companion.

‘God's mercy, John, what's that terrible stink?' he gasped.

‘These corpses await burial, Sir,' the Apothecary answered honestly.

‘Oh lud, can you not identify my father? One further step and I swear I shall vomit.'

‘You won't,' John stated firmly. ‘The physick I gave you will hold your stomach firm.'

‘But it's heaving now.'

‘Oh come along. It won't take a moment.' And John propelled the miserable man forward, his hand resolutely beneath Roger's elbow.

The mortuary attendant approached, striding between the cold slabs and their sheet covered occupants with the nonchalance of one who lived amongst the dead and never gave the fact a second thought.

‘We've come to see the body believed to be that of Sir William Hartfield,' the Apothecary informed him.

‘Very good. This way, gentlemen.'

Roger made a loud retching sound which John ignored as they followed the assistant through the maze of slabs and finally drew to a halt before one particular corpse. Without ceremony, the attendant twitched back the concealing sheet and Sir William's face appeared.

John turned to the beau, who had gone a glorious shade of pea green. ‘Yes?' he said.

‘Yes,' gasped Roger, and bolted for the door.

‘That's a pretty fellow!' commented the attendant with a laugh.

‘Rather delicate I fear,' John answered, grinning. He motioned to the body. ‘Do you mind if I have a closer look? I am an apothecary and interested in advancing my knowledge.'

‘By all means, Sir. As long as you leave him tidy.'

John nodded, pulling the sheet right back so that only Sir William's feet were covered.

Under the shroud, the corpse had been stripped naked and John could see at a glance that it had undergone a considerable change since he had last examined it. The hours in the river had bloated the body up so that now the skin was stretched tautly over the flesh and had a blueish shade about it. In fact so marked was this inflation that John, bending towards the balding head, found that the pattern made by the fox's head handle was no longer visible. He thought then that whoever had killed Sir William might well have known the effect water would have on his victim, and had chosen the river as a place to dispose of him with much care. But then again, John considered, the murderer might have been in a panic and pushed the body into the Thames as the most expedient way of getting it out of sight. With a sigh, he gave one last long look before drawing the sheet back over all that was left of Sir William Hartfield.

Outside, Roger was leaning against the wall, drawing deeply from a silver hip flask. ‘Can we go now?' he puffed, applying the handkerchief to his eyes.

‘Not until we've visited the Coroner and asked him to release your late father's remains.'

‘Oh pox it!' said the beau, stamping his foot like a petulant child. ‘I've had enough of death for one day.'

John put on a sympathetic expression and nodded, despite a growing certainty that Roger was very far from being as distressed as he wanted the world to think.

The journey back from the mortuary to St James's Square, two ill-matched points of destination if ever there were any, was not without incident. Twice Roger called for the coach to be stopped, on the first occasion that he might vomit behind a bush, on the second in order to take air and consequently avoid faintness. All in all, John, who had most reluctantly attended the beau as he heaved and gasped, had never been more glad to see civilisation return, and would have jumped straight into a hackney and gone home had not Roger insisted that he borrow his carriage. So it was that the Apothecary returned to Nassau Street in the beau's equipage, a sight which much amused Sir Gabriel, who stared long and hard through his quizzing glass at the abundantly buttocked cupids.

‘My dear, how could you allow yourself to be seen in such a thing?' he asked eventually.

‘I rather like it,' answered his son, suppressing a smile. ‘It is amusing, exuberant.'

‘Ah,' said Sir Gabriel, putting away the lorgnette, ‘is that what it is?'

‘Don't tease me,' John replied, undaunted. ‘It belongs to a man of style, a beau of cutting fashion, who happens to be the eldest son of the deceased.'

‘And a fiend of poor taste if his conveyance is anything to go by.'

‘Father, you are getting very intolerant. I am sure Mr Roger Hartfield would consider you staid in your outlook.'

‘That,' answered Sir Gabriel crisply, ‘would be entirely up to him.'

John looked at his watch. ‘Is there time for us to have sherry before supper?'

‘Of course there is. Let us go to the library. I am sure you have a great deal to tell me.'

‘And I want to hear all about Nicholas. Has he behaved himself?'

‘Impeccably. I made it my business to take a stroll to Shug Lane, partly for my health you understand, partly to see how the Muscovite was faring.'

‘And …?'

‘There he was, firmly ensconced, selling a bottle of your most expensive perfume to an eager young widow. To say nothing of a cure for foul breath to a rotten-toothed barrister's clerk.'

‘Did he bring you the day's takings?'

‘Most certainly, and I gave the boy a shilling out of it as an advance against his wages.'

‘I presume from this that you approve of him?'

‘Indeed I definitely do.' Sir Gabriel opened the library door. ‘I consider that Mr Fielding served you well with that introduction. Nicholas seems an industrious worker and, besides, the young man has something of an exotic air about him which is obviously favoured by females.'

‘How can you be so cynical?'

‘With ease,' answered Sir Gabriel, and poured two generous measures of sherry into crystal glasses. He took a seat and smiled at his son blandly. ‘A youth of Nicholas's stamp is very good for trade and there's no denying it.'

John took his glass. ‘Has he told you his story by any chance?'

‘Oh yes. We chatted in the shop while he made me tea.'

‘Do you think Tsar Peter was his great grandfather?'

‘It's possible I suppose.'

‘What an interesting thought.'

‘Isn't it.' Sir Gabriel paused, then went on, ‘You have an abstracted air, my child. Is the murder of Sir William Hartfield presenting you with a fascinating puzzle?'

‘The entire affair is fascinating. First the wedding that never took place, then the bridegroom's witness who ran from the church, then the body being held fast by the ship moored close by the very place where I was celebrating.'

His father shook his head, his daunting wig towering. ‘I don't know about that. Tell me.'

‘There was a square rigger, a beautiful, powerful vessel, moored in mid stream, just beyond The Devil's Tavern. I could see her through the window until it grew dark, when the lamps on her masts shone on the river like suns. Anyway, according to the Coroner, Sir William's body was found by the watermen, caught up in her mooring ropes. So all the time that I was staring at her, the victim was probably there, lying beneath the water.'

Sir Gabriel refilled both glasses. ‘But that means he could have been thrown in anywhere and drifted with the tide until something finally ensnared him.'

‘It certainly does. So what I have got to discover is where Sir William spent the night before his marriage. For that is the place where he most likely met his end.'

‘He was not at his St James's Square address then?'

‘No. Roger Hartfield told me on the journey to Wapping, between bouts of sickness and swooning, that though he was not at home himself, he was informed by the servants that his father left the house on the night prior to the ceremony and did not return.'