Death at the Devil's Tavern (19 page)

Seated in a large chair by the fire was old Lady Hodkin, whilst behind her, standing in a somewhat deferential pose, was a middle-aged woman whom he took to be Hesther. Having heard John remark on her notably plain appearance, Sir Gabriel was aware that tonight the poor creature had indeed made an effort. Rather badly, in a very hit or miss style but there for all that, was a gallant attempt at the use of cosmetics. Admittedly, the cheeks were too rouged, the lips too carmined, whilst the use of patches was eccentric to say the least, but still there was a glow in Hesther's darkened eyes which burned even more brightly when Sir Gabriel bowed in her direction.

Besides these two females there were three others present. Hugh's wife Maud, who made a deep curtsey, obviously keen to make a good impression this time, and a dark beautiful strong woman whose lovely neck revealed her to be Sir William's widowed daughter-in-law, Lydia. Having saluted them, Sir Gabriel turned to the third, the burnished Juliette. Looking as luscious as a fruit with her pale skin and glowing hair, she was studiously ignoring her twin brother, who had moved away from the family group and was presently studying a piece of music over by the harpsichord. Wondering if the siblings had quarrelled over something, Sir Gabriel turned to regard the rest of the company.

Roger was instantly apparent because of his gorgeous clothes and fulsome manner. Tonight, he wore garter blue silk breeches which fitted within an inch of his life, together with a coat of pale purple velvet turned up with lemon colour, the ensemble completed by lilac stockings. Though the rest of the family had already put on mourning, the eldest son was obviously cocking a snook at convention and waiting until tomorrow, Sir Gabriel thought. Roger stared, quite clearly thunderstruck, at Sir Gabriel's starkly eye-catching evening clothes, effected as ever in deepest black and glittering silver.

In stark contrast to the blood's vivid ensemble, a traditionally handsome, serious young man who had to be Luke Challon, stood stiff-legged and clearly unhappy, helping himself unobserved from the sherry decanter. Whilst Hugh, very much as if he were now master of the house, stood directly in front of the fire, warming his posterior and smiling around him urbanely.

So this, John's father thought, was all of them, with the exception of Amelia Lambourn and Valentine Randolph. Was it from these ranks that a killer had risen up and struck Sir William a mortal blow? Or had someone removed from the family been responsible? With a clutch at his heart, Sir Gabriel turned to face the group, introduced himself, made a general speech of apology for intruding at such a sensitive time, then devoted his attention to Lady Hodkin, certain that if she approved of him he would be able to find out much that John had been prevented from doing.

As it happened, he had a stroke of luck he could not have guessed at. Lady Hodkin proved to have a fondness for drink, a fact which combined to make her both irritable and garrulous. Trading on this, Sir Gabriel signalled to the footman every time her glass was empty, meanwhile behaving in so charming a manner that she was soon treating him as a confidant and directing her irascibility towards the others. Poor Hesther, who sat tongue-tied and flushed on Sir Gabriel's other side, came in for her share of scorn from which he rescued her so cleverly that she looked at him from then on with dog-like devotion.

‘Foolish frump,' Lady Hodkin was saying. ‘Spent all her life mooning after William instead of finding herself a husband. Now she's on the shelf and who's fault is it, eh?'

‘It does not behove me to speak ill of the dead, but I would say Sir William's,' Sir Gabriel answered smoothly.

Lady Hodkin glowered at him. ‘What's that?'

‘I blame Sir William for not observing your daughter's quiet charm,' he continued without faltering.

His hostess hovered on the brink of various emotions, then came down in favour of amusement. ‘Oh, that's rich, Sir. Quiet charm, eh? Well, you may be right at that. The old fool made an arse of himself over some whore with a merry smile and an eye on his fortune, so perhaps he didn't like 'em docile. But too late for all that now, Hesther. Somebody's done for him and serve the silly fellow right.'

Her voice rang down the length of the table and everyone stopped eating. There was a horrified silence, then Hugh said, ‘Be quiet, Grandmother.'

Lady Hodkin fumed. ‘No, I won't be quiet, d'ye hear? Your father begged for trouble when he became involved with that slut from the Spa. Now fate has caught up with him and I for one cannot say I'm sorry.'

‘Mother!' exclaimed Hesther, mortified, and it was at that moment that the footman assigned to the front door appeared and announced in ringing tones that the first mourners, come to pay their respects to the body, had arrived.

‘Show 'em into the library and tell 'em we'll join 'em shortly,' ordered Roger. His eye ran over Sir Gabriel's garb. ‘I'll just go and change into something more fitting. A little jet would not be out of place I think.'

‘Peacock,' remarked Lady Hodkin nastily. She turned to Sir Gabriel. ‘Would you oblige an old woman, Sir, and give me your arm when we attend the lying in state?'

‘If the gentlemen give me permission,' he answered tactfully.

Before his grandmother could give a snort of contempt regarding what they thought, Roger spoke up. ‘We'd be only too delighted, Sir, believe me.'

He spoke with such heavy emphasis that it was all Sir Gabriel could do to conceal a smile, particularly when Juliette let out a barely suppressed giggle.

Hugh joined the conversation. ‘In view of the fact that the mourners are here, shall we dispense with the serving of port until later?'

There was a murmur of agreement and everyone stood up. Lady Hodkin hooked her full weight onto Sir Gabriel's elbow, Hesther hovering nervously behind, then majestically made her way across the entrance hall into an enormous mirror-lined saloon which lay beyond.

A bizarre spectacle awaited Sir Gabriel's horrified gaze. Yellow wax tapers had been placed in sconces around the room, as had four large candles, each standing at the corners of the coffin. The light from these muted illuminations reflected in the mirrors giving the entire saloon a strangely haunted look. Added to this was the fact that sable cloth had been hung in the spaces between the glass, so as much darkness was imaged there as was light.

In the midst of this unworldly glow stood Sir William's coffin, resting on a trestle table. It was open, the lid lying by its side, so that the dead man's body, surrounded by white silk, was clearly on view to the slow procession of onlookers who now began to file past. Sir Gabriel sniffed delicately. It was the seventh night since John had happened on the body in The Devil's Tavern and no amount of embalming, however skilled the craftsman, could disguise the smell of death which hovered tangibly in the air. Beside him, Hesther made a strange sound and Sir Gabriel touched her arm reassuringly. He felt rather than saw her heartfelt look of thanks.

Even in a remote and rural spot like Bethnal Green there seemed an abundance of people come to pay their last respects and Sir Gabriel guessed that every neighbour for several miles around had braved the darkness to attend the lying in state, highly fashionable as this pastime was. Indeed, there were often near riots in London squares when hundreds descended upon a house to go in single line past a coffin, queuing down the street to gain admittance and thus bringing normal traffic to a standstill.

One hour passed, two, and still the winding procession went on. Then, at last, the final mourner traipsed by the deceased, head bowed, and Lady Hodkin spoke, her words slurring slightly. ‘There's claret and ale, cakes and biscuits, for you all. Attend me in the library if you would.' And she led the way, still clinging to Sir Gabriel for support.

‘One of your relatives?' he heard an acquaintance enquire of Hesther.

‘Er … no. Just a friend.'

‘He seems to be doing wonders with Lady Hodkin. Just the sort of stalwart to have around at the time of a funeral, my dear.'

‘Yes,' Hesther answered, swallowing audibly. ‘I can only pray that he stays for it.'

‘I beg your pardon?' asked the other.

‘I said I hope he doesn't go away,' came the faint reply as Hesther, obviously exhausted by all that had happened, gave way to a storm of uncontrolled public weeping.

An evening spent in the company of Serafina and Louis de Vignolles, John Rawlings's closest friends other than for Samuel Swann, was normally that odd combination of being both stimulating and relaxing. Stimulating in the wit of the conversation, the fund of amusing anecdotes; relaxing as was any occasion when good food and fine wine were consumed in convivial company. But tonight all three members of this trio of companions were below their usual level of gaiety. John, very conscious of the fact that he must leave early in the morning for Sir William Hartfield's funeral; Serafina fidgeting as she tried to find a comfortable position in which to sit; the Comte anxiously watching every move his wife made.

She was now in the sixth month of her pregnancy with a hearty, lively baby who danced inside her from mom till night, thrilling yet tiring its charming mother. For much as Serafina loved entertaining and being entertained, the need to retire early was becoming of paramount importance to her as she grew nearer her time. Yet her fondness for the young apothecary who had once played such a key role in mending her marriage led Serafina to delay longer than she should have done, and insist that John sampled the French brandy purchased especially by her husband for their favourite guests, before he left.

‘I see so little of you,' she cajoled. ‘Stay another hour.'

John looked at her and smiled as she stifled a yawn. ‘No, Madam, fifteen minutes is my limit. Tomorrow I have to return to Bethnal Green for Sir William's funeral and must get to bed early tonight.'

‘Why are you going? Do you expect his murderer to be present?'

Louis interrupted. ‘Serafina, what foolish questions! How would John know if the killer will be there?'

‘Because he probably has a fair idea by now who is responsible.'

‘Very far from it. Things should become clearer, though, when I have seen Sir William's will,' the Apothecary put in.

‘I do hope the poor man has not left much money to that scampish gambling son of his,' Serafina answered, yawning in earnest.

‘Do you mean Julian?'

‘Yes. The boy with the beautiful face and eyes.'

John paused, his brandy glass half way to his lips. ‘Beautiful? Is he? Do you know that idea never struck me.'

‘I considered him very much so. But then I have not seen him for a while, having given up the gamester's life.' She smiled ruefully.

‘I wonder if Julian is something of a Miss Molly,' the Apothecary said thoughtfully.

Serafina shrugged, her gorgeous shoulders rising in such an expressive gesture that John found himself staring at her with an adoring smile on his face. ‘Perhaps he worries not whether he wears kicks or corsets,' she said carelessly.

‘You are vulgar,' commented Louis, grinning.

Serafina laughed. ‘Quean or queen, it probably makes no difference to him.'

Louis guffawed as only a Frenchman could. ‘Who is this poor fellow you are so maligning?'

‘The male half of boy and girl twins, son of the murder victim and an habitual, though incompetent, gambler.'

‘He sounds as if he has very little to recommend him,' said the Comte still laughing.

‘Ah, but that's the puzzle of it,' John replied speculatively, ‘he really isn't a bad young man at all.'

‘Too much feminine influence from his sister, I dare swear. What we would call in France a petticoat boy.'

‘You're probably quite right about that,' the Apothecary answered, and stared into his brandy glass contemplatively as the first faint glimmering of an idea started to come to him.

Frederick Bull, the landlord of The George, that excellent hostelry situated beside the track leading to rustic Bethnal Green, had expected good business to come his way on the day of Sir William Hartfield's funeral, and in anticipation had taken the trouble to make certain preparations. As a mark of respect, the parlour, that part of the inn kept exclusively for the use of people of quality, had been draped with black ribbon. While a terrible drawing of the deceased, executed by the young footman in love with Suky, the landlord's daughter, was hung with black plumes, bought at considerable expense from a draper in Mile End New Town. This, together with a general clean up and an extra polishing of tankards, was as far as Mr Bull was prepared to go, however, in his demonstration of esteem for the dear departed.

None the less, his efforts were to be amply rewarded. The first customer to arrive was Sir William's office manager, Mr Randolph, who rode into the stables on the night before the funeral and promptly took a room. Not long after this, Mr Luke Challon had come up from the Hall to say that a lady would be requiring a chamber for the night and had made a reservation in the name of Miss Lambourn. Mr Bull had been set agog, knowing full well as he did, that this was the name of the young woman Sir William had intended to marry. But there was to be further excitement next morning.

No sooner had the breakfasts been served – Miss Lambourn had a cup of chocolate in her room and nothing further – than the next visitor arrived. The good-looking young man from London, Mr Rawlings, had appeared on horseback and asked if he might book a room in which to change into his funeral clothes. This had duly been arranged and later on, clad in sombre hues, Mr Rawlings had stepped into the parlour for refreshment, only to discover Mr Randolph and Miss Lambourn, firmly ensconced and talking most earnestly.

Momentarily surprised, the Apothecary had gathered his wits and remembered that the couple had met on the doomed wedding day, and probably several times before that. He had gone to their table and bowed politely.