Death at the Devil's Tavern (33 page)

‘Either them or one of the other three. I don't know which.'

‘I wonder what she wants to say.'

‘I have simply no idea.' John straightened himself. ‘Come along, Samuel old friend. I shall clean myself up and then I suggest a brisk row across the river. I think it's high time you met that merry imp, the mudlark.'

They borrowed one of the boats belonging to the inn, the landlord considering himself heavily in John's debt for services rendered on the battlefield, and set off across the darkening Thames in the direction of The Spread Eagle. Samuel, built like a windmill and pleased to show his superior strength, did the rowing while John leaned back and let the delights of watching the river at dusk, flow over him. Yet even the Goldsmith, strong as a shire horse, found the going a little hard and the negotiation of a small craft through the lines of great ships not as easy as it looked. Somewhat relieved but refusing to say so, Samuel was delighted when John shouted out, ‘Those are Church Steps,' and he was at last able to ship his oars and bring the boat neatly to the bottom stair and tie it to one of the many mooring rings provided.

It seemed that by some most mysterious means, news of the sensational fight in The Devil's Tavern had crossed the river to the south bank, and as John and Samuel walked into The Spread Eagle somebody bellowed, ‘That's him. That's the duke what patched them up.' And a small cheer was raised.

‘So much fame,' said John, attempting to look modest.

‘So much affectation,' countered Samuel, as only an old friend could.

There was a tug at the Apothecary's elbow and he looked round to see Fred, the mudlark, a broad grin splitting his face, a frothing tankard in each hand.

‘The landlord says you are to have these on him, Sir. Remember the riverman with the bleeding nose what you seen to? Well, that was his brother.'

John relieved him of the ale. ‘Thank him very much from me. Samuel, this is Fred, former mudlark. Fred, I'd like you to meet my friend, Samuel Swann.'

‘Happy to do so,' said the potboy.

‘Former mudlark?' queried Samuel. ‘I thought you were still very much a river lad.'

‘Oh, I am, I am. It's just that I've given up me dishonest ways. But I still live by the water, up on the bank. Under an old wherry.'

The Goldsmith looked astonished. ‘Under a wherry?'

‘Yes, duke. It's overturned, see. I made a little door in it and it's big enough for me to stand up in. It's a better home than most of the mudlarks have round here.'

‘I'd like to see it,' said John.

‘Well, it's about two hundred yards downstream, just beyond Redriff. You can't miss it. Come when I'm not working.'

‘How about tomorrow?'

Fred frowned. ‘No, I'm busy. Make it the day after.'

‘I will if I'm still in the area.'

There was a loud call of ‘Boy, boy,' and the mudlark glanced furtively over his shoulder.

‘I'm wanted. Best be off. Come and see me if you can.' And he disappeared into the heaving throng.

Samuel stared after him, amazed. ‘Are there many children like that? Living by the river, completely on their own?'

‘There certainly are. Ragged, filthy, surviving on what they can thieve, ill-educated, neglected, and stronger than almost any other child in the kingdom.'

‘One could almost envy them.'

John looked thoughtful. ‘There's certainly a lesson to be learned from it all.'

‘In what way?'

‘Consider the mortality rate amongst the pampered offspring of the aristocracy, then look at these healthy little water rats.'

‘Surely you're not suggesting that rich but sickly children should be heaved bodily into the Thames?'

‘It might not be such a bad idea at that,' answered John, and smiled at the incredulous expression on his old friend's honest face.

Much as John had feared, the search of the riverbank had proved fruitless. He and Samuel had risen surprisingly early after an enjoyable evening in The Spread Eagle, from which, thankfully, one of the water people had rowed them back to The Devil's Tavern. Then, having consumed a gallant breakfast, they had set forth armed with stout boots and even stouter gloves, to seek the implement which had ended the life of poor Sir William. Yet though they had found many things washed up by the tide, which had been high when they set out but was now steadily falling, nothing resembling the great stick had come to hand. By midday, with the water level still going down, and by dint of covering different areas separately, the friends had reached Ratcliff Cross, the point from which mariners of an earlier time had sailed forth for the unknown.

Samuel, having come across yet another dead dog, straightened his back. ‘This is hopeless. The thing could be anywhere.'

John sighed. ‘I know.'

‘So what do you suggest?'

‘Let's get someone to row us across to the other bank and work our way back to The Spread Eagle. That will probably occupy the rest of the daylight hours.'

‘Oughtn't we to stop for a little refreshment soon?' asked Samuel hopefully.

‘Yes. But I think we should get over the river first.'

In this way, fortuitously having run into Fred, who had somehow acquired what John could only think of as a coracle, a flimsy and dangerous craft which provided an extremely nerve-racking journey, the pair found themselves on the south bank, in Jamaica Inn in Jamaica Street, still officially part of Redriff though a considerable distance from the village.

‘Samuel,' said John, remembering something that he had been meaning to ask but had forgotten until this moment. ‘Can you cast your mind back to the day we visited Islington Spa?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘What was it you said about Roger on that occasion?'

The Goldsmith stared blankly. ‘I don't know, what did I say? That he wore cutting fashions? That he looked worse than I remembered him?'

‘Yes, that was it! That he seemed changed. What did you mean exactly?'

Samuel frowned. ‘Just that when he caught Amelia, stopped her falling into the grave, he appeared quite forceful. But when he came flapping over, all frills and flounces, he was exactly the opposite. It was odd.'

‘Yes,' John answered slowly. ‘Very odd. And you're quite right. He was different at that moment.' The Apothecary sat in silence.

‘What are you thinking?' Samuel asked.

‘I'm not quite sure yet. There's something bubbling inside my brain but it refuses to rise to the surface.'

‘It will,' his friend answered confidently. ‘Now come on, sup your ale. There's work to be done.'

The river reached its lowest point at about two o'clock that afternoon, so that many of the things that had been thrown or fallen into its watery recesses now lay on the banks. Scavenging their way through all the extraordinary objects, which ranged from chamber pots, their contents, thankfully, long since washed away, to a rather valuable ring, John and Samuel still found nothing relating to the murder. Then, with the river at flood and the late March sun beginning to dip, they gave up the task as The Spread Eagle came into sight.

‘Hopeless,' the Apothecary admitted. ‘I feel a fool.'

‘Why, for heaven's sake?'

‘Because I told Mr Fielding that we'd be sure to find something.'

‘Well, we've done our best. My back is breaking, to say nothing of my knees.'

‘Let's get back to The Devil's Tavern. Kitty is probably looking for us.'

‘Yes. I wonder where she's got to.'

But though John and Samuel waited for the oyster girl all the evening, staring round every time the door opened, there was no sign of her. Somewhere deep in the Apothecary's consciousness an alarm bell rang.

‘I expect she's gone up to Whitstable and still isn't back,' said Samuel, reading his friend's mind.

‘I'm sure that's it,' John answered.

Yet despite a determined effort to push away disturbing thoughts, he still did not sleep well and was glad when Samuel rose at dawn in order to take a wherry back to London and open his goldsmith's shop at the Sign of the Crescent Moon in St Paul's Churchyard. Having seen his friend depart, John paid his bill and packed his bag, then borrowed one of the boats moored at Pelican Stairs and rowed across to Redriff in the early morning light, determined not to leave Wapping until he had found Kitty Perkins.

Certain that of all the people he had met it would be the mudlark who would know most about what was going on, the Apothecary headed upstream, staring at the bank as the spire of St Mary's Church and the outline of The Spread Eagle came into view. Sure enough, about two hundred yards from the hostelry, the upturned boat, an eccentric but merry looking little dwelling, came into his line of vision and he pulled inshore, splashing through the shallows to attach his craft to a wooden stump.

The tide was rising and Fred, taking advantage of the water creeping ever nearer to his home, was up and about his ablutions, which consisted of swimming naked through the swirling stream. He waved when he saw John, then shot into the hovel and came out again pulling on a pair of breeches.

‘Caught me,' he said cheerfully.

‘Good morning,' answered John. ‘I thought I'd come and visit you early because, all being well, I hope to go back to London today.'

‘Then step inside,' Fred continued, still beaming a smile. ‘You won't never have seen nuffink like this.'

Bending low, the Apothecary stooped his way through the little door, then stood upright, his eyes widening at the sight of Fred's home. The wherry, long since taken out of service as it obviously had been, still consisted of good strong timbers well able to cope with the ravages of wind and storm. In fact there was something quite cosy about it, and the smell of the river and the spars combined was pleasing to the senses. By way of furniture there was a rusty old bedstead, clearly plucked from the jaws of the Thames, an old sea chest which served for a table, a chair with a piece of timber where once one of its legs had been, and, incongruously, an ornate mirror which hung, amongst other salvaged trophies, over the two points of the prow. Beside the bed, vast and rather frightening, was a ship's figurehead, this one depicting a bare breasted mermaid with staring eyes and curling yellow hair, a comb in one carved hand.

Seeing the direction of John's gaze, the mudlark said, ‘That's the Sea Queen. She was beached after a storm. Reckon there'd been a wreck somewhere and she came in with the tide.'

‘I think I'd get a fright if I woke in the night and saw her looming over me.'

‘I like her,' said Fred, with spirit. ‘She keeps me company, the Queen does.'

John stared round him. ‘You've made yourself very comfortable here.'

‘All of it come out of the river.'

‘Including that chest?'

And the Apothecary looked down at the beautiful piece of wood which, in its day, had been artistically decorated with scenes of ships and even the owner's name, all painted on by hand.

‘Yes, even that. But I'm forgetting me manners. Would you like a tot of rum?'

John shook his head. ‘It's a little early, though thank you for asking.'

‘You don't mind if I do? It's me breakfast time, see.'

And the boy produced from a basket, a great hunk of bread and cheese, a tin mug and a bottle of dark, powerful spirit.

‘Please go on,' said John. His eye alighted once more on the sea chest. ‘What do you keep in there? Your treasures?'

‘Yes, everything that I find when I go scavenging.'

‘May I look?' asked the Apothecary, and felt the thrill of premonition as he lifted the lid.

It was there, just as he had felt it would be, lying on top of everything else, clearly the latest acquisition, its ornate handle gleaming in the shaft of sunshine coming through the little door. John gasped, not so much in surprise but with delight at the beautiful craftsmanship of the implement which had killed Sir William Hartfield. Whoever had shaped the solid silver fox's head had been a master of his trade, while the dark glowing ebony, the wood from which the shaft of the great stick had been fashioned, was a tribute to the hands that had created it. In wonderment, John picked the cane up, silently offering a prayer of thanks, then he very carefully wrapped the head in his best linen handkerchief and tied the resulting package with a piece of string retrieved from an inner pocket.

‘Where did you find this?' he asked the mudlark softly.

‘It was washed up on the shore, just below here.'

‘How long ago?'

‘I can't remember exactly. About two weeks or so.'

‘It wouldn't by any chance have been the morning after you saw the two drunkards on Church Steps?'

Fred stared at him suspiciously. ‘Now you come to mention it, yes it was. Why?'

‘Because I believe that this was the stick which killed the man I told you of. The one who was to have met Mr Randolph.'

‘Oh my lawk!' said the mudlark.

John gave him an apologetic look. ‘I'm going to have to take it away with me, I'm afraid.'

‘But I scavenged it.'

‘Fred,' the Apothecary said earnestly, ‘I will try to return the stick to you if you really want it. But be assured that it is vital I get this straight to the Public Office in Bow Street.'

The mudlark's freckles glowed. ‘But I like it, Mr Rawlings.'

‘Who wouldn't? It is a beautiful thing. But it is also sinister and murderous and has been responsible for snuffing out a man's life.'

Fred nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you're right. But I still want the stick back, mind.'

‘Provided Mr Fielding agrees, you shall have it.' John looked at his watch, thinking that the much needed stroke of good fortune had come his way at last and now he could head for home. Then he remembered Kitty and his worry about her, and his jubilant expression vanished. ‘Fred, do you know Miss Perkins, the oyster girl?' he asked.