Death at St. James's Palace (33 page)

“My dear Sir,” said Digby, bowing politely, “how are you? Have you tracked down the missing Lord Lomond yet?”

The Apothecary grimaced. “Absolutely not. He and Lucinda seem to have vanished off the face of the earth. However, there has been an amazing development. Their mother is dead.” And he recounted in detail the events of that afternoon.

“I can barely credit this. And you say Hannah’s daughter Aminta was in the room?”

“Yes.”

“Was she very upset?”

“Not at all. Obviously it was a shock but she did not grieve.”

“Quite rightly, considering the way the Gowards treated her.” A slow cruel smile crossed Digby’s features and John realised that the man was capable of looking thoroughly evil. “So they are both gone. Hannah is avenged indeed.”

He loved Aminta’s mother very much, John thought. There could be no doubt of that. Only one strong emotion could provoke another of such ferocity.

Perhaps realising that he had gone too far, Turnbull’s face rapidly restored to its usual blandness. “Well, I must be on my way.”

“One last thing, Sir, before you go. Did you see Lord Lomond at the investiture? Personally I can’t remember remarking him.”

Digby grinned sheepishly. “To be quite honest with you.Mr. Rawlings, I do not know one page-of-honour from another. The boys change, grow too old or too tall for the job, and I can never keep account of them. The only one I recognise is the Duke of Guernsey because he is the oldest and tallest and this will be his final year.”

“I see. A pity. Lomond’s enormous by the way, if that helps stir your memory.”

“Yes, you’ve already told me that. But many of them are very roly-poly. Eat too much, the little devils. Ah well, sorry I can’t be of assistance.”

Was he telling the truth or was he covering for some reason, John wondered, and sighed as he walked into the house in Bow Street where Sir John Fielding dwelled with his family.

The Blind Beak, having just left court, was in the process of removing his formal coat and slipping into a larger, easier garment in which he could relax. He turned as John was shown into the salon by a servant.

“You have a visitor, Sir John.”

The Apothecary bowed but remained motionless, wondering if the Magistrate would do his usual trick and, sure enough, after a moment or two of sniffing the atmosphere, the Blind Beak said, “Mr. Rawlings, I believe.”

“That never fails to astonish me,” John answered.

“It is really very simple as I have often explained. Now, Sir, take a seat. I believe you are weary. Let us have a restoring drink together.”

“How did you know that? That I was tired?”

“Your voice gave it away. It lacks its usual sparkle.”

“It is hardly surprising. A woman died in my presence today.”

“One of your patients?”

“No, Sir, “ John answered quietly. “It was Lady Mary Go ward.”

The Blind Beak became very still. “Is this death to be laid at my door? Did I kill her, Mr. Rawlings?””No, Sir, you did not. Be assured, though your questioning was hard it would not have affected anyone in a normal state of health. If Lady Mary had been fit she would have come through the interview unscathed.”

The Blind Beak nodded. “I think you had better tell me everything that has happened.”

“I will be delighted to do so. But before I launch into my tale may I ask you one question?”

“Certainly.”

“The whispered words uttered just before George Goward was pushed. You thought they were ‘What price greatness now.’ Miss Witherspoon believed the key word to be ‘slackness’. Can you not recall exactly what it was?”

Sir John hesitated. “It is not a question of recollection,” he said slowly. “Merely that the voice dropped so low that I could no longer hear it.”

“Then may I urge you once again to say whether it was the voice of a man or a woman.”

The Blind Beak shook his head. “It was fluting and high, obviously disguised. Its tones were unearthly. In fact, it sounded neither male nor female.”

“Oh ‘Zounds,” said John, and put his head in his hands, wondering exactly where this puzzle was finally going to lead him.

Chapter 21

 
“
I
do wish, John,” said Emilia, quite crossly, “that you would stop pacing about and get into bed. Has the death of Lady Mary Goward so upset you that you can’t settle down to sleep?”

“It’s not that,” he answered. “Of course, for anyone to die in such a manner is not pleasant, but the woman herself had led a feckless life, with little concern for her offspring, so it is hardly a great loss to society.”

“Then what is it that is concerning you so deeply?”

He frowned. “It’s the fact that there’s something I should be remembering, something that’s right under my nose and yet I cannot grasp it.”

“Do you mean that you know who pushed George Goward?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s to do with the thirteenth page boy.”

“You have discovered his identity?”

“I am on the brink of it. I should have realised it by now. It’s so close. Oh ‘Zounds, I sometimes think that my mind is going.”

Emilia laughed. “We all feel that from time to time. Come on, sweetheart, get some rest. Maybe the answer will come to you during the night.”

He smiled at her. “You’re so lovely. However, did I manage without you?”

“Very well, I imagine. Drawing comfort from the beautiful Coralie Clive.”

“That is not kind.”

“No, it wasn’t very. But, annoyingly, I hear your former mistress continues to go from triumph to triumph since her sister Kitty retired.”

“Then she will be achieving her life’s ambition. Now don’t lets talk about her any more. What’s past is past.”

“Yes it is.” Emilia patted the bed beside her. “And at present I am missing you, so please get in.”

He did so, suddenly exhausted, his entire body aching with weariness. But the second he closed his eyes he relived the dreadful moment when Lady Mary had sat bolt upright, screamed, and died. How altered she had been by her apoplexy, he thought. In the portrait painted of her by Julius Witherspoon, plump and vapid though she had looked, there had been a certain freshness and appeal about the woman. But the distorted creature lying in the bed had been transformed out of all recognition by illness.

“So changed,” he muttered.

“What?” said Emilia sleepily.

“I said how changed people are by illness.”

“Of course they are,” she answered, almost unconscious.

“Yes,” said the Apothecary in a sibilant whisper. Then he clapped his hand to his head. “That’s it,” he shouted. “That is it. Changed out of all recognition. Why didn’t I see it before?”

“Oh, do be quiet,” murmured Emilia, unable to know that in the darkness her husband was at long last smiling.

He rose at five, even before his apprentice, and walked round to the mews to wake Irish Tom, who had a room above the stables. The coachman, who had clearly had a bit of a thick night after he had brought John home, was forced to put his head into a bucket of cold water to revive himself, but finally he came to and set about getting the horses ready.

“Where are we going, Sorrh?” His accent was always very Irish when he was under pressure.

“First to Islington to see the Witherspoons, then on to Marybone.”

“That is one hell of a long drive, Sorrh.”

“I know, that’s why we’re starting early. Can you pick your way through, Tom?”

“Leave it to me, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Good, then call for me at the house in ten minutes. I just want to go back and leave a message for my wife.”

“I’ll be there, never fear.”

And Irish Tom saluted, something of the Apothecary’s excitement rubbing off on him and making him suddenly cheerful.

They left exactly eleven minutes later, John pausing momentarily to put on his greatcoat for the morning was sharp with autumn cold. Tom, now wide awake and raring to go, set off at a fast trot towards Greek Street then picked his way through various lanes and alleys until he emerged in High Holbourn. From there it was a straight run down to Holboum itself, where the equipage turned left into Hatton Garden. Now the coach headed east, passing through Clerkenwell Green and eventually joining St. John Street. Here they turned north once more, heading straight for Islington.

Even though it was still early, coaches were waiting at The Angel so that they might cross the fields in convoy and frighten off lurking highwaymen. John took this opportunity of consuming a warming brandy before he climbed into his carriage once more and headed towards the home occupied by the Witherspoon twins, his mind racing at the prospect of his theory proving correct.

Julius was at home alone, Christabel having left the house early in order to go into London for shopping.

“My dear fellow,” said the painter, much surprised at the sight of the Apothecary standing on his front doorstep. “To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”

“To rather an odd request, I fear.”

“Which is?”

“That I might look at the portrait of Lady Mary Goward and Frederick once more.”

Julius lowered his voice. “Is it true she has died? Rumours are flying.”

“Yes, it’s perfectly true. I was present. It was terrible.”

“The mills of God, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if she pushed the wretched George then it’s divine retribution.”

“But I don’t think she did,” John answered, but refused to be drawn further.

The portrait was in its customary position, stacked behind a pile of others, all placed on the floor and leaning against a wall. Holding the stack while Julius heaved the picture out, John felt excitement mount within him as the artist placed it on an easel and stood back to examine it.

“It’s a good likeness of her, in fact a brilliant one. But what about the boy?” the Apothecary asked.

“Poor fat Fred? Yes, I’d say it was the image of the child.”

“When was it painted?”

“About four years ago.”

“Making him eight.”

Julius nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. He had just started at boarding school and was home for the holidays. I can distinctly remember that because it was the last time Fred was allowed back.”

“What do you mean?”

“The hideous Goward announced that while his stepson remained so fat he couldn’t bear to set eyes on him. Said the child made him feel physically sick. He announced that the boy was barred from the house until his looks improved.”

“Bastard.”

“Whoever killed that man did the world a good turn.”

John nodded. “I suppose the mother did nothing to help?”

“As usual. What a fate to be bom to her.”

“Well, she’s paid the ultimate price now and they’re free of her. By the way, do you remember telling me about the black baby that she was supposed to have had?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said John, “it was the sight of a black boy, about ten years of age, that finally did for Lady Mary. She took such fright that she had a heart attack.”

“So perhaps the gossip is true.”

“I rather feel that it is.”

Julius turned back to the portrait. “Have you seen enough? Can I take it down?”

“One minute more,” John answered, and coming close to the canvas, raised his quizzing glass, peering intently at the two painted faces. Then he nodded his head. “Thank you so much. It is as I thought.”

“What?”

“An idea I had. Julius, as soon as Sir John Fielding knows of it I shall feel free to tell you. But until that time I really must keep it to myself.”

The little painter looked distressed. “Are you on the brink of discovery?”

“Possibly.”

“Then let me beg you not to punish the perpetrator. As I said, whoever it was made the world a better place to live in when they removed George Goward from it.”

“I know,” said John, and sighed.

The really difficult part of the journey had begun. It was now Irish Tom’s task to get them from Islington to Marybone without going back into London. Taking a circuitous route round the waterworks at The New River Head and passing the Merlin’s Cave hostlery, Tom started to negotiate his way crosscountry, heading in a westerly direction and eventually, having traversed Black Mary’s Hole, arriving in Lamb’s Conduit Fields, close to the Foundling Hosptial. From there he continued west, crossing dangerous countryside, John at the ready with his pistol, then passing through the turnpike at Tottenham Court, then on past Farthing Pye House and finally turning north to join Love Lane.

John stuck his head out of the window. “Well done, Tom. Well driven.”

“It’s a good way, Sir, as long as you meet no cuthroats. But if you do, you’d be dead in the ditch and no questions asked.”

“Well, we’ve made it safely. There are the gates of Fishergate Place.”

“I hope he’s in, that’s all.”

“You said that last time.