Death at St. James's Palace (36 page)

“And she agreed?”

“Of course she did. I’m on my way to see her now, as I expect are you.”

“Indeed.”

Digby hesitated, then said, “Mr. Rawlings, I shall be at St. James’s Palace tomorrow night in my quarters there. I wonder if you would do me the great favour of calling on me.
 

There is something I have to ask you and this is neither the time nor the place.”

The Apothecary smiled half-heartedly, positive that whatever the honest citizen wanted to know was bound to prove difficult to answer. “Yes, of course,” he found himself replying.

“Excellent. Shall we say eight o’clock? I expect you’ll want to dine with your wife and I cannot invite her on this occasion as the matter is confidential.”

John’s heart sank further. “I’ll be there,” he said.

There was a roar from the stage door as the first of the actors appeared, Aminta amongst them. Hearing the cheers, Digby Turnbull bowed and hurried away, and the Apothecary went to join the rest of his party.

Jack Morocco, as usual, had bought flowers in plentitude which he insisted on presenting to all the actresses as they emerged into the night, regardless of whether he knew them or not. The largest bouquet went to Aminta, but the second, somewhat to John’s chagrin, was reserved for Coralie Clive, who swept out of the theatre on the arm of a nobleman and graciously received them from the bowing blackman’s hands. There was a cry from a group of blades, who rushed forward in a body and lifted the actress shoulder high, carrying her through the crowd as if she were a goddess. Smiling, she looked down at her many admirers and just for a moment, John saw her emerald green eyes rest on him. He bowed low, despite the fact that Emilia was standing beside him, and Coralie blew a kiss in his general direction before she was whisked away.

“Well,” said Emilia.

“Well what?”

“She obviously hasn’t forgotten you.”

“Well, I’ve forgotten her,” lied John, and taking his wife by the arm led her away to join the others for supper.

That night St. James’s Palace seemed more full of shadows than ever before. As on the last occasion, John was granted admittance by a faceless sentry who seemed tall as a giant in that uncertain darkness, then made his way nervously across a courtyard lit only by flickering torches to the one place from which light shone, the private quarters of Digby Turnbull. On this occasion, however, though the interior was cheerful and a fire roared in the grate, the atmosphere seemed sombre, as if Digby’s pensive mood was imprinting itself on his surroundings.

“Well, Sir,” said John, when the preliminary small talk was over and done, “what is it that you want to say to me?”

The servant of the crown looked grim. “My friend, I don’t know quite how to put this but I feel that there has been a cover-up of some kind and it is perturbing me enormously.”

The Apothecary put on his blank face. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.”

“I think you do, Sir.”

“Could you explain further.”

They were fencing verbally with one another and both of them knew it.

“I refer to the strange statement issued from Bow Street. The one in which it said that a mistake had been made in the case of Sir George Goward and that the affair was now closed. Come, Sir, come. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence must question that and ask themselves why that statement was made.”

“I see,” said John.

“What?”

“That you would query what was said. Others, Jack Morocco for instance, have asked in a subtle way, more by means of a look or a raised brow than a direct question. All of them, even if only half aware of the truth, seem to have decided to let the matter rest however.”

“If that is a criticism of me, then I can only say that I have an enquiring mind which will not be satisfied until it knows the full story.”

“Then look no further than a tragic child, Sir. A boy so undermined by his stepfather that he starved himself to death because of it. And think that if you were that little fellow, sick and weak with dieting, and that villainous creature stood almost on top of you on a steep staircase where you had been placed as part of your duty, would you not extend your wizened arms and give him the push that would bring about his death.”

“You speak of one of the pages-of-honour?” asked Digby, aghast.

“I do indeed. Frederick Drummond, Earl of Lomond, son of the vacuous Lady Mary Go ward. A child so injured by life that all must be forgiven him. Fie has paid for his sin - though I prefer to think of it as an act of justice - with his own life. So Sir John Fielding, great humanitarian that he is, made the conscious decision to draw a veil over the whole sorry incident for the sake of the boy’s sister Lucinda, who has also known more misery in her young life than most of us do who live to old age.”

“I am frankly astounded,” said Digby Turnbull.

“And you will astound me,” answered John, “if you do anything about this. For I will seriously have misjudged your character, Sir, and in that I should be most disappointed.”

Digby poured out two glasses of claret. “I propose a toast, Sir. A toast to Sir John Fielding, the blind magistrate who sees all. May his clarity of vision last for ever.”

“I’ll gladly drink to that,” answered the Apothecary. He turned to his host. “Sir, I have a mind to see that staircase once again if you would be so kind as to permit me. It will probably be the last time I set foot in this ancient palace and I would like to make the most of the opportunity.”

“Then see it you shall,” Digby replied, very cheerful now that the truth had been told him.

They crossed the courtyard together and went in through a side door. To the left lay the long reception room, to the right the two staircases, everything most dim in the light of the few candles that were lit. Walking slowly, John advanced to the spot where George Goward had lain dying, then he looked up to the point from which he had been pushed. Just for a moment he thought that a face, the face of a sad little changeling, looked back down at him through the wrought iron balusters, that something moved in the blackness. Then the Apothecary realised that it must be a trick of what little light there was, and turned away to join Digby Turnbull who had already vanished into the darkness.

Historical Note

John Rawlings, Apothecary, was a real person. He was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He was made Free of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13th March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho. This links him with H.D. Rawlings Ltd. who were based at the same address over a hundred years later. Rawlings were spruce and ginger beer manufacturers and in later years made soda and tonic waters. Their ancient soda syphons are now collectors items and can only be found in antique shops. I am very proud to own one which was presented to me by my French fan club, based at the College La Millaire at Thionville.

John Fielding, the Blind Beak, received his knighthood in 1761. It is not on record where this ceremony actually took place and his name does not appear on the St. James’s Palace list. However, this doesn’t necessarily rule out the fact that the solemnities
could
have taken place there so the matter remains unproved. For the sake of my story I decided to place him at that most exciting of venues. If the facts are different, then I apologise to Sir John, who, I feel certain, wouldn’t mind at all.

Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh was the eighteenth century’s most celebrated bigamist. Brought up by her mother in very poor circumstances in Devonshire, Elizabeth’s face was most definitely her fortune and her first serious love affair took place when she was fifteen years old. She almost married the Duke of Hamilton but an interfering aunt intercepted their correspondence and the relationship broke up. She married the Hon. Augustus Hervey privately on 4th August, 1744, the service conducted by the rector of Lainston, Mr. Amis. Both of them returned to their jobs, he as a lieutenant in the navy, she as Maid-of-Honour to Augusta, Princess of Wales and the marriage was kept secret. However, when Augustus returned to England in October, 1746, the inevitable happened and next year Elizabeth was secretly delivered of a son. He was put out to foster in Chelsea and died shortly after. By this time, Elizabeth and Augustus had split up and she preferred to conduct her life as Miss Chudleigh until, in 1759, her husband drew near the title of Earl of Bristol owing to the failing health of his brother. She now thought it sensible to establish the fact that she was married to the heir and, quite literally, forced Mr. Amis, lying on his deathbed, to enter her marriage in the register book. She shortly afterwards became the mistress of Evelyn Pierrepoint, Duke of Kingston, and her affair with him became a matter of notoriety when on 4th June, 1760, she gave a splendid ball in honour of the birthday of the Prince of Wales, soon to be George III. Meanwhile her husband, anxious to be rid of her, announced that he was suing for divorce but she refused to admit that a marriage had ever taken place. She counter- sued, denying everything, but was very disturbed when she had to take an oath declaring that she was a spinster. However, typically, she did. The court found for her and on the 8th March, 1769, she bigamously married the Duke of Kingston. She was presented as Duchess to the King and Queen, who wore her favours, as did the officers of state. However, her real husband, very bitter by now, renewed his matrimonial case in 1773. Fortunately for the Duke he died in that same year. In the terms of his will, the poor old fellow left her all his property for life and his entire fortune on the condition that she remained a widow, the reason for this restriction being her weakness for any adventurer who flattered her.

Elizabeth went abroad but finding some difficulty in obtaining money, threatened her English banker in Rome with a pistol. He paid up. When she returned to this country, trouble lay in wait. The late Duke’s nephew laid a charge of bigamy against her and she was found guilty. Her real husband, who was by now Earl of Bristol, was also gunning for her, still wanting divorce. Elizabeth fled and never returned to England again. She died in Paris in 1788 at the age of sixty-eight.

If readers think that the character of Jack Morocco is far fetched, then let them turn their attention to Julius Soubise, the beloved black boy of the Duchess of Queensberry, upon whom the character is based. Soubise’s exploits were amazing and, I quote ‘(he) became one of the most conspicuous fops of the town. He frequented the Opera, and the other theatres; sported a fine horse and groom in Hyde Park; became a member of many fashionable clubs, and made a figure.’ He also had a wonderful life style, including a beautiful mistress, an apartment full of hothouse flowers and extravagant dinner parties complete with claret and champagne. Eventually he overstepped the mark and was hustled abroad by the Duchess for secuding a maid in sordid circumstances. He died in a riding accident in India as dramatically as he had lived.

The study of the black population in eighteenth century England is absolutely fascinating and I would recommend anyone interested to read
Black England
by Gretchen Gerzina. From abject slaves to pampered pets, this book tells it all and is essential reading for serious students. My thanks to John Oram for giving me a copy and drawing my attention to the role of negroes in our historic society.

The Pandemonium Club actually existed, its membership consisting of bright sparks and wits of the day. However, its initiation ceremony has not been passed down to us and I have therefore borrowed the rites of the Humbug Club, which was formed later in the eighteenth century, too far removed in time for John Rawlings to have been a member. The President of the Humbugs signed himself Humbugallo Rex, and Screech, the owl, countersigned all documents as Secretary. What really happened at Pandemonium ceremonies, I leave to the imagination of the reader!