Death at St. James's Palace (5 page)

“Here, let me help you up.” And John heaved with a will as the angry gentleman he was assisting finally managed to struggle upright and dust himself down.

“My thanks to you, Sir.”

“Anything bruised or cut? I am an apothecary and can tend your wounds should you have any.”

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you, Sir. I do believe that my knee is bleeding.”

“Then pray step instead. That is my house behind and I have a small compounding room at the back.”

“Obliged to you, Sir. I will.”

In the light of the candlelit hall, John realised that the newcomer was known to him by sight, a neighbour from somewhere close by. Short and stocky, his face strong-featured and florid, his clothes made of sensible work-a-day material, he was every inch ordinary. The sort of man that one could see about the streets in any small town.

“Digby Turnbull,” he said, bowing.

“John Rawlings. Follow me, Sir. My compounding room lies at the end of this passage.”

They passed through the house quietly, John putting his head round the parlour door to tell Sir Gabriel what had taken place, then leading the visitor to the small sanctuary he had made for himself in what had once been an old outhouse. The familiar paraphenalia of compounding was everywhere and the Apothecary felt the comfort of customary things about him. Moving carefully, he rolled down Mr. Turnbull’s stockings and eased the breeches upwards, to see that both knees were lacerated and one was indeed oozing blood.

John applied warm water, boiled in a little kettle over an oil lamp, with bruised red archangel within. This he finally applied to the wounded knee together with a little vinegar.

“Tell me,” the Apothecary said as he worked, “why do these boys roam the streets at night? Are they just intent on mischief or are they heading for some place of amusement?”

Mr. Turnbull snorted. “In rural Kensington? Though I wouldn’t put it past them to be visiting the brothel. They’re all the sons of rich folk with more money than sense.”

“The brothel? How old are they, then?”

“The Brompton Park school takes lads from the age of ten upwards but this particular bunch of hooligans are aged between twelve and fifteen. There are usually about six of them, a dozen at the most. They like rampaging about, making catcalls and throwing stones.”

“Is the headmaster aware?”

“Mr. Sebastian? He has been written to, of course, but I think he can’t - or won’t - identify the boys concerned.”

“What do you mean, won’t?”

“As I said, Mr. Rawlings, there is a lot of money at stake. Some of these boys have titles, others are heir to them. It would not be in his best interestes to come down too hard on the guilty, therefore it is easier to remain vague as to exactly who they are.”

“I see. Well, I do hope that you will register your protest.”

“You can be certain of that, Sir,” Mr. Turnbull replied, rolling up his stockings and fastening the silver buckle of his breeches over them. “I shall visit said Sebastian in the morning.”

“If you would like me to bear witness I shall be only too happy to do so, though it will have to wait a while. I return to town early.”

“Oh, you do not live here?”

“This is my country retreat though my father is permanently in residence. You may know of him: Sir Gabriel Kent?”

“I have certainly heard the name. I believe he is a master of whist.”

“I am sure he would like to hear himself described thus.”

“So where is your home?”

“In Nassau Street, in Soho. Though my shop is in Shug Lane.”

“I shall make a point of visiting it when I am next in town. Now, how much do I owe you?”

“I cannot charge when I act as a Samaritan.”

“Then I shall certainly call at your shop and make some purchases. You see, I also live in London,” he added surprisingly.

“Really?”

“Yes, I am attached to the Court in a very minor way. Nothing grand I’ll have you know. I’m a type of steward. I oversee other servants.”

“It still sounds very responsible.”

“Believe me, I am a little cog in a vast wheel.”

“Are you connected with the palace at Kensington at all?”

“I have a room there, that is why I am seen around these parts from time to time. Of course I do not generally broadcast the fact that I am connected with the royal household, it is considered more discreet not to advertise these things. But this time, when I call upon Mr. Sebastian to voice my complaint, I intend to tell him.”

His patient, now respectably garbed but walking with a definite limp and leaning hard on his umbrella, made his way back to the street. In the doorway he raised his hat, somewhat muddied from its sojourn on the ground.

“Well goodnight to you, Mr. Rawlings. Shug Lane, you say?”

“Yes, I am the only apothecary there. You can’t miss me. If I should be out, my apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, will look after you.”

But as he closed the door on his visitor and made his way back to the parlour, where Sir Gabriel sat snoozing, John
 
realised with a shock that the period of Nicholas’s indentures was drawing to its close. He had taken the young man, older than customary because of his difficult and chequered past, to be his apprentice in 1755, at the time of the strange incident in The Devil’s Tavern. Next year, in 1762, the seven years would be up.

How quickly life goes by, considered John, and thought of the child that was coming in to the world, probably in April of the year that lay ahead, and felt for the first time the full weight of his thirty years.

“Glum face,” said Sir Gabriel, opening a gleaming eye.

“I’m old. Father.”

His adopted parent sat upright, straight as a whip and just as incisive. “That word is now allowed in this house, my dear. You are as old as you damnably well feel.” He tapped his forehead. “Here’s the key to it all. If you’re old inside there, then, by God, you are. But cheat that and you can be as bright as a button all the days of your life. So I’ll hear no more of such talk, is that understood?”

John smiled. “Perfectly,” he said, and kissed Sir Gabriel on the cheek.

Chapter 3

T
he next morning, John departed for town, leaving his wife behind to enjoy the country air and to make a leisurely visit to her mother, who still had a home in Chelsea even though in far smaller premises now that she was a widow living alone. With no woman aboard, Irish Tom, John’s coachman, decided to go at a good speed and by half past seven on a sharp September morning, the sky so clear that you could see a leaf fall at half a mile, he had passed The Swan, the last building in Kensington Parish adjoining the City of Westminster. Slowing down for a moment to allow the stage coach to draw out from the yard, John, staring out of the window, found himself witnessing the most pathetic sight. The stage, with much horn blowing and noise to indicate its departure, set off at a reasonable pace, only to leave a passenger stranded. A small figure, clutching a bag, rushed into the yard as hard as it could, just in time to see that the coach had gone too far to turn back. Staring disconsolately after it, the figure then sat on its luggage and burst into tears.

It looked to John, from the very way it wept and moved its head, like a girl, but it was most certainly dressed as a boy. Sensing something sadly odd, the Apothecary called to his coachman to stop. Opening the door, he pulled down the step and got out.

“Now, my lad,” he said, approaching the weeping child, “what’s your trouble? I take it you have missed the coach.”

It looked up at him through waves of tears. “Yes, Sir.”

It was a girl all right. The guinea bright hair might be cut short, the garb be totally masculine, but nobody could deny the stamp of the features. What game could possibly be being played here, the Apothecary wondered. He blanked his features.

“Where are you heading for, my lad?”

“London, Sir.”

“Whereabouts exactly?”

The poor thing thought wildly, obviously having no clear idea about its destination. If ever John had seen a case of a runaway, this was it.

“Do your parents know you’re on your own?” he asked quietly.

The girl paled. “I only have a mother alive, Sir. I’m on my way to see her.”

“And where can she be found?”

“In Soho, Sir.”

“I see.” John fingered his chin. “Look, let me be blunt with you. I don’t believe your story. I think you are trying to escape from something. Now, would you care to step inside the inn and tell me your troubles over breakfast? I have had none myself and neither has my coachman.”

A terrified look appeared in the girl’s eyes. “I do not know you,” she said. “It would not be seemly.”

John smiled. “I am a married man, my boy, and I can assure you that young fellows are not to my taste.”

She could hardly betray herself by protesting that she was a girl and that it was her virtue she must protect. The poor little thing stood opening and shutting her mouth, shifting from one foot to the other - John noted with amusement that her boy’s buckled shoes were the smallest he had ever seen - unable to say a word. And it was at that moment that Irish Tom, beckoned by, decided to leap down from his coachman’s box, and arrived at her side, his cape flapping round him, landing like a flying bat.

She shrieked, very startled, and the coachman made everything much, much worse by saying, “There, there, little lady, I won’t hurt you.”

She lowered her voice an octave and said gruffly, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucas Drummond.”

“Lucas, is it?” said Irish Tom, peering into her face intently.

“Tom,” said the Apothecary, with just the hint of a laugh in his voice, “leave the young gentleman in peace. He has missed the stagecoach and I am just about to buy him breakfast. And you as well. Now shall we all step inside.”

Tom let out a bellow of merriment. “I take your point, Mr. Rawlings, so I do. You and the young fellow enjoy your repast. I’ll make my way to the coachmen’s parlour.” And he strode off, still chuckling.

Wondering how he was going to manage this potentially disastrous situation, John ushered his young companion into the dining parlour, and it was not until a great plate of ham and herrings and a steaming pot of tea had been placed before them, that he asked his first question.

“How old are you, Lucas?”

The girl looked up, her mouth full. “Sixteen, Sir,” she said after a moment.

“Have you left school? Are you an apprentice?”

She shook her head. “No, Sir. I attend the Brompton Park Boarding School.”

“That place again,” John muttered. “Why is it always coming into the conversation?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. How long have you been there?”

“Since I was eleven.”

“Eleven. That’s well young to be put out to board.”

She blushed wildly. “I’ve got no father and my mother has other interests. It was more convenient that I go to school.”

Oh God’s mercy, thought John, poor devil, thrust in with a load of boys - and mischievous boys at that if Mr. Turnbull is to be believed - with her breasts sprouting and her courses started. He looked at her with enormous pity.

“Why does your mother want you to masquerade as a boy? What advantage is there in it?”

The poor child looked utterly wretched, tears welling in her eyes again. “I
am
a boy,” she protested miserably.

“No,” said John, “you are not. You are an attractive female and your life must be one of pure agony surrounded by all those eager young males.”

She exploded into sobs, so violently that John was forced to leave the table, ignoring the curious eyes cast in his direction by his fellow breakfasters.

“Landlord,” he called, “can you show me to a private room. My niece is indisposed.” He lowered his voice. “Her age, you know.”

In the past, the Apothecary had found that any mention of women’s complaints always drew instant results, and now it happened again. They were ushered into The Lamb, a private snug set aside for discerning travellers.

Settling Lucas by an extremely sickly fire, but better than nothing, John thought, he waited for the weeping to subside which, eventually, it did.

“Now,” said the Apothecary, “let me explain something to you. I am an apothecary by trade which means that I am entitled to treat the sick even though I am not a physician. Many people ask me for physick to cure nervous disorders so I am very used to hearing sad and sorrowful stories. Why not tell me yours, in the strictest confidence. I promise that nothing you say to me will go further than these four walls.”

Lucas looked tortured and opened her mouth, however no sound came out.

“For a start, your name cannot really be Lucas. What is it actually?”

“Lucinda.”

“And is your other name Drummond, or did you make that up?”

Lucinda wiped her face with her sleeve. “No, that is what I am called. So may I know your name, Sir?”

“John Rawlings.” The Apothecary decided that formality might be the keynote. “Allow me to present you with my card.”