Death at St. James's Palace (7 page)

Digby came straight to the point. “You, Sir, are a jackanapes. A young girl was raped beneath your roof and you have done nothing whatsoever about it.”

The red complexion deepened to purple. “Simply because I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir. How dare you come here uninvited and make false accusations against me.”

John spoke up. “You recently had a pupil called Lucas Drummond in your charge. Is that not so, Sir?”

Mr. Sebastian frowned, pretending, not very convincingly, to be deep in thought.

“Drummond? Drummond? The name’s familiar. I think you’d best step into my study, gentlemen.” He produced a book from his desk. “Ah, yes, here he is. There are two of them, of course. Lucas and Frederick.”

“I rather think you mean
were.
Lucas - or shall we call him by his real name, Lucinda - ran away yesterday and has put herself under my protection.”

Sebastian went from purple to deep violet. “Under your protection? What rubbish is this? And why are you calling the boy by a girl’s name?”

“For the simple reason he is a girl and you damn well know it.”

He was a good actor, John had to give him that. “Girl! Girl! We do not have girls in this establishment, Sir.”

Digby came in furiously. “You not only had a girl here but you deliberately turned a blind eye to the fact. So much so that the poor creature was raped in her bed the other night by one of your older pupils and was so terrified that she has run away.”

“Now I know who you’re talking about,” Sebastian snarled. “A snotty little fellow, very effeminate looking. Yes, it’s true, he went missing yesterday. I have informed his parents.”

The Apothecary was lost for words. Was it remotely possible, he wondered, that Mr. Sebastian had actually been deceived about Lucinda’s gender? He caught Digby Turnbull’s eye and saw that he was thinking the same thing.

The headmaster continued to speak. “So you say you have the boy in your care?” His voice took on a nasty edge. “And what do you intend doing with him might I ask?”

“If you are hinting what I believe you may be,” John answered, “you can cease to do so forthwith, or the consequences will not be pleasant for you. The creature in my charge is a girl, and before your mind goes down that path as well, I have engaged her as a servant for my wife.”

“For the last time,” growled the headmaster, his cheeks so discoloured he looked fit to have a stroke at any moment, “there are no girls at the Brampton Park Boarding School.”

He had won, there was no doubt about it. By the simple means of denying everything and refusing to budge, Sebastian had silenced them. Inwardly John seethed with rage but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Mr. Turnbull tried one last thrust. “You say you have informed Lucinda’s parents. May I know who they are so that we may write and assure them that all is well with the child.”

“Certainly not,” said the headmaster, rising to his feet to indicate that the interview was at an end. “All such information is strictly confidential. How dare you even ask it, Sir. Now to the practicalities. I want Lucas Drummond handed back into my care within the next twelve hours.”

“That, Sir,” said John, also standing up, “you can sing in the street for. There is no Lucas and as you deny the
 
existance of Lucinda you cannot demand her return. Besides the child is of an age to speak for herself. You can pursue me through the courts if you want to claim her. And then what a pretty can of worms shall be opened. I promise you that I would spare you nothing.”

Mr. Sebastian glared at him. “You have not heard the end of this affair, young man.”

“Neither have you,” said John, “nor has Lucinda’s mother when I finally discover her actual identity.”

Chapter 4

T
hey drove back to town in gloomy silence, both wondering whether they had completely wasted their time. So much so that when they reached The Hercules Pillars, the coaching inn at Hyde Park Corner, its odd name deriving from the fact that it was situated at London’s western limit, as were the rocks guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean, the two men alighted to take refreshment. The hostelry had already been made famous in a novel,
Tom Jones,
written by Mr. Fielding’s half-brother, Henry. Consequently, sightseers frequently visited the place, some half-believing that Squire Western and his entourage were real people and had actually stayed there. Now, as Digby Turnbull and John Rawlings shouldered their way into the taproom, they found it was as crowded as ever.

There were no seats to be had except for two at the very end of the room, close to a long, low window overlooking Hyde Park. The reason why these had not been taken, John discovered as they drew close, was that a dog, apparently dead, lay beneath, legs aloft, mouth agape, its tongue lolling.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Turnbull mildly.

“It’s here or nowhere,” John answered, looking around.

“Whose is it?”

“Probably wandered in off the street to die, like a wise creature. At least its last moments would have been spent in the warm.”

At that moment, the dog, without moving, voided wind. The Apothecary raised a svelte brow. “So that’s why nobody’s sitting here. It plays dead, then lets rip at all comers.”

“I’ll take my chance with it,” answered Digby. “To stand in this crush would be too much after a morning such as ours.”

A pot boy, sweating profusely and pale with exhaustion. was summoned and went away with their order, glancing miserably at all the other customers demanding his attention.

“I doubt he’ll be back within a half hour.”

“Was it even worth coming in here?”

“Yes, Mr. Rawlings, it was. We were routed this morning, we may as well admit it, so it was necessary for us to withdraw and regroup. And what better place than a warm and cosy inn?”

“If by cosy you mean heaving with humanity, then you’re right. But Sebastian did best us, didn’t he?”

Digby Turnbull had never looked more ordinary or more honest than when he answered, “I have heard it said that to deny all knowledge of an event is an excellent defence. And I can truly say that I, personally, have never seen it better employed. But it is, when all’s said and done, an ostrich’s way.”

“Your meaning, Sir?”

“That the truth will emerge one day; it almost always does. And then he will be worsted for his lies and evasions.”

“I hope you’re right. Do you think he will take this matter further?”

“No, Sir, I don’t. By the way, did you notice that he referred to Lucas/Lucinda’s parents, not just her mother?”

“Yes, but I thought that was a bluff.”

“I wonder,” said Digby thoughtfully.

“Yes,” John answered slowly, “now that you come to mention it, so do I.”

There was a silence during which the dog voided wind again, still without moving. And then the Apothecary’s attention was drawn by two voices, known yet not identifiable, speaking in urgent tones quite close at hand.

“... think I didn’t hear,” said one, female, “then you are mistaken. To anyone with the remotest idea, the innuendo was obvious.”

“But who
has
the remotest idea?” answered the man. “You are letting your imagination run away with you.”

“Far from it. I’ll swear that one or two members of the company looked at me knowingly.”

“Guilty conscience and guilty conscience alone,” the male voice drawled in reply.

There was a hiss. “You bastard! Never forget that you are not without guilt.”

“But you would never name it.”

“Would I not if I were driven.”

It was at that most interesting moment that the pot boy reappeared, kicking the dog accidentally as he set down two glasses and a jug. The animal, thus disturbed, began to bark furiously, drowning out all other sound. Cursing, John stood up to discover who it was who had been speaking. But he was too late. All he saw was the skirt of a woman’s cloak as she went out of the taproom to the street, and the backview of a man, vaguely familiar.

Digby looked up from pouring the wine. “Was that someone you knew?”

“Yes, but though I recognised their voices I could not place them. Do you know they almost seemed to be blackmailing one another about revealing some terrible truth.”

John’s stolid companion sighed. “That could be virtually anyone in the
beau monde.
They’re all riddled with corruption. I fear for society, I truly do.”

“You’re right,” the Apothecary answered, taking a draught. “Recent events do not encourage one to have a great deal of faith in human nature.”

“I suppose Lucinda really
is
a girl,” said Digby rumina- tively.

“She certainly is. I particularly noticed her breasts,” John answered thoughtlessly, then pulled himself up short for being just as base and basic as all the rest.

By the time they left The Hercules Pillars, neither man was feeling as fraught as they had earlier. In fact the glow of good
 
wine was about them as they clambered into the coach. It would seem that Irish Tom had also had the benefit of ale because he set off at a brisk pace and reached Piccadilly in record time, dropping Digby off so that he could walk the short distance to St. James’s Palace.

“When is the investiture?” John asked, as his companion alighted.

“On the 30th September.”

“It should be most impressive.”

“It is a colourful ceremony indeed. Tell me, how will Mr. Fielding manage? I mean regarding his blindness.”

“His wife, Elizabeth, will walk with him, arm in arm. That is what he does in a place he doesn’t know. Of course he has memorised his home and the courtroom. In those he has only a switch or cane to guide him.”

“He could have been knighted privately, you know.”

“I somehow think that he would not have wanted that. He is a very proud man, is John Fielding.”

“So I have gathered.” Mr. Turnbull paused. “You know him quite well, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to mention the Brompton Park School affair?”

“Yes, I think I will, just in case there are any repercussions. I may as well state my side of the case.”

Digby looked thoughtful. “I wonder just who Lucinda’s mother is.”

“We’ll know one day,” John answered, but did not feel the confidence that his cheerful manner implied.

It seemed that everybody had returned to town, for several letters awaited the Apothecary as he walked into his hall, where they were handed to him before he made his way to the library to read their contents. The first, in flowery hand, was from Miss Chudleigh, announcing that she had returned to court to resume her duties as maid of honour to the Princess of Wales, the young King’s mother. She hoped very much to see him again and entertain him in her apartments. No mention whatsoever was made of Emilia. The Apothecary smiled wryly and threw it on one side, then picked it up again with a thoughtful expression on his face.

The second was from the Blind Beak himself, inviting him to dinner that very day. Suddenly realising that if he was going to accept he had little time in which to prepare, John rang a bell and when a lower footman replied asked him to fetch the head man.

The staff had changed enormously since John’s marriage and Sir Gabriel’s departure to Kensington. Three of the older servants, including the cook, had gone with him, and the arrival of Emilia, complete with her personal maid and a newly employed housemaid to assist, had altered the entire balance of the household, which had once been all male and dominated by footmen, Sir Gabriel, who had never considered his establishment grand enough to employ a steward, had left behind the head footman, Axford, to make sure that the newlyweds’ domestic life ran without a hitch.

“You sent for me, Sir?” Axford asked now.

“Yes, I’ve several things to discuss. First of all, how is Lucinda settling down?”

“Very well. She has been kitted out in suitable clothes and has been doing her chores quite competently.”

“What position have you given her?”

“An undermaid. I felt that when Mrs. Rawlings returned with Dorcas and Hannah there would be trouble indeed if they found that anyone of equal status to themselves had been employed in their absence. Household politics, Sir.” He sighed.

“Very wise. Anyway, I must hurry. I have been invited to dine with Mr. Fielding. Can some hot water be brought to my bedroom immediately. That and a glass of pale sherry.”

“I’ll send Lucinda up with the tray and Gregg with the ewer. Is there anything else, Sir?”

“Yes, Axford. You meet a lot of other servants when you are out and about, tell me what is said about Miss Chudleigh. Is it true that she is the mistress of the Duke of Kingston?”

To have talked so freely with a footman would have been frowned upon by that doyen of good taste, Sir Gabriel. But John had known Axford for years and had long ago realised his value as a source of London gossip.

“It is indeed, Sir. She met him about eighteen months ago and, if you’ll forgive the phrase, he has been in her clutches ever since.”

“He was not at her levee for Mr. Fielding the other day.”