Death at St. James's Palace (8 page)

Axford looked very knowing but said nothing.

“You are wearing a mysterious face, Axford. What is it you want to say to me?”

“That the Duke is kin to Mr. Fielding; they are connected in some way, I believe through cousinage to the Earl of Denbigh. Whatever the case, that is why Miss Chudleigh is so well disposed towards the Magistrate. Her carriage is often seen outside the court, where she has gone as a visitor of course.”

“How interesting. Tell me, is not the Duke quite an elderly and scholarly man?”

“He is indeed. No ripsnorter rakehell he.”

“But she is so beautiful and so outrageous. The attraction of opposites I suppose.” The Apothecary looked pensive. “Does Miss Chudleigh have a bastard child, I wonder.”

“Rumour has suggested it, Sir.”

“That proves nothing.”

“Indeed not. Yet if she has she would merely be like many a great lady before her.”

“Yes.” John got to his feet. “No doubt I shall learn more of her this evening. But first I must get ready. Send Lucinda and Gregg up as soon as you can.”

“Yes, Mr. Rawlings.”

As soon as they had returned from honeymoon, John and Emilia had moved into the largest bedroom in Nassau Street, the room once occupied by Sir Gabriel and the Apothecary’s mother, Phyllida. Situated at the back of the house, the room overlooked the long thin garden, a fact that Phyllida had preferred to a view of the street, though convention decreed that the master bedroom should always be in the front of the building. Now John stood there, staring out over the autumn borders, just one or two flowers still blooming, adding their colour to the bright flame of the leaves. He did not turn when the knock came at the door but saw Lucinda’s blurred reflection in the glass of the window. She was quite definitely female, he thought, and rather too pretty for her own good.

“I brought your sherry, Sir.”

He wheeled round. “Lucinda. How nice of you. How are you settling in?”

“I like it here very much, Sir. Everyone has been so kind. These are the clothes that the dressmaker made for me.”

The dress was a light dove grey, adorned by a lilac collar and cuffs. To complete the outfit Lucinda wore a lilac apron.

“The trimmings are not too fanciful, are they, Sir?”

“They are but they match your eyes. You look very beautiful.”

She blushed wildly and the Apothecary realised that he was going to have to be careful with her; that she was young and vulnerable and ready to fall in love. He put on his serious face.

“I saw Mr. Sebastian this morning.”

Lucinda went pale. “What did he say?”

“That you were a boy. That he knew nothing of any girl at his school. That he claimed you back.”

She looked positively ill. “Are you going to send me away?”

“No, you are of an age now.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you are old enough to choose what you want to do regarding certain things. The age of consent is twelve, you are sixteen. But for all that you do not come of legal age until you are twenty-one. Therefore if your mother wanted you to return to school, she could force you to do so, though I truly believe that Mr. Sebastian on his own could not demand it.”

“My mother will let sleeping dogs lie,” Lucinda answered firmly.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I will fight,” said his new servant with sudden fire. “I shall threaten that if I am sent back I will make the fact of my birth public, that I will go to the newspapers. I will not return to that evil school, I will not.”

John took the glass of sherry from the tray and sipped it. “I am delighted to hear it. But now I must prepare. I am dining with Mr. Fielding. Thank you, Lucinda.”

She hovered in the doorway. “Before I leave can I just say thank you. You have rescued me from a life of hell.”

“And will you tell your mother that if she should call?”

“She will not call,” answered Lucinda with certainty, and left the room.

“So,” said the Blind Beak, “it’s damsels in distress now, is it?”

“I’m afraid so. Do you think I will be accused of abduction?”

“Technically you could be. But if what the girl says is true - and from what you have told me there seems no reason to disbelieve her - the school is too rum to court publicity and the mother sounds the usual hard-faced harpy that the upper eschelons of society are so very good at breeding.”

John was silent, looking round Mr. Fielding’s dining room, enjoying the cosiness of the autumn evening, of the rich red curtains, admiring the Magistrate’s new acquisition, a mahogany sideboard with an inlay of satinwood, designed by Robert Adam. The flames were reflected in its dark gleaming wood, giving a glow and harmony to the room that the Apothecary found enormously relaxing. Worries about malevolent headmasters and uncaring mothers suddenly seemed a million miles away.

“Another port?” said Mr. Fielding and, as ever, poured with the dexterity of a sighted man.

John sighed with contentment. It had been a marvellous meal, just the two men together, the ladies having gone to the playhouse to see David Garrick as Shylock in
The Merchant of Venice.
The Apothecary presumed, though he had not actually asked, that the woman he had once loved with all his heart, the actress Coralie Clive, would be taking the part of Portia.

“I miss the theatre,” said the Magistrate, slowly lighting a pipe.

“Could you not go and listen?”

John Fielding shook his head. “It isn’t worth it. The difficulties of getting in and out of my seat are too great to justify the few hours of pleasure involved. Occasionally, though, as Garrick and I have been friends for years, he will bring some of his players here and I have a performance all to myself.”

“Does Coralie come?” John asked before he could control the words.

“Yes, now and then.”

“How is she?”

“Still beautiful, that is according to my wife and Mary Ann. Climbing high in the theatre since her sister’s retirement last March. And with a string of admirers into the bargain,” Mr. Fielding added, answering John’s unasked question.

“I suppose she will finally marry into the aristocracy.”

“I dare say,” answered the Magistrate comfortably.

“Talking of the aristocracy, I thought it most kind of Miss Chudleigh to invite us the other day.”

Mr. Fielding chuckled. “Ah, Elizabeth, yes. Of course she is not really a member of that social order, not yet that is.”

John looked interested but said nothing, anxious to hear more.

“No, her father was merely Colonel Chudleigh and she was left very badly provided for when he died suddenly. Elizabeth was only six years old at the time. But she has always been a beautiful girl and has risen very high because of that. They say the Earl of Bath was much attracted to her and the Duke of Hamilton was on the point of marrying her, though some misunderstanding caused them to break up and he married one of the Misses Gunning instead. However, she is now much attached to my kinsman, the Duke of Kingston.”

“Will she become his wife, do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. There is nothing to stop either of them. In fact I am surprised she has not done it by now.”

“Has she ever had a child?” asked John, out of the blue.

Mr. Fielding looked slightly startled. “Not that I know of. Though there was a rumour that some years ago she left court for a considerable length of time. But then there are rumours like that about all lovely and daring women.”

John nodded, longing to ask when this was but not quite having the courage to do so. It was obvious by the way he spoke that the Magistrate was fond of the lady in question and there were other ways of finding such information. However, Mr. Fielding had not finished speaking.

“It is said that when she returned, one young woman commented that she had heard Miss Chudleigh had given birth to twins, and this to her face, mark you. Apparently, Lord Chesterfield was standing nearby and Elizabeth at once drew him into the conversation and asked if he could believe such gossip. ‘Ah, Miss Chudleigh,’ he answered, very straight-faced, “I make it a policy only to believe half of what I hear.’”

The Magistrate rumbled another melodious laugh, in which John joined him.

“Why is it that I can never think of witty ripostes until too late?”

“A fact common to most of us/‘ John Fielding answered. He changed the subject. “The investiture is going to be quite an ordeal, I believe.”

“Why so?”

“My dear friend, there is a great deal of walking involved. Apparently, we enter by one staircase, leave by another, and have endless rooms to process through until we reach the throne.”

“But Mrs. Fielding will walk with you surely.”

“Not only she. I have asked permission for Jago to take my other arm. He is as used to guiding me as my wife. They shall proceed on either side of me and Mary Ann will sit by herself to observe.”

“How I wish I could be there,” said the Apothecary. “It would be one of the great moments of my life to see you knighted.” He meant every word.

“Alas Mr. Rawlings, we are limited to three guests. As it is there will be a mighty crush.”

“Is the Queen to be present?”

“Not she. I have heard that she does not care too greatly for public show. She is formidably ugly you know, and I am sure that someone must have giggled this behind her back. I suppose one should feel sorry for the poor thing. Sometimes ...” He burst out laughing again and John came to the conclusion that the great man was very slightly the worse for liquor. “... one almost feels blessed that one cannot see her.”

“Is it true that the King wears a blindfold at night?” asked the Apothecary. He, too, was feeling the effects of the port.

“If he doesn’t, he soon will. The only thing the poor girl has on her side is youth and that will pass quickly enough.”

“I am sure that half the people present at the ceremony will be disappointed not to get a close look at Her Majesty. It is the talk of town that wagers are being taken on exactly how plain she is.”

“Well, she’s not going to be there. Apparently it is not the thing for consorts to attend.”

“Ah well,” said John. There was a noise on the stairs and he looked at his watch. “I do believe that is the ladies returning. My dear sir, I have outstayed my welcome.”

Mr. Fielding shook his head. “You could never do that, my friend. Remain to greet them and have another glass of port.”

“In your company, Sir,” answered the Apothecary, “I am always weak willed. I shall be only too happy to do so.”

He had walked to Bow Street and now hailed a chair for the return journey. A link man was also summoned to light the way and the little party set off at a steady pace towards Nassau Street. The ways were empty and full of shadows and John, looking around him, thought that the
beau monde
were all at play and honest citizens were all abed, it was so unusually quiet.

It was as he was approaching his home that he caught his first sight of anyone tangible, though gloomy figures had been lurking in the denser patches of shade throughout the journey. Slipping along Gerard Street, coming from the direction of Nassau Street, was a cloaked figure, the hood pulled well forward to mask the face. It was a small, slight person, whoever it was, and they held a paper in their hand. John surmised that even at this late hour someone was on their way to the post. He peered more closely, raising his quizzing glass to his eye. And then the hood slipped back very slightly and he saw who it was braving the darkness of this chilly September night. His new servant Lucinda had not only left the house but had written to someone, no doubt to inform them precisely where she was now residing.

Chapter 5

H
e had said nothing, though the incident had given him food for thought. For it seemed to John, the more he considered the matter, that Lucinda was still in her mother’s thrall and might quite possibly write to that most undeserving of women to inform her of her whereabouts. Yet that didn’t quite make sense. The girl had declared most emphatically that she would fight fire with fire rather than return to boarding school, and her mother was the one person with the legal right to make her do so. Eventually he concluded that the letter must have been intended for someone entirely different and decided in view of Lucinda’s exemplary behaviour to let the matter drop.

Emilia returned home with her two maids and there was the usual rather cool reception of the new girl by the established servants, particularly as she was so very pretty and so very young and capable. Fortunately, Emilia took to her, even more sympathetically when Lucinda related the story of her ordeal at the Brompton Park Boarding School. So, the Apothecary thought, as the month of September drew to its close and his wife complained that her stays were getting too tight, that all was well with his little domestic world. And he sighed to himself that his adventuring days were over and the strange premonition he had experienced in Kensington had turned out to be false after all.

The weather remained fine and fair; leaves fell in the parks and squares, making a carpet of red and gold. With his feet crunching over them, the Apothecary made his way to Shug Lane on the morning of the penultimate day of the month, basking in the sunshine, thinking that Nicholas would be preparing tea at this very moment and that he would enjoy a cup before he started work for the day. But when he arrived in the lane it was to see his apprentice in a state of some agitation, anxiously peering down the street to discover if he was on his way and running to greet him as soon as he came into view.