Death at the Devil's Tavern (20 page)

‘Miss Lambourn, Mr Randolph. Arrived early for the funeral, I see.'

‘As are you, Sir,' Valentine responded.

‘I thought it best to come to The George first and change.'

‘A wise precaution.'

‘Mr Challon booked me a room here for the night,' Amelia offered. ‘He called on me the other day and asked if there was anything he could do to help.'

‘That was very kind.'

‘He and Mr Randolph have been extremely good to me,' she replied artlessly.

Probably because they both have a fancy for you, John caught himself thinking uncharitably.

Valentine squirmed uncomfortably in his chair at Miss Lambourn's words, and the Apothecary took a good hard look at him. The handsome hawkish face was tired, almost drawn, and yet there was a gleam in Mr Randolph's eye that gave its own messages. Aware of John's scrutiny, he looked away. But not before their gaze had momentarily met and a flicker of understanding had passed between them. Mentally raising his eyebrows, the Apothecary stole a glance at Amelia, but she appeared utterly as would have been normal in her wretched circumstances. Pale but determined to present a brave face to the world, she sat with her eyes cast down and her hands folded in her lap, the very picture of unhappy innocence. She was either, thought John, an excellent actress or had spent an entirely blameless night alone in her bed.

‘A brandy, Mr Rawlings?' said Valentine, rising. ‘I'm going to have one. What about you, Miss Lambourn?'

‘Yes, I will,' she said. ‘I need to get my courage up.'

John nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.' He looked at his fob watch. ‘What time is the funeral?'

‘At twelve noon,' the office manager answered. ‘We'll need to leave here about a half hour before. St Matthew's lies on the road back to town.'

‘It's a new church, isn't it?' John asked.

‘Ten years old.' Valentine smiled. ‘It was built to counter the increase of dissoluteness of morals in the younger and poorer sort.'

‘Well, that covers most of us,' the Apothecary said, and laughed at the expression on his companions' faces.

Fortified by the brandy the trio set forth some thirty minutes later. Miss Lambourn, who was travelling in a very smart rig, obviously a gift from Sir William, offered the two gentlemen a ride with her, a proposal which they gladly accepted. Sitting beside her as they bumped over the track, noticing how delicious was her profile, John felt that he could easily understand how anyone, of any age, might fall in love with her, and conjectured again about her relationship with Valentine Randolph, with whom he had caught her conversing in so animated a fashion. And this thought led him on to another. Had she happily decided to enter into marriage with an elderly man, secure in the knowledge that she had a lover in the background to keep her amused? And where, if anywhere, did the helpful Luke Challon feature in all this? As best he could, John decided to observe all three of them.

St Matthew's churchyard was already full of mourners, presumably friends and neighbours, standing together in groups, chattering quite loudly for such a solemn occasion. Attempting to vanish into the background, John allowed Mr Randolph to offer Miss Lamboum his arm, while he stood well away beside a grave stone bearing the stark message, ‘He was a candle in the wind, Alas he's been blown out'. Thinking how swiftly the end came for one and all, John shuddered as in the distance, turning off the track and down towards the church, he caught his first glimpse of the funeral procession.

Walking tragically slowly, clad in dark clothes from the top of his small frame to his barely visible boots, came the fragile figure of the undertaker's mute, leading the dead to his final resting place. Behind him followed the hearse, drawn by two gleaming horses the colour of jet, emblazoned with emblems and nodding black plumes, the coffin containing poor Sir William's earthly shell clearly visible through its glass sides. Behind it followed a cortege of unwieldy black coaches, bearing the family who, even at this distance, could be seen sitting bolt upright, an unkindness of ravens indeed. Remembering that he had had this very thought on the day of the wedding that never happened, John felt a sense of familiarity. Coming to a halt outside the church door, the coffin was shouldered out of the hearse and into the house of God by the male members of the family. Roger, white as a sail and sweating copiously, led the way, with a tanned thin crisp individual who could only be Hugh, on the opposite corner. Behind them walked Julian, in tears, and Luke Challon, his expression bleak beyond belief. Two professional pall bearers bore the rest of the load.

John watched the coffin go in, then turned to glance at the bereaved and nearly laughed aloud, an inexcusable action. Escorted by Sir Gabriel Kent, resplendent in a sable trimmed black cloak which swept the ground as he walked, came Lady Hodkin, appearing mightily pleased with herself and more than a little besotted. Hesther, very pink, was her usual step behind and hurrying a little. Yet as she drew level with him the Apothecary thought that sombre colours became her, for she looked more comely than he had ever seen her. Catching his eye, Miss Hodkin gave a tentative smile.

Lydia, a woman whom John presumed to be Maud, and Juliet, the last quite ravishing in a large black hat, followed in next and behind them poured all the other grievers in a body. The Apothecary's heart bled for poor Miss Lambourn who, whatever her faults, whatever her antecedents, would have led the mourners this day had not the hand of a murderer struck her intended husband down. Now she was left like the meanest servant to go in last, a pathetic little figure, already in tears. Even though she was being supported by Valentine Randolph, John took her other arm and walked in beside her.

It truly was the wedding party gathered together all over again and seeing them like this gave the Apothecary the chance to flash that other portrait from St Paul's, Shadwell, into his vivid memory. Comparing the two, he saw that Lydia had not lied, for she had not been present on the first occasion. And though Maud had been in church, Hugh had not, probably telling the truth about being out of the country. As to the rest, they had all been present at the wedding, looking as glum as they did now, with the exception of Lady Hodkin, who on this occasion seemed to be positively cheerful.

John let his mind wander over certain possibilities. Despite her claims to be aged and weak, the old beast was more than capable of wielding a stick, he had seen that for himself. It was Hesther who had received the brunt of that blow, but would Miss Hodkin be capable of striking one herself? Had unrequited love for her brother-in-law driven her into a frenzy, a frenzy which had led to his death? And what of Lydia, so dark and strong and handsome, had she some secret, something he had yet to unearth, which could have caused her to shut Sir William's mouth for ever? Or was it greed with all of them? Had the thought of a vast inherited fortune been the trigger? As far as Maud was concerned, John did not know enough about her to be aware of any other reason. And then he remembered the twins calling her prim. Could she be so fanatically pure that Sir William's adultery had driven her to kill? Or was her prudery a pose? Did it, in fact, mask a life of sin and dissipation?

Reluctantly, John turned his attention to Julian and Juliette. In the young man's case, of course, his addiction to gambling and his debts might well have given him sufficient reason to want his father out of the way. But as for the girl, how could such a shining beauty be associated with anything so brutal as murder? Then the Apothecary mentally took himself to task. It had been his mistake in the past not to equate loveliness with wickedness, yet he knew perfectly well that one did not preclude the other. Perhaps Juliette felt so protective about her twin that she would have killed for him. The two of them certainly acted as if they were in a conspiracy of some kind. But twins were often like that, particularly those born identical, John thought. Yet even though Julian and Juliette were not in that category, being of different sex, they had still shared together the dark secret waters of the womb, a bond between them that no one could ever break.

The service was beginning but John found it hard to concentrate his mind on it, so taken up with the notion that one of Sir William's family had struck the fatal blow and puzzling over which one of them it could have been. And then he heard the door at the back of the church open and a pair of large feet attempt to tiptoe in. Turning to have a look, the Apothecary was both delighted and astonished to see that Samuel Swann had arrived to pay his last respects and was taking his place in a rear pew.

They met at the graveside, or rather in the queue leading down the path towards it, and shook each other most heartily by the hand. ‘My dear fellow, how is it all going?' asked the Goldsmith, in the hushed tones of one who is dying to hear the news but simultaneously trying to keep a sense of occasion.

‘In the most complicated manner possible. I am supposed to be investigating Sir William's family but have been barred the house by his harridan mother-in-law. Therefore, my father has been sent in, posing as a hapless traveller …'

‘What!' exclaimed Samuel loudly.

‘To try and unravel the skeins of their devious lives. He is here now, even as we speak. Should he pass you, pretend not to know him.'

The Goldsmith rubbed his hands together. ‘This is tremendous! I'm so glad I came. If I had not called on Mr Fielding last night I would have known nothing about it.'

John gaped at him. ‘Last night? But I was there. What time did you go to see him?'

‘About a quarter of an hour after you had left to visit Serafina and Louis. Anyway, the Beak caught me up with as much news as he could. And told me that the funeral was today. I thought as you had found the poor man's corpse it would be only fitting to pay my final regards. But in view of all the intrigue, I am delighted I did so.'

‘And well you might be. We stand on the threshold of a great secret, I'm sure of it. Now, how did you get here?'

‘By postchaise. It put me down at a place called The George and I walked the rest of the way.'

‘I came on Godiva, whom I'm due to take back later today. So I suggest that we return to The George as soon as we can, and meet again later this evening, near the Middle Temple.'

‘What will you be doing there?'

‘Hearing the details of Sir William Hartfield's will. It is being read this afternoon at Kirby Hall but Mr Fielding has asked the lawyer to reveal the contents to me tonight.'

‘Surely the main beneficiary is going to be Amelia Lambourn.'

‘That we must wait and see.'

‘But if she is, does it give her a motive for murder?'

John looked thoughtful. ‘I would have thought not. But there is certainly something odd about the girl. High on my list of things to do is pay a visit to Islington Spa where Sir William originally met Amelia, and find out what is known about her there.'

‘And when do you intend to do this?'

‘Probably tomorrow afternoon. Is there any chance you could join me?'

Samuel beamed. ‘I should be delighted. I feel that I haven't given you my usual help with this latest quest …'

John smiled within.

‘… so I shall leave the shop in the hands of my apprentice and go with you.' He looked anxious. ‘But what about you? Do you have an assistant to look after things?'

‘I have acquired a young fellow through the good offices of Mr Fielding. My father and I think highly of him but I would like you to meet him and give me your opinion. He is called Nicholas Dawkins and is reputed to be of noble Muscovy descent.'

‘How exotic.'

John grinned and nudged his friend in the ribs. ‘Did you think I'd choose anyone less?'

But at that point their moment of bonhomie abruptly ended. A shriek pierced shrilly from the graveside and looking down the length of the line of mourners, the Apothecary saw that Amelia Lambourn, whose turn it was to throw earth upon the coffin, was swaying in a faint on the very edge of the yawning chasm. Indeed she would have fallen in backwards had it not been for Roger, of all the unlikely people, who with a burst of quick thinking, seized the unhappy girl round the waist and pulled her back to safety.

‘How extraordinary,' murmured John.

‘What?'

‘That he of all of them should have had the presence of mind to save her.'

‘Why? Is he a puff?'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘He looks it, though that means nothing of course. Who is the fellow?'

‘Roger Hartfield, Sir William's first-born.'

John continued to stare in the direction of the grave and saw that despite the beau's somewhat feeble ministrations, Amelia had lost consciousness. ‘Oh dear,' he sighed, and pushed past the curious crowd to her aid, knocking into his father as he did so and saying, ‘Oh, beg pardon, Sir,' in a highly affected voice. At the same time, Luke Challon appeared as if from nowhere, practically hurling people over in his anxiety to get to the fainting woman's side. It was all, John thought, very interesting indeed.

Despite Lady Hodkin's cries of, ‘There's that horrible young man!' the Apothecary finally managed to get some sal volatile beneath Amelia's nose and raise her from where she hung limply in the crook of Roger's arm. After a moment her eyes fluttered open and she looked round, saw the greedy-mouthed grave, and swooned once more.

‘I'll take Miss Lambourn to her carriage,' offered Luke.

‘Permit me to assist,' said Valentine Randolph.

‘Really!' interrupted Roger petulantly. ‘Allow one member of the family to show a little decency. I'll get her there myself.'

And he minced off on his high-heeled shoes, practically dragging the poor girl with him, leaving the rest of the family to stare at his retreating back, their expressions ranging from downright fury to one of total disbelief.