Death in Hellfire (29 page)

The Apothecary and Nick both got to their feet and bowed magnificently.

“Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir.” But as soon as the two of them were out of the door John turned to Nick and said urgently, “Follow them.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
hey hurried out just in time to see the Avon-Nelthorpes climbing into a hackney coach which had been pulling up outside St Bartholomew’s Hospital. John looked round frantically for another but could see none. He turned to Nicholas.

“What shall we do?”

“We could beg a ride off that farmer.”

John stared at him but indeed there was such an individual amongst the horde of drovers driving their cattle to market. With merely a look between them the two men raced towards the trundling cart shouting “Stop, stop, we will make it worth your while.”

The fellow looked over his shoulder, saw that his pursuers were well-dressed and duly pulled to a halt.

“How can I help you, sirs?”

“Can you follow that hackney coach?”

“The one just disappearing?”

“Yes. If you can keep up with it I’ll give you a golden guinea,” answered John.

They clambered on board the hay cart and proceeded back along the way they had come until, as they reached the Strand, the hackney coach veered off to the right.

“They’re heading for Covent Garden,” said John in amazement.

“Probably going to a brothel,” Nick answered, not really meaning it.

For Covent Garden was infamous as the area of London with more prostitutes and houses of ill-repute per square inch than any other.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” John answered.

The cart turned slowly to the right and the Apothecary asked the farmer to slow down.

“I think we’d better disembark,” he said to Nick. “This is not the usual form of conveyance for this area.”

“Do you think they have seen us?”

“Bound to have done.”

And as the Apothecary gave the farmer his promised guinea he saw two figures scurrying into a house of dubious reputation, glancing over their shoulders as they did so.

“We daren’t follow them in, dare we?” Nicholas asked.

“No. But we can saunter past and see what kind of things are on offer.”

They walked onwards in a casual manner and went up to the door at which stood a huge negro slave. He bowed as they drew closer.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Can I interest you in a game of chance? Cards or dice? Or perhaps beautiful young ladies? Or why not have both? We cater for all tastes in this establishment.”

“Thank you, but no,” John answered. “Unfortunately we have another engagement. But we shall come back another night. You can be sure of it.”

“Thank you, sirs. I hope to see you again.”

The servant gave a deep bow and John and Nick walked quietly on.

“What shall we do now?” asked the Muscovite.

“We shall go and see Dominique Jean. I’ve a feeling he could be very useful to us.”

They quickened their pace but as soon as they saw a hackney they hailed it as time was moving by and John could only recall where the Frenchman had his workshop. Or rather where his celebrated father-in-law had had his. Fearful that the place might be closed and Dominique returned home for the night, John felt a sense of relief when the driver put them down at the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, not far from the brewhouse, which stood in an alleyway leading off Bainbridge Street. There were lights on at the workshop and the Apothecary turned to Nick with a smile.

“Sombody’s in there and at least they can tell us Dominique’s home address.” And with that he knocked loudly on the door of number 39.

From within the building they heard a French voice say, “
Merde
,” and the two men turned to one another and grinned. Bolts were drawn back and eventually Dominique’s face appeared in the crack. Lit from behind by a lanthorn which he held high, it had a strange, greenish pallor. Recognising John, the Frenchman broke into a broad smile and threw the door wide.

“Come in,
mon ami.
I was wondering if you might call. How are you?”

“Very well indeed.” John motioned to Nick. “May I present Nicholas Dawkins, my former apprentice, now qualified and an apothecary in his own right.”

“I am delighted to meet you. I have news for you, John, about one of your patients.”

The Apothecary stared. “Who?”

“Lord Orpington, of course. I called in at West Wycombe on my way back to London and I can tell you the old boy was up and about.”

John turned to Nick. “That just proves the efficacy of foxgloves given in small amounts.”

“I shall remember that.”

They walked into the workshop and John stood sniffing the air. From every corner the smell of beautiful wood filled his nostrils together with another odour, a strangely unique tang. He turned to Dominique.

“What a wonderful stink. What is it?”

The Frenchman smiled. “You are in the repair section at the moment. Wood comes to us from various places and brings with it an individual smell of its owner. The blending of their essences is what you can detect at present.”

“I never thought wood to have a smell.”

“Oh, but it has, my friend. Each piece that comes in is unique. Sniff them for yourself.”

The Apothecary did as he was instructed and sure enough a faint aroma rose from each piece. Nicholas looked on fascinated and eventually joined in.

Dominique stood watching them, smiling at their astonished expressions. Then interrupted them by saying, “Gentlemen, would you like to see some of my father-in-law’s work?”

Leading them through to the other end of the large workroom, John and Nicholas stood in silent admiration at the great things of beauty that had been fashioned by the hands of that master craftsman, Pierre Langlois.

“These are still waiting for me to put the finishing touches to them,” Dominique said, feeling an exquisite piece of furniture with love.

“I wish I could have such a masterpiece in my home,” John answered sincerely.

“Alas, these are all pre-ordered,” the Frenchman stated a little sadly. His voice changed. “Now,
mon ami,
I am sure you had a reason for calling here. What can I do for you?”

John laughed. “Dominique, I want you to go to a certain house in Covent Garden for me.”

The other looked stricken. “But John, I am a married man with a small child. My wife would kill me.”

“Not if you explained to her first. All I want you to do is find out if it is both a gambling hell and a whorehouse. And anything else that might be of interest.”

“Such as?”

“Two people whom you have already met patronise the place. I refer to Sir Francis Dashwood’s friends Betsy and James Avon-Nelthorpe.”

“But I saw them briefly once, that is all.”

“Nevertheless, you would know them again.” John’s face took on an earnest expression. “It is quite important to me that you do this, Dominique.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because they would recognise me,” the Apothecary answered, and explained the events of the evening to the Frenchman, leaving out the reference to the unusual poison used to kill Lord Arundel and Lady Orpington. At the end Dominique pulled a face.

“Very well, I will go, provided I can explain to my wife. If she is agreeable I shall visit the place tomorrow and will call on you with the results. Do I have your card?”

John produced one with a flourish and the Frenchman studied it.

“Shug Lane, eh. A good address.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, are you any nearer finding out who committed the murders?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then perhaps you never will,” Dominique answered and gave a Gallic shrug.

Outside Nick turned to John. “Do you think he was trying to hide something?”

“I don’t know. But it occurs to me that he could very easily fashion a blowpipe. Don’t you think so?”

“Very easily indeed,” the Muscovite replied as they set their faces towards Oxford Street and the long walk home.

The next morning, Sir Gabriel having played cards the night before and remaining in bed for a while, John had an excellent opportunity to read the paper and an item of interest immediately caught his eye. “The Funeral of Charles William Montblanc Bravo, Marquess of Arundel, will Take Place at 2 o’clock at St James’s, Piccadilly, Today.”

So the Coroner had released the body and the murdered man was finally to be laid to rest. John glanced at his watch and saw that if he changed into his mourning clothes he could slip out of the shop and be at St James’s in five minutes, leaving Nicholas in charge once more. He could also get a full morning’s work in before having to do so. Consequently, he left the house arrayed in deepest black and hurried off to Shug Lane.

Both Gideon and Nicholas were there before he arrived and looked somewhat startled at his appearance.

“I’m off to a funeral later, my lads,” John said briefly, and slipped off his coat and put a long apron over the rest of his sombre gear.

At half past one the solemn funeral bell started its melancholy single note and ten minutes later the Apothecary hurried from his shop and went down Shug Lane to Castle Street, turned left into Air Street and thus made his way to Piccadilly and the church of St James’s. Pulling his hat well down, John stood behind a bush in the churchyard and watched the various arrivals.

Dignitaries came by the score and amongst them the Apothecary recognised several monks of St Francis. As well as the monks there were two apostles, namely Lord Sandwich and Sir Henry Vansittart, who made their way inside to be followed a moment later by the arrival of Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood, he very florid, she looking disapproving and somewhat thin. Finally, the immediate family appeared escorting the coffin. Coralie - very pale and lovely - holding the hand of her pallid child, followed by Lady Juliana on the arm of an elderly artistocratic man who John presumed to be the dead man’s father, the Duke of Sussex. Having checked that they were safely inside, the Apothecary slipped in and sat at the back where he could see everything that occurred.

Coralie was weeping, presumably remembering her husband as he must once have been, as was the old Duke, probably for the same reason. John wondered if the man had another son who would now inherit the title, and looking round those sitting in the front pew thought he identified a likely candidate. Lady Juliana sat ramrod straight, her lips moving soundlessly as if she were praying for the soul of her departed brother. Occasionally she would pat the hand of Georgiana, who sat next to her, her face utterly expressionless. John thought that if he had been asked to pick a murderer from among them his money would have gone on the child.

The service finally came to an end after several flowery funeral orations, one given by Sir Francis himself - by now puce in the face - which as far as John could see amounted to nothing more nor less than a series of totally false compliments. As soon as it was over he rose like lightning and made his way out to the churchyard. The freshly dug grave - like an open black mouth - yawned nearby, the gravediggers standing removed at a respectful distance. Down from the church wound the mournful dark procession and John secreted himself behind a large family grave with an overpowering angelic erection above. The line of mourners passed within a few feet of him and he found himself terribly aware of their individual smells. At the head of the file came Coralie, holding Georgiana by the hand, and John was instantly reminded of the many nights he had spent with her, locked in her embrace, inhaling that wonderful perfume of hyacinths which he always associated with her. The child smelt faintly of horses and John suspected that she had not washed since going for a ride that morning.

Behind them followed Lord Arundel’s father, sister and brother; the old man smelling of shaving soap and ancient perspiration, she of lavender water, as if she had splashed a great deal on herself, the brother of costly scent, Sir Francis Dashwood stunk of stale alcohol, Lady Dashwood of vinegar, while Lord Sandwich had a musty aroma peculiar to him alone. Betsy and James Avon-Nelthorpe both wore outrageously expensive perfumes. There were a great many people walking to the graveside and from each one John detected a highly individualistic whiff as they passed him by in his hidden hiding place.

He was just about to creep away when a voice muttered in his ear, “Good morning, sir. I thought I might find you here.” He looked up and straight into the fox face of Joe Jago.

“Joe!” John exclaimed at full voice and was instantly told to be quiet.

“Nobody knows you’re about so let’s keep it that way, sir.” The Apothecary looked contrite. “You’re right,” he whispered. “What brings you here?”

“Saw the announcement in the papers and Sir John suggested I come and have a look. He also suggested that if Sir Francis Dashwood were here then we head straight for West Wycombe and search the grounds before he gets back. Are you game, sir?”

“Of course I am. When do we leave?”

“Immediately. I have a coach waiting at the church gates. I also have a runner ready to deliver a message to your family.” John gave a smile that turned his mouth up on one side. “Poor wretches. It would never surprise me to walk in one day and for my daughter to say, “Who are you?””