Death at St. James's Palace (14 page)

“Anyone else?”

“Mary Goward, naturally. One of the silliest women ever to see daylight in my view. Then there were the Witherspoons, brother and sister, close as book leaves and probably incestuous.”

“Dear God!” exclaimed John, eyebrows flying.

Miss Chudleigh disregarded him and frowned in even deeper concentration. Then she smiled. “Jack Morocco was there as well. Large as life and perfumed like a lotus.”

“Jack Morocco?” John repeated. “Who’s he?”

“The Duchess of Arundel’s little pet. He started off as her black boy but by the time he reached puberty she had grown so fond of him that she didn’t follow custom and send him to the plantations. Instead she kept him on and treated him like a son. She dresses him as a fop, pays all his bills, bought him a horse and even fetched a dancing master to him. Can you credit it?”

“And is he a dutiful son to her?”

“Not he. He has a secret life that is the talk of the town, though she knows nothing of it.”

“And are you going to tell me what that is?”

“The usual. A private apartment, a white mistress, scores of hangers-on, claret and champagne. Need I say more?”

John laughed. “No. I take it the Duchess has no natural sons of her own?”

“No children at all, fate did not curse her with any.”

What an odd choice of word, thought John. Surely it should have been bless? But Miss Chudleigh was continuing to speak. “Anyway, he is quite the dandy man, though very pleasing in personality when one converses with him. In fact he has quite contributed to the clientele of Signor Luciano. All the young noblemen go there to learn fencing and horsemanship from friend Morocco.”

“He sounds a character indeed. I wonder what he was doing at the investiture.”

“One of his jolly friends receiving a knighthood I expect.”

“I see. Was there anybody else standing near Sir George?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Who are the brother and sister you mentioned?”

“The Witherspoons? Oh just a strange couple who have always shared a home. I believe there was another sister who died. If my memory holds, there was talk of suicide.”

“Surely it’s not true they are incestuous?”

Elizabeth Chudleigh shrugged a careless shoulder. “Who knows? Nobody has been in their bedrooms, just as they haven’t anyone else’s. It’s mere conjecture, after all.”

“Do you know where they live?”

“Somewhere in Islington, close to George Goward, so I’ve heard.”

“Ah.”

“Do you think that is significant?”

It was John’s turn to shrug. “It’s possible I suppose.” He finished his coffee, putting the cup down carefully in the saucer. “Tell me, how well do you know the Gowards?”

The wide eyes gave him a penetrating stare. “She more than him. When I first came to court she was married to Lomond, a drunken wastrel if ever there was one. George Goward was on the fringes of polite society then, but he was good with the ladies and spoke well, so managed to climb the ladder. Every rung a woman, of course.”

And were you one of them? thought John.

“Culminating in Lady Mary?”

“Yes, though to marry that vapid fool must have been a sacrifice for him indeed.”

“I wonder why they never had children,” said John reflectively.

“Perhaps she wouldn’t, perhaps he couldn’t. She had a son when she went into the marriage. Not that George had much to do with the child, rumour has it that he couldn’t abide the little fellow, teased him constantly about his porky appearance.”

“He was fat?”

“Huge. Took after his mother in that, to say nothing of his
 
kind person.”

“Would you think that he had many enemies?”

“I would say,” answered Miss Chudleigh, lowering her lids so that he could not see the expression in her eyes, “that he probably had dozens.”

“Fascinating,” said Sir John Fielding, “absolutely fascinating. Do you know, Mr. Rawlings we only received intelligence a few moments ago as to the identity of the other people standing in Sir George Goward’s vicinity. You have done very well indeed.”

“Miss Chudleigh was most forthcoming - at least about the others.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Sir, I know she is a friend of yours yet I could not help but get the feeling that it was really she who was in control of the entire conversation. She talked freely about anything that did not concern her but said little about her own self.”

The Magistrate frowned. “Do you think she is hiding something?”

“More than likely, though what I cannot imagine.”

Sir John looked thoughtful. “Perhaps she knew Goward better than she cares to admit. Could you follow that up, do you think?”

“I can try,” John answered, none too hopefully.

Today the court had risen early, there being few cases to hear, and the Apothecary, who had spent far longer with Miss Chudleigh than he had intended, had returned to Bow Street to give the Blind Beak the names of the three unknown people on the stairs.

“Mr. and Miss Witherspoon and Jack Morocco,” Sir John
 
said consideringly now. “I feel that if you would be so kind, Mr. Rawlings, it might be helpful if you saw them. Find out if any have past connections with George Goward.”

“The Witherspoons live near him in Islington, I believe.”

“And Jack Morocco?”

“No connection that I know of but then, according to Miss Chudleigh, Morocco lives wildly and has many friends. He was the Duchess of Arundel’s black boy, incidentally, but she grew to adore him so much that she brought him up and educated him as a son.”

“How lucky he was to be kept on. As you and I know full well, Mr. Rawlings, when the black boys approach manhood and are no longer sexless toys to accompany fine ladies, they are usually despatched to the West Indies and slavery.”

“A few remain because their owners have grown fond of them.”

“Sometimes too fond! Certain white women of rank and position have allowed their black servants familiarities that propriety would not tolerate.”

“With tragic results if they are discovered. Anyhow that would not apply to the Duchess,” John said with certainty. “Apparently she treats this young man as an indulged child and always has.”

The Magistrate rumbled a laugh. “I would rather like to meet him. I’ve a mind to call him in to Bow Street on some pretext or other.”

“But meanwhile do you want me to track him down?”

“Try and find him in one of his haunts. It could be very enlightening. Meanwhile I will attempt to make an appointment with Lady Mary and inform you of it should I be suc- cesful.”

“She will plead her grief as an excuse not to see you.”

“Of course I could demand an interview.”

“She’ll throw a vapour if you do,” the Apothecary warned.

“Then I shall have to have you on hand to revive her,” answered Sir John, and laughed again, very much amused by the involuntary groan which escaped his visitor’s lips.

A letter from Digby Turnbull awaited John on his return to Nassau Street:

Dear Sir,

I am Informed by Miss Chudleigh that Much is Spoken of Concerning the Demise of Sir George Goward. In view of the Circumstances I would be Obliged for the Opportunity to Converse with Your Self. If you Would Care to Call at St. James’s Palace presenting at the Same Entrance, I will be Pleased to recive Your Good Person.

I remain, Sir, Your Humble Servant,

D. Turnbull.

“What is it?” asked Emilia, appearing in the hall and looking most charming in a slightly loose blue robe.

“I have been summoned to the palace.”

“By His Majesty.”

“There’s no need to be frivolous. Now how has Lucinda behaved herself today?”

“Well enough. But John...”

“Yes?”

“The girl’s preoccupied. All’s not well with her.”

“I am hardly surprised. Her history, both recent and past, has not been without incident, to say the least of it.”

“I wish I could feel more at ease with her.”

“My darling,” said the Apothecary, “if she is upsetting you in any way I will remove her. No, of course I wouldn’t put her without doors but I would ask my father to give her a position - or at the very least, someone of his acquaintance.”

“Let that rest for the moment.” Emilia grinned at him. “Perhaps I am jealous because she is lissom and I am daily getting fatter.”
 

“Which for once just doesn’t matter. There - I’m a poet. Now let us dine in peace and you can tell me all that has befallen you.”

“Nothing really, except that I went to the shops and was given a rose for my bodice by an ebony man of striking visage.”

“An ebony man? Do you mean a servant?”

“No, I mean a handsome strutting dandy of a fellow, as well set up as you or I.”

“Who was he?”

“He gave me his card as it happens. I’ll fetch it for you.” And she returned a moment later with a gilt-edged calling card which she handed to the Apothecary.

“Well, well,” he said, reading it. “Here he is again.”

“Who?”

“None other than the elusive Jack Morocco. Riding and fencing instructor to the nobility, and beloved pet of the Duchess of Arundel herself.”

Chapter 9

T
he palace, which by daylight had seemed so welcoming and regal, by night took on a very different aspect. Dimly lit courtyards became pits of shadow and the walkway leading to the German church was dark and somehow rather frightening. Further, the gates were closed and barred and a sentry - a tall, faceless figure with a gruff voice - had to allow the Apothecary entry, opening up with a clanking set of keys. However, halfway down the walk a door already stood open and John, after calling out several times, made his way within. He was quite alone in the deserted reception corridor which only so recently had been thronging with the great and the gaudy, dressed in the highest fashions London and Paris had to offer.

Inside, candles flickered in wall sconces but even they did not throw enough light and the Apothecary walked in the half dark, his feet inadvertently drawn towards the Grand Staircase and that fatal spot at the bottom where George Goward had crashed down onto the marble floor and died. Then in the shadows above a door opened and closed twice, very rapidly. John stood transfixed, looking upwards, but nothing moved and his entire body froze with fear.

"Who's there?" he called cautiously.

Nobody answered, but it seemed to him that in the darkness came a sigh which blew like a wind, flickering the candle flames and whispering in the comers. John turned, too frightened to take another step, and then a larger shadow detached itself from a lake of darkness and moved towards him. The Apothecary froze but a familiar voice said, "Mr. Rawlings, forgive me for being late," and Digby Turnbull came into view.

"Good God," John replied, "you frightened me. I had begun to think this place haunted."

"Oh it is," Digby answered cheerfully.

"And the palace seems deserted. Has everyone gone?"

"Their Majesties left this morning, very distressed by reports of the accident. The court departed with them so that just a few of us remain in residence to oversee matters. Now, Sir, would you like to step to my apartments where I can offer you refreshment and we can speak more freely."

John's courage had returned. "Before we go, would you mind if I took another look at the staircase?"

"By all means. But everything has been thoroughly cleaned. I doubt you will find anything."

"None the less, I would appreciate a quick glance. If I could have some more light perhaps."

"I'll bring a candle tree."

Digby picked up a substantial silver stick and together they walked to the stairs.

The place where the body had lain had by now been thoroughly scrubbed so there was nothing to show for the blood that had gushed from Goward's skull.

"Not a sign here."

"As I told you, the staircase has also been cleaned. Do you still want to look?" Digby asked.

"I think perhaps I should."

It was tremendously eerie, climbing through the dimness to the place where they had all stood such a very short while ago and watched the Queen walk along the balcony.

Digby Turnbull spoke in the darkness. "Miss Chudleigh tells me there is talk of foul play."

"Sir John Fielding certainly thinks so."

"May I ask what his contention is?"

"He believes that George Goward may have been pushed to his death."

Turnbull drew in breath but said nothing.

"Sir, would you do me the favour of standing exactly where you were that day."

"I was here," Digby answered, taking up a stance two stairs behind the place where John Rawlings had been.

"Who else was close to you?"

"Miss Chudleigh was on the step in front of me; there was nobody else with her, which was odd in view of the crush."