Death at St. James's Palace (17 page)

"He is particularly susceptible. Remember Mary Ann and his passion for her?"

"You told me of it, yes. But that is beside the point."

"Which is?"

"That I believe Lucinda to be a scheming minx who took you in utterly with her story of rape and molestation."

"I thought you liked her."

"Well, I've changed my mind."

"Emilia, have you no pity? I suspect that the poor girl's brother may be ill. And if so, I truly can't blame her for running to his side."

"What makes you think it is him?"

"Because she told me when we first met that he was a sickly child. That was why her mother sent her to join him at school, disguised as a boy."

"A likely tale. But if it's true, oh dear," Emilia answered.

John burst out laughing, sat down beside his wife and took her in his arms. "Are you tipsy, Mrs. Rawlings? First she's a minx, now you're sorry for her. Oh the mercurial mind of a pregnant woman."

Emilia frowned again. "Don't tease me. I don't know what I think about her, except that, whether she be good or bad, I don't really trust her."

But this convoluted argument could not be followed further for there was a sudden peal at the front door and the sound of a footman going to answer. A minute or so later, the servant appeared with a tray bearing a card. John picked it up.

"Digby Turnbull," he read. "Show him into the library, would you. I think he may have some information for me."

Kissing a somewhat tearful Emilia, John went to join their guest who was standing with his hands outstretched to the flames of the fire. He looked up as the Apothecary came into the room.

"Ah, Mr. Rawlings, I have brought you the list of footmen and pages-of-honour. I thought perhaps you would like to read it before it goes to Sir John."

"Why? Is there anything of interest on it?"

"Nothing that I can see. Of course, I am not in charge of the pages-of-honour, they are in the hands of a high-ranking courtier, but the footmen are my responsibility."

John scanned the list, noticing that all the pageboys did indeed have titles, the lowest rank being an Honourable. There was even a young Duke amongst their number.

"I suppose we shall have to speak to them all," he said to Digby with a sigh.

"Surely not. What could they tell you?"

"Only if they noticed anything unusual."

"I feel fairly certain that they would have been staring at the Queen along with everybody else. The poor woman is still an object of curiosity, even amongst the aristocracy."

John read the list once more, wondering why he had the feeling that it should be telling him more than it did. Noticing that only twelve names were written there, he considered the fact that he could have been mistaken about seeing thirteen boys. Yet the Apothecary felt absolutely positive that he had counted their number correctly.

"One of these young people acted very fast," he said, almost to himself.

Digby Turnbull stared. "What do you mean?"

"I saw a pageboy run for help. As I was kneeling beside George Goward I noticed one of them haring down the reception corridor."

"I don't know who that would have been. It would not have been considered correct for any of them to have left his post."

"He must have acted on the spur of the moment."

Turnbull seemed decidedly doubtful. "How very odd. You're certain of this?"

"Yes." The Apothecary looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he was running away in fright."

"But why? He would have seen no more than any of the other boys."

"Unless he stood the closest," John answered.

But his mind was racing on. If an extra page had been there for some reason, however innocent that reason might have been, the fact that there had been a fatal accident would most certainly have drawn attention to his presence. The boy was quite clearly making an escape before somebody discovered him. Or possibly because he had seen something but had no wish to say what, so was getting out before he could be questioned. The Apothecary tapped the list again.

"This Duke of Guernsey, how old is he?"

"Seventeen or eighteen. The eldest of them all. A descendant of Charles II of course. Nice lad."

"Where can he be found?"

"I'm not sure. Would you like me to discover?

"Yes please."

"Why do you pick him out in particular?"

"I don't know. Perhaps through some deep-rooted idea that one should be able to trust the word of those bom to high station."

"A misconception if ever there was one."

"You're right, of course. Still, as he is the most senior I should like to talk to him."

"I'll send you word of his whereabouts from Kew. I leave for the palace in the morning, rather early I'm afraid. So, if you've nothing further to ask of me I'll take my leave."

"May I offer you some refreshment before you go?"

"Thank you but no. Duty calls." Digby Turnbull smiled. "Will that be all?"

"One last question. How old would George Goward's daughter be now?"

Digby was silent a moment, considering. Then he said, "About sixteen, seventeen at the most."

John nodded. "Thank you. An interesting age indeed. Exactly the same as our missing Lucinda."

By this time it was far too late for the Apothecary to go to Shug Lane, a fact for which he was extremely grateful, so instead he decided to wait for Nicholas Dawkins to come home, then to hold a conversation with him before Emilia became involved. In the event, it couldn't have worked better. His wife, tired by the excitement of the day, retired to bed early and John was left to snooze before the library fire, waking as Nicholas, who as a trusted apprentice had a key to the house, let himself in through the front door.

"Nick," called his Master, "come here and have a sherry. There is much to talk about."

The Muscovite appeared a second later looking somewhat apprehensive. "Sir?"

John came straight to the point. "Lucinda's gone, run away from the house. Apparently a member of her family is ill. Tell me what you know about it." He poured a substantial glass and motioned his apprentice to a chair.

"It's her brother, Master."

"I thought as much. He's very sickly I believe."

"Very. He attends the school that she fled from. But now she has risked all and gone there to be with him."

"Oh my God. I'm sure that headmaster will force her back if he can."

"She says she will invoke her mother if she has to."

John refilled the Muscovite's glass. "Nick, who
is
Lucinda's mother? Do you know? If so I enjoin you to tell me. It would make things so much easier for the girl."

The apprentice shook his head. "Master, she has never confided in me, being determined to keep the secret. But I have taken a guess."

"Who? Who do you think it is?"

"Miss Chudleigh," Nicholas answered.

The Apothecary almost dropped his sherry. "Miss Chudleigh?" he repeated, astonished.

"Lucinda said that her mother was close to the court and had aristocratic connections. It is also widely rumoured - I have heard great ladies in the shop discuss it - that Miss Chudleigh, in the past, gave birth to a child, or two, which she kept utterly concealed from the world in general."

"Good gracious! But I must admit it would make an awful kind of sense. Even the close proximity of the school takes on another meaning."

"That is how I reasoned it," said Nicholas enthusiastically.

"Did you put this to Lucinda?"

"No, she is so vehement about protecting her mother's identity that I thought it would only provoke an argument."

"Urn."

The Apothecary was silent, remembering something. How Emilia, whilst in Miss Chudleigh's house, had spoken of women who abandoned their babies and how George Goward had waved his fingers at the hostess and made a remark that some mothers put their newborn infants out to cruel guardians. Then another memory came. Of two people speaking in The Hercules Pillars, of the woman accusing the man of betraying her secret and saying that, if pushed, she would not hesitate to betray his. The Apothecary had seen the back of them as they left. Surely he would not be fanciful in thinking, in hindsight, that they might well have been Elizabeth Chudleigh and George Goward.

"Do you know, Nick, I think you might well be right," John said now.

"About what?"

"About Miss Chudleigh being Lucinda's mother. I think I shall have to call when I go to Kensington tomorrow."

"You are going to fetch Lucinda back?"

"I am going to see how I can help her, yes."

The Muscovite looked terribly eager. "Sir, may I come with you?"

"No, my friend, you may not. You would only complicate the issue further. Besides, the shop must open and only you are there to do it."

Nicholas shifted in his chair, "But I am so worried about her."

"I understand that. But I really think that this problem would be best left to me. Now, go and get some supper. You must keep your strength up if we are to succeed."

"But, Master..."

"No further argument, Nick. My mind is made up."

With every sign of reluctance, his apprentice left the room, while John settled himself to read for a while before he went to bed. But yet again he was to be thwarted. The doorbell pealed once more and a hearty laugh in the hallway as the visitor was let in announced that his old friend Samuel Swann had called. John put the book aside and rang a bell for port to be brought up from the cellar, mentally preparing himself for a possible late night.

"My dear chap," said the Goldsmith, coming into the room like a boisterous dog, "how good to find you in. I have just come directly from the Public Office." He looked important.

"Really? Do tell me," John answered, masking a smile, for it was obvious that Samuel was simply bursting to reveal all.

"I called on Mr. Fielding - I mean Sir John. As you know. I've offered my services to help with the current case, and he has finally found something for me to do. Apparently there are two witnesses - a brother and sister called Witherspoon - who live in Islington. As you know, my dear papa lives there and Sir John thought that visiting him would provide a splendid excuse for you and I to bump into them, accidentally but on purpose if you see what I mean."

"He wants me to be with you?"

"Yes, indeed. I don't think he completely trusts me to handle them on my own, more's the pity." Samuel laughed robustly.

"And when does he want us to go?"

"As soon as possible. They were standing on the stair quite close to George Goward, or so it seems."

John felt very fractionally irritated. "Yes, I know. Miss Chudleigh told me of them. She says that their relationship is quite possibly incestuous."

Samuel's honest countenance looked deeply shocked. "Oh surely that can't be true."

"Well, we have yet to meet them. Perhaps they are riddled with corruption and vice and capable of doing anything."

"Oh dear."

"Anyway, my old friend, they must wait a day or two. I have another crisis on my hands. Lucinda has run away." And the Apothecary explained, while the port was poured and Samuel settled himself comfortably, all that had been going on, even down to the extraordinary fact that there had been thirteen pages-of-honour present on an occasion where normally there should have been only twelve.

The Goldsmith listened, very nearly open-mouthed when it came to the description of the incredible Jack Morocco. "Damme, what a character. Is he then a Moor?"

"No, African I imagine. The name is probably a jest on the Duchess's part."

"D'ye know. I've heard of him. I believe he teaches riding and fencing at a school for young bloods."

"He does at that. Not that he spends a lot of time there. He had a very beautiful girl with him this morning and appeared more devoted to her than to giving his lessons."

"From what I hear, she is just one of a string. And I believe his extravagant parties are the talk of town. He seems to lead an enchanted life."

"What a lucky man he is," said John. "For it occurs to me that the ultimate cruelty meted out to the majority of black boys is that after a life of pampering and cosseting, as much loved as a pet dog, they are sent back to slavery and degradation as soon as hairs begin to sprout upon their body."

"It doesn't seem very fair."

"Fair! It's downright evil. Better to go straight into servitude than be shown kindness only to have it snatched away for the sin of growing up."

Samuel sighed. "There's little we can do about it. Anyway, about Morocco. You say he was standing on the staircase, close to where George Goward fell?"

"Yes, and there's something he wants to tell me. That much was obvious when we met at Ranelagh."

"Will you seek him out?"

"If he doesn't come to me first."

Samuel shifted his large frame. "I take it you're intent on finding this girl before you see the Witherspoons."