Death at St. James's Palace (21 page)

And what a dangerous enemy he would make, theApothecary considered, with his entree into high society, his easy manner, his deadly ability with a sword, and the protection of his powerful adopted mother. Somewhat to John’s disappointment, he began to consider whether the story of the creeping feet was, after all, a fabrication.

He sighed reflectively. “I suppose you won’t tell me how Goward upset your friend.”

“You suppose correctly.” Jack laughed and stood up. “Will that be all?”

“You have been more than helpful. I shall report all this back to Sir John. By the way, who else was standing near you?”

“The Witherspoons - an odd couple. La Chudleigh, of course. And, as you know, the grieving widow.”

“You don’t care for her, do you?” said John curiously.

“I adore the Chudleigh. She is so full of hidden secrets.”

“I meant Lady Mary.”

“Oh her. No, not particularly.”

“Another insult to a friend?”

“In a way,” answered Jack Morocco, suddenly serious again. “In a strange sort of way, you’re right.”

The ride to Islington the next morning was not a happy one, for the heavens opened and water deluged from the sky, soaking Irish Tom, swathed in oilskins though he was. Despite the fact that it was broad daylight, even though somewhat gloomy, the coachman came to a halt at The Angel coaching inn to join up with other conveyances, including a farmer with a cart, so that they might cross the fields leading to the village in a bunch and thus avoid the attention of highwaymen. To compound the soaking driver’s ills, there were several coaches already waiting and thus he was denied the chance of some ale and a chat with his peers. As he slammed back onto the coachman’s box, Tom cracked his whip into the air. John turned to Samuel.

“We’ll have to leave him at an hostelry while we track down the Witherspoons. Otherwise I fear a terrible ride back.”

“Is he always this moody?”

“No more than any other Irishman deprived of his drink.”

“What do you think of my idea that we should call on the Witherspoons on the pretence that we are looking for my father?”

“I believe the direct approach might work better. They’re bound to respond to the name Sir John Fielding. After all, they must have seen him at the investiture.”

“I wonder why they were present.”

“No doubt we shall find out.”

“If we ever get there,” said Samuel gloomily, peering through the curtains of rain to where the village of Islington lay nestling amongst its delightful fields, not very far away from them but seeming a great distance because of the terrible conditions.

Though not nearly as fashionable as Kensington, Islington had its share of persons of
bon ton,
for it positively teemed with places of amusement. Mr. Sadler’s theatre and pleasure garden, once famous for its wells but now much better known as a place of entertainment, led the field. For there one could see Miss Wilkinson, the graceful wire-dancer and player of the musical glasses, and other artistes of similar calibre. However, if water drinking, public breakfasting and dancing were more to one’s taste, then the delightful New Tunbridge Wells, prettily situated close to the New River Head, lay close by. From there it was but a step to the London Spa tavern, with the New Wells theatre and gardens, a serious rival to Sadler’s Wells, a mere hundred yards distant. And for those who enjoyed skittles, the Merlin’s Cave tavern, situated in fields near the river head, was the place to visit. These being but a few of the many haunts of delight near the village.

And it was to a house not far from the tavern, standing in its own grounds, also close to the river head and obviously owned by people of certain social standing, that John and Samuel made their way. As they dismounted from their coach and plunged through the rain to the front door, the Apothecary thought that they must present a sorry spectacle indeed as representatives of the Public Office.

A girl answered the bell, not a servant but obviously a member of the family. John removed his tricorne, sheltering in the pillared porch against the deluge.

“Is Miss Witherspoon in?” he asked.

“Yes,” the girl answered cheerfully. “Who wants her?”

“My name is Rawlings and I am here as a representative of Sir John Fielding, the Principal Magistrate.”

“My!” said the girl. “That’s impressive.”

She was an elf, a thin, small-breasted, mischievous, enchanting elf, with a face lively as quicksilver and a smiling humourous mouth.

“Will she see me, do you think?” John persisted.

“You’re looking at her,” said the elf, and moved back from the front door, motioning the visitors into the house.

John was amazed to the point of shock, while Samuel’s mouth hung open. In the Apothecary’s mind, the Witherspoons, ever since Miss Chudleigh had mentioned them, had been a middle-aged couple of rather unpleasant mien. The sort who had lived together always, surrounded by jugs of lemonade and sweet cakes, and who might well have indulged in unwholesome practices, driven to it by the fact that nobody else would look at them. But this sprite was so far a cry from such horrors that John found himself disbelieving what he was seeing.

“Is there an elder Miss Witherspoon?” he asked.

The girl chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint the Magistrate but I am the only one. Not respectable enough for you?”

“On the contrary. It was just that I had imagined someone rather older.”

She grinned. “I am fairly young but on the other hand I’m very rich. Will that make me more suitable?”

“By Heavens, yes,” said Samuel with brimming enthusiasm.

She shot him an amused glance. “And you are?”

The poor fellow blushed to beet. “Samuel Swann, goldsmith of London. I’m - er - assisting Mr. Rawlings.”

“To do what?”

“Miss Witherspoon, don’t tease,” said John. “We are here about the fatal fall of Sir George Goward at the investiture the other day. Witnesses have said that you and your brother stood quite close to him on the staircase. We wondered if you had seen anything that might throw some light on the matter.”

The elf attempted to look serious, a difficult task. “You’d better come in, Mr…?”

“Rawlings, John Rawlings.”

She held out her hand. “Christabel Witherspoon.” The elf dropped a small curtsey. “A terrible mouthful, is it not?”

“On the contrary; a charming name. Is your brother at home?”

“He is in his studio. He’s a portrait painter, you know. Quite famous.”

“Not Julius Witherspoon?”

“Certainly.”

“Good gracious,” said John, and wondered at his own lack of initiative that he had not enquired further about the brother and sister.

“Do you want to see him?” Christabel asked.

“Not yet. Leave him in peace a little longer. Perhaps we could speak to you first.”

The elf nodded. “Follow me to the salon, gentlemen. There you may sift me for information.”

As she moved in front of them to lead the way, John and Samuel stared at one another, still both reeling from the shock of her.

“Beautiful,” whispered the Goldsmith, much to his friend’s amusement.

“Gentlemen, come in,” she called over her shoulder, and opened the door to a small but prettily appointed and very feminine room. This, John guessed, was Christabel’s private sanctum.

She motioned them to sit down. “I wondered if somebody might call.”

“Did you? Why?” asked the Apothecary.

“Because Goward was so detestable that I am sure he was murdered. Why, I’d have done it myself if I’d thought quickly enough.”

It was too much. First her elfin looks and her youth, now this frankness of speech. All John could think of saying was, “Good gracious.”

“Don’t look so startled. You came here for the truth, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then don’t be shocked by it, I pray you. We’ve known the Gowards for years, in fact they bought a country place here shortly after he married that fat frump Mary.”

John and Samuel exchanged another glance, not knowing how to deal with this at all.

“He was always mooning round here, his eyes falling from their sockets over my sister. Look, there she is. My brother painted her when she was fifteen.”

She motioned to a portrait on the wall and the two men turned to stare at it. A consummate beauty gazed back at them, clad in crimson, her skin the colour of a white rose, hair so black that it seemed to gleam on the canvas, a pair of wonderful dark blue eyes, glittering with vitality. Truly one of the loveliest girls he had ever seen, John thought. The image of such a creature being pursued by the loathsome Goward was repellent to say the least of it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Simply put, he seduced her. And all at such a vulnerable time. Our father had died and Mother was one of those silly, feeble females who simply cannot manage on their own. So she went into a final flutter and died as well.”

It was so comically said that the Apothecary found himself wanting to laugh, and yet it was such a tragic story.

“Anyway, in the guise of strong friend of the family, he bedded her then got bored with her when she became
en ceinte.”

“She had a child?” exclaimed Samuel.

The elf looked serious, a difficult task for her. “Fortunately not. She miscarried after a fall, a fall which broke her back by the way.”

“Oh my God!” said Samuel, who was so involved with the tale that he was leaning forward on the edge of the chair, turning his hat in his hands.

“What happened next?”

“Julius and I cared for her as best we could. But she was such a creature of the wild; she loved riding and dancing and being in the countryside. She simply couldn’t bear to be confined to one room. Very simply, gentlemen, she saved up the syrup that had been given her to relieve the pain and took it all at once, thus causing her death. She was eighteen years old.”

“It seems George Goward had much to answer for.”

“He did indeed.” Christabel stood up and pulled a bell rope. “May I offer you some coffee?”

“How very kind of you,”

“Very,” echoed Samuel, who had a look on his face that John knew only too well.

“So why were you at the investiture?” the Apothecary continued.

“My brother, my funny little brother, was receiving some kind of medal. He had painted a portrait of the King’s sister. Princess Augusta, which actually made her look quite human. God’s sweet life but don’t these Hanoverians surround themselves with hideous women - faces like dogs, the whole damned bunch of ‘em …”

This was too much for John, who guffawed loudly, Samuel joining in somewhat over-enthusiastically.

Christabel grinned at them. “I see you agree. Anyway, Julius was being rewarded for his services. Did you not notice him?”

“What does he look like?”

“Sadly, somewhat dwarfish. He was born with a curvature of the spine which makes him appear rather hunched. In fact he’s an odd little carcass. But I love him dearly and that is why I stay with him and keep house. Though now he has been rewarded by the King perhaps some female will disregard his lack of looks and marry him.”

“So that’s how you came to be there. Now tell me, did you notice anything while you stood on the stairs?”

“If I had,” Christabel answered roundly, “I most certainly wouldn’t tell you. Whoever did it deserves to be elevated to the peerage.”

“Hear, hear,” said Samuel, letting the side down complete!y.

Fortunately, at this juncture coffee was served, and the general disturbance covered any gaffes that might have been made. John made the taking of his cup an excuse to marshal his thoughts. If anyone had a motive for murder it would be the Witherspoons, both brother and sister. He wondered, almost absently, what size shoes they wore. If Julius was described as dwarfish, then his feet would be small. But by the same token. Jack Morocco could have made up the entire story of the creeping feet to attract attention away from himself.

“Would you like to see Julius now?” asked the elf. “For there is nothing more that I have to tell you.”

Have or won’t, the Apothecary thought. Out loud he said, “That would be most kind. Shall we go to his studio rather than call him from his work?”

“In either event it means disturbing him. But, yes. Perhaps you would like to see some of his canvasses.”

“I’d be honoured,” said Samuel, brimming with the enthusiasm of the newly smitten.

It was indeed a small man who turned to look at them as Christabel opened the studio door, having knocked and been told to enter. In fact the curving of his spine gave the momentary impression that Julius Witherspoon was a hunchback. But probably through years of habit, he straightened as soon as he saw that he had visitors and made a small, polite bow. He was not really handsome at all, other than for a pair of fine eyes, similar to those of the girl in the portrait. But those apart he was pale and had that sense of strain common to people who have struggled with pain and deformity. Yet if beauty had been denied him, a compensatory great gift had been bestowed. The canvas he was working on was quite stunning.