Death at St. James's Palace (22 page)

It was of a woman in riding dress, her hair like flame beneath a small hat with a feather, her skin the colour of ivory, her eyes brandy wine. Yet it was the sitter’s expression that Julius had caught so brilliantly. John gazed, totally absorbed, feeling that he knew her, that he could sense her mischief and her pride, her kindness and her rebelliousness. Then his eyes were drawn to the background of the painting. He looked at a wild lake, hyacinth blue, at mountains rearing above, at the colours of autumn tingeing the trees. Then he realised that the girl herself was the embodiment of autumn and that the artist had contrived, most cleverly, to bring another depth of meaning into what could have been simply a portrait of a young woman.

“This is a masterpiece,” said John. “You are a genius, Sir.”

The little crooked man smiled and his whole face lit from within. “How very kind of you.”

“It is the truth,” said the Apothecary. “If I can afford your fee I would like you to paint my wife.”

“I would be delighted. But tell me, to whom do I speak?”

Christabel answered. “He is John Rawlings, Julius, and he is here on behalf of Sir John Fielding, the Magistrate. They believe that someone pushed George Goward down the stairs.”

“Really?” said the painter, and dabbed gently at his canvas.

“I’ve told them everything, including the fact that I would have done it myself if I’d thought about it.”

“And I would have helped you,” Julius replied.

It was futile to ask further questions. The Witherspoons, even if they had seen anything, which the Apothecary doubted, would remain totally silent. He changed the subject.

“I’ll take up no more of your hospitality. It has been kind of you to see us.”

“Sorry we couldn’t be of greater assistance.”

“You were very honest.” John turned to his companion. “Samuel, I think it’s time we were on our way.”

The Goldsmith cleared his throat, then looked at Christabel earnestly. “Miss Witherspoon, my father has retired to Islington and I often come to visit him. Would it be in order for us to call one day?”

She looked at her brother and a silent current of amusement passed between them. They were clearly very close, to the point where they could communicate without speaking. It was small wonder that unperceptive souls might accuse them of an unnatural love, though the Apothecary felt certain there was another explanation.

“You aren’t twins by any chance?” he said.

“Of course we are. How did you guess?”

“You have a certain rapport, an empathy that only exists between those who’ve shared the womb.”

Samuel cleared his throat once more. “Miss Witherspoon?”

She turned to him, her elfin face contrite. “I’m so sorry. Of course you may call. Might I know the name of your father? It is possible that we are acquainted.”

“Samuel Swann, which is also my name.”

“Ah, Mr. Swann. Of course. I often see him at the theatre. A nice old fellow.”

“Yes, he is rather,” said Samuel, and Christabel, approving of this answer, looked at him and smiled.

John turned to Julius. “It has been a privilege to meet you. You have a great gift. I will discuss fees with you another time, if I may.”

“Of course. Would you care to see some more canvases before you leave?” And without waiting for a reply he began to pull some out from a pile stacked against the wall. He was certainly not weak, despite his deformity, and the Apothecary noticed as well that his feet were small and neat, encased in a pair of low heeled shoes. The fact that Julius was a genius did not exempt him from the possibility of being a murderer, John thought.

His work was breathtaking, though. He seemed to have the knack of seeing into the sitter’s soul and conveying their idiosyncrasies with strokes of his brush. Dignitaries revealed themselves as corpulent, sagging old men; spindle-legged, double-chinned, purple-veined. Their wives looked on the world from the bored, dead eyes of women who have never done a hand’s turn, or the shrewish gaze of those whose small tight lips only parted to criticise and argue. Yet it was the last canvas of all that left John breathless.

As Julius lifted it on to the easel, the Apothecary saw that it was a portrait of Lady Mary Goward, enormous within a chair, her pink and white complexion and vacuous expression brilliantly captured. Beside the chair stood an equally enormous boy, his body distorted by roll upon roll of flesh, his legs thick and unwieldy, his face scarcely visible for wobbly chins, even his eyes peering out from puffs of fat.

“Good God!” John exclaimed. “What a terrible child. Who is he?”

“It’s her son, Frederick, poor thing. Goward gave him a life of hell because he was so big. Said he couldn’t bear to see him round the place.”

“I believe he mentioned that to me when we first met.”

“I didn’t realise you knew Goward.”

“I only came across him briefly. We were not friends.”

Julius gave a bitter laugh. “He had none. Anyway, he refused to pay for this portrait.

Said I hadn’t caught the essence of his wife or his stepson. Said I had made them look too bad-tempered!”

The Apothecary shook his head. “I can’t speak for the child but you have portrayed Lady Mary exactly, even down to her fat restless fingers.”

“I admit that I was pleased with it,” Julius said.

John stared at the portrait, feeling that there was much it could tell him, but the more he looked the less he seemed to see. Yet his pictorial memory, the gift that allowed him to conjure up a scene exactly as it had been when it had taken place, absorbed every detail of the picture so that he might carry it with him and look at it again when he was alone.

Chapter 13

S
amuel, dragging Miss Witherspoon’s name into the conversation as frequently as he possibly could, talked all the way back to London, then begged pardon of John that he must leave him, saying that he would walk the rest of the way to his shop in Puddle Dock Hill. The sudden quiet was an immense relief, giving the Apothecary the chance to sort out all the information he had received and to plan what he was going to do next.

High on the list, of course, was to continue the search for Lucinda and her brother, for the thought of the two youngsters wandering around unprotected was alarming to say the least. Yet were they wandering, John wondered. Or had they gone to someone’s house, perhaps their unfeeling mother’s and had she finally done her duty and taken them in? And was Nicholas right? Was Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh, rumoured to have given birth to at least one child, harbouring them right next door to that unpleasant school from which they had both decamped?

“Kensington,” said John. “But before that a visit to Bow Street.” He called up to Irish Tom, who was in a far better mood having spent an hour in The Angel while his master visited the Witherspoons. “Tom, we’ll go straight to the Public Office, if you please.”

“Certainly, Sir,” answered the coachman, and whistled to himself, thinking that there was a pleasant little hostelry situated quite close to their destination.

Sir John Fielding, as good fortune would have it, had not sat down to dine but was enjoying a sherry with his wife Elizabeth. Even more fortunate, thought John, was the fact that their adopted daughter, Mary Ann Whittingham, was out visiting and was not present to disrupt sensible conversation with idle chatter.

“My dear friend,” said Sir John as the Apothecary came into the room. “How are you proceeding?”

“I am a little further forward. I have seen the Witherspoons who both have a motive for murdering George Goward and admit quite freely that they would have done so if they had been quick witted enough. But, and this is most significant, Jack Morocco has been to visit me.”

And he told the Magistrate the story of the creeping shoes and the black man’s assertion that George Goward had been done away with.

“You think it is possible that he made it up?” the Blind Beak asked.

“He might have done, he’s full of mischief. But on the other hand I feel inclined to believe him because it bears out what you said, Sir.”

“Yes.” There was a long silence, then Sir John said, “Have you written to your friend in Devon yet?”

“Emilia was doing so this morning. She is asking him to check the parish registers for the birth of Goward’s daughter.”

Once again the Beak was very still, an old trick of his, leading those who did not know him better to believe he had dropped off to sleep. “There’s a thread to all this but I’m damned if I can grasp it,” he said eventually.

“I feel the same. By the way, is the questioning of the footmen and pages-of-honour complete yet?”

“Yes, they’ve all been interviewed, and I can tell you this much. There is a conspiracy of silence regarding the thirteenth page boy. All of them categorically deny that he was there.”

“How very bizarre. Tell me, Sir, did anyone see anything untoward?”

“They say not. Whoever moved on that staircase must have been so quick and clever that it was over before it was even noticed.”

“Jack Morocco firmly believes that it was Lady Mary herself. He thinks the shoes could well have been hers.”

John Fielding sighed. “Tiresome woman. I am due to see her two days after the funeral. Elizabeth will accompany me there, won’t you, my dear.” He took his wife’s hand.

“I shall be intrigued. Having missed the investiture, to say nothing of the murder, at least I will be able to get a look at the principal suspect.”

“Could I accompany you?” John asked.

The Blind Beak looked a little dubious. “Well, Jago will be there of course. But if I were to say that you had come in your professional capacity, lest she feel faint, then I am sure it can be arranged.”

“I would much appreciate it.” John rose. “Sir, will that be all? I would like to get back to join Emilia at dinner.”

“Indeed you must. But just one last thing. Has young Guernsey contacted you?”

“No.”

“Then seek him out again, my friend. He has a country estate, very fine apparently, out at Marybone, not far from the Gardens. If anyone will tell you the identity of the thirteenth pageboy, it will be he. Runner Ham interviewed him and found him to be an honest lad. Try your best with him, Mr. Rawlings.”

“I certainly will, Sir.”

“And let me know as soon as you hear from Sir Clovelly Lovell.”

“Of course.”

By the time the Apothecary rejoined his coach, all Irish Tom’s troubles were behind him, and he was singing merrily up on the coachman’s box. Delighted to find him in a better frame of mind, John gave the driver his orders.

“Tom, I want you to take me home then change the horses and go straight to Kensington. Spend the night at Sir Gabriel’s, then return for us at eight o’clock. Tell him that we are coming for the weekend and there is much afoot.”

“It will be dark any minute, Sir.”

“Never mind. You have done the journey so many times that it will make little diference.”

There was the sound of muttering, to which John said, “Think of the pleasures of The Dun Cow, Tom,” and peace was restored.

As arranged, they left town early and had reached Kensington by the time those members of the
beau monde
who had residences nearby were first stirring in their beds. John turned to Emilia.

“Do you think I dare call on Miss Chudleigh?”

“At this hour?”

“That’s partly the reason. If she is concealing Lucinda and her brother in the house, then I might catch them unawares.”

“But you can’t ask to search the place. You haven’t the right to do that.”

“No. But I might find the children at breakfast, or hear them moving about. I think it’s worth incurring her wrath. The only thing is, what excuse can I make?”

Emilia’s angelic features hardened and she suddenly looked extremely cynical. “My darling, an attractive male would not need an excuse to call on Miss Chudleigh, particularly, I imagine, when she is
deshabille.”

John looked shocked. “You have a wicked mind. Such a thought would never have occurred to me.”

“Much! Now make your call. I’ll go on and take breakfast with your father.”

In the event, Emilia was uncannily correct. Having been informed by a footman that Miss Chudleigh was not yet up, the Apothecary sent in his card. A few moments later the man reappeared and said that the mistress would receive the visitor after all - in her bedchamber. This was a custom often adopted by the London belles of fashion, where it was considered chic to entertain from one’s bed, but the very thought
 
of it made John feel decidedly nervous as he followed the servant up the curving staircase and along a fine and spacious landing.

Miss Chudleigh, scantily clad about the shoulders and breast but wearing a great deal of cleverly applied make-up, reclined against lace pillows, her hair covered by a pretty cap trimmed with blue satin bows. In her hand she held a bone china cup, from which she sipped delicately. She looked at John over the rim, the enormous eyes artless.

“Mr. Rawlings, to what do I owe this honour?”

“I was passing and came in on the spur of the moment,” he answered truthfully.