Death at St. James's Palace (25 page)

A female attendant, very slight and small, rose from her place in the front pew and grappled with the wailing widow, attempting to get her back to her seat. But Lady Mary was in full swing and would not be gainsayed.

“I feel vomitous,” she announced to the congregation at large.

“Oh God,” said John, and with the utmost reluctance rose from his place at the back and marched down the centre aisle, his feet ringing out noisily on the flagstones, to where the green-faced woman stood.

“Madam, if you will step outside,” he ordered firmly, “I will administer to you.”

She rolled her eyes piteously. “But it’s very windy beyond.”

The Apothecary looked harsh. “Madam, you cannot vomit over the coffin. Out with you.” And gripping her elbow he stalked to the door, dragging her with him, she clutching a handkerchief to her mouth and making quite the most hideous noises.

Once outside he pushed her behind a gravestone, standing well clear himself. Then, having half suspected that this kind of thing might occur, John fished from his cloak pocket a syrup made from the juice of balm with added sugar, already bottled, and uncorked it.

“Drink this,” he said shortly when she returned, looking much the worse for wear.

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“A cure for vomiting. Lady Mary, you must take it. You cannot go on like this. The entire funeral is being held up because of your lack of control.”

“But I have lost my husband.” She pronounced it lawst.

Thoroughly tempted to ask where, John controlled himself. “Tragedy strikes us all at some time in our lives. It is up to one’s personal pride to conduct oneself as well as possible in the face of it.”

“If only my boy had been here. My little Frederick.”

“But I thought he was ill.”

“Yes, according to the school. He has never enjoyed good health.”

A mental picture of Julius Witherspoon’s portrait of an obese mother and son came into focus in John’s brain, and he considered that a child afflicted with so much excess poundage would be far from fit indeed.

“But surely you told me that the boy was not Sir George’s child?” he said.

“Yes, I did. He is the son of my first husband.”

“Then in fact this funeral is no place for him. Such sombre occasions can affect children very adversely. Probably his indisposition is a blessing in disguise.”

Lady Mary snorted with annoyance. “What rubbish, Sir. My son would have wanted to pay his respects to his stepfather. Besides, what about me?”

“What about you is that you should get back into the church and conduct yourself with dignity, Madam.”

“But Sir George was brutally done to death.”

“All the more reason for you to comport yourself with enormous gravity and grandeur.”

“But I cannot help my failing health.”

“That, Lady Mary, should be discussed with your physician at some future date. Now, are you going to keep the congregation waiting even longer?”

She blew out her cheeks at him, like a furious pug, but clearly bit back the words she would like to have said and marched ahead into the church. With a sigh of relief, John slipped quietly back into his place beside Joe Jago.

He had always found that the procession to the graveside revealed a great deal and this occasion proved to be no exception. Lady Mary, obviously having taken his words to heart, waddled majestically into the churchyard supported by the parson and the small female attendant. Elizabeth Chudleigh wept bitterly, or appeared to do so, her face obscured by a dainty handkerchief as she threw earth upon the lowered coffin. On the other hand Digby Turnbull seemed to fling with relish, almost as if he were saying good riddance. But the most surprising gesture came from Jack Morocco. Walking slowly with Aminta clinging tightly to his arm, her face now obscured, the veils on her hat totally pulled down, the black man threw a single red rose onto the casket.

John turned to Joe, who was eyeing Miss Chudleigh for all he was worth. “What was that for I wonder.”

“A red rose for love, Sir,” the clerk answered, wresting his attention back to his surroundings.

“But Jack Morocco had no love for the deceased. He grinned when the man died, I told you that.”

“Apparently, Mr. Rawlings, all is not as it seems.”

“Obviously not,” John answered thoughtfully, and having no wish to scatter earth, a custom he did not care for, made his way back up the path.

Very late and very much out of breath, Samuel stood there, apologising to anyone who would listen, particularly Miss Witherspoon.

“My carriage cast a wheel so I walked.”

“Not from London surely?” asked Christabel.

“No, from my father’s house. I spent last night with him.” He turned to John. “Did all go smoothly?”

“Eventually, yes. Lady Mary threatened to vomit in church…”

“Uh!”

“But I managed to get her outside in time. Other than for that there were no high tantrums. However, all may change in a moment, Sir John is waiting in the porch for the widow to return and he will then request an interview with her.”

“That will not please her.”

“But it will do her the world of good.” John turned as the Witherspoons began to move away. “Are you going?”

“Yes,” answered Christabel, “we only came to make sure he was really six feet under. I know it sounds strange but we had to see for ourselves.”

There was an awkward silence during which Samuel shuffled about, obviously longing to make a further assignation with her but somehow lacking the courage. Loving everything about his old friend, John helped him out.

“Why don’t we all repair to The Angel? My coach can take you home later, as the weather is so inclement. I am sure one or two others will be joining us there.”

“Are you not going to the wake?” Julius asked.

“Certainly not. Nor, I imagine, will many of those of our acquaintance.”

“In fact,” said Samuel, “it will be interesting to see who does attend.”

Joe Jago came up the path, a weeping Miss Chudleigh on his arm. John, looking at him with all the affection of old acquaintance, saw that the clerk’s neck had gone extremely red and that his light blue eyes had a glazed expression in them.

“… you must call on me,” she was saying between sobs. “It is at times like these that I feel so alone, Mr. Jago. So very alone.”

She peeped round her handkerchief and caught John’s eye. He winked and grinned and she glared at him robustly.

Joe cleared his throat. “I shall make a point of it, Madam. When would be convenient?”

She whispered a reply, but the Apothecary caught the words, “As early as you please.”

So he was next, thought John, and decided that, all things considered. Miss Chudleigh might possibly do the clerk a world of good.

The red rose thrown into the grave puzzled him for the next half hour, particularly as it was not long before Jack Morocco and Aminta walked into The Angel as well. From the open door of The Unicorn, the room that he and Samuel were occupying with the Witherspoons, he saw them go past, the vixen-girl as pale and drawn as before, making their way into another snug. So even after that token of love they had not gone back to the house to eat cakes and drink sherry. It was all very strange to say the least.

John turned to Julius. “Lady Mary seemed much put out that her son was ill and could not attend her at the funeral. Tell me, was the child sickly when you painted him?”

“Well, he had all the woes of the very fat. He was constantly out of breath, could not run, even had difficulty in walking. I felt desperately sorry for him.”

“What happened to him? Did he lose flesh?”

“I don’t know. George really took a dislike to him so the mother sent him away to school instead of standing up for her son.”

“Rather typical I would have thought.”

“Very.”

“Strange that she never had a child that her new husband could dote upon,” John said thoughtfully.

“There were rumours,” answered Julius.

“Really? What were they?”

“That despite her size she was voracious as far as men were concerned. Apparently, she’d given birth before she was married and so already had a babe out of wedlock. Then, and this is really bizarre, she told George she was expecting his child but when it was born, the baby was black.”

“What?” said John, shooting to the edge of his chair and startling Samuel and Christabel who were engaged in what appeared to be delightful conversation.

Julius laughed aloud. “It is only gossip because the whole matter was extremely hushed up. It seems she had made free with one of her slaves but took a chance that the pregnancy was caused by her husband and only discovered her mistake at the actual birth.”

“What happened?”

“George, who knew exactly which side his bread was buttered, decided to forgive her her trespasses, and the child was taken away.”

“By whom?”

“I have no idea. But presumably by someone who could sell it into slavery later and make a handsome profit for a pretty little black boy.”

“God almighty,” said John, hitting his forehead with his clenched fist, and saw once again the red rose go hurtling down into the grave’s gluttonous maw, thrown by the black hand of Jack Morocco.

Chapter 15

I
t appeared that Miss Chudleigh and Digby Turnbull had gone back to attend the wake, which was logical as both had known the dead man for several years. The question remained, however, whether Sir John Fielding would go to Lady Mary’s house, representing the Public Office. But in the end it seemed that the Blind Beak had shied away from visiting a place he did not know and had decided to brave The Angel instead. Thus, the occupants of The Unicom heard the familiar tap of a cane amongst all the other noises of the inn and John, recognising the sound, rose to meet him and lead him into the place where they were all sitting.
 

Sir John was accompanied by his wife and clerk, one walking beside him, Joe steadily behind so that he could hurry to assist should the Magistrate fall. The Apothecary, who by this time had drunk far more than he should have done and was feeling enormously sentimental as a result, watched the three of them silently for a moment, thinking how inextricably his life was now linked with theirs and of all the many strange and sad things they had come across in their time together.

“Mr. Rawlings,” said Joe, seeing him.

“Come in here, please do join us,” the Apothecary answered, hoping that his speech was not blurring. To the Magistrate he said quietly, “Mr. and Miss Witherspoon are with us. He is the noted portrait painter Julius Witherspoon, she is his twin sister. As I told you at Bow Street, they both hated George Goward because their beautiful elder sister was his mistress, abandoned by him when she became pregnant.”

“He was indeed a true blackguard,” said Elizabeth with feeling.

“Be that as it may, they are interesting company, particularly as they were standing close to Goward on the Grand Staircase.”

“Fascinating,” said Sir John, “pray introduce me, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Sir,” said Julius, having bowed politely, “I would deem it a privilege if you would sit for your portrait. I should not want a fee, merely the honour of leaving your likeness for future generations.”

“I should be duly flattered,” the Blind Beak answered. “However, as I do not find travelling as easy as I used, I wonder whether you could come to Bow Street and paint me there.”

“It would be an honour,” Julius answered.

John smiled benignly, suddenly seeing himself in the role of one who brought great people together.

The delightful Christabel spoke up. “Julius, I think a portrait of Lady Fielding would be another splendid notion.”

“I shall paint the two of you together,” her brother announced.

“And I,” said Sir John, sipping from the glass that John had just handed him, “shall commission a painting of my clerk and right hand man. Joe Jago’s image shall adorn the walls of Bow Street also.”

The clerk, who was obviously in a highly charged emotional state after Miss Chudleigh’s invitation to call, flushed deeply. “But Sir John, surely I am not worthy?”

“You are more than worthy, my friend. For do you not realise that without your eyes it would be almost impossible for me to carry out my duties?”

The eyes that the Blind Beak was referring to, filled with sudden tears. “Oh Sir John,” Joe said in muffled tones.

“Come, come, my friend. Do not distress yourself.”

But John, observing silently, felt certain that Joe Jago was suffering the pangs of falling in love and was far more likely to be weeping because of his passionate condition than through anything else. Decidedly tipsy as he was, the Apothecary raised his glass.

“A toast to beautiful ladies,” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing.
 

“Yes indeed,” Joe responded fervently, as did Samuel, gazing adoringly at Miss Witherspoon.

“My beautiful wife,” Sir John added gallantly, raising his glass to Elizabeth.