Death in Hellfire (24 page)

Dashwood swung out of the saddle quite lithely but Lord Orpington had to be helped down by a sweating Apothecary.

“What’s going on, eh?” his Lordship asked petulantly.

“You must prepare yourself for a shock, my Lord.”

“Shock? Why? What have you got there?”

And before anyone could stop him the old man had seized the piece of cloth and pulled it off the last mortal remains of his wife. He clutched his throat and let out a gurgling sound then he fell to the ground, red in the face and clutching his chest.

“Oh “Zounds,” groaned the Apothecary, “I believe he’s having a heart attack.”

He knelt down beside the poor old chap and loosened his cravat, glancing round wildly for something to give the man but finding nothing.

Samuel crouched down beside him. “Good gracious! Is he really?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then we’d best carry him back.”

And without further ado Sam lifted Lady Orpington off the plank and put Lord Orpington on it in her place.

“But what are we going to do with his wife?” asked

Dominique, totally bewildered by this latest turn of events. “I mean we can’t just leave her.”

“Somebody will have to carry her,” answered the Apothecary grimly.

“Mon Dieu,
not I, sir.”

“I’d rather not, John.”

Sir Francis intervened. “Put her over the saddle. It’s the only way.”

So the ghastly sight made its way towards the house. Samuel and Dominique, both having removed their coats and sweating profusely, carried Lord Orpington, groaning upon his piece of planking, up to the house, the Apothecary walking beside him ministering to the man as best he could, Sir Francis, grim-faced, walked in the rear leading both horses, one of which had its terrible burden, still covered by a cloth but from which one small hand protruded, swinging limply as the animal moved.

The Apothecary was in a quandary, racking his brains as to the best thing to give for a heart attack. And then a vague memory came to him. Many years ago, when he had been apprenticed to Master Richard Purefoy of Evans Row, a medical herbalist had come into the shop to discuss the properties of various herbs with him. John had been compounding in the back but had been called through by his master.

“Come here, my boy, and listen to this.”

John, aged seventeen and thinking he knew it all, had been amazed by the other man’s knowledge. He had also remembered that the herbalist had had a little girl with him who had gazed about her at all the amazing alembics that the shop contained.

Now, as he concentrated, the memory became clearer.

“I tell you, Master Purefoy,” the man had said, “that I cured heart failure by the use of Digitalis Purpurea.”

“But, Mr Jenkins, everybody knows that foxgloves heal wounds and purge the body, that is their sole usage.”

“Nonetheless I can assure you that the physicians had failed with this patient and I brought him back from the grave by using an infusion made from their leaves.”

Master Purefoy had stroked his chin. “And how did you administer it?”

“I infused them in boiling water and gave the liquid to the man in teaspoonfuls.”

The little girl had interrupted at this point. “I am going to be a herbalist when I grow up and I am going to use foxgloves to treat people.” She had turned to John. “Are you going to be an apothecary?”

“I hope so,” he had answered.

There had been further discussion between the two men, John recalled, and then the herbalist had left the shop. One thing he did remember vividly: the little girl had turned in the doorway and winked at him.

Now John started looking frantically for some wild bunches of the beautiful flowers, Sir Francis, seeing him quicken his pace and search about, said, “What’s up, O’Hare?”

“I need to find some foxgloves. I think I know a way to cure Lord Orpington’s heart attack.”

“There are some growing over on the hill leading to the mausoleum.”

“Oh, God’s life, that’s miles. Nothing nearer?”

“I don’t know, my boy. I simply don’t know.”

Samuel turned his head. “Anything wrong, John?”

“I’ve got to find some foxgloves. No, don’t stare. I might be able to cure the old man’s heart trouble.”

“Then go and look. Any instructions for when we get him - them - in?”

“Yes, get his Lordship undressed and into bed. She’ll have to go into one of the outhouses. I’ll need to examine the body later.”

“Right you are.”

It took John ten minutes of frantic searching and then a flash of vivid colour caught his eye and his breath simultaneously. There was a huge clump of foxgloves growing in some sandy ground amongst the profusion of trees behind the house. Tearing them up he hurried indoors and went straight to the kitchens.

He knew that by rights the leaves should have been stored and dried but he had no time for such niceties. Ripping them from the stalks, he poured boiling water over them and let them infuse. The kitchen hands and the chef, meanwhile, were staring at him askance and John’s assurances - stated over a shoulder while he continued to make his potion - did little to convince them that he was a genuine apothecary. Eventually one of them slipped away to ask Lady Dashwood and came back looking surprised and nodding.

John, meanwhile, was weighing up the odds as to whether he should finally tell the company that he was working for Sir John Fielding. If he did, he thought, he would not dare tell Sir Francis that he had been present for the explicit purpose of investigating the Hellfire Club. Better to gloss over that and say he was in the neighbourhood by chance. Which led him to the difficult question of whether he should announce his true identity and lay to rest, for good and for all, the persona of Fintan O’Hare.

It was all going to be extremely awkward but for the moment he had other things to concentrate on. The infusion was as ready as it would ever be. Taking a small spoon, John left the kitchen and hurried upstairs.

Lord Orpington was clearly in agony, grasping his chest and groaning. He was wet with sweat and was calling out, “Arabella, Arabella,” in a feeble voice, at which Sir Francis, who was standing anxiously beside the bed, could only shake his head and mutter, “But she’s dead.” Clearly glad to see John arrive, he stood to one side and watched, his usual jovial countenance for once changed to one suitable for the occasion.

“So you really are an apothecary, O’Hare?” he said, a note of wonderment in his voice as John spooned a small amount of liquid down the patient’s throat.

John turned to face him. “Yes, I am, sir. In fact, I am not Fintan O’Hare, as I told you. My name is John Rawlings and I have a shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly. Furthermore, I occasionally work for Sir John Fielding, of whom no doubt you will have heard.”

“You’re not O’Hare!” Sir Francis repeated in an accusatory tone. “Then tell me, why are you here?”

“There’s been a bit of trouble in the neighbourhood,” John lied blithely. “I came down to investigate it.”

“What trouble?” asked the other, his eyes narrowed and porcine. “I don’t know of any.”

At that moment the patient moaned and raised his lids. “Where is Arabella?” he said, gripping John tightly by the shirt. “Rest now,” answered John, disengaging himself.

“Where is she?”

“She’ll come soon.”

Behind him he heard Sir Francis clear his throat and John shot round. “Please don’t tell him the truth. Not at this stage. It could literally kill him.”

“It seems that you deal easily in lies, young man. I suggest you soon turn over a new leaf.”

“I promise to tell you everything, Sir Francis, but meanwhile I beg you to be patient. If Lord Orpington is going to survive he is going to need all my nursing skills.”

“Very well. But I want a full explanation just as soon as you see fit to leave him.”

“You shall have it, sir, of that I can assure you.”

And with those words John Rawlings turned back to the inert figure on the bed and poured another spoonful of liquid between Lord Orpington’s lips.

Chapter Twenty-One

I
t was quiet in the outhouse. Outside Samuel stood on guard while Dominique, badly shaken - or doing a good impression of being so - sat in the workshop, his head in his hands. John, having seen Lord Orpington drop into a fitful sleep, had left the house and gone under the arch to the stableblock. Samuel had greeted him.

“How is his Lordship?”

“Sleeping at the moment. You know foxgloves can be highly toxic. That’s why I only give him very small amounts of the infusion. Quite honestly, Sam, it’s kill or cure.”

“Oh dear. Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“Has anyone been near?”

“Several people, though none have seen the body. Coralie and the child; Charles Arundel’s sister, Juliana; even Lady Dashwood came round, gave me a look that would have slain a gorgon, and went back to the house.”

Despite the grim task he was about to undertake, John had laughed.

“I can just see her. Anyway, whatever you do let nobody in while I examine her.”

“You can rely on me,” Samuel answered, and had looked menacing.

And now he watched outside while the Apothecary once more stood alone with death. It was a job that he never relished, in fact positively disliked, though he was well aware that he was the best qualified to do it. Yet still there was that slight hesitation as he first laid his hands on the corpse and gently began to look for the cause of death.

First he removed the shoes, gazing into each one to see if there had been any foreign body lodged therein. Then, hating it, he removed the white stockings and minutely examined the legs, looking for a sign, any sign, that something untoward had taken place. There was nothing. Next he raised her skirts to her waist and performed the most horrible task of all - looking to see if Lady Orpington had been sexually active recently and whether this could have caused her sudden and shocking demise. Somewhat to his surprise he discovered that she had not.

Undressing the top half of the dead girl he stopped for a moment to admire her childlike beauty, then put such thoughts from his mind as he concentrated on looking for some clue as to how she had died. There was nothing. As far as he could see the cause of death must have been a natural one. Still he went to the door and called to Samuel.

“Sam, come in here a moment.”

Samuel’s round face appeared anxiously in the opening. “Why? John, I’m not very good with bodies.”

“I want you to lift her for me, turn her over so that I can examine her back.”

“But that will mean touching her.”

“Of course it will. Now come along, my friend. Think of it as a favour to me.”

The Goldsmith took a cautious step inside and said, “You’ve undressed her,” in an accusing tone.

“Not completely. Besides, I had to do so in order to examine her.”

Samuel crept forward, each step tentative. John, watching him, said, “She can’t hurt you, you know.”

“I am aware of that. It’s just that I have had little to do with corpses.”

“You’ve seen a few with me, my dear.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But somehow this seems different.”

“Well, it isn’t. Now come on.”

Samuel stationed himself by the girl’s feet, while John took hold of her shoulders.

“Right, now turn her to the right. Are you ready?”

Samuel nodded and they performed their macabre task in silence. John gently placed Lady Orpington’s head to one side so that her face was not pressed into the wood of the table on which she lay.

“By the way,” he said, as he started his examination, “where is her lover now?”

“He’s coffined up and been taken back to the house to lie in state before his removal. We must go and pay our respects before we return to the inn.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied John absently.

He was concentrating on the girl’s neck, having pulled her hair up and out of the way. Just above the line of her dress he could see a little red mark, like the bite of an insect. John bent down over it, examining it carefully. Then he called Samuel, who was still standing by the girl’s feet, looking pale.

“Come and have a look at this.”

Samuel reluctantly made his way and surveyed the wound closely.

“It’s very small. Looks like a bee sting.”

“But it’s not. The sting is missing.”

John put out a finger and very gently rubbed the mark, then he sniffed and carefully tasted the substance on his digit.

“Samuel, I’ll swear that this girl has been poisoned, though exactly how it was administered defeats me at the moment.”

“You mean that it went in through that little hole?”

“I do. But how? A knife would be too big and would leave a different wound. Even an arrowhead would be larger. God help me, I could be wrong, but I have a strange feeling about it.” He straightened up. “We have to inform the constable, I fear.”

Sam groaned. “Oh dear, we all know what they can be like.”