Death in Hellfire (25 page)

“Indeed we do. Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Do you remember that Lady Orpington’s hat was lying beside her?”

“Yes, I do. She had it clutched in her fingers as I recall.”

“She must have had it on when she was poisoned so that her neck was free of hair. So who took it off?”

“And,” Sam added enthusiastically, “who put her in that folly? For surely she did not go in there to die.”

“Definitely not. Somebody must have carried her inside after she was poisoned.”

“Which points to a man.”

“Not necessarily. She was a tiny little thing. A strong woman could have managed her with ease.” John braced his shoulders. “Come on, let us leave her in peace. I must brave the wrath of Sir Francis. He is after my blood full pelt having realised that Fintan O’Hare was a figment of imagination.” They stepped outside, locking the door behind them. Dominique Jean was in the stableyard, just climbing into his coach, and he looked across in their direction.

“Gentlemen,” he called, “I have decided to spend one more night at the inn and I am making my way there now. I will buy you that drink after all.”

“Glad to hear it,” said John, and bowed to him as the coach rumbled past.

In the house there was an ominous silence. Indeed there was no one around that either man could see, let in as they were by a servant.

“Where is Sir Francis Dashwood?” John enquired.

“He is outdoors, sir. I do not know where.”

“And Lady Dashwood?”

“As far as I know, my Lady is with him.”

John turned to Samuel and was just about to say that perhaps they should seek him out when a door at the far end of the hall opened and Lady Juliana Bravo stood there.

“I hear that you have been here under false pretences,” she said coldly.

“I am here, madam,” John replied with dignity, “on behalf of Sir John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of London. He sent me to investigate the proceedings of the Hellfire Club, which he believed might be subversive. As it happened, I could find no evidence of this. But in the meantime two people have been murdered and I regard it as part of my duty to assist the constable in his enquiries.”

She gaped at him, going very white. “What are you saying? That somebody murdered my brother and the Countess of Orpington?”

“Yes, precisely that.”

“And what may I ask was the method used?”

“Poison for the lady,” John said firmly. “Of what origin I am not yet certain.”

Juliana drew breath and brought herself under some form of control. “And you are sending for the constable?”

“Not to do so, madam, would be to go against the law of the land. As soon as I have seen Sir Francis I shall go straight to the village and make enquiries as to the constable’s identity.”

She sat down rather suddenly. “I am thoroughly shocked by what you say.” She paused a moment and looked thoughtful. “Of course Charles and the lady in question
were
very friendly, you know.”

John looked at her. “Yes, I was aware.”

“It occurs to me that she could have been so upset at his death that she committed suicide.”

Thinking of that strange little hole in the back of Arabella’s neck, John looked sceptical. “I very much doubt that.”

“Why? Could she not have administered poison by her own hand?”

“Indeed, she could. But I do not think it likely.”

Lady Juliana looked determined. “Well, I am quite prepared to tell the constable my theories. I believe that I might well have hit upon the truth.”

John bowed. “You must do as you think best, my Lady.”

Samuel said nothing till they got outside, but once there he stated, “But that’s not possible, the suicide theory I mean. For who stabs themselves in the back of the neck?”

“An acrobat,” John answered tersely, seeing Sir Francis Dashwood sitting on a bench in the sun and already preparing himself for a severe reprimand.

He approached quietly but saw one eye open. “So there you are,” Sir Francis said.

“Yes, sir. I have examined the body of the Countess of Orpington and concluded that she was poisoned. I intend to go at once to inform the constable,” John answered very formally.

“A moment before you do so, young man. You say that you work for John Fielding, who is a likeable enough fellow in his own way. Did he ask you to find out about the Hellfire Club?”

“Sir, I was instructed to discover any hint of subversion amongst its members. I found none.”

“And why should Fielding think that, pray?”

“Because I believe at one time John Wilkes was a keen member of the organisation.”

Sir Francis literally ground his teeth together in a crunching sound.

“Merciful heavens! Are we all to be tarred with that man’s beastly brush? He may be a rabid rabble-rouser but that is a matter entirely for himself and does not mean that everyone associated with him is of like mind. As you know well, O’Hare - Rawlings - whatever your name is, we concentrate on one thing and one thing alone.”

John grinned, he couldn’t help it, a vivid memory of Teresa coming back to him.

“Working the pilgrim’s staff till it’s ready to fall off,” Sir Francis continued robustly. “And the Lord help any domine- do-little who joins our merry throng.”

The interview was far more civil than the Apothecary had imagined it could be and he decided to retreat before any more could be said. He bowed.

“It is gracious of you to be so kind about my deception, Sir Francis. I am afraid that those attached to the Public Office are sometimes forced to adopt disguises in order to achieve their objective. I am sure that as a Member of Parliament you will understand and tolerate this predicament in which we find ourselves.”

Sir Francis decided to be munificent. “One appreciates what you fellows have to go through.” He already seemed to have classified John as a Beak runner, pure and simple. “Nonetheless, it is not so funny when the deception is aimed at oneself. However, in the present grim and terrible circumstances we should, I suppose, be grateful that you are among us.”

“I sincerely hope so, sir,” said John, while Samuel - not to be left out - also muttered something appropriate.

“Now, what are you going to tell the constable?”

“Nothing about the Hellfire Club. That shall remain our secret. But I must inform him of the two deaths and let him make his own investigations. By the way, sir, do you know who he is?”

“Of course I do. His name is Zachary Flint and he farms nearby.”

John’s heart sank, as it often did when he considered the local village constable. A job much hated and despised, some citizens picked a deputy to act for them and those people were probably the worst of all. At least this one was in an honest profession.

“You’ll find him at Five Oak Farm, near the entrance to the east drive. But he goes into the George and Dragon most evenings. You’ll probably catch him there.”

“Thank you, Sir Francis. I shall put in my report how very cooperative you have been. And now if you’ll forgive me, I think Mr Swann and I should pay our respects to the late Lord Arundel.”

As they made their way upstairs they were joined by Lady Dashwood, looking, if possible, more dreary than ever.

“Are you going to see poor Charles?” she asked tonelessly.

“Yes, madam, that was our intention.”

“Then come with me.”

She led them into the bedroom he had occupied until recently, the curtains drawn against the light, the place lit by large candles which she had dotted here and there.

“We are having some of the neighbours round tonight,” she continued in the same colourless voice. “I must give instructions about the catering.” And she immediately turned on her heel and left them.

“Ah well,” said John, approaching the bed on which the poor fellow’s coffin had been placed.

“He looks better than usual,” commented Samuel.

And it was true. Somebody had been at work applying cosmetics to the dead man’s swollen face, so that now he had high patches of colour in each cheek and carmined lips. His eyebrows, too, had been blackened and someone had applied a beauty spot to his brow.

“I think I preferred him as he was,” John commented.

The coffin was lined with blue satin and the Marquess had been dressed in his best suit of clothes, which were a matching shade of blue. His hands were clasped on his stomach, his eyes closed. Yet somehow he did not look peaceful. There was about him a sense of disquiet which John could not explain to himself. He stood, staring down at the dead man, when suddenly something rustled in the corner. The Apothecary nearly shot out of his skin in fright, while Samuel swore a terrible oath.

“Who’s there?” said John.

The child, Georgiana, detached herself from the shadows round the bedhead and came walking towards them.

“What the devil are you doing here?” John asked angrily.

“Keeping watch over my father,” she answered, while Samuel muttered, “I told you she was weird.”

Georgiana turned towards the corpse. “He looks splendid, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think that is quite the right word,” John answered with asperity. “And I don’t think you should be in here on your own. You are a child, Georgiana, despite things that may have been done to encourage you to grow up. For the love of God, embrace your childhood while you still have it.”

“I have never been young,” she answered wretchedly.

“Yes, you have,” the Apothecary said fiercely, determined to talk some sense into her. “Listen to me. How old were you when your father asked you to cuddle him with no clothes on?”

“About eight.”

“Then think of those early years. Did you not enjoy them? Did you not have fun with other children?”

The child nodded without speaking.

“Then they are what you must concentrate on. Do not let your father ruin the rest of your life for you. And think of your mother. Think of how grieved she must be by your plight.”

“That had not occurred to me.”

John wanted to shout at her for being a thoughtless little girl but he knew that Georgiana had suffered in silence for some years and must be treated with respect as a result.

“Well, it is a fact. She cares for you deeply and, if I were you, I would try to return that love with the same intensity.”

“Poor Mama,” the child said sadly.

“Poor Mama, indeed. Georgiana, if I may make a suggestion, be determined to put the past behind you and start afresh.”

She gave him a look that made him grow cold. “Sometimes it is not possible to bury the past,” she said. “You see, it can have a way of coming back to haunt you.”

And with that she walked from the room with never a backward glance.

“There’s your murderer,” said Samuel, pointing at where Georgiana had just been. “She did it. It’s obvious.”

“What, Lady Orpington as well?”

“Both of ‘em. I tell you, she’s not right in the head.”

“Oh, come on. She’s suffered greatly. She’ll settle down in time.”

“She’ll always be mad,” Samuel pronounced with an air of finality. “Come on, we’ve said our farewells to her father. Let’s go and have a drink.”

“A good plan,” John answered. “I need to emulate Joe Jago and make a list.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
he air in the taproom of the George and Dragon was thick with tobacco smoke, mixed with the stinks created by the mass of humanity who heaved within. First there was the pungent note of unwashed flesh - not entirely unpleasant as most of it was honest sweat - mixed with a general sharp smell given off by the press of people. To add a piquant odour somebody had let loose a rouser, the remains of which floated about, apparently unable to find any means of escape. John, forcing his way into the room behind Samuel, who was shouldering his way in, waved a hand in front of his face.

“Dear me, ‘tis a bit noisome.”

“It positively reeks. Are you sure you want to drink in here?”

“We’re lying in wait for Zachary Flint, the constable, don’t forget.”

“Has he arrived?”

John nudged a farmhand. “Is Mr Flint here by any chance?”

“No, sir. He ain’t. Mark you, he could be about official business. There’s no saying whether ‘e’ll come or not.”

The Apothecary produced a coin from his pocket. “My friend and I will be in the guests’ parlour. If the constable should turn up, perhaps you would let us know.”

He must be getting old, John decided. Where a few years ago he would have welcomed the bustle and thrust of the taproom - stinks and all - now he was positively glad to take a comfortable seat by the fire, a table in front of him on which he could lean his paper for making a list, and order two pints of ale from the serving wench.

“Age is catching up with me,” he remarked to Samuel.

“Why so?”

“At one time nothing would have got me out of that place. Now I prefer sitting in the warmth and nodding off.”

“You need a woman, John. You have been a widower long enough. I suppose there is no hope…”