Death in Hellfire (31 page)

Eventually the Blind Beak spoke. “Pass me the remains of the blowpipe once more, will you, Joe.”

“Here you are, Sir John,” replied the clerk cheerfully, and handed the object to his master.

Very delicately the Magistrate raised it to his nostrils. “There is definitely an odour,” he said at last, “though very faint and heavily masked by the fire.”

“There is indeed, sir.”

“And you think that this points the finger at the user of such a scent?”

“I have nothing else to go on, Sir John. It is our only hope.”

“Um,” said the Magistrate and relapsed into another prolonged silence.

Sounds of family life drifted into the room.

“Mary Ann, can you take the port to your uncle, if you please.” This from Elizabeth, Lady Fielding.

“Very good, Mama.”

And the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman, now in her early twenties, who cast her naughty eyes round the room, saw John, and dropped a suggestive curtsey.

“Why, Mr Rawlings,” she said, “I had no idea that you had joined the company.”

John, perfectly aware that she had glimpsed his arrival some twenty minutes earlier, said, “Gracious, Mary Ann, I hope it is a pleasant surprise.”

“Oh indeed it is, sir,” she answered, and gave him a look full of mischief.

Adopted by Sir John, brought into the marriage by Elizabeth Whittingham, as Lady Fielding had once been, Mary Ann was regarded by everyone as Sir John’s daughter and had even changed her name to Fielding. And with her had come a deal of trouble, for she flaunted her beauty for all she was worth and had indeed caused many a serious problem. At the age of sixteen she had driven Lord Elibank mad for love of her, he being nearly fifty years old and recently widowed and so vulnerable that he had fallen into a kind of hysterical fit at the very thought of her. But, strangely, she was still not married and rumour had it that she was holding out for a title.

John winked at her, he could not resist it. “How goes it with you, young lady?”

She winked back. “Very well, I thank you, sir.”

“Did you know that my former apprentice, young Nicholas, is about to get married?”

Nick, too, had fallen victim to her charms in the dim and distant past.

“I wish him well then. I prefer the single life personally.”
 

The Blind Beak interrupted. “Pour the port for Mr Rawlings and Jago, there’s a good girl. And then if you don’t mind making yourself scarce for we are in the middle of a most important meeting.”

“Certainly, Uncle.”

She passed John a glass with one of the sauciest glances he had ever seen, positively thrust one at Joe whom she disregarded totally, gave one to her uncle, then left the room with much swaying in her gait.

Just as well that the Beak can’t see her, John thought.

“Now, where were we?” said the Magistrate.

“You were wondering whether Mr Rawlings had sufficient evidence to proceed,” Joe reminded him.

“Well, as you say my friend, it is very flimsy but it is the best chance we have. What do you want me to do?”

“Write to Sir Francis and suggest that he hold a reunion of all the people present at the time, plus others so as not to make them suspicious. Press on him how important it is that they all accept his invitation,” said John.

“I can certainly do that but whether he will agree to it is an entirely different matter.”

“And whether the guests decide that they want to go,” the Apothecary answered gloomily.

“Perhaps,” said Joe, “Sir Francis could disguise it a bit. Say he is holding some sort of celebration on the lake and it will all be excessively jolly and amusing.”

“What about those ladies who are in mourning? To say nothing of old Lord Orpington.”

“Well, suggest he uses his powers of persuasion,” the clerk replied cheerfully.

“And could you also ask Sir Francis to invite Betsy and James Avon-Nelthorpe?” John added.

“I think in view of the number of requests I might go in person and see the honourable gentleman at his London address.”

“A very good idea, sir. Leave the arrangements to me. I shall get on to them straight away, if you will excuse me.”

“A good plan, Jago. See to it will you.”

“Yes, sir.” And having bowed to John, Joe left the room.

“A remarkable fellow that,” said the Blind Beak.

“Does he still live in Seven Dials?” asked John.

“Oh yes.”

John cleared his throat and dared to ask a personal question. “Tell me, sir, has Joe Jago ever been married?”

The Blind Beak’s laugh rumbled round the room. “If he has, he has never told me of it. To be frank with you, Mr Rawlings, I know very little about his private life. It is something that we do not discuss.”

“I quite understand, Sir John, it was forward of me to ask.”

“Joe Jago is a man of mystery, my friend. And I feel certain that that is how he will remain.”

Having left Bow Street, dusk just falling over London, John decided to walk to St James’s Square, in which fashionable London residence Coralie Clive now lived. Cutting past the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden - a place infamous for unruly audiences to which prizefighters had occasionally to be brought to quell the rioters - he cut his way through various alleyways to St Martin’s Lane and then down to Charing Cross. From there it was but a stone’s throw to St James’s Square and, feeling a little shabby and poorly dressed, John rang the bell. A footman answered, clearly expecting him, for he was ushered immediately into a small salon in which Coralie, looking a little lonely and somehow bereft, sat by herself. She looked up as John entered the room.

“I wondered whether you would come,” she said.

“You know I would answer any summons from you,” John replied gallantly.

“You have dined?”

“Yes, at home. I came straight here from the Public Office. I’m sorry to be late.”

“That is perfectly all right. Do sit down, please.”

They were being terribly stiff and formal and John, thinking of all that had passed between them, longed to make the meeting more amicable. He sat down opposite Coralie and leaned forward in his chair.

“My dear Coralie, why have you invited me here? Remember that I have always supported you and I don’t intend to stop now.”

She turned away from him and said in a low voice, “Have you unmasked the murderer yet - if murderer there is?”

“It was an unlawful killing. Quite definitely so. And, yes, I think I know who did it.”

She moved back towards him and fixed him with her dazzling emerald eyes. “But surely the death of my husband was accidental.”

“I think not, madam. It is my belief that somebody dressed his chancre with a poison not known in this country until extremely recently. And the same poison was administered to Lady Orpington.”

“How?”

“By means of a blowpipe and a small arrow.”

The green eyes filled with sudden tears and before he knew it he was kneeling before her and had taken her in his arms.

“Oh Coralie, don’t cry. I implore you. You must know how it upsets me.”

“Then I beg you to let the murderer go. Do nothing to apprehend them. Let this be the one crime that you do not solve.”

He drew back, holding her at arm’s length. “But why, sweetheart?”

“Because I wish it.”

“And that is the only reason?”

She leant back in her chair, releasing herself from his grasp.

“There is another reason, of course there is. But I would rather die than tell you what it is.”

He stared at her aghast, a million thoughts racing through his mind. “But Coralie, it is too late. I have just come from the Public Office, as I told you, Sir John Fielding and Joe Jago know the identity of the person. The inevitability of the law has begun.”

With a great effort Coralie got herself together. “I see,” she said in a strained voice.

“I’m sorry, my darling, but that is the situation.”

“Would you care for a drink before you go?” she asked, her tone completely different.

John shook his head, not in refusal of her offer but in wonderment at her amazing control.

“Yes, I would like one very much,” he said, and even to himself his speech sounded odd.

Coralie rang a bell. “I would prefer it if you address me as Lady Arundel in front of the servants.”

Full of tension, John suddenly lost his temper. “God’s life, Coralie, do you think I am a man from the sticks? I shan’t stay for that drink after all. I am sorry that I could not meet with your request but it was too late. Good evening to you, madam.”

And he swept from the room allowing himself only one backward glance at her, which revealed Coralie sitting ramrod straight, staring into the fire, her face turned away from him.

Outside in the street John swore violently and kicked at the kerbstone. Coralie’s plea had put him into a state of terrible uncertainty. Had he been wrong in his identification of the killer? Was Coralie more heavily involved than he had thought? Deep in deliberation he started to walk back to

Nassau Street, shoulders hunched and head thrust forward.

Had he really been in love with her? Yes, deeply, and a small part of him still was. That was why she had so much power over him to this day. That was why it was possible for her to upset him and hurt him. John’s thoughts turned to Elizabeth and he determined that come what may he would write to her as soon as this sorry and tragic business had drawn to its terrible and final conclusion.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
here was one thing left to do before he departed for West Wycombe and that was to seek out Dominique Jean and discover the answer to his question about that extraordinary couple, the Avon-Nelthorpes. John left his shop in the care of Nicholas and hurried to 39, Tottenham Court Road, where he was lucky enough to find Dominique gilding an exquisite piece of furniture. On seeing his visitor, the Frenchman was abject in his apologies.

“My dear friend, I am so sorry that I have not yet given you the answer. As you can see I am inundated with work. This particular piece is a special order for the Duke of Bedford and he requires that it is delivered tomorrow. I am at my wit’s end.” Despite his protestations he seemed calm enough, working at a slow and methodical pace while the commode grew beautiful beneath his hands.

John smiled at him. “Don’t worry, please. But did you go to the brothel, that is what I really want to know?”

Very surprisingly Dominique Jean blushed a deep red and said, “Yes, I went.”

“And?”

“You will never guess who the madam is. It’s Madam Betsy herself.”

“No! I can scarcely credit it.”

“It happens to be true. As you thought was the case, the place is divided into two sections. Downstairs there are gaming rooms, and there the dissolute James sits and gambles away all his money, while upstairs his wife earns it all back again.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said John, totally surprised.

He had thought something along those lines but that Betsy should be a madam simply had not occurred to him.

“But why on earth did James marry her?”

“That,
mon ami
, I do not know. I suggest you ask him.”

“Maybe I will at that.” John’s face adopted his honest citizen look. “Have you had an invitation from Sir Francis by the way? Mine arrived in the post this morning.”

“Yes. Apparently he is giving a
fete champetre
and is most anxious that I should join the throng.”

“I, too, am invited. Tell me, will you go?”

“Yes, I think I will,” Dominique answered, “provided that I finish all my work on time.”

“Oh, please do try,” the Apothecary urged. “I am sure it will be a splendid occasion.”

“The mystery is why he should invite me. After all, I am trade.”

“So am I,” John replied, feeling just a fraction guilty at lying to the Frenchman about why he was going to West Wycombe.

Fortunately Dominique Jean did not see through the deception and continued to work on his gilding. John, walking round the workroom, thought how cooperative Sir Francis Dashwood had been, Sir John Fielding had been to visit him in the House of Lords and appealed to him as a peer of the realm to assist in catching the murderer. For Sir Francis, as he was commonly called, had become Lord le Despencer in 1762, though few people referred to him as such. According to Joe Jago, who had been present throughout, his Lordship had become very grand and condescending and had agreed to do everything in his power to bring the criminal to justice.

“Sir John asked him if he would mind if I were present at the gathering,” he had told John afterwards.

“No, provided he sleeps with the servants,” had been the dignified reply.

John had shaken his head, wondering at the great social difference between those who worked for a living and those born to an extravagant and privileged lifestyle. Considering whether such an anomaly would ever change, he had felt fairly certain that it would not. And now, as he wandered amongst the fine example of tremendous craftsmanship and compared it with Sir Francis’s decadent and full-blown lifestyle, it seemed to him that the whole structure of society was grossly unfair.