Death at the Beggar's Opera (27 page)

‘How strong you are,’ he managed to gasp. ‘Your appearance belies you.’

And yet did it? he wondered. Perhaps the intense mouth indicated determination as well as sensuality.

‘So,’ she said teasingly, ‘do you wish to remain my lover or is the situation too shocking for you?’

‘Not at all,’ he answered, rallying. ‘I must confess that I have not come across such frankness before, but then I am still young and have a great deal to learn.’

‘You most certainly have,’ answered Polly Rose, removing the steaming kettle. ‘Now, did you not say something about making tea?’

Half an hour later she left his shop, the richer for a bottle of fine perfume. John sat on the chair reserved for customers for a few moments after she had gone, thinking how lucky he was to have encountered such an extraordinary and understanding young female with whom to have a liaison. And then memories of Coralie Clive came into his head and he was forced to concentrate all his energies on compounding and mixing, in order not to feel thoroughly confused.

Though he had not been particularly happy about fulfilling the errand, it had been Mr Fielding’s wish, expressed at Drury Lane on the morning of the announcement, that John should call upon Mrs Martin.

‘We must find out for sure whether she was attacked or whether she attempted to end her own life,’ the Blind Beak had said as he prepared to leave the theatre with Elizabeth and his clerk.

‘But surely she would be happier speaking to you,’ John had protested.

‘Indeed not,’ the great man had replied urbanely. ‘She owes her life to you and thus a bond has been forged between you.’

‘Do you really think so?’ John had replied uncertainly.

‘Oh I do, I do,’ the Blind Beak answered and had gone on his way.

So now, the hour being three o’clock when most of the
beau monde
sat down to dine and custom was consequently slow, the Apothecary locked up his shop and hailed two chairmen to take him the considerable distance to Portugal Street. He was feeling somewhat too weary to walk after the previous night’s drinking, coupled with the shock of Polly’s unusual views on love, considerable relief though they had been.

A maid answered John’s knock on the Martins’ door and kept him waiting a moment in the parlour while she went upstairs to see her mistress. In those few seconds John looked round and thought that though the couple were obviously not rich, the theatre had none the less provided them with a good living. For the house, though small, was furnished in good taste, a great deal of Huguenot furniture being evident, and there being a fine view from the front window over St Clement’s Church and its well-kept grounds. John’s eye was caught by a portrait of Mrs Martin when young, dressed in costume, and looking stunningly beautiful, a fact which made him reflect bitterly on the cruel toll demanded by the passing years.

The maid appeared in the doorway. ‘The Mistress will see you, Sir. But not for long.’

‘I shall be brief,’ answered John, and followed her up the stairs.

Mrs Martin lay where he had last seen her, almost in exactly the same position. But now there was colour in her cheeks instead of a deathly pallor and her eyes were open, staring at the Apothecary as he came into the room.

‘Madam,’ he said, and bowed politely.

‘They tell me you saved my life,’ she said softly, her voice little above a murmur. ‘I don’t know whether to be grateful or sorry.’

‘Why? Did you wish to die?’ John asked, taking a seat in the chair by the bed as Mrs Martin indicated.

She made a sad face. ‘It seemed to me that I had little to live for. I had lost my husband and my child, to say nothing of the man who was my life’s obsession.’

‘So you inflicted this suffering on yourself? No one came to call on you and gave you the lethal dosage you consumed?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Rawlings, if I had died it would have been by my own hand.’

‘I see.’ The Apothecary paused, then said, ‘I presume that guilt entered the equation somewhere. Or is your heart really made of flint?’

She stared at him, perhaps surprised that he should speak so forcefully to an invalid. ‘No, guilt was involved. I realised that if I hadn’t abandoned my poor, wretched son to his fate he might still be alive today.’

‘And that was all?’ John continued mercilessly.

Mrs Martin looked startled. ‘All?’

‘There was no guilt for having murdered your lover and the child he sired?’

A look of immense cunning crossed the actress’s face, a look so sly and strange that John felt himself grow chill.

‘Why should I tell you that?’ she said in a voice he barely recognised. ‘Surely that is for you to find out.’

It occurred to him at once that she had gone slightly insane, that recent experiences had unhinged her.

‘Perhaps you could tell me because I saved your life,’ he answered with dignity.

She looked chastened, ashamed almost, and John knew with a flash of intuition that her true motive for silence was because she believed James Martin to have murdered Jasper.

‘There is one thing I will impart to you,’ Clarice answered, speaking so softly that John had to crane forward to hear her. ‘It came to me only when I fluttered between life and death and so, I believe, its truth was divinely given.’

‘And what is it?’ asked John, his voice equally quiet.

‘The fact that the killer is not in pursuit of those who loved Jasper. Oh no! His real intention is to wipe the man and his seed from the face of the earth. Don’t you see? First Jasper himself, then his bastard, then the attempt to incriminate Sarah Delaney who is carrying his child. Mark my words, she will be next, Mr Rawlings.’

There was a horrid logic to it which the Apothecary could not deny. If Clarice Martin was correct it was a blood feud, not against Jasper and his lovers, but against the actor and his children.

‘He wants to make the world as if Jasper never existed in it,’ she said again, then closed her eyes and silently wept.

‘By
he
do you mean your husband, James?’ John asked quietly.

Clarice Martin wept all the more, her eyes lowered so that she would not have to meet his gaze.

‘Please leave me,’ she whispered pathetically. ‘There is nothing further that I have to say to you now.’ Then she closed her eyes with such an air of finality that John had no option but to withdraw.

It was dark by the time he came out of the house in Portugal Street, and this time the Apothecary took a hackney back to Shug Lane where he hoped to do another hour’s trade before closing for the night. And in the event he was glad he had not gone straight home, for while he had been away a note from Serafina had been dropped through the door.

‘My dear friend,’ it read. ‘I earnestly enjoin you to come to Supper at Hanover Square at six o’clock Tonight. Pray do not Change but come straight from your Shop. There is much of Interest that I would discuss with you. Dear Sir, your Faithful Friend, S. de Vignolles. Post Script: I have written Same to Samuel Swann.’

John took his watch from his pocket and saw that it was already five. Deciding to remain open another half hour, he made a quick toilette in his compounding room, where he kept a jug, bowl and towel, together with a brush and razor, and finally set off at quarter to six to walk the short distance between Shug Lane and Hanover Square.

The quickest way was to go through the narrow confines of Marybone and Glass House Streets, then to turn right into Little Swallow Street which eventually widened out into Great Swallow Street, off which led Hanover Street and the square itself. Not relishing the darkness of these constricted walkways, John none the less took the lantern he kept for such occasions and set off at a brisk pace.

It seemed that the cold had driven everyone indoors for there was hardly a soul to be seen and there was certainly no sign of a linkman. Hurrying through the blackness, his brave light throwing a small circle of radiance around him, John crunched over the cobbles, no doubt getting the most unspeakable things on his shoes as he did so. And it was as he was pausing to avoid just such a puddle of filth, dimly reflected in the lantern’s light, that he heard a noise behind him, a noise which stopped as soon as he did, a noise which sounded suspiciously like somebody following him through the darkness.

The Apothecary spun round but could see nothing except a wall of blackness, the outlines of dingy houses just visible on either side of the narrow street.

‘Who’s there?’ he called, his voice echoing down the deserted alleyway.

There was no reply but it seemed to him that something shimmered in the doorway of an empty shop. Raising his stick, John rushed towards it, but its only occupant was a large grey cat which hissed as he approached. And yet he was not alone in that street, he was certain of it.

‘I know you’re watching,’ he shouted again.

Nothing stirred and there was no alternative for him but to set forth once more. With ears straining and every nerve tense, John strode into the darkness, listening for the sound of footsteps behind him. And, sure enough, very faintly but still audible, he heard them. Now the Apothecary panicked, certain that whoever was stalking him was either Jasper Harcross’s killer or, at the very least, a foot padder who would rob and probably injure him.

Nearing the junction with Little Swallow Street as he was, John broke into a fast run and headed away from his destination towards the main thoroughfare of Piccadilly where there would be people and linkmen and, with luck, a sedan chair for hire. At his back, his pursuer also broke into a run but gave up when he realised that his quarry was heading fast towards civilisation and, or so it seemed to the Apothecary, turned off into the mean alley of Little Vine Street from where he, or she, could disappear completely into the maze of streets that lay round Golden Square. For all that the sound of the follower had died away, John did not stop running until he reached Piccadilly and had breathlessly secured himself a chair to take him the rest of the way.

Even though he had calmed down by the time he got to Hanover Square, his host must have sensed that all was not well with his supper guest.

‘My dear friend,’ he said, his French accent somewhat pronounced in his agitation, ‘whatever is the matter? You look decidedly pale.’

‘It’s nothing really,’ said John, trying to laugh the matter off. ‘Someone followed me in the street, with evil intent I believe, however I managed to lose him so there’s no harm done.’

‘What’s all this?’ asked Serafina, sweeping down the graceful stairway.

‘John was followed by some villain,’ Louis answered. ‘Really it is too bad. Why, I swear it is hardly safe to set one’s foot out of doors these days.’

Serafina frowned thoughtfully. ‘Was it connected with the murders, do you think?’

‘It could have been. Who’s to tell? Anyway I shook my pursuer off.’

‘You must be very careful in future. Perhaps you are drawing nearer to the killer than you imagine.’

‘I really don’t think so. Neither Mr Fielding nor I can see a gleam of daylight as yet.’

‘Well, I have something very interesting to tell you,’ said Serafina, linking her arm through his and leading him up the stairs. ‘Samuel is already here so let us have some wine and I will recount my story.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Louis, my darling, even though you’ve heard what I have to say, will you join us?’

‘Just to be in your company is enough,’ he answered gallantly, and they exchanged a fleeting kiss.

A huge fire crackled in the hearth of that most exquisite room, throwing scintillating arrows of light onto the walls and the curtains, and gleaming in the rich red wood of the furniture. With only few candles lit and the chandelier dark except for its gleaming reflections, the place at once became mysterious, like some opulent cavern, simultaneously warm, inviting and sensual. Sipping his glass of claret, which shone red as rubies in the glow of the fire, John felt himself grow dreamy as Serafina began to speak.

‘Well, my friends, I went to the village of Kensington today to buy some lace. There is a woman there whose craftsmanship is second to none and I often visit her in order to make purchases. Anyway, having completed my transaction, I was walking down the main street towards the inn, where I sought a glass of toddy to warm me for the journey home, when who should I pass, looking mighty furtive I might add, but Miss Amelia Verity.’

‘How do you know her?’ asked John.

‘Very simply. She makes all my hats for me. I wouldn’t go to anyone else. She is, beyond doubt, the finest milliner in London. But be that as it may, I could not think what she was doing in Kensington.’

‘Perhaps she was visiting a client,’ said Samuel, somewhat defensively John thought.

‘Perhaps, but the story gets ever more mysterious. She did not see me and hurried into the inn. Naturally, I followed, doing my best to keep out of sight. To cut the story short, there she met with her brother, Adam, and between them ensued a most agitated discussion which, I admit frankly, I did my best to overhear. However, only snatches of conversation came my way, such as, “She’s not at home”, and “What do I do now?”, this last from Adam. Then he said, and I found it chilling, “If the truth comes out I am finished. Should I go to the Public Office?”’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed John. ‘What can they have been talking about?’

‘I think it was Mrs Harcross,’ said Serafina triumphantly. ‘They are, without doubt, her missing children.’

‘That doesn’t make them murderers,’ Louis stated reasonably.

‘No, but it certainly draws them into the web. Why should they both be working in the very theatre in which the victim performed regularly? Mere coincidence? I think not.’

‘What did Amelia answer to the question about the Public Office?’ John continued.

‘That I could not hear. Anyway, shortly afterwards they got to their feet, hurriedly paid the bill and left. They did not see me and I presume they went back by public stage. Now, what do you make of that?’

‘It’s certainly very strange that they should be in Kensington of all places.’

‘But they could have been about their normal affairs,’ Samuel persisted doggedly.