Death at Apothecaries' Hall (24 page)

She woke and saw him and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come and sit here. Tell me what is worrying you. Oh John, I hate to see you this unhappy.'

At that moment she was so gentle, so sweet, that he literally did not know how to conduct himself or what course to take. He felt as if he were being split in two, unable to escape Coralie's spell, yet fatally drawn to Emilia Alleyn with whom he had exchanged such passionate kisses. Somebody started to speak and John realised that it was himself

‘Elope with me now, this morning, before it is too late. We can take a coach to St Mary's in Marybone. The parson there does not ask too many questions, so I'm told.' He uttered the words as if he had no control over them.

Coralie opened her mouth to answer but John rushed on. ‘Don't argue with me. Darling, if you love me, please do what I say.'

The green eyes looked at him, a most perceptive expression in their depths. ‘Another attachment has brought this on, I imagine.'

John wrung his hands and turned his head away. ‘Yes, it's true enough. I have met someone.'

‘Then why –?'

The Apothecary was sufficiently foolish to tell the truth. ‘Because I just don't know what to do. I feel our relationship has run its course but yet I am still in your thrall.'

Coralie spoke, and her voice chilled him to the bone. ‘Don't let me stand in your way, my dear. If you believe our association is at an end, then I beg you to go. Now. Thank you for everything you have done in the past. Good morning to you.' And with those words she turned her back on him.

What an ignominious end to such a great love, John thought, as he slowly plodded down the stairs, saying farewell to the very fabric of the house, to every nook, cranny, picture and ornament. So many years of friendship, of feeling, had been wiped out at a single stroke, and irrevocably at that. The turn of Coralie's defiant chin, the look in her lustrous eyes, said more than words ever could. She was cut to the quick by his behaviour and wanted no more of him. Miserable as sin, the Apothecary felt tears start to run down his cheeks as he made his way up the street, evening clothes over his arm, in order to hail a hackney coach and within its dark interior hide his abject misery from the world.

As soon as he got through the front door of number two, Nassau Street, John knew what he must do. He was too upset to see Emilia, would have felt that he was betraying both her and Coralie if he had run from one to the other like a snivelling schoolboy. Instead, he longed to see Samuel Swann and hear his jolly laugh, tell him all that had transpired, not just about the ending of his relationship with Coralie but also the assault on Francis Cruttenden. Suddenly full of purpose, the Apothecary sent for hot water, washed again and had a close shave, then dressed himself in Sunday clothes and set off by yet another hackney for Puddle Dock Hill.

He discovered Samuel attired for churchgoing, looking very much the part of a respectable citizen of London. Clad in dun brown, the Goldsmith appeared slightly portly, a fact which though it made John smile also made him realise that none of them was getting any younger.

‘I'm off to St Andrew's. Are you coming? It would do you good to pray, you heathen.'

‘I go to church most Sundays.'

‘Not if you're in bed with Coralie, you don't.'

John winced, the subject too painful even to contemplate. ‘All right, I'll join you.'

The curiously named St Andrew by the Wardrobe stood a mere stone's throw from Samuel's shop, and the two friends walked briskly down the hill towards the river, fighting off the cold by the speed of their descent. Hurrying inside, John spared a thought to the fact that the large and imposing church had acquired its unusual name from the circumstance of the royal wardrobe being situated in the neighbourhood, its location there dating from as early as 1361.

Despite the bitter weather all the pews were packed, particularly with pretty young girls, all under the watchful eye of their parents.

‘Regular churchgoing is truly good for the soul.' John murmured innocently, but Samuel stoically ignored him.

The service started and the Apothecary sang lustily with the rest, wishing that Coralie's devastated expression would not keep returning to haunt him. And then, quite suddenly, everything else was sent from his mind by the sight of Garnett Smith, clad all in black, stone cold sober, sitting in a crowded pew but somehow remaining alone.

‘One of the suspects,' he muttered to Samuel under cover of the hymn book.

‘Where?'

‘Three pews in front. It's Garnett Smith. Of course! He lives just round the corner from you. He probably comes here every Sunday.'

‘Yes, I've seen him before. He usually wanders off into the graveyard at the end of the service.'

‘That's where the son must be buried.'

‘Should we go and talk to him?'

‘It's a heaven sent opportunity,' John answered, and hoped he wasn't being blasphemous.

The service continued with a sermon, during which the Apothecary indulged his favourite hobby of observing people, his eye continually drawn to a slight figure sitting at the back of the church, its face concealed from the world by a heavily veiled hat. The fact that it reminded him of Emilia had to be a coincidence, yet even the young woman's movements and mannerisms were almost identical to hers. Intrigued, John kept staring, but while he was looking away to find a different hymn she must have slipped out, for when he looked again she was no longer there.

‘Do we talk to Mr Smith in the porch?' Samuel asked out of the side of his mouth.

‘Yes, let's get there first, then there's no way he can escape us.'

They duly got to their feet as soon as the service was at an end and hurried out to be greeted by the parson. Then they loitered, John looking all around for the mysterious girl but seeing no sign of her. After a few minutes, Garnett appeared, alone but chatting politely enough to those around him. He shook the vicar warmly by the hand then made to go off in the direction of the churchyard.

John stepped forward. ‘Good morning, Sir. Do you remember me?'

Garnett stared at him blankly, then recognition gleamed in his eye. ‘You're the young fool who came round enquiring after my welfare, aren't you?'

‘Yes Sir.'

‘And was it not you who tried to convince me that Alleyn did not kill my son through negligence?'

‘I pointed out that to identify the wen in his neck as a cancer would not have been easy.'

‘Yes, I believe you did.'

He stared at John, minutely examining him, almost as if he were looking at him properly for the first time. Which, the Apothecary thought, he probably was, Garnett's eyes being so befuddled by drink on the first occasion.

‘Well, you're not a bad young fellow, after all. Would you care to step round to my house for a glass of sherry?'

‘I am here with a friend, Sir.' John indicated Samuel, who was being extremely chatty to one particular group of saucy young females, bowing and making much of raising his hat.

Garnett actually smiled. ‘Then bring him as well. But first I must go and pay my respects to my son. I do that every Sunday.'

‘May I join you?'

‘Certainly.'

They went down the path side by side, walking towards the back wall of the church where there was the greatest preponderance of gravestones. Then Garnett Smith suddenly stopped and put an arm out to check John's progress. ‘There's somebody already there. Look. A woman's kneeling beside the grave.'

And indeed there was. The slight figure that John had noticed at the rear had obviously gone out before the service ended to place flowers at the headstone of poor Andrew Smith. Everything became crystal clear as the Apothecary saw that it was indeed Emilia, that she had come to pay tribute to her youthful lover.

‘Damme,' said Garnett angrily. ‘Who the devil is it?'

‘It's Emilia Alleyn,' John answered quietly. ‘Please remember, Sir, that she has recently been bereaved.'

‘I know, I know,' the older man replied testily, but for all his gruff manner he hurried forward as if he were pleased to see the girl.

She glanced up, hearing someone approach, and the Apothecary saw her look of pure astonishment at finding them there. ‘Mr Smith, John,' she said, very flustered.

Garnett made the sort of bow that indicates politeness and nothing more. ‘Miss Alleyn,' he said stiffly. Yet still John could have sworn that there was a certain excitement about him, that the sight of the girl brought back memories of his son and made him feel happier.

Emilia got to her feet and curtsied respectfully. ‘Mr Smith, I do hope you don't mind my coming here. My mother is staying in London at present and I took the opportunity to visit Andrew's grave.' She turned to John in bewilderment. ‘I did not realise that you and Mr Smith were acquainted.'

‘Well, we are,' he answered enigmatically.

She looked blank for a moment or two, then her expression changed and she said, ‘Oh, I see.'

‘Mr Rawlings called on me the other night,' Garnett offered by way of explanation. ‘Strangely enough I found his conversation very helpful.'

Still looking at John, Emilia asked, ‘In what regard, Sir?'

‘He illustrated quite clearly some of the difficulties that apothecaries experience.'

Miss Alleyn tilted her chin upwards and stared Garnett Smith directly in the eye. ‘Do you still blame my father for Andrew's death?'

‘In some ways I do. If a correct diagnosis had been made earlier …'

‘As I assured you before, Sir, even that couldn't have saved him,' John put in. ‘Once a cancer has a hold, particularly in a younger person, no one can loosen its grip.'

‘Please don't continue your enmity,' Emilia added sadly. ‘My father is dead, murdered by some madman. If he made mistakes, then he has answered for them grievously.'

‘Poor Josiah,' said Garnett, and turned away from them, going to stand beside the grave, his back averted.

‘Why are you here?' whispered Emilia, putting her hand lightly on the Apothecary's arm.

‘I am continuing my investigations. You see before you a man determined.'

‘To do what?'

‘To find out who poisoned the apothecaries.'

She lowered her voice even more. ‘Was it Mr Smith?'

‘I can't be absolutely sure but I don't think so.'

‘Then who?'

John decided to be honest. ‘I truly don't know.'

‘Will my father's murderer ever be discovered?'

‘I must confess that at this moment it doesn't seem very likely.'

Very faintly, while he had been speaking, John had been aware of distant voices, one of which appeared to be an hysterical female. Now came the sound of running feet, accompanied by puffing and blowing, and a few seconds later Samuel came into view, sprinting down the church path.

‘John, come quickly,' he gasped.

‘What's the matter?'

‘A woman's collapsed at the church gate. I think it might be Clariana Gill, but she looks in such a terrible state I can't be certain.'

‘What on earth would she be doing here?'

‘You tell me. But you'd better hurry. Whoever she is, she's lost consciousness.'

It was indeed Clariana, John saw, as he ran up to the group huddled round a figure lying supine upon the ground. Closely reminded of the previous evening when her elderly lover lay in a very similar posture, the Apothecary leant over the prostrate figure.

‘Who are you, Sir?' asked the vicar.

‘An apothecary, Father. Would you like me to tend her?'

‘By all means if you are trained. The poor woman ambled in here on foot, then collapsed. She muttered something about her father before she fainted.'

Remembering only too vividly the opium that Clariana had been given the night before, John pulled up one eyelid. Sure enough the pupil of the eye had contracted to a mere pinprick and there was saliva flecking the corners of the girl's lips.

‘It's an overdose,' the Apothecary said tersely. ‘That old fool Ridgeway must have lashed it down her by the gallon. I must treat her with emetics and stimulants.' He looked up at Samuel. ‘Can we carry her to your place?'

‘I live near by,' said Garnett Smith, striding up the church path, Emilia one pace behind.

‘Even though it's probably far too late, I shall have to make her sick,' John said by way of warning.

‘I helped nurse a dying son,' Garnett answered simply.

‘Then we'd better go quickly.'

‘Can I assist?' Emilia asked.

Not only did he want her there desperately, just for the comfort of her presence, but the fact that an Alleyn would be setting foot over Garnett's threshold might go a long way towards healing old wounds, John thought.

He looked at Mr Smith. ‘If it is in order with you, Sir, I would like Miss Alleyn to be present.'

Garnett hesitated momentarily, past hatreds crowding to plague him, then he said, ‘Come along, my girl. I'm sure a woman's touch is always beneficial at a sickbed.'

Samuel may have been gaining a little weight but he was still enormously strong. Picking Clariana up as if she weighed no more than a feather, he carried the unconscious girl away from the curious gaze of the congregation and down the hill to the river and the home of Garnett Smith. There she was put to lie in a bedroom that by its very smell revealed it was never used and John, having no bag with him, was put to the task of finding ordinary household substances that would suit his purpose.

A strong mixture of salt and water he prepared for an emetic and gave this to Emilia to start spooning down Clariana's throat. For the stimulant however, the Apothecary was in a total dilemma.

‘Do you have any thistles in your garden?' he called in desperation to Garnett, who was hovering in the kitchen doorway, watching John work with a considerable amount of interest for one who professed to hate apothecaries.