Death at the Wedding Feast

Eight

‘The trouble with old St Austell,’ said Sir Clovelly Lovell, thoughtfully nibbling with sharp little teeth upon a sweetmeat, ‘is that he won’t act his age. Still thinks he’s a helluva fellow. Can’t — or will not — accept the fact that he’s seventy-two.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed John, who was sitting opposite him, toying with a glass of sherry. ‘I hadn’t realized that he was quite that old.’

‘In his younger days he was the very devil of a rake. And with respect to Mr Hogarth, St Austell’s progress was from woman to woman. Just couldn’t get enough of ’em. Different one every night — that is, when he wasn’t on the ran-tan.’

‘He was a heavy drinker?’ asked John.

‘He was everything you can imagine,’ said Sir Clovelly with weight, and allowed his words to sink in.

The Apothecary was frankly bemused. His mental picture of Lord St Austell had been one of an old man in love with a girl a quarter of his age, probably a frail old being whose last declining years were going to be spent happily while she ran around him. But a different portrait was emerging, that of a raging-bull young man — large limbed and ready with his fists — who would grow into something quite cruel in his declining years.

‘What does he look like?’

‘A giant of a fellow, though somewhat stooped these days I fear. He had a shock of long hair, now white, on the top of which he would slap a wig which never sat right on his head. His eyes are a brilliant blue. The sort of eyes which one could imagine as belonging to the Devil — or am I being fanciful? He has strong features, with a great roman nose in the middle of his face, and a large mouth full of gnashing white teeth. These are now false, alas, and somewhat more subdued than once they were. I remember him biting some young man in a tavern brawl and the poor chap was scarred for life.’

‘He sounds a thoroughly nasty piece of work.’

‘He has mellowed as we all do with the onset of age. Uses a stick to support himself and has grown somewhat hard of hearing. But he’s still got a violent temper so I hope his poor bride does not step out of line.’

If ever there was a young woman more likely to misbehave than Miranda Tremayne, John would like to see her. A cold shudder clutched his spine and he shivered involuntarily.

It was noon and a raw March day, with a chill wind blowing from the river and echoing down the streets of Exeter. Against its cold Sir Clovelly had had fires lit in every room, so within his house in The Close it was warm and welcoming. John, who had taken Elizabeth’s small carriage into town, had called upon the tailor who had made his scarlet suit and had then gone on to visit Sir Clovelly, that sweet little man whose passion was eating. He had put on weight even since John had last seen him and now resembled a tub, in fact he was almost as broad as he was long. But his jolly face with its many chins and his merry little eyes all a-twinkle welcomed his guest, so that John was pleased to sit down with one of his dear friends and partake of a midday repast, at which John picked. Sir Clovelly, on the other hand, dug in with much enjoyment and smacking of the lips.

‘So old Montague’s getting married again,’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘Yes. Do you know the bride-to-be?’

‘A cousin of Lady Sidmouth did you say?’

‘Child of a cousin I would imagine.’ John leant forward. ‘She’s a bit of a handful in my opinion. Rather a rude little madam.’

‘Old St Austell will soon cure her of that. He won’t stand for any nonsense.’

‘But surely at his age…’

‘Don’t you believe it. He’ll take his cane to her if necessary.’

John sat nonplussed. ‘Well, the situation is not as I read it at all. I thought she would be marrying some compliant old fool who would sit in the corner chumbling his gums while she went out and about as she pleased — and with whom she pleased.’

Sir Clovelly shook his head. ‘Well, unless St Austell has plunged downhill in the last few weeks I would suggest, my dear John, that you have got that entirely wrong. Montague will guard her like a lion and no doubt about it.’

That said, Sir Clovelly dived on to a plate of red blancmanges made with port and began to attack them earnestly.

On his way home John called in at the apothecary’s shop to cancel his order for Feverfew and replace it with Marsh Mallow. He asked to be sold some roots and seeds which he intended to boil in wine to help Elizabeth’s supply of milk and to ensure that her breasts did not become lumpy or swollen. He had just been handed the packet by the apothecary who, by now, he knew quite well, when the door of the shop opened in a hurry and a young and flustered woman came in. Seeing John, she backed to the other end of the counter and pretended to study what was on display. The apothecary approached her.

‘Can I be of assistance, Madam?’

She shot a look at John and muttered something in an undertone.

‘I’m sorry, Madam, I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘I wish to have something to bring on my courses,’ she whispered.

John immediately guessed the situation. The woman’s monthly moon flow was late and she feared she might be pregnant. He had one or two remedies for such an occurrence in his own shop but this was Exeter and he wondered what the other apothecary was going to do.

His answer came at once. ‘If you would like to step through into my compounding room we can discuss the matter in private.’

‘Certainly,’ she replied, but at that moment her reticule came undone and the contents spilled over the floor of the shop.

‘Allow me,’ said John, and helped her to retrieve the contents.

It was only as he was leaving the shop that he found a card case with some newly printed cards inside it. ‘Lady Imogen Beauvoir’, he read, before hastily placing the cards back in their holder. He retraced his steps and looked round but Lady Imogen was still ensconced in the compounding room. John left the card case on the counter in a place where she was bound to see it and went on his way.

He had always loved Exeter, loved its back streets and alleyways and now he found his feet heading towards the river, bustling with life and activity. But as he went towards the West Gate he saw the tavern The Blackamore’s Head and felt that he had to go in there and have a jug of ale for old time’s sake.

He sat at a table, feet stuck out in front of him, listening to the voices with their soft Devon burr speaking all around him. And then one voice rose above all the others, strident and compelling, a voice that had his full attention, though his negligent position at the table altered not at all.

‘I demand that you repeat that,’ it said.

The other person gave a laugh and answered, ‘Indeed I won’t, Sir. I insist that you forget and forgive.’

There was the sudden sound of a chair scraping back and the louder voice shouted, ‘Damn you, Sir, you said something I cannot forgive. You insulted my sister and you’ll take it back or pay for it.’

This was followed by the noise of a hearty punch and then a groan, then the sound of someone else rising and a fist crunching. John rose to get a better view.

Two handsome young bucks were going at each other hell-for-leather. The taller of the pair was dressed in the very latest fashion with a short, high waistcoat and tight trousers which left very little to the imagination. His coat he had cast to one side. The other fighter was smaller and more genial-looking. He was not so fashionably dressed, wearing a longer waistcoat which had seen better days and a somewhat tired coat which was hampering his return blows.

A circle of men had formed round them shouting encouragement and remarks like ‘Hit him, George’ and ‘That’s the spirit, Freddy’. They were clearly known to one and all and the Apothecary stood by fascinated, watching them punching the lights out of one another. And then the landlord stepped in. He had changed since John had last visited the tavern and this new licensee was a massive chap, built like a bull and with a neck that emphasized the point. He came round majestically from his side of the bar and stepped in-between the two scrappers, seizing each by the collar and raising them off their feet.

‘Enough!’ he roared. He even sounded like a bull. He shook them both violently and then banged their heads together. ‘You’ll have to continue this in the street. I’ll have no more fisticuffs in this establishment.’

And with that he threw the couple out, single-handedly, and so hard that they both landed on their backs on the cobbles. John, convinced that they were going to need his services, followed them. The jollier fellow was scrambling to his feet, bleeding profusely from his eye and lip.

‘Please allow me,’ said John, ‘but I think you will need a stitch or two in that. Let me escort you to the apothecary’s shop.’

‘Thank you but no,’ replied the other, giving a small bow. ‘My father is a physician and I live only a step from here. I’ll make my own way — but thanks for your kindness.’

‘No, you won’t,’ growled the taller man, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll finish this here and now, Freddy Warwick.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ the Apothecary interceded. ‘Brawling in a public street is highly frowned upon these days.’

‘I wouldn’t agree with you at all about that,’ drawled the other man, ‘Exeter on a Saturday night is no place for those of a delicate constitution.’

‘None the less,’ John answered, ‘I think you two should stop. You are both wounded badly, and in my opinion as an apothecary both of you require medical attention. Urgently.’

The taller man looked belligerent, despite the fact that his nose was pouring blood. ‘Apologize, you cur,’ he said to Freddy.

‘I apologize for everything,’ the young man replied with a certain cold dignity, and turning on his heel walked quickly away, applying a handkerchief to his bloody eye.

‘Well, you have your apology,’ John remarked, ‘and now I think it would be best if you sought some help.’

‘That man is an absolute dandiprat,’ growled the other, staring at Freddy’s departing back. ‘But you can escort me to an apothecary’s if you wish. By the way, my name is George Beauvoir.’

Suddenly everything made sense. He had to be the brother of Lady Imogen who had been so upset in the very shop to which they were now making their way. And Freddy — whom John rather liked — had perhaps hinted that she was pregnant and got a damaged eye for his pains.

‘Lord George?’ asked the Apothecary.

‘The very same. And what’s your name, Sir?’

‘John Rawlings of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’

‘Should I be impressed?’ asked George.

‘Very,’ John replied succinctly.

They made their way along towards High Street, but his lordship was bleeding so badly that John decided they should go to the first apothecary they came across. Sure enough, after they had proceeded just a very few yards, they saw a small shop with the familiar jars in the window and John hurried his patient inside.

The apothecary’s apprentice came out to see them and immediately called his master from the compounding room.

‘Now what have you been doing, Lord George?’ the elderly man asked him. ‘I shall have to tell your brother of you.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said George, and his voice was semi-serious.

‘I was merely being jocular. I am hardly likely to see him,’ the apothecary answered with a hint of acerbity. ‘I do not move in such exalted circles. The new apothecary on High Street has taken most of my custom and I fear that nowadays I am called upon for little except mopping up after fights and handing out the pills which are in much demand.’

‘What would they be?’ asked John, interested.

‘Oh, the usual thing: tablets for gout — they are a favourite — a cure for the clap, my best seller. And, of course, boiled Pennyroyal for helping young women who…’

‘Quite, quite,’ interrupted John, ‘I am an apothecary myself. And, believe me, the demands for physics are exactly the same in London as they are here. Now, what’s to do with this poor fellow?’

‘Get him lying flat for a start. Then apply bruised leaves of Fluellein to that nose of his.’

Together they got George down to the floor and put the application on to his nostrils. Throughout this procedure his lordship kept complaining loudly and uttering vague threats but the two apothecaries ignored him and started a counter conversation about the use and effectiveness of various plants.

During all this John was able to whisper, ‘Who is this brother that you spoke of earlier?’

‘Viscount Falmouth. Their grandfather is the Earl of St Austell. He’s about to remarry — since when every young woman in the place has been throwing herself at the Viscount, the Earl being off the market, so to speak.’

‘With any success?’

‘None at all. He’s a bookish chap and seems in no hurry to tie himself down.’

‘Wise man.’

There was a squeal from the floor. ‘What are you two muttering about? I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes that my nose has stopped bleeding.’

‘Remain where you are for another five. Then I will give you an infusion of Blueberries to take home and apply frequently. You’d best keep your nose under a bandage for the rest of this night.’

‘Dammit, man. I wanted to go out this evening.’

The older apothecary looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘It is entirely up to you, of course, but I would suggest a quiet few hours of complete rest. You have no wish to start the flow of blood once more.’

From his place on the floor George muttered evilly. ‘Curse that little wretch Freddy Warwick. I’ll have it out with him, I swear it.’

John spoke up. ‘I think it would be best, Lord George, if you gave up this unfortunate habit of having things out with Freddy. You may have thumped him but he thumped you equally hard in return. If you carry on you will lose your handsome features, you can be sure of it.’

George turned on him a malignant glance. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

‘No, but I gave it,’ John answered, and turning his head to one side winked at the elderly apothecary who gave him a toothy grin in return.