Death at St. James's Palace by Deryn Lake Page A

affair, young man.”
    “Neither have you,” said John, “nor has Lucinda’s mother when I finally discover her actual identity.”

Chapter 4

    T hey drove back to town in gloomy silence, both wondering whether they had completely wasted their time. So much so that when they reached The Hercules Pillars, the coaching inn at Hyde Park Corner, its odd name deriving from the fact that it was situated at London’s western limit, as were the rocks guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean, the two men alighted to take refreshment. The hostelry had already been made famous in a novel, Tom Jones, written by Mr. Fielding’s half-brother, Henry. Consequently, sightseers frequently visited the place, some half-believing that Squire Western and his entourage were real people and had actually stayed there. Now, as Digby Turnbull and John Rawlings shouldered their way into the taproom, they found it was as crowded as ever.
    There were no seats to be had except for two at the very end of the room, close to a long, low window overlooking Hyde Park. The reason why these had not been taken, John discovered as they drew close, was that a dog, apparently dead, lay beneath, legs aloft, mouth agape, its tongue lolling.
    “Dear me!” said Mr. Turnbull mildly.
    “It’s here or nowhere,” John answered, looking around.
    “Whose is it?”
    “Probably wandered in off the street to die, like a wise creature. At least its last moments would have been spent in the warm.”
    At that moment, the dog, without moving, voided wind. The Apothecary raised a svelte brow. “So that’s why nobody’s sitting here. It plays dead, then lets rip at all comers.”
    “I’ll take my chance with it,” answered Digby. “To stand in this crush would be too much after a morning such as ours.”
    A pot boy, sweating profusely and pale with exhaustion. was summoned and went away with their order, glancing miserably at all the other customers demanding his attention.
    “I doubt he’ll be back within a half hour.”
    “Was it even worth coming in here?”
    “Yes, Mr. Rawlings, it was. We were routed this morning, we may as well admit it, so it was necessary for us to withdraw and regroup. And what better place than a warm and cosy inn?”
    “If by cosy you mean heaving with humanity, then you’re right. But Sebastian did best us, didn’t he?”
    Digby Turnbull had never looked more ordinary or more honest than when he answered, “I have heard it said that to deny all knowledge of an event is an excellent defence. And I can truly say that I, personally, have never seen it better employed. But it is, when all’s said and done, an ostrich’s way.”
    “Your meaning, Sir?”
    “That the truth will emerge one day; it almost always does. And then he will be worsted for his lies and evasions.”
    “I hope you’re right. Do you think he will take this matter further?”
    “No, Sir, I don’t. By the way, did you notice that he referred to Lucas/Lucinda’s parents, not just her mother?”
    “Yes, but I thought that was a bluff.”
    “I wonder,” said Digby thoughtfully.
    “Yes,” John answered slowly, “now that you come to mention it, so do I.”
    There was a silence during which the dog voided wind again, still without moving. And then the Apothecary’s attention was drawn by two voices, known yet not identifiable, speaking in urgent tones quite close at hand.
    “... think I didn’t hear,” said one, female, “then you are mistaken. To anyone with the remotest idea, the innuendo was obvious.”
    “But who has the remotest idea?” answered the man. “You are letting your imagination run away with you.”
    “Far from it. I’ll swear that one or two members of the company looked at me knowingly.”
    “Guilty conscience and guilty conscience alone,” the male voice drawled in reply.
    There was a hiss. “You bastard! Never forget that you are not without guilt.”
    “But you would never name it.”
    “Would I not if I were