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

driven.”
    It was at that most interesting moment that the pot boy reappeared, kicking the dog accidentally as he set down two glasses and a jug. The animal, thus disturbed, began to bark furiously, drowning out all other sound. Cursing, John stood up to discover who it was who had been speaking. But he was too late. All he saw was the skirt of a woman’s cloak as she went out of the taproom to the street, and the backview of a man, vaguely familiar.
    Digby looked up from pouring the wine. “Was that someone you knew?”
    “Yes, but though I recognised their voices I could not place them. Do you know they almost seemed to be blackmailing one another about revealing some terrible truth.”
    John’s stolid companion sighed. “That could be virtually anyone in the beau monde. They’re all riddled with corruption. I fear for society, I truly do.”
    “You’re right,” the Apothecary answered, taking a draught. “Recent events do not encourage one to have a great deal of faith in human nature.”
    “I suppose Lucinda really is a girl,” said Digby rumina- tively.
    “She certainly is. I particularly noticed her breasts,” John answered thoughtlessly, then pulled himself up short for being just as base and basic as all the rest.

    By the time they left The Hercules Pillars, neither man was feeling as fraught as they had earlier. In fact the glow of good   wine was about them as they clambered into the coach. It would seem that Irish Tom had also had the benefit of ale because he set off at a brisk pace and reached Piccadilly in record time, dropping Digby off so that he could walk the short distance to St. James’s Palace.
    “When is the investiture?” John asked, as his companion alighted.
    “On the 30th September.”
    “It should be most impressive.”
    “It is a colourful ceremony indeed. Tell me, how will Mr. Fielding manage? I mean regarding his blindness.”
    “His wife, Elizabeth, will walk with him, arm in arm. That is what he does in a place he doesn’t know. Of course he has memorised his home and the courtroom. In those he has only a switch or cane to guide him.”
    “He could have been knighted privately, you know.”
    “I somehow think that he would not have wanted that. He is a very proud man, is John Fielding.”
    “So I have gathered.” Mr. Turnbull paused. “You know him quite well, I believe.”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you intend to mention the Brompton Park School affair?”
    “Yes, I think I will, just in case there are any repercussions. I may as well state my side of the case.”
    Digby looked thoughtful. “I wonder just who Lucinda’s mother is.”
    “We’ll know one day,” John answered, but did not feel the confidence that his cheerful manner implied.

    It seemed that everybody had returned to town, for several letters awaited the Apothecary as he walked into his hall, where they were handed to him before he made his way to the library to read their contents. The first, in flowery hand, was from Miss Chudleigh, announcing that she had returned to court to resume her duties as maid of honour to the Princess of Wales, the young King’s mother. She hoped very much to see him again and entertain him in her apartments. No mention whatsoever was made of Emilia. The Apothecary smiled wryly and threw it on one side, then picked it up again with a thoughtful expression on his face.
    The second was from the Blind Beak himself, inviting him to dinner that very day. Suddenly realising that if he was going to accept he had little time in which to prepare, John rang a bell and when a lower footman replied asked him to fetch the head man.
    The staff had changed enormously since John’s marriage and Sir Gabriel’s departure to Kensington. Three of the older servants, including the cook, had gone with him, and the arrival of Emilia, complete with her personal maid and a newly employed housemaid to assist, had altered the entire balance of the household, which had once been all male and