Death at the Beggar's Opera by Deryn Lake Page B

innocence, more’s the pity. But my only reward was to be discarded cruelly. To him I was a toy, a trifle, a mere bagatelle. You can well imagine that I wished him dead, Mr Rawlings.’
    ‘I would rather not hear this.’
    ‘Why, are you afraid of what I might be about to tell you?’
    ‘Yes,’ said John simply, ‘I think I could be very afraid indeed.’
    ‘None the less …’ started Coralie, and then in the darkness of the stage something moved behind them.
    ‘Who’s there?’ called the Apothecary, wild with fright.
    But there was only the sound of the theatre boy sighing as he turned in his sleep, and the closing of the stage door as somebody unseen went quietly out.

Chapter Five
    The villages of Chelsea and Kensington, lying only a few miles from the City of London, yet both being places of unequalled rural splendour, had a simple charm about them which John Rawlings had always found utterly captivating. With the river lapping against its shores, Chelsea had once been a fishing village and nothing more pretentious than that. Yet nowadays, with the building of the great Ranelagh Gardens, the most exclusive of all the pleasure gardens with its exorbitant entry fee of 2/6d., the
beau monde
came to Chelsea in droves, mainly for the somewhat boring delight of walking round and round Ranelagh’s Rotunda in order to see and be seen. Kensington, however, could boast no such grand entertainment, not lying on the river and therefore not having the easy access provided by the waterway. Instead it lay, small and unassuming, in the midst of sweet green meadowland, geographically near to the metropolis but a million miles from its noise and strife.
    The rich and famous had long since discovered these idyllic retreats. Sir Thomas More had moved to Chelsea whilst still Chancellor of the Exchequer; King Charles II had built The Hospital of Maymed Soldiers there; Jonathan Swift had taken lodgings near the river because he enjoyed the stroll into London. Kensington, in turn, could boast a palace, built by Wren for King William, who had shared a crown with his wife, Mary. Also situated outside the village was Holland House, owned by the politician Henry Fox, one of the most impressive buildings for miles around. But it was to a much smaller residence, standing just a little way from the cart track running through the centre of Kensington, that John, together with Samuel and a Beak Runner, now made their way, their unpleasant duty to inform Jasper Harcross’s wife that she had only a short while ago become a widow. They had left London early after very little sleep, returning to Nassau Street in the small hours, then being too excited to rest. Over and over again, John had thought of Coralie Clive and her urgent, whispered words, and had shuddered to think of their implications. That she had been the dead man’s mistress was alarming enough, but the idea that the actress was guilty of murder and might be using her scant acquaintanceship with the Apothecary to attempt to clear herself, frankly appalled him.
    ‘God dammit,’ he had exclaimed angrily over a hastily snatched breakfast, causing Sir Gabriel Kent, up early to find out what was going on, to look at him quizzically, while Samuel raised his jolly eyebrows until they almost met his wig. In the carriage sent by the Principal Magistrate to take them to Kensington, John’s mood had not improved a great deal. Staring out of the window, he soon relapsed into silence and left it to Samuel and Benjamin Rudge, the Runner, to exchange pleasantries. Even the journey through countryside that grew ever more pastoral and remote, failed to excite him, enthusiastic traveller though the Apothecary normally was. In short, he felt worried and depressed and could hardly wait to see Coralie Clive again, to ask her to explain herself more fully.
    ‘Well,’ said Samuel, rubbing his hands together in somewhat nervous anticipation and dragging John’s attention back to the ordeal that lay