Death at St. James's Palace Read Online Free PDF Page B

play a major role in all our lives. Will it be a boy or girl, I wonder?”
    John shook his head. “A matter for delightful conjecture until the moment comes.”
    The clock, which played a rousing military tune on the hours and quarters, struck eight and harmoniously burst forth. The Apothecary, listening to it with the pleasure it always gave him, became vaguely aware of another sound beneath its charming chimes. Somewhere, out in the quiet street, somebody was shouting.
    “What the devil’s that commotion?” said Sir Gabriel, cupping his ear.
    “A fight? A theft? I’ve no idea. I’d best go and look.” John reluctantly heaved himself from his chair.
    “Be careful.”
    “I’ll take a cudgel,” and picking up a stout stick from a niche near the front door, the Apothecary stepped outside.
    At first he could see nothing, then he became aware of a figure struggling to its feet, waving an umbrella aloft to aid its ascent and closely resembling a beetle in distress.
    John hurried forward, slipping an arm beneath the struggling form. “My dear Sir, what happened? Did you slip?”
    “Slip?” gasped the other. “Slip be damned. I was pushed over.”
    “Have you been robbed?”
    “No, I don’t think they would go that far, the little beasts.”
    “Who? What little beasts?”
    “The stinking young fellows who attend the Brompton Park Boarding School. It was three of them. Knocking older citizens down for sport, that’s their idea of amusement.”
    “But surely they should be shut up in school by this hour.”
    “They should but they’re not. They creep out through windows, then over the garden wall in a trice.”
    “Here, let me help you up.” And John heaved with a will as the angry gentleman he was assisting finally managed to struggle upright and dust himself down.
    “My thanks to you, Sir.”
    “Anything bruised or cut? I am an apothecary and can tend your wounds should you have any.”
    “Well, that’s mighty kind of you, Sir. I do believe that my knee is bleeding.”
    “Then pray step instead. That is my house behind and I have a small compounding room at the back.”
    “Obliged to you, Sir. I will.”
    In the light of the candlelit hall, John realised that the newcomer was known to him by sight, a neighbour from somewhere close by. Short and stocky, his face strong-featured and florid, his clothes made of sensible work-a-day material, he was every inch ordinary. The sort of man that one could see about the streets in any small town.
    “Digby Turnbull,” he said, bowing.
    “John Rawlings. Follow me, Sir. My compounding room lies at the end of this passage.”
    They passed through the house quietly, John putting his head round the parlour door to tell Sir Gabriel what had taken place, then leading the visitor to the small sanctuary he had made for himself in what had once been an old outhouse. The familiar paraphenalia of compounding was everywhere and the Apothecary felt the comfort of customary things about him. Moving carefully, he rolled down Mr. Turnbull’s stockings and eased the breeches upwards, to see that both knees were lacerated and one was indeed oozing blood.
    John applied warm water, boiled in a little kettle over an oil lamp, with bruised red archangel within. This he finally applied to the wounded knee together with a little vinegar.
    “Tell me,” the Apothecary said as he worked, “why do these boys roam the streets at night? Are they just intent on mischief or are they heading for some place of amusement?”
    Mr. Turnbull snorted. “In rural Kensington? Though I wouldn’t put it past them to be visiting the brothel. They’re all the sons of rich folk with more money than sense.”
    “The brothel? How old are they, then?”
    “The Brompton Park school takes lads from the age of ten upwards but this particular bunch of hooligans are aged between twelve and fifteen. There are usually about six of them, a dozen at the most. They like rampaging about, making catcalls and