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

I was forced to quit the room and find a closet so did not see my husband knighted.”
    “I saw him,” said Mary Ann, “he knelt well.”
    Sir George turned to her and John could not help but notice the way that Goward put his arm round her waist, pretending that she was nothing but a child, yet with lechery oozing from his very pores.
    “My dear, how sweet of you. You must allow me to buy you a doll.”
    “I am past the age of dolls, Sir.”
    He slowly ran his eyes over her. “So you are, my dear. So you are.”
    They had reached the top of the right hand staircase and John looked round. Once more, pageboys and footmen were stationed on each step to assist as heeled shoes started to clack over the marble. But as the procession began to make its way downstairs, all eyes were suddenly drawn upwards. >From out of the private apartments, proceeding along the balcony, by now quite free of people, and heading in the direction of the great room to the left of the entry stairs, came the King, leading by the hand the much talked-about, highly criticised. Queen Charlotte. Every head turned, every quizzer gleamed, as people craned to see if she was really as ugly as rumour had it. Poor thing, thought John, she truly is, just like a gloomy little gnome. And then a sudden terrible cry, quite close at hand, brought his attention back to his surroundings.
    In order to see Charlotte, everyone had rushed to the side of the staircase, leaving a clear path from top to bottom down which someone might fall. And indeed somebody was falling.
    !      
    The Apothecary watched in horror as a figure in salmon pink tumbled downwards, gaining momentum as it descended, the stairs too steep for anything to break its plunge. Time seemed frozen, everything was still, nobody moved. Then the figure crashed to the hallway below and its wig flew from its head as blood poured over the whiteness of the marble.
    “My God!” exclaimed John, and began to hurry downwards as fast as his new heeled shoes would let him.
    He reached the hall below, saw that footmen had already gathered round, that a pageboy was running down the reception corridor.
    “I’m an apothecary,” he gasped, and a servant stood aside to let him through. John knelt by the prostrate figure and raised its copiously bleeding head. Then knew by the very feel of the neck that it was shattered and that life was already extinct.
    “My God,” he said again, and turned the head to look into its face. Parodied by death, the eyes staring straight into his, a terrible smile still upon the lips, was the ginger feline countenance of the newly knighted George Go ward.

Chapter 7

    C haos erupted. Those ladies standing nearest started to scream and there was a shriek from above as the ample Lady Mary passed out yet again. In the midst of all this clamour, the Apothecary alone remained silent, unbelievably shaken by the terrible thing he had just witnessed. He had hardly known George Goward and what little he had seen of him, John had not liked, but to die in such a terrible way, to fall precipitate and break one’s neck, was something that no man should have to suffer as an exit. Soberly, and with a hand that shook very slightly, John closed the staring eyes. Then there was the clatter of hurrying feet as a man hastened down and pushed him abruptly aside.
    “Sir Danvers Roe, physician,” he announced brusquely.
    “John Rawlings, apothecary,” John answered, not allowing himself to be unnerved.
    “You may step away. I shall care for this man,” Sir Danvers continued, kneeling down.
    “Nobody will care for him now but God. He’s dead. His neck has been broken by the fall.” And with that John got to his feet, though refusing to move from his place.
    Digby Turnbull hastened to join him. “What’s happened?”
    “It’s George Goward, one of the new knights. As the Queen passed along the balcony he must have turned to look at her and lost his footing. The fall has killed him. I’m