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

afraid.”
    Digby made a hissing noise through his teeth. “Good God, what a terrible thing.” He thought on his feet, shouting to the major domo who still stood at the top of the stairs, “Henry, hold them on the staircase. Let nobody move until I give the word.”
    “Make way,” the major domo responded, passing through the crowd, who actually parted for him, still in a state of shock, John realised.
    Henry arrived at the bottom and took command, throwing a cordon of footmen across the top and base of the staircase so that people were actually trapped where they stood.
    Sir Danvers stood up, declaring grandly. “This man is dead.”
    “I know,” said Mr. Turnbull, giving short shrift. “The Apothecary has already told me.” He turned to John. “Mr. Rawlings, stay by the dead man. I’m off to get a stretcher of some kind.”
    “Best get a cleaning woman too. We can’t have the fine ladies stepping through that pool of blood.”
    “You’re right.” Mr. Turnbull bowed to the physician. “How kind of you to help us, Sir Danvers. If you would care to take a seat in the reception corridor until we have sorted this matter out.”
    “But...”
    “No buts I’m afraid. This is St. James’s Palace, Sir, and nothing further must be allowed to disrupt the levee.”
    And with that Digby made a polite bow and watched while Sir Danvers very angrily walked off, then hurried away himself.
    A voice called out from the staircase. “I must relieve myself. Allow me to pass.”
    “Go to the top, Sir,” the major domo replied. “A page will direct you to a closet.”
    Staring upwards, John saw that the pages, all white-faced and shaking, mere children when all was said and done, still stood at their posts, disciplined to the last, heirs to mighty estates or already owners of them. He could also see his party; Mary Ann utterly pale, Sir John hugely tall and somehow ominous, Joe Jago seething with frustration that he could not be at the heart of the action.
    Knowing that Digby Turnbull would be back at any moment, John briefly knelt once more at the body’s side, again struck to the heart by the dramatic and frightful nature of Sir George’s death. Then his professional training took over and he examined the crumpled corpse as Sir John
    Fielding would have wished him to do, trying to keep a cool head as he did so.
    The dead man told him nothing except that he had died unexpectedly, still smiling at whatever had amused him a second before, probably the sight of the dim dull characterless Queen herself. On a sudden instinct John looked at the heels of the body’s shoes to see if one had scuffed as Sir George had caught it when he tripped, but there was nothing there. Like most of the people present, Goward wore a new pair, his footwear immaculate with lack of wear. Which made the Apothecary realise, as he stood up once more, that his feet were beginning to hurt.
    Digby reappeared with two burly young men who hefted a plank between them. There was a great deal of screaming from the onlookers as they lifted the body high, placed it on the board and moved swiftly out of sight with it. At that, two women with pails and cloths and pained expressions on their faces, came forward and began to mop up the spilled blood of the dead man.
    Five minutes later it was all over. “Let them go,” Digby said to the major domo and the cordon of footmen parted so that people could leave at last.
    It was a subdued crowd who came down the stairs, carefully stepping round the place where the body had lain, John noticed. Finally Sir John Fielding, Joe on one side, Mary Ann on the other, drew close to where the Apothecary stood. Elizabeth Chudleigh, John saw, was still making her way downwards but was heading towards them.
    “What a terrible way for the morning to end, Sir,” John said quietly.
    The Magistrate shook his head. “There’s something not right, Mr. Rawlings.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Sir John lowered his voice. “I am unable