Death in the Dark Walk

by Deryn Lake

  John nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ He smiled at her crookedly. ‘Listen, as soon as I’ve collected some simples and returned to my shop, I’ll send Mrs Briggs a preparation that should set her dancing.’

  Lettice went extremely pink. ‘Could you really do so?’

  ‘Well, if we can persuade her that my potion is more potent than any other, it will work. It’s a matter of convincing her, that’s all.’

  His companion blushed even more deeply. ‘Mr Rawlings, would it not be possible for you to bring the physick to Chichester yourself? You would be made very welcome.’

  John hesitated. ‘At the moment it’s out of the question. I have a great deal to do in Midhurst. But perhaps at some time in the future.

  Lettice looked sad and answered flatly, ‘Oh, it was just a thought, that’s all.’

  The Apothecary gently touched her arm. ‘Miss Briggs, I really am busy. It was not an excuse. And if ever I do find myself in the vicinity of Chichester I promise to call.’

  She looked at him radiantly. ‘Oh, how happy that makes me.’

  ‘Then all’s well,’ he said, firmly propelling her towards The Spread Eagle. ‘Now I really believe you’d best be getting on. I think I can see fresh horses in the shafts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lettice answered softly. ‘I think I observe them too.’

  A few minutes later, amidst a great flurry of fluttering handkerchiefs, the postchaise set off again, the postillions determined to reach Chichester before nightfall and thus avoid the dangers of travelling in the dark. Seeing Lettice’s frantically waving hand and thinking how different were all women, John made his way inside the posthouse and booked himself a room for a stay of several days.

  And it was only then, envisaging a welcoming bed on which he might throw himself full length and stretch his cramped bones, that the Apothecary realised how tired he was. With a yawn, he lay down and closed his eyes.

  When he awoke again it was dark, only a faint shaft of moonlight illuminating the small chamber which he occupied. Drawing the curtains across the leaded light window, John lit a candle and looked at his watch. As it was past eight o’clock and many hours since he had dined, the Apothecary removed the marks of travel as best he could with cold water, and went downstairs.

  The Spread Eagle being an inn of substance, he saw as he reached the ground floor that there were several public rooms leading off the hall. To the right lay the coffee room, to the left, the dining parlour. There was also a further parlour reserved for travellers of quality and a downstairs kitchen for the rest, and it was to this last that John now made his way. For here, round the fireside, he knew he would find assembled the men of the town, the rural gaffers who knew more about their neighbours than they knew themselves. Certain that this was where he would get all the gossip, John went down a flight of steps and in through an arched doorway to where the kitchen lay.

  It was a cosy room, giving an impression of warmth and comfort even though on such a sultry night as this the fire had not been lit. The floor was paved with red bricks, which were quite remarkably clean, while a large dresser was adorned with shining pewter plates and copper saucepans, scoured until they shone. Before the fireplace stood an array of carver chairs and in these, smoking their pipes and supping ale, sat the locals, their number swelled by one or two travellers of the poorer kind. Calling for a pipe and some home brew, John went to join them.

  As he had much expected, he was greeted with little more than stares of curiosity and a few mumbled words, and he was just wondering how to break in on the general conversation when a man sitting to the Apothecary’s left started to laugh and wheeze simultaneously. Putting his head on one side, John made a great show of cupping his ear to listen.

  ‘And what might you be after?’ asked the sufferer, who was by now coughing painfully.

  John put on his contrite face. ‘My dear Sir, do forgive me, an unwarrantable intrusion. The fact of the matter is I’m a medical man, an apothecary by trade, and I was just thinking how greatly a jar of my liniment would ease your condition.’

  A pair of suspicious blue eyes regarded him from beneath a tangle of flaxen hair, giving John a strong impression of Viking ancestry. ‘What condition?’ asked the man in an unfriendly voice.

  ‘Why, your wheezing of course. I would imagine you to be a martyr to it in the colder months.’

  ‘Well, I can’t see how that could be any of your business.’

  ‘I was merely trying to help,’ John answered with dignity, and turned away.

  Another fellow spoke up. ‘Oh, don’t you take no notice of Dickon, Master. He’s a rude son of Sodom and prides himself on being fitter an’ stronger than all the rest of us put together. The day he’s dying, the silly old fart catcher will declare he’s never felt better, like as not.’

  ‘Now that b’aint true,’ Dickon answered angrily. ‘I’m as fair minded as the next man.’

  There were several contemptuous laughs. ‘Well, prove it then. Give the young chap a hearing. Reckon your wife’d come out and kiss ’im if he could cure you of all the terrible noises you make.’

  The assembled company guffawed and Dickon’s eyes took on a mean glint. ‘Well, go on then, pill pusher. Tell me about your cure-alls.’

  John assumed a serious air. ‘I could not and would not claim to compound those. All I’m saying is that my physicks and ointments can indeed help the sick. In fact I was going to offer you a jar of liniment entirely free of charge and with no obligation to buy anything further.’

  A young man put a word in. ‘My wife, Sir, she be awful prey to morning sickness with our first child. Could you help her?’

  ‘Certainly,’ answered John with conviction. ‘I have a bag of preparations in my room. I’ll go and fetch it.’

  ‘Mind out for the Green Lady,’ said Dickon nastily.

  ‘And who might she be?’ John asked, surprised.

  ‘Someone who’s beyond your skills.’

  ‘I take it you’re talking about a ghost?’ he answered lightly.

  ‘I certainly am. And she’s a soft spot for gentlemen, so they say.’

  ‘Then I must watch myself,’ the Apothecary said as he made his way upstairs.

  The jars and bottles he had brought with him, envisaging very much the sort of situation in which he now found himself, had survived the journey well. A box of pills had come apart, scattering its contents all round his bag, but other than for that everything else was intact. Taking his portmanteau by the handles, John carried it back down to the kitchen with an air of triumph.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, and smiled engagingly.

  The landlord’s wife, who had been hovering in the background and now introduced herself as Anne Pruet, came forward at once to enquire after a complexion whitener. With a flourish, John presented her with a large bottle for which he would accept no payment. She, in return, insisted that he enjoy a free supper.

  ‘. . . though it’s not fitting you should eat down here, Sir. Let me serve you in the dining parlour.’

  ‘I beg you not’ John answered. ‘I prefer to be amongst the folk of Midhurst rather than in the company of my fellow travellers.’

  Looking round at the circle of bucolic faces, many of them still unfriendly despite his manful efforts, John thought himself a blatant liar, but one who was prepared to go to almost any lengths to get information. He lowered his lashes at Anne Pruet.

  ‘So The Spread Eagle is haunted, is it, Ma’am?’

  ‘Oh yes, we have two ghosts. A Golden Lady walks in what used to be the medieval hall and the Green Lady, she wears Tudor dress, appears in the parlour during the small hours.’

  ‘Well, well,’ answered John, determined to lead the conversation towards local gossip. ‘Do you think they were crossed in love?’

  ‘Who knows?’ answered Mrs Pruet, and bustled away to serve the humbler travellers a simple repast of roast fowl with sauce, potatoes and melted butter, poached eggs and a hunk of cheese.

  ‘Why
did you ask that?’ put in Dickon. ‘About ghosts who were crossed in love?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said John carefully, a sudden pricking at his spine telling him that something was about to be revealed. ‘Because that is one of the most common causes of suicide, I suppose.’

  The man drained his pot of ale which John signalled to the boy should be refilled. ‘Do you come from round these parts?’ Dickon asked, staring at the Apothecary narrowly.

  ‘No, from London. I’ve made the journey to collect plants and herbs for my various medicines.’

  ‘Oh, so you just took a good guess.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That we do have a ghost, no more than five mile distant, who died for love. He drowned in the millpond when his sweetheart upped and left him.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ said John, certain that he was on the point of discovery. ‘I must make a point of visiting the spot.’

  ‘Aye,’ Dickon answered taciturnly.

  As the conversation appeared to be about to dry up, John asked desperately, ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘I told you. The miller’s daughter had a sweetheart, one Jemmy Groves. And when she went to London to make her way in the world . . .’ Dickon laughed meaningfully. ‘ . . . he jumped into the millpond and killed himself. Another death came out of that incident, as well. She has a lot to answer for, has Lizzie Harper.’

  Barely able to control his triumph, John said, ‘What other death was that?’

  Dickon looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ve said enough. There’s folk round here don’t like to hear it talked about. She breaks hearts, does Lizzie.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘Yes, I do. There’s some in this very kitchen who fancied themselves smitten with her.’

  ‘Is she very beautiful, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Dickon surprisingly. ‘She has a black heart and that will never make up for a pretty face.’

  ‘You are a very perceptive man,’ commented John. ‘Now, will you take a jar of my liniment or does your perception not stretch that far?’

  The other man smiled for the first time, revealing a mouthful of wildly craggy teeth. ‘I’ll try it,’ he said, and held out his hand.

  A call to supper, coming at that very moment, provided a welcome excuse to sit alone and think. Chewing his leg of fowl, John set his pictorial memory to work and up came a copy of the scarcely literate note that Hannah had found in Elizabeth Harper’s apartments. The words ‘If Yew do not Reetun I shalle Kil Miselfe. Cum home for the Love of God, Jem’ ran before his eyes. Jem and Jemmy Groves, then, must be one and the same, which led to the obvious conclusion that Elizabeth Harper had been the miller’s daughter. It seemed that the hunt for her murderer was beginning to grow warm at last.

  ‘And are you off to gather simples tomorrow, Sir?’ asked Anne Pruet as she cleared away the main course and served John a portion of cheese that was a meal in itself.

  ‘Yes, but I shall need to hire a horse. The particular thing I’m looking for can only be found at Goodwood.’

  ‘Goodwood?’ she echoed. ‘But there’s nothing there except the Duke of Richmond’s place.’

  ‘That is where I am going to seek,’ said John, childishly enjoying his play on words. He lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Pruet, Dickon told me such an intriguing thing.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘That the mill nearby is haunted by a young man, Jemmy Groves, who killed himself for love of a girl called Lizzie. He also said that two deaths resulted from the tragedy. What did he mean by that?’

  Anne glanced round cautiously. ‘That after Jemmy’s death, Eleanor Benbow vanished without trace and has never been heard of since.’

  ‘Eleanor Benbow? But who is she?’

  ‘The miller’s only daughter, of flesh and of blood.’

  ‘You mean that Lizzie was adopted?’

  ‘Aye, the traitorous little bitch.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  But another customer was calling and Mrs Pruet was turning away, and there was nothing left for John to do but consume his cheese and quietly ponder the evening’s interesting revelations.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Spread Eagle inn had been in the hands of the Pruet family since 1716, so John learned the next morning when, after breakfast, he set about hiring himself a horse. First in line had been Henry Pruet, knacker, succeeded by his son John, a tallow chandler, who had now passed the lease on to his son William. John Pruet, however, had not retired completely and was in charge of the stables where, with much pride, he cared for his string of beasts, some of which were very fine indeed. Leading out a chestnut mare of rippling proportions, the old man insisted on pointing out her good qualities to the Apothecary who stood somewhat impatiently, ready to tie his herb and flower baskets on to the saddle.

  ‘This is Blade, Sir; very fast but very even-tempered, an exceptional animal in every way. Now how many days might you be wanting her for?’

  ‘Two or three, I imagine. Perhaps more.’

  ‘But you’ll be bringing her back at night? For though she is of impeccable temperament, she does prefer her own stable.’

  ‘I certainly will. I have a room here.’

  ‘Then cherish her well. They are all like children to me.’

  And with this admonition, the business was transacted and John clattered out of the yard, somewhat nervously for he had not ridden for quite a while, and headed south towards Goodwood House, the country seat of that naughty young rake, the Duke of Richmond.

  He had decided earlier that morning to make his first task a visit to the two Dukes, Richmond and Midhurst, in order to question them about their activities in Vaux Hall on that fateful night. For much as he longed to investigate the strange story of the mill and the suicide of Jemmy Groves, to say nothing of the disappearance of Eleanor Benbow, a new character in the drama, there could be no escaping the fact that the young noblemen were high on the list of suspects. Obviously, of the pair of them, Richmond appeared to have no motive for killing Elizabeth Harper though, John thought, a well-heeled blade such as he, known to have patronised the house in Leicester Fields, might well have been one of the girl’s clients and fallen out with her for some reason not, as yet, revealed. As he rode along, the Apothecary summoned into his mind everything he knew about Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond.

  The first thing he recalled was that the Duke was the great grandson of Charles II, this particular line of royal bastards having sprung from the King’s liaison with his French mistress, Louise de Queronaille. From these two accomplished lovers, the family of Lennox had inherited a certain wildness as well as their dark good looks, both these characteristics never more prevalent than in the present holder of the title who, still aged under twenty, was enjoying life to the full before custom insisted that he wed. Stopping before the great gates of Goodwood House and showing the lodge keeper John Fielding’s letter, the means to gain admittance, John started up the long drive to the house, deciding that in order to handle such an ebullient young scamp as this, serious formality must be the keynote.

  The Duke received his visitor in the library, standing before one of the room’s many windows so that the light of the June morning shone directly in John’s face. Whether he had had time to prepare especially, the Apothecary was not certain, but Charles Lennox, youthful as he was, certainly looked imposing. Elegantly dressed and wearing a neat white wig with a queue tied back in a bow, he was every inch the aristocrat, the privileged young being in whom flowed the blood of kings, the boy to whom the squandering of money must mean very little indeed.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Richmond asked disdainfully and without the flicker of a smile.

  John bowed respectfully. ‘By answering a few questions, if you will, your Grace. I take it you have already seen my letter and know that I represent Mr Fielding, Principal Magistrate of the Public Office in Bow Street.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles, affecting a yawn.
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  ‘Well, on his behalf I have come to enquire as to your movements when you were last in Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens. That was the night, just in case your memory fails you, when a young woman named Elizabeth Harper was done to death in The Dark Walk.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Duke, yawning again.

  ‘Yes, really,’ John replied, an edge in his voice. ‘Come, Sir, let us not shilly shally. It is a known fact that you frequented the brothel in Leicester Fields and would, therefore, most likely have known the girl – well. It is also known that you were in The Dark Walk at the time, that you winked at the deceased and gave her the eye, and that you also appeared to be searching for someone. Now what do you say to that, remembering that you are as much obliged to answer for yourself as any man in the kingdom?’

  ‘I say damn you,’ answered Richmond, and sat down, rather fast.

  ‘May I?’ asked John, and on the Duke’s nod took a seat directly opposite him.

  ‘I’d also say,’ Richmond continued, recovering himself, ‘that your precious Mr Fielding – is it true that the mob call him the Blind Beak? – is remarkably well informed.’

  ‘Then that being the case,’ John said in a reasonable voice, ‘why don’t we discuss the matter sensibly? We are of an age, Sir, you and I, and can speak to one another without barriers I believe.’

  There was a pause and John saw the Duke’s saturnine face tighten as he gave the matter his consideration. He caught himself thinking that the young man looked terribly like his royal great-grandfather at such a moment of intense concentration.

  Then Richmond spoke. ‘If I trust you, will everything I say be kept in confidence?’

  ‘It will be my duty to report back to Mr Fielding but, sentence for sentence, I shall not repeat what you tell me.’

  ‘Do I have your word on it?’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Then I’ll make a clean breast. I knew Elizabeth Harper, of course I did. Why, I’d taken my measure with her several times, you know the way it is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, thinking of Diana. ‘I know.’