by Deryn Lake
John frowned. ‘Do you mean she was just a kind of ornament?’
‘Precisely that,’ Midhurst answered eagerly. He gulped. ‘If you must know the truth, I do not find women easy to get on with, particularly those of my own class.’
‘Are you saying that you prefer men?’ the Apothecary asked levelly.
‘Yes . . . no,’ the miserable boy replied. ‘The fact is that I feel easier in male company but yet I am not . . .’ His voice died away and he added quietly, ‘At least, not as far as I know.’
‘So you took Lizzie as mistress in order to quell the gossips?’
‘Partly that, partly to reassure myself. Do you understand?’
‘I think I do. So there was a physical side to your liaison?’
Midhurst blushed violently. ‘Actually, I’m not really too keen on that sort of thing, probably because I’m not very good at it. But Lizzie was teaching me.’
‘Ah ha,’ said John, putting on his physician’s face. ‘I know of certain properties that might be able to help you there.’
The Duke brightened. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, there are various creams and tonics which can be most effective. But enough of that. What were relations like between you and Elizabeth? Obviously you had quarrelled with her that night. After all, she got up and left you.’
The Duke blew his nose. ‘The fact is that she said she was bored with me. That my lack of manly prowess was too much for her to cope with.’
‘Why in heaven’s name did she do that? After all, you were keeping her.’
‘She’d clapped her eyes on some former lover of hers. A formidable Frenchman. I think she’d a fancy to go back to him.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said John, and thought to himself that if the Comtesse had been present and had noticed Elizabeth’s renewed interest in her husband, it might well have been the final factor in driving her to murder. He turned his attention back to the Duke. ‘So what were you doing in The Dark Walk if your lover had abandoned you?’
The Duke of Midhurst looked so desperately uncomfortable that John wondered if he might be about to faint again. However, the poor fellow was saved by the arrival of the footman bearing a decanter and glasses and the various other items ordered. Wrapping some ice in the towel, John rapidly strapped the makeshift cooler round Midhurst’s head, and saw to it that the servant poured his master a generous tot. Then the Apothecary sat patiently, waiting until they were alone once more.
‘You were saying, Sir,’ he prompted as the door closed quietly.
‘Well, I may be a Molly Milksop but the girl’s remarks had stung me. I intended to follow her into The Dark Walk and . . . er . . .’
‘Take her by force? Show her who was master?’
‘Precisely,’ said the Duke in a muffled voice, and gulped his brandy.
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘Because, Mr Rawlings, she laughed at me. I caught up with her, tried to be rough, and she just giggled at my pathetic efforts. If ever a man were given motive for murder, it was I. But I didn’t lay a finger on her, I swear it before God.’
John sighed deeply. ‘I am beginning to think that no one committed this crime. Everyone I question seems alarmingly innocent.’
‘Cherchez la femme,’ said Midhurst meaningfully.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Woman are traitorous beasts, all of them.’
‘That is a very sweeping statement, your Grace, if I may make so bold. Yet perhaps you may be right in believing there is a female hand behind all this. Tell me what you know of the Comtesse de Vignolles.’
‘Very little really. I believe I met her once or twice in the distant past but, of course, Lizzie told me of her illness when she moved into my town house and out of her apartment in Vigo Lane. Yet surely, Mr Rawlings, you cannot equate such a feeble creature as the Comtesse with murder?’
‘I have still to make up my mind as to exactly how feeble she really is. I suppose you did not see her when you were in The Dark Walk by any chance? Or anyone else for that matter?’
Midhurst bit his lip in concentration. ‘I saw Richmond and the pretty Miss Rigby. I also saw several people who were strangers to me. Oh, and of course, there was young Leagrave.’
‘Young Leagrave?’
‘A youth of my acquaintance. I thought I saw him there and wondered what he was doing out so late without the Squire.’
The Apothecary stared at him. ‘And who is young Leagrave?’
‘His father’s a local landowner. The family has been prominent in this area for centuries. He has a son of about fifteen and I thought at the time that that was who it was. Yet now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why?’
‘There was something not quite right about the boy.’
‘What?’
But the Duke would not be drawn further, shaking his head and saying he was not certain, to the point where John was forced to change his line of questioning.
‘Tell me if you will, Sir, how long you were acquainted with the dead woman.’
‘Three months. I saw her at the theatre and was greatly smitten with her beauty. Shortly afterwards I offered to put her under my protection. Why do you ask?’
‘Because she came from the mill just outside the very town from which you derive your title. In other words she was a local girl, your Grace, and because of that I wondered if you and she had had a friendship that went back into the past.’
The Duke stared at the Apothecary, wide-eyed. ‘Lizzie came from round here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let me assure you this is the first I’ve heard of it. I had no idea at all.’
John nodded, not certain whether to believe him, and Midhurst continued to speak.
‘Do you mean she came from Miller Benbow’s place? Where there was a suicide? Are you telling me that Elizabeth was one of his daughters?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘To think,’ said the Duke reflectively, ‘I could have had a tumble with her all those years ago. It might have done me the world of good.’
John smiled. ‘Indeed, it might.’ The shadows were beginning to lengthen in that comfortable room as he asked his final question. ‘Is it possible, even if you did not know her, that the Leagrave family did?’
‘I would have thought it more than likely. The mill stood on Leagrave land and was rented off the Squire.’
‘And this boy in The Dark Walk reminded you of his son?’
‘Mr Rawlings,’ answered the Duke, just a trifle tetchily, ‘there was a similarity, yes. Yet I simply would not go so far as to say that they were one and the same. I hope that is clear.’
‘Perfectly,’ John answered calmly, ‘but none the less, Sir, you must realise that this is the strongest indication I have had so far as to the identity of a young man who might well prove to be a vital witness.’
‘Just so,’ said Midhurst, but would make no further comment.
Chapter Fifteen
Riding back through the summer’s evening, listening to Blade’s measured breathing, his nostrils full of the reassuring smell of horseflesh, John cleared his mind of all thoughts and allowed himself the luxury of revelling in the loveliness of the night. High above his head, the moon was full in a rook-dark sky, its radiant circle filled with shadows and mysterious patches of shade. And to accompany its piercing silver light, it seemed as if every star in the firmament was glittering crystal. The landscape through which he rode was bleached to the point where it looked almost blue, and the mysterious outlines of the great trees threw deep pools of purple on the ground around their feet. It was a night for dreaming, for dwelling on the beauties of nature, and it was almost with reluctance that John finally turned into the yard of The Spread Eagle, Blade’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, then dismounted somewhat stiffly, not used to riding quite so energetically or for so many hours.
This time he supped late and alone, sitting solitary in the parlour, trying to assemble his thoughts into
some sort of order, though with no particular success. Constantly flitting through his mind, like half-glimpsed ghosts or creatures from a dream, were the shadowy figures of the dead Jemmy Groves, the vanished Eleanor Benbow and the mysterious young Master Leagrave. Feeling certain that the key to the death of Elizabeth Harper lay somewhere amongst all the people he had met or heard about, and was not the work of a mindless’ assassin, the Apothecary eventually retired to bed.
Sleep would not come, though, and he spent a wretched night tossing and turning and dreaming wildly on the odd occasion when he managed to drift off. Yet strangely, despite his lack of rest, John woke feeling cheerful and alert and ready for anything that might come his way. His high spirits were lifted even further by the arrival of a letter from Samuel, brought by the post boy who rode into the inn yard with a bulging sack.
‘My dear Friend,’ John read as he tackled a large dish of ham. ‘I have done as you bid Me at our Last Meeting and written to you at your Lodging in Midhurst in the Hope that you were able to find suitable Accommodation at The Spread Eagle.
‘First let Me Apprise you of the fact that I have Acted on your Behalf as best I can. I did call at the House in Leicester Fields as you wished and There saw Diana.’ There was a slight smudge round the word ‘saw’ which made John chortle. ‘She informed Me that the Comte de Vignolles has Appeared, most Suspiciously She did add, amongst the Patrons. She wondered – and so do I – why He Should do so after his Argument with the Madames but added that, strangely, all now appeared Peaceable Between Them. Could It be, John, that He is there to Spy upon Someone? Diana did Say that he asked Questions about You. Who you Really Were and So On.
‘You will Remember that I told You of the New Servant who has Come There? Well, I have Spoken with Her and a Pretty Little Spark She is. Fresh from the Country and as Fair as Day. She is Sore Afraid of Being Forced into a Life of Degradation and I have a Mind to Rescue her from This by asking Someone of Influence if they would take her for Maid. She really is Quite a Beauty in her Rustic Way.’
‘Oh Samuel!’ said John, laughing to himself. ‘Not smitten again!’ And then he remembered his own fixation about the Masked Lady and stopped smiling.
‘As for the Others,’ his friend continued, ‘there is Not a Great Deal of News. Matt Tyler, who lives near Hanover Square, tells Me that the Comtesse has been Seen sitting Most Feebly in the Gardens, too Exhausted even to Read, or so it Appeared to the Onlooker. Meanwhile, the Masked Lady was Observed Playing Deep at White’s where She lost a Considerable Sum, so it is Said. A Rumour now Sweeps Town that she Is a Bastard of the Duke of Devonshire. Business at Vaux Hall is Picking Up but has not Restored to what it was before the Killing, much to the Chagrin of the Redoubtable Mr Tyers. I fear that I have Seen Neither Sir Gabriel nor Mr Fielding so Cannot Report on their Welfare.
‘If All Fails I had thought of Approaching Your Father as to whether he might Require another Servant, on Behalf of Little Millie, the Girl mentioned Above. Would You Consider that Sir Gabriel would Consider this a Great Imposition? Her Case is Truly a Sad One.
‘With the Ardent Hope that All Your Ventures prove Successful. I Remain Your Friend, Samuel Swann.’
Despite the somewhat ingenuous tone of the letter, it was none the less descriptive and John could vividly picture all that had happened in London since he’d left. With a twinge of apprehension he wondered why the Comte had been enquiring about him, and remembered John Fielding’s warning that the murderer had probably got a better look at John than John had at him.
‘I hope he doesn’t know where I am now,’ he muttered to himself, and then considered that even though de Vignolles might not there were several who did, including, of course, the two Dukes and the vivacious Miss Rigby. Very thoughtfully, John went into the stable yard, mounted his horse, then cantered briskly away towards the home that had once been occupied by Elizabeth Harper.
Benbow’s mill lay a mile outside Midhurst, back along the road to Goodwood, a sturdy set of buildings beside a sheet of water, still as glass beneath the rising sun. Close to the attractive cottage, built about a hundred years earlier, or so John reckoned, stood the mill, its wheel motionless, the sluice above it shut, the overflow pouring into the tail-race which flowed out into the centre of the mill pool. The pool in which, if rumour were to be believed, a man had died for love of a girl destined to meet a violent end herself. Hardly able to credit that it was from rural surroundings as humble as these that the beautiful Lizzie had set forth to capture herself a place in London society, however scandalous, John stared about him.
The place did indeed have a haunted air, as quiet as the grave with the great mill wheel silent. Proceeding cautiously, John removed his herb baskets from his saddle and slowly made his way round the pond to the little wooden bridge which spanned the mill race just where it flowed into the gushing brook which fed the pool. Stooping now and then to pluck the wild flowers, John left the bank and crossed the bridge, making his way towards the cottage. The door, which had been closed as he had stared at it across the pond, suddenly flew open as he approached, startling him, and at the same time a voice called out, ‘And what’s your business?’ in a menacing tone. Blinking slightly, John put on his studious face, screwing up his eyes as if he were somewhat short-sighted.
‘Forgive me, good Master,’ he called back. ‘I should have asked your permission to gather some simples but as your door was closed, I did not wish to disturb you.’
‘Who are you?’ the miller answered, taking a step outside.
John held out his hand. ‘Rawlings, Master. John Rawlings, apothecary of London, come to this lovely part of the country to pick plants for my medicines. Forgive me my trespasses . . .’ He beamed as if delighted at this terrible joke. ‘ . . . but I do need a certain variety of willow bark – for the treatment of fever, you know and just such a thing grows upon the banks of your pool.’
He smiled again, widely, an ingenuous look beaming from his countenance.
Miller Benbow narrowed his eyes. ‘From London, you say?’
‘Yes,’ answered John, certain he knew what was coming next.
‘I had a daughter went there,’ the man went on, heaving a sigh and displaying all the signs of a truly lonely individual, glad to converse with anyone. ‘She thought to make her way in the world, find some fancy man to marry her. Yet she had a good strong chap for sweet-heart hereabouts. I’ll never understand the ways of womankind.’ He sighed again, then peered at John even more closely. ‘You didn’t know her, I suppose? Her name was Elizabeth Harper.’
There was a moment of agonising choice whilst the Apothecary hovered between the roles of friendly stranger and keen official, then answered, ‘No.’
‘It was just a hope,’ the miller replied, and relapsed into moody silence.
He was not the sort of man, John thought, observing him covertly, of whom he would like to fall foul. For Jacob Benbow stood over six feet in height and was built like a bull. A mass of curling dark hair, heavily streaked with grey, covered his head and chest, and dark brown eyes which held an angry, molten look in their depths, glared out from beneath his mat of curls. The miller also boasted a vast pair of shoulders and arms shaped like legs of mutton. Staring at him, the Apothecary felt positively slight in build in comparison.
‘Of course,’ John went on, his voice pleasant, ‘so many country girls come to town looking for work. One wonders why they do it, particularly when they have a comfortable home.’ He let his eyes sweep over the mill cottage with an expression of approval.
‘You’re right there, Sir, she has a good place here. And I dote on that girl, love her as if she were my own.’
John looked perplexed. ‘But I thought you said . . .’
‘I have two daughters – leastwise I call them so. But only one was my child of flesh and blood, that was Eleanor. The other, Elizabeth, is my wife’s sister’s girl, orphaned young, and taken into our household out of the kindness of our hearts. Little did we know what a viper
we were welcoming into our nest.’
‘Dear me!’ said John sympathetically.
‘Aye. She grew up lovely as a rose, that child did. Even more beautiful than my own sweet girl. Anyway, it happened that they’d both played since childhood with Jemmy Groves, old widow Groves’s son from the nearest cottage. You can guess the rest I suppose?’
John shook his head.
‘Well, my poor Eleanor fell in love with him, in the way that young females do at a certain age. But he only wanted Lizzie, besotted to foolery with her he was, truly mad. Anyway, when she ups and leaves him to make her way in London, he kills himself, here in this very pond.’
‘That was a little extreme, surely.’
‘I think she wrote him that she wasn’t coming back. He could read and write a little, could Jem.’
John nodded, seeing yet again the words of the poor man’s tragic note. ‘So what happened exactly?’
‘He came here one winter’s night and jumped in. I found him next morning, all icy. I’d have spared Eleanor the sight but she rushed out of the cottage and took her beloved in her arms. I’ll never forget the expression on her face till the day I die.’ The miller’s great chest heaved, ‘Anyway, she had gone to join her sweetheart by nightfall.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That Eleanor wandered away as soon as darkness came. It’s my guess she went down to the sea and threw herself off the cliffs.’
‘What a terrible tale,’ John said, a sense of horror beginning to consume him. ‘So have you been left all alone ever since? Have you no wife to keep you company?’
Miller Benbow shook his head. ‘She went to her rest when those two girls were naught more than children. I brought the pair of ’em up single handed.’
There was a feeling in the air which John could sense but not identify. ‘No easy task for a man,’ he answered slowly.
‘No,’ Benbow agreed shortly. ‘You know, it’s said in these parts that the mill is cursed, haunted, evil. Perhaps it would be best not to gather your plants hereabouts.’