Death in the Dark Walk

by Deryn Lake

  John gave a short laugh. ‘I am a man of science, Master. You can’t expect me to believe in such superstition.’

  Benbow shook his head. ‘I tell you there’s something strange about this place. How else could a man be so ill-used by fate?’

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to say that people are often parent to their own misfortune but he thought better of it. Instead, he answered, ‘Ah well, who knows?’ and turned to look back at the cottage. ‘I wonder, Master, if I might just step inside for a glass of water? I’ve been out since dawn and am parched dry.’

  Benbow looked as pleased as was possible for a man of his stamp. ‘Yes, by all means. We’ll have a pint of ale together. I’ll be glad of the company.’

  John gulped, thinking he had had quite enough to drink the day before but accepting the offer for all that, longing to get a look at the place in which Lizzie, to say nothing of the doomed Eleanor Benbow, had formerly dwelled. Yet there was no clue in the downstairs room that two young females had once lived there, for the place had the general air of spartan untidiness always associated with a man who fended for himself. But added to this there was an extraordinary atmosphere, not only of sadness but of brooding tension. It seemed to John, man of medicine though he might be, that something terrible had happened within those walls, though whether this was simply the miller’s anguish over the loss of his daughters, he could not be altogether certain.

  Accepting the ale and downing a draught, somehow refraining from pulling a face at its sharpness, John stared round and said, ‘What a pleasant home you have here. Do you own the mill and cottage?’

  Benbow shook his head. ‘No, I’m a tenant of Squire Leagrave, just as my father was of his father. It’s an arrangement that goes back well over a century.’

  John looked interested. ‘Leagrave? I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.’

  ‘They are the most prominent family hereabouts, along with the Wiltons and the Brownes, and employ many local people. My Lizzie was in service with the Squire before she left home.’

  John gaped and gave the game away. ‘Elizabeth used to work for Squire Leagrave! Then, by God, she must have known his son.’

  The miller stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you say that? Of course she knew him. But of what interest is that to you?’

  John’s face rapidly became unreadable. ‘My medical training has given me a lively interest in human behaviour. I just wondered whether your adopted daughter had eloped with the Squire’s son, that’s all.’

  Miller Benbow looked entirely askance. ‘Whatever next? I’ve never heard such foolishness. Young James is just a boy and still here in Midhurst, as upset by everything that happened as anyone else.’

  John downed his ale and got to his feet. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, I fear. So I’ll just collect a few plants and be on my way.

  ‘You don’t think they might be accursed then?’

  John smiled. ‘No, I’ll risk it. Thank you so much for your hospitality.’

  The miller nodded dourly and poured himself another draught of ale as John stepped out into the sunshine.

  It was the sight of a stage coach, its passengers gone into The Spread Eagle to dine, that made John do what he did next. Before going inside to have a midday break, the Apothecary booked himself a seat on the Chichester to London postchaise which would be passing through Midhurst the following morning. It had been a spontaneous decision, yet behind it lay the urgent need to confer not only with the Blind Beak but also with Sir Gabriel Kent. For it seemed to John that the investigation had now reached a critical stage.

  He had eaten his midday repast in the kitchen in order to get a word with Anne Pruet but almost immediately afterwards set out for Court Green, the house at the bottom of Castle Hill, upon which had once stood the castle of the de Bohuns, who had held the barony of Midhurst. It was in this grand domain, so the landlady had informed him, that he would find Squire Leagrave and his family. So, taking his simples basket with him and adopting his earnest face, John made his way.

  The house was very old in parts, obviously having been added to over the centuries, but the new part of the building dated from the reigns of William and Mary, and Queen Anne, and the Apothecary found himself looking at a home that combined both grace and dignity with charm and comfort. Delighted to see that it had not only a formal but also a wild garden, he knocked on the front door and was relieved when a fresh-faced maid rather than an overbearing footman answered him.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ John said cheerfully, doffing his hat. ‘I wondered if I might have a word with your master.’

  The girl shook her head. ‘He’s out riding, Sir. But would Miss Edith do?’

  Not quite certain who this might be, John made his eyes look bewildered. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘She’s the master’s sister. The lady of the house. Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, but I must tell you that she doesn’t know me and I haven’t an appointment. In fact I’ve called to ask whether I might gather a few flowers and herbs from her wilderness. I am an apothecary, you see, and could not help but notice the very interesting selection of plants there.’

  The maid frowned. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, Sir. Neither the master nor the mistress are very fond of strangers about the place.’

  ‘Indeed, I understand,’ answered John. ‘One cannot be too careful in these violent times. But perhaps you would inform the good lady that I visited and sought permission to see her garden. Tell her that I will return in a day or two that I might know her mind.’

  The maid misunderstood. ‘I can’t do that, Sir. She’s lying down at the moment and I’ve orders not to disturb her.’

  ‘No, of course not. I trust she is not ill?’ he added slyly.

  The maid grinned. ‘Not ill, Sir. But the poor soul is a martyr to wind.’

  John guffawed uncontrollably. ‘What did you say?’

  The girl joined in, clapping her hands over her mouth. ‘Not of the farty kind, young Sir. I meant heartburn. The mistress has been its victim for years.’

  The Apothecary wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Well, that’s a relief at least.’

  ‘Oh don’t,’ said his companion, giggling loudly. And it was at that moment an inner door was thrown open and a grim-faced female appeared in the hall.

  ‘Really! What is the meaning of this outrageous noise?’

  Struggling desperately to keep a straight face, John bowed. ‘A thousand pardons, Madam. The last thing I wished to do was disturb your repose.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the newcomer, peering suspiciously.

  ‘John Rawlings, apothecary of London. I am in the Midhurst area to collect simples for my medicines and was drawn, as if by a lure, to beg a closer look at your lovely gardens. I cannot remember when I have seen such a fine selection of herbs and flowers.’

  Looking not the least mollified, Miss Leagrave glared at him. ‘And do you make a habit of snooping round other people’s property?’

  John became extremely dignified. ‘No, Madam, I never snoop, as you put it. Were it not for the fact that I believe you to be in poor health, I would have to take exception to that remark and leave at once.’

  She stared, somewhat surprised. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you have called my honour into disrepute.’

  ‘No, I meant about my health.’

  ‘Why, your suffering is written on your face,’ lied John vigorously, studying her countenance and thinking that the woman looked as if she’d just consumed a pint of vinegar, so sharp and unfriendly was her expression.

  Miss Leagrave continued to gaze at him narrowly. ‘You say you are an apothecary?’

  ‘Yes, Madam, fully qualified and trained. D’you know, I’d hazard a guess that your problem is caused by dyspepsia. I would imagine that you suffer agonies from heartburn.’

  There was a muffled snort from the maid which turned into a cough.

&
nbsp; ‘It’s true,’ answered the Squire’s sister, her voice slightly less harsh. ‘I do.’

  ‘Then I think I may be able to help you. I am returning to London, a mere flying visit you understand, but will be back in a day or so. While I am there allow me to compound for you a strong physick that should cure you not only of the pain but also of the melancholy attached thereto.’

  ‘And how much money would this cost me?’

  ‘Why none,’ said John, drawing himself up. ‘I would present it to you as a token of my goodwill.’

  ‘I see,’ said Miss Leagrave. When she spoke again her tone was less abrasive. ‘Perhaps I have misjudged you, Mr Rawlings.’

  He maintained a steadfast silence.

  ‘I thank you for considering my health and I will gratefully receive a bottle of your physick. In return I promise to show you the wilderness.’

  The Apothecary bowed. ‘Then I’ll bid you good day.’ And with that he turned to go and would have done so had the front door not been flung open, almost knocking him over. Somewhat startled, John stared at the person who had come in so precipitously and found himself looking at a boy, a boy with fair hair and blue eyes, somewhat taller than John had imagined, whose features already had about them the square-jawed look of determination. So this, it would seem, was Master James Leagrave who, quite possibly, had ruthlessly done Elizabeth Harper to death.

  ‘Charmed!’ said John, and inclined his head, amazed to be finally face to face with the elusive young wretch.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the newcomer rudely.

  ‘James!’ remonstrated his aunt. ‘This is Mr John Rawlings, an apothecary from London.’

  ‘London?’ the boy repeated, and just for a moment a slightly wary expression crept across his face.

  ‘Yes London,’ said John firmly. He stared James Leagrave in the eye. ‘Do you know, Sir, there is something familiar about you. Is it possible that we could have met when you were last in town?’

  James flushed uncomfortably. ‘I doubt it. I am hardly ever there.’

  ‘That is not quite true,’ Edith put in. ‘James enjoys going to the capital to study the fashions and to mix with young bloods of his own age. Why, I’d swear he’d move there if he had half the chance.’

  ‘That is an exaggeration,’ answered her nephew sulkily.

  John looked urbane. ‘I could not blame you if it were so. The excitements of town life are many indeed. Though, of course they are not all pleasurable. Why, danger even stalks in paradise. Do you know, Mam there was a murder at Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens the other night.’

  ‘Oh how dreadful!’ Miss Leagrave exclaimed, clutching her breast.

  ‘It was, utterly,’ answered John, and he turned his head to stare straight at James Leagrave who, he was interested but not surprised to see, had turned white as frost, and had sat down on the hall seat so fast it would appear his legs had buckled under him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  John’s journey back to London, shared with an elderly couple who slept most of the way, heads lolling and mouths wide, was fast and uneventful and he arrived back at The Borough as dusk fell. Hailing one of the many hackneys that waited nearby to take passengers alighting from the stage coaches and postchaises on to their final destination, John proceeded straight to number two, Nassau Street, where it pleased him to see that candles had been lit and every window gleamed a welcome. Running swiftly up the steps, he knocked at the door, then swept into the hall as if he had been away for a month.

  Sir Gabriel Kent was at that delicate stage of preparation to go out during which he allowed no one to disturb him. So, John had no option but to hastily organise himself a bath and to dress as finely as he could, in fact in the clothes he had worn on the night of the murder, determined to accompany his father on whatever diversion he had planned. Yet despite all this, he was ready first and awaited Sir Gabriel in the library, his mulberry satin coat, gleaming in the firelight, reflected in the glass of sherry which he sipped pensively.

  And then John stopped, his glass halfway to his mouth, arrested in sudden thought. ‘Um,’ he said slowly, and was standing thus, still thinking, when Sir Gabriel came through the door.

  Tonight his father walked very mincingly, in black shoes with pinchbeck heels and silver buckles, his full-skirted coat, heavily laced with silver, thrown back to reveal a dark waistcoat of silver-flowered silk. His shirt and cravat were faultless and there was a flaunting of jewels about him that John found quite breathtaking.

  ‘Oh Sir, I shall never be as fine as you,’ he found himself exclaiming, and was rewarded with a smile so wise that he caught his breath.

  ‘My son,’ said Sir Gabriel, his eyes twinkling, ‘old age brings few compensations, but one of them is the ability to be exactly who one desires without a care as to what the next man thinks. It is my choice to dress as I do, eccentrically, and thus I do so boldly. When you come to my age, perhaps even before, you may follow suit.’ He kissed John on the cheek. ‘You should have sent word that you were returning. I would have arranged a celebration.’

  ‘But I’ve only been away a few days.’

  ‘Another trick of old age; celebrate all life’s small festivities to the full, remembering that they are growing increasingly precious.’

  ‘I intend to emulate you in everything, have no fear about that. So, may I celebrate with you at whatever place you have chosen for your evening’s diversion?’

  ‘White’s,’ answered Sir Gabriel succinctly. ‘I had intended to take a chair there, but if we travel by hackney you can tell me all that has befallen you.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said John, ‘for I need the benefit of your advice.’

  The journey from Nassau Street to St James’s Street, where the great gambling club was situated, being one of quite short duration, John found himself talking non-stop while Sir Gabriel listened in silence. And it was not until they had drawn up before the former chocolate house that the older man held the hackney a few minutes before alighting, in order to ask a question.

  ‘So do you believe the apprentice and James Leagrave might be one and the same person? And, if so, it is possible that James assumed a country accent and came to London looking for Lizzie?’ He paused, then provided the answer himself. ‘Of course a youth could well become smitten with a beautiful servant somewhat older than he is. It has happened many times before and, no doubt, will continue as long as time itself. Yet there is something that bothers you, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, and told his father what it was.

  Stepping through the somewhat commonplace doorway – the proprietor of the former White’s Chocolate House was anxiously seeking new premises – John Rawlings and Sir Gabriel Kent found themselves in a room from which all evidence of its previous usage had long ago been removed. Elegant chandeliers hung from a moulded ceiling and the many tables at which the gamesters sat each had their own individual candelabra to light the play. Conversation in these most gracious surroundings was hushed and, as at Marybone, John stood for a moment looking at those who sat absorbed. He saw fists clenched in anguish, grins of malicious exultation and the white faces of despair. He also saw the frenzy of those who had risked all upon a game of chance. For it was true to say that enormous sums of money, vast estates and fabulous jewels could be staked, lost and won, in a night.

  This was a male preserve, that was for certain, for only gentlemen of rank or position sat at the gaming tables. And yet John knew by the very fragrance in the air that she was there. Turning his head to the table at which there was deep play at hazard, he saw her and his heart quickened its beat. Clad in claret velvet, her face covered in a matching domino, was the most fascinating representative of womankind, the Masked Lady.

  Following his son’s gaze, Sir Gabriel said with a certain wry amusement, ‘I would gladly join them, knowing that you are investigating her, but, alas, the stakes are too high for me.’

  And indeed they were. For as far as John could see from where he stood,
rouleaus of a thousand guineas were being staked on each throw of the dice.

  ‘’Zounds and life!’ he exclaimed to his father. ‘How can anyone sustain it?’

  ‘They gamble their all,’ Sir Gabriel answered. ‘Quite literally.’

  ‘But the Masked Lady . . .’

  ‘She must have accumulated a fortune already and now no longer cares whether she wins or loses.’

  ‘But how could any woman be strong enough to endure such pressure yet remain so calm?’

  ‘My dear John,’ said Sir Gabriel, laughing, ‘women are the strongest creatures of all. Look at her now.’

  For there had been an audible gasp in the room as the stakes were raised at the Masked Lady’s table, followed by the murmur that she stood to win £50,000 if the dice fell her way. Yet to see her, it was almost impossible to credit that fact, for she sipped her glass of champagne and smiled as serenely as any lady of fashion at a levée.

  ‘I must get closer,’ said John urgently.

  ‘There are two places being vacated at the table next to hers. I’ll take them.’ And Sir Gabriel slipped into one of the empty chairs, bowing to the Lady as he did so.

  She recognised him from Marybone, that much was obvious, for she inclined her head in return. Trembling slightly, John took his seat beside his father, his eyes fixed firmly on the Lady’s face. She must have felt his admiring stare, for she momentarily lost concentration and rolled the dice without thinking, gleaming a glance in his direction as she did so.

  A second later there was a cry of triumph from old Lord Stavordale. ‘You’re beaten, Madam. I’ve thrown three sixes to your fives. Now what say you?’

  ‘That I’ll play you one great throw, my Lord,’ the Masked Lady answered in her husky voice.

  ‘On what terms?’

  ‘For all that you have just won plus another ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘You are saying this before witnesses, you realise?’