by Deryn Lake
John climbed aboard, shaking himself like a dog. ‘Did you notice anything when you looked at her?’
Samuel stared uncomprehendingly. ‘No. What?’
The Apothecary’s expression became grim. ‘She had chains binding her wrists and ankles, weighting her down. We must send Nicholas to Bow Street, Sam. This is clearly no case of accidental drowning.’
‘God’s mercy!’
‘Upon her soul.’
‘I have a sense that all this has happened to us before,’ Samuel commented bleakly.
‘And so, indeed, have I,’ answered John Rawlings, his features set and unsmiling.
Chapter Two
‘A body?’ Mr Kemp repeated incredulously. ‘In the Fish Pond?’
‘I fear so, Sir,’ John answered grimly.
But how could it have got there?’
‘I’m afraid somebody threw the woman in. And with evil intent at that. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with heavy chains.’
‘In order that she might be held down and drown?’ William Kemp went pale. ‘Are you trying to tell me that she was put into the water whilst still alive?’
‘It’s certainly possible.’
‘Dear me,’ said the eminent citizen, and adjusted his jewelled cravat pin with a shaking hand.
John stood in the spacious salon of the delightful home that the proprietor of the Peerless Pool had created for himself, a country mansion surrounded by a walled garden and an orchard of pear and apple trees, built on the land lying between the swimming bath and the fishing lake.
In this clean and beeswaxed room, the Apothecary had never been more horribly aware of the fact that he stank. Weed from the Fish Pond, hard though he had tried to brush it off, clung to his clothes, which stuck to his body, still damp from his recent dive. Further, his white stockings and neckwear were by now an unpleasant shade of grey, while a dirty smudge smeared his face where he had rubbed his hand across it. In short, John Rawlings, who loved high fashion with fervour, felt a regular tatterdemalion, and wished that he had been in better sartorial condition to bring to the Peerless Pool’s proprietor the news that there was a body in his fishing lake.
As though this thought struck him simultaneously, Mr Kemp gave the Apothecary a piercing look. ‘Who did you say you were?’ he asked.
‘John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane and occasional assistant to Mr John Fielding of Bow Street.’
The magic name had been uttered. William Kemp’s brow cleared and he said, ‘Ah,’ as if everything were now quite plain to him. ‘Then you will wish me to call for the constable,’ he added more politely.
John shook his head. ‘No, Sir. I have taken the liberty of sending my apprentice to the Public Office by hackney coach. I have requested that Mr Fielding send us two of his Brave Fellows, those prepared at short notice to travel anywhere in the kingdom to investigate a crime. I thought it might be better if the Blind Beak were involved from the very beginning.’
Mr Kemp looked apprehensive. ‘It won’t mean that the Pool has to be closed, will it?’
The Apothecary spread his hands. ‘That is beyond my control, alas. However, I think the anglers should be moved away from the Fish Pond as soon as possible. My friend Samuel Swann is standing guard but has no authority to give orders to anyone.’
The proprietor nodded emphatically. ‘Of course, it shall be done immediately. The waiters will see to it. Now, what next?’
John looked sheepish. ‘I would very much appreciate an opportunity to wash myself.’
‘Quite so,’ answered the proprietor, and gazed down the length of his nose.
He was not at all what the Apothecary had expected of a prominent citizen of London, being, in John’s eyes, altogether younger and shorter than such a role demanded. Yet the fact that William Kemp had started life as a jeweller was clearly revealed by his hands, small and manicured and supple as birds, obviously belonging to a creator of fine and beautiful things. As to the rest, the proprietor stood slightly below average height and, having kept a trim figure, had something of the air of a dancing master about him. It would not have surprised John in the least if Mr Kemp had suddenly produced a fiddle and bow from somewhere and executed a series of nimble steps. However, at the moment his dark eyes had a mournful, solemn look as the proprietor contemplated possible disrepute falling on his beautiful oasis. Unconsciously, he sighed.
‘A wash, Sir. Yes, by all means. If you will follow me.’
He led the way down the hall to an extremely modern indoor water closet, a vast mahogany projection with brass handles and cocks surrounding its unventilated hole. Nestling in the corner beside the monstrous contraption was a washstand containing a bowl and ewer. John, ever practical, made full use of both, tidied himself as best he could, then stepped out to face the world that undoubtedly would soon be arriving at the Fish Pond.
The waiters had done their job well. There were no anglers left on the seats and jetties, the entire area having been cleared, while the second boat had been brought out of the boat arch and was moored beside the other one, ready for use. The path to the left of William Kemp’s house, running between the Peerless Pool and the Pond, was guarded at both ends by a pair of hefty fellows whose usual job, besides waiting table, was to rid the grounds of any rowdies who might attempt to spoil the enjoyment of other bathers. Knowing that something was badly amiss but not quite sure what it was, they bristled with anticipation and looked ready to manhandle anybody who approached. Meanwhile, two other waiters had been despatched to the entrance to meet Mr Fielding’s Runners when they approached in their fast coach. Of Samuel, John noticed as he gazed around, there was no sign.
Unfortunately all this strange activity had not gone undetected, and a crowd of curious onlookers, some dressed, some still in their drawers, had gathered at the top of the path to see what was going on.
‘I think they’ll have to be asked to leave,’ John murmured to Mr Kemp as they stepped forth on to the terrace at the back of his house.
‘Indeed they will,’ the proprietor agreed. ‘Frederick,’ he called, ‘a word with you, if you please.’
A burly stepped forward. ‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be so kind as to tell the patrons that I will address them. Then if you can make sure that they quit as soon as possible, I’d be obliged.’
He pronounced it ‘obleejed’, much to John’s amusement.
‘Very good, Sir.’
Frederick strode up the path and loomed his six-foot frame over the onlookers. ‘Gentlemen, Mr Kemp desires a word with you all. Please remain where you are.’
Nobody stirred as the proprietor descended the steps leading from the terrace and proceeded towards the crowd, which had now been joined by others from the library and the bowling green, and by one or two patrons of the restaurant, some with glasses still in their hand. Coming up behind him, the Apothecary noticed that Mr Kemp walked with a slightly mincing gait, perfectly enhancing his dancing-master image. The proprietor cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen, I am sorry to have to ask you all to withdraw, but so I must and as quickly as possible. The term of your subscription will be extended by an extra day to compensate. Those of you who have brought guests will have their shillings refunded.’
There was a general murmur of disappointment, then someone called out, ‘Why must we go, Sir? What is amiss?’
‘Yes,’ chorused other voices. ‘Tell us.’
‘We have a right to know,’ quavered a frail old fellow near the front.
Mr Kemp turned to John and raised a brow. The Apothecary held his thumb and forefinger close together, meaning ‘a little’.
‘There has been a fatality in the Fish Pond.’ the proprietor stated firmly. ‘A most unfortunate incident and not one for public scrutiny. Therefore, while the necessary actions are performed, I must insist that you clear the pleasure garden.’
One or two mouths opened to argue, but Frederick, arms folded across massive chest, jutted his jaw at them and the
y closed again. Finally, after a few further moments of muttering, the patrons reluctantly began to shift, those dressed towards the gates, the gentlemen in drawers to the changing rooms.
Mr Kemp turned to his companion and smiled for the first time since he had heard the news of the woman in the lake. ‘Was that explanation sufficient?’
‘Yes. It was well done.’ John’s eyes swept over the Pond, its calm surface broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish. ‘I wonder how they will bring her up,’ he said, almost to himself
William Kemp shuddered, his neat frame shaking from hat to buckled shoes. ‘Lift her on a rope, I suppose.’
The Apothecary nodded. ‘Are any of your waiters exceptional divers? And with strong nerves?’
‘One is. Tobias, known as Toby.’
‘I think you’d better warn him that he may have an unpleasant task ahead.’
‘He’s standing just over there.’ Mr Kemp made to call out but was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle on the path. Both men looked round to see Samuel, his arms whirling like the sails of a mill, attempting to fight off two waiters simultaneously.
‘They’re here,’ he was shouting excitedly. ‘The Runners have arrived.’
‘Samuel Swann, the friend I mentioned to you,’ John explained.
‘Let the gentleman through,’ ordered William Kemp, and calm was restored.
The Goldsmith straightened his coat and attempted nonchalance. ‘I went to the entrance when they asked me to leave the Pond and I’ve just seen the fast coach pull up and Nicholas Dawkins get out. He’s leading them here.’
‘Have the patrons gone?’ John asked.
‘Nearly all of them. Just a few stragglers taking their time over getting dressed.’
Mr Kemp pursed his lips. ‘Typical. Terrified of missing something, I dare swear.’ He raised his voice. ‘Lads, two Runners from Bow Street will be approaching at any moment. Let them through without demur. Toby, come over here, if you please.’
A short, powerful waiter, built like a veritable bull, approached. ‘Sir?’
The proprietor gestured towards John. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain, Mr Rawlings.’
‘To come directly to the point, Mr Swann and I have discovered a body, weighted down and lying on the bottom of the Fish Pond. The Runners who are on their way are duty bound to bring the poor wretch to the surface and, as Mr Kemp tells me you are an excellent diver, they may well call upon you to assist them. Whether you do so or not, however, is entirely your own choice.’
Toby looked stern of feature. ‘I fought in the war till a few months ago when I was wounded. I’ve seen worse sights than dead women, Sir.’
The proprietor announced shrilly, ‘I only employ the best, Gentlemen. None but the stoutest hearts.’
‘And here comes another who could be described thus,’ John answered as his pale apprentice, russet eyes gleaming with excitement, came hurrying down the path, his limp accentuated by the speed at which he was travelling.
‘They’re right behind me,’ he called, ‘and they’ve brought things.’
The Apothecary turned to see approaching the two Beak Runners whom he had met during the previous summer, when he had been investigating a mysterious death on the Romney Marsh. ‘Mr Rawlings,’ one shouted cheerfully. ‘Mr Fielding asks me to convey his compliments and to request that you will attend him as soon as is convenient to yourself.’
‘I most certainly will,’ John answered, going to meet them and saying in a lower tone, ‘The body is lying in the middle of the lake and we have a volunteer to dive down and fix a rope round her.’
The Runner, whom John recalled as being named George, gulped with relief ‘That’s as well. Sir. For Nathaniel here don’t swim, and I myself can only paddle like a dog. Diving deep would be a little beyond us.’
‘All you need to do is tell that solid-looking waiter over there what you require and he will do the rest.’
‘Very good, Mr Rawlings.’ George exhibited the things, which turned out to be a portable winch and a strong piece of rope. ‘If he can fix this round the corpse’s waist we should get her up in no time. Your apprentice said the victim was female. That’s right, isn’t it, Sir?’
‘Yes, but she’s weighted down with heavy chains.’
‘So it’s definitely a killing?’
‘Her hands are bound behind her back, practically impossible to do to oneself.’
George nodded and beckoned Toby over, and after a few moments of discussion the lifting party set out; John and the waiter in the first boat, the two Beak Runners following just behind. One end of the rope was securely attached to the winch, which was manned by George and Nathaniel; the other Toby wore tied round his middle, joining one craft to the other.
The sun was setting now, and it was no longer possible to see into the Pond’s depths, murky and menacing without the light shining into them. The trees that lined the lake were casting their own shadows and John could only get his bearings by reckoning the distance between the boat and Mr Kemp’s house.
‘I think this is the spot,’ he called finally, shipping his oars.
‘Right, Toby?’ asked Runner George.
‘Right as I’ll ever be.’
‘Get the rope round her and tie it securely. We’ll do the rest.’
‘Very good.’
The waiter stood up, clad only in his drawers, and dived so neatly from the boat that it hardly bobbed. John stared over the side but could see nothing except a dark shape disappearing towards the bottom.
‘I don’t envy him that task,’ he said.
‘I think he’s found her,’ George put in. ‘He’s just tugged the rope.’
‘Was that the signal?’
‘Yes. When he tugs again we’re to start hauling her in.’
They waited in edgy silence but there was no further tug. John pulled his watch from his waistcoat. Toby must have lungs like a bull, he thought, to stay down as long as he had. But just as he was beginning to grow seriously worried, the rope suddenly went taut and then there was a flurry of water as the waiter broke surface and gasped in air. At this, the Runners hauled wildly, and a few moments later the corpse appeared alongside their boat.
To have lifted her aboard would have been hazardous indeed, so small was the craft. So, in one of the most bizarre spectacles John Rawlings had ever witnessed, the drowned woman was towed ashore, her body kept straight by the stoical Toby, who swam alongside. Reaching the bank first, the Apothecary, tottering precariously, stepped ashore, then wheeled round to see the Beak Runners securing their craft before they cut the body loose. Nathaniel, for all the fact he couldn’t swim, had jumped into the shallows to hold the dead woman steady, and it was he who carried her to the bank, holding her in his arms like a bride. He looked at John.
‘Where shall I put her, Sir?’
The proprietor answered for him. ‘I’ve ordered a sheet to be placed over there. Lay her on that.’
Nathaniel raised his brows and the Apothecary nodded. ‘Be careful with her, though. I want to see her much as she was.’
Delicately, the Runner lowered his burden, and John, kneeling beside the body, began the grim business of examining the dead woman, gazing into the shuttered face as if it would give him the answer to all the questions posed by her sudden appearance on the bottom of the Fish Pond.
The hair, a strand of which he picked up and loosely held in his hand, was long and dark, strikingly streaked with grey. Judging by her general appearance, the Apothecary presumed the woman to be about forty-five years of age. However, her face, handsome enough in a strong, masculine way, had been totally marred by the wild array of bruises which marked it.
Shocked, John unbuttoned the top of the dress and found further evidence that the woman had sustained a severe beating. Hating to do what he must next, he delicately raised her skirts and saw that the legs in their torn and pathetic stockings were also covered in marks.
‘Well?’ asked Samuel, coming to join him and
shuddering slightly.
‘She was battered within an inch of her life before she was thrown in.’
‘How do you know?’
‘By the contusions. She would only bruise like that if she had been alive when they were sustained.’
‘Was she dead when she went into the water?’
John shook his head. ‘No. Look at the marks on her wrists and ankles. Those were made by the chains which weighted her down. If she had been already done for, they would have left no impression.’
Samuel dashed his hand across his eyes. ‘Christ’s mercy on us, what a terrible end. Beaten half to death then thrown in to drown.’
The Apothecary looked grim. ‘A ghastly fate certainly.’ He leant forward over the face once more, noticing that the open eyes, still a recognisable shade of deep brown, were just starting to go cloudy. He closed them rapidly before anyone else could see.
‘What are those little pink marks?’ asked his friend, pointing to where pinprick spots showed amongst the bruises.
‘Shrimps,’ John answered shortly.
‘Do you mean …?’ The Goldsmith’s eyes widened in horror.
‘I’m afraid so. They made a bit of a meal of her during the night.’
‘I shall never eat a shrimp again,’ Samuel announced, turning pale.
The two Runners approached. ‘Should we take her away, Mr Rawlings?’
‘Let me just quickly sketch her. She’ll start to swell in half an hour or so and then the details of her injuries will be more difficult to see.’
‘I’ll get a pad and pencil,’ announced Mr Kemp. who had been gazing out over the stretch of water, studiously avoiding having to look at the body.
‘Thank you.’
‘No trouble, I assure you.’
The proprietor turned to go towards the house, and in so doing his gaze fell willy-nilly on the thing lying stretched out on the sheet, the Apothecary still kneeling beside it. Staggering very slightly, Mr Kemp let out a piercing cry.
John looked up. ‘Are you all right, Sir?’