Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  Thinking that the interview was going to be difficult, John asked politely, ‘Would it be possible to see your steward? Might he remember her name?’

  ‘Why do you want to know all this?’ Sir Vivian replied, his dead eyes boring into his visitor’s. ‘Before I waste the time of one of my employees, I would have to be given a very good reason as to why I should do so.’

  ‘As Mr Fielding stated in his letter, Sir, we are trying to learn all we can about Hannah Rankin’s past.’

  ‘And what care I what is going on in Bow Street, London? What is Hannah Rankin’s past to me?’

  ‘Nothing, except for the fact that she has been murdered and it is the duty of all citizens to help track her killer down.’

  Sir Vivian raised a heavy brow. ‘Is it? Is it really? In a perfect world no doubt everyone would be public-spirited. But this is Bath, not London, Sir, and therefore what happens in the capital is really of little concern to us.’

  ‘Then you cannot help me further?’

  ‘No, Mr, er …’ He glanced at John’s card … ‘Rawlings, I cannot. Hannah Rankin might have worked for me, the testimonial could have been signed by my secretary. That is the most I can tell you.’

  John stood up. ‘Then I’ll bid you good-day, Sir.’

  ‘Good-day,’ said Sir Vivian, and returned to the study of his book.

  Inwardly, John seethed with anger at his abrupt dismissal, but there was little he could do. Bowing very briefly, he turned on his heel and left the room. Yet even on his way to the front door he decided somehow to approach one of the servants, however difficult it should prove to be. He turned to the footman who was escorting him out.

  ‘A glorious place this. Have you worked at Welham House long?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ came the stony reply.

  ‘Then you probably wouldn’t have known Hannah Rankin, who was a servant here at one time.’

  ‘No Sir.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. I have a reward for information about her. You could have stood to gain there.’

  ‘No I couldn’t, Sir,’ answered the footman as he closed the door in the Apothecary’s face.

  Chapter Nine

  There still being two hours to occupy before the time to dine, John crossed the river back to Bath and, after a brief call at his lodgings to tidy himself a little, made his way to the Pump Room to take the waters. It being well beyond the hour for bathing, which usually began at six in the morning and continued until nine, there were few people about, most having gone to change for dinner or to pursue their various afternoon recreations. Thus, other than for a handful of infirm folk, the Apothecary found himself alone as he was served a glass of the hot Bath water by the pumper.

  It was disgusting, there could be no doubt of that; sulphurous and horrid and made all the worse by the fact that it was warm. However, John, fascinated by water as he had always been, poured a little sample into a phial to take back to The Bear and analyse as best he could with the equipment he had brought with him. This done, he turned his attention to the others present, wondering if any of them might be able to give him some more information about Lady Allbury. For though her terrible tale had nothing to do with the death of Hannah Rankin, it was clear from the forged reference bearing Lady Allbury’s name that the murdered woman had at least known of the bereaved mother.

  A gouty old man in a Bath chair snoozed by one of the long windows, and two elderly ladies, both looking on the point of dropping off to sleep, conducted a desultory conversation. A husband and wife made much of the foulness of the water but declared that it had been most efficacious in treating their respective colons and phlegmatic humours to anyone who cared to listen. Meanwhile, the only person in the Pump Room who came within a dozen years of John’s age drank glass after glass of the filthy stuff, clutching his guts as he did so. The wretch looked to the Apothecary to be on the point of vomiting and thus, when he started to retch, John was ready and heaved the man out of the door so that the harmony of the graciously pillared room should not be disturbed.

  Puking hideously, the beau, for so he appeared to be from the extravagance of his make-up, stunningly white with a hint of base verdigris, ruined the state of the cobbles, then gasped for breath, wiping his mouth with a lace-trimmed sleeve. ‘An excess of brandy,’ he explained.

  ‘Really?’ said John, fully sarcastic.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ the other replied without apparent shame, though a drawn-in black eyebrow looped in the Apothecary’s direction.

  Suddenly anxious to get away from him, John began to move on, but unexpectedly an arm shot out and grabbed the Apothecary’s sleeve with wiry fingers. ‘Don’t go. I owe you a favour, if you would care to name it. My name’s Orlando Sweeting, by the way.’ And stepping out of the heap of vomit, the beau made a bow.

  John was instantly alert. ‘Sweeting, did you say? Are you by any chance related to Sir Vivian?’

  ‘He’s my uncle. Why, do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve only met him once, this morning to be precise. I called at Welham House.’

  Orlando twitched his pencilled brows. ‘I escaped last night. The Countess of Burlington was holding a circle at Hayes’s. I was not invited but managed to make an entrance despite. I wore my pea-green frock which probably swayed the balance in my favour.’

  He was as vapid as a gushing girl and clearly brainless, but quite amusing for all that.

  ‘I made a bid for the affections of Patty Weymouth but as she would have none of me I turned my attentions to the Hon. Robert Sawyer Herbert instead,’ Orlando prattled on. ‘But, upon my life, he would have none of me either, so what’s to do?’

  John stood silent, wondering what kind of relationship one with the other, the grim Sir Vivian and this popinjay, could possibly conduct beneath the same roof.

  As if reading his thoughts, the beau continued, ‘Anyway, having escaped, for he’s a hard taskmaster is my revered uncle, I decided to spend the night in town and drank till dawn with young Robin Sidmouth. Do you know him?’ John shook his head. ‘Ah, pity. I’ll make a point of introducing you at dinner tonight.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Nonsense, you will come as my guest. I insist. And afterwards we shall go to the ball. Mrs Cibber, the actress, is in town with some daughter of hers, though who is the father is anyone’s guess, God be our guide. Anyway, they are bound to be there, and though the girl is ugly, all sidles and squints, the mother’s a damned handsome creature. It will all be exceptionally fine.’

  ‘But really …’

  ‘I’ll not hear another word. Your protestations grow tiresome. Where do you stay?’

  ‘At The Bear.’

  ‘Then hurry back and change into something of immense elegance. I’ll go to young Sidmouth’s and dress in my pink frock. I do believe my pea-green to be ruined.’ And he pointed at a vomit stain soiling his violently coloured coat. ‘I’ll meet you back here in exactly one hour, then we can go to dine at Lyndsey’s and on to the Assembly Rooms to dance.’

  The Apothecary gave in, merely answering lamely, ‘Then may I present my card, Sir?’

  Orlando glanced at it, said, ‘An apothecary, eh?’, then hastened off down the street, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Here, in one hour. Don’t be late.’

  Thinking that fate had clearly delivered him the chance to find out more about Hannah Rankin, John, tired after all his hill-climbing and wanting to save his legs for the evening’s activity, took a sedan chair back to The Bear.

  His love of high fashion, combined with the knowledge that to go to Bath in the season without a dazzling array of evening clothes would be an act of pure folly, served John in good stead. Decked out in plum velvet embroidered with silver leaves and flowers, an ensemble that would not have disgraced the most recherché ballroom in the capital, he arrived by chair at the appointed meeting place exactly one hour later. Much as to be expected, there was no sign of the beau, but within five minutes, during which John eyed the passing parade making its way to din
e, Orlando appeared with another languid creature, who made a great show of bowing to John. His small feet, clad in their high-heeled shoes, minced over the cobbles as formal introductions were made.

  The Apothecary’s heart sank at the prospect of an evening in the company of two such butterflies, and he decided that only a wealth of information about the mysterious Hannah would make it worth while.

  ‘You have dined at Lyndsey’s before?’ asked Orlando, taking John’s arm in the most familiar manner as they walked along.

  ‘Once, when I visited Bath with my father.’

  ‘It can be very dull, of course. Full of femmes formidables drinking tea till it fair gushes from their every orifice. One is bound to see old Lady Westmoreland holding court. She likes me, though. In fact I do believe she runs a speculative eye over my person, considering whether or not I would make a good rum boy.’

  Robin Sidmouth, clad from head to toe in powder blue, his face that of a petulant cherub, pealed with laughter. ‘And would you consider being so, Orlando?’

  His friend cocked a thin dark brow, painted well above the level of his own, and said, ‘I’ve told you before, Rob. I would do anything that suited my purpose.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked John.

  Surprised, the beau turned to look at him, and just for a second somebody else peeped out from beneath his fantastic maquillage. ‘To get away from my uncle and make my own way in the world,’ he stated bitterly.

  Catching his mood, the Apothecary said, ‘Is Sir Vivian that hard to live with?’

  Orlando became himself again and executed a nimble dance step. ‘La. how I do prattle on. I’ll trip over my own tongue at this rate. Come, my friend, we are almost there. Believe me, I would not have suggested we walk lest Lyndsey’s be just around the corner.’

  And indeed, a few moments later, John, slightly daunted by the company he was keeping but putting a brave face on it, entered one of Bath’s several sets of rooms where the beau monde met to dine and take tea. Lyndsey’s, one of the more famous places of assembly, consisted of a long room set with tables of varying sizes, together with a small room leading off it, where more intimate gatherings could be held. Bowing to all and sundry, raising his quizzing glass to examine the many pretty girls present, to say nothing of the boys, Orlando made an entrance and headed straight for a table for three.

  ‘Reserved,’ he announced to the waiter grandly. He waved to an elderly woman. ‘Cuckoo, Duchess. Your servant, Ma’am.’ He bowed and she inclined her head. ‘There,’ he whispered to John with a note of triumph. ‘I told you she fancied me.’

  ‘I take it that’s Lady Westmoreland?’

  ‘You take it right, my dear.’ Orlando looked thoughtful. ‘She’s a widow, you know. Perhaps …’

  Robin shrieked. ‘Oh, you couldn’t! Even you would baulk at that, surely.’

  Orlando shook his graceful head. ‘I baulk at nothing.’

  For no reason at all, John found himself saying, ‘Not even murder?’

  The beau shot him an unreadable look. ‘No, not even that, were it to suit my designs.’

  His friend appeared shocked. ‘That is a terrible thing to say, Orlando. People might take you seriously.’

  ‘I am very serious,’ the beau answered quietly, then took to looking at the menu and deciding what he would eat.

  If he hadn’t been so smothered in enamel, he might have been quite handsome, John thought, studying Orlando covertly from behind the bill of fare. Strong, shapely features and large eyes, probably blue, though it was hard to tell in the midst of so much kohl, were clearly there. His carmined mouth, too, though drooping at the corners with the elegant air of discontent that the beau adopted as his constant mien, seemed liberally proportioned. He was not very old, John guessed, probably in his early twenties, no more. Though that, too, was hard to tell, camouflaged as he was by so many layers of powder and paint.

  Orlando looked up, feeling the Apothecary’s eyes on him. ‘Champagne, my friend. Let us drink till the world glows golden.’

  John smiled cynically. ‘Or until we heave it all up.’

  The beau pulled a face. ‘Don’t remind me. Thank God you spared me public humiliation.’

  ‘What? What’s this?’ buzzed young Sidmouth, his face cracking into grins.

  ‘Nothing. I felt queasy in the Pump Room, that is all. Our new friend John helped me outside. He is an apothecary.’ This last being said as if it explained everything.

  ‘Are you?’ exclaimed Rob, the gleam of the hypochondriac in his eye. ‘I suffer enormously with distempers. What would you recommend?’

  ‘A simple diet and no wine,’ John answered with a straight face.

  Young Sidmouth’s little mouth twisted with disgust. ‘’S’life! I’d rather be in agony than have to eat so.’

  ‘That is your choice,’ the Apothecary answered gravely, and heard Orlando chuckle to himself.

  The meal passed pleasantly enough in view of the odd assortment of companions, and it was with a certain amount of anticipation that John, in company with the two beaux, who shrilled and waved at everyone they passed, made his way to the Assembly Rooms for the ball which, this night, began at eight o’clock. The Rooms had been built some years earlier at the behest of Richard Nash, known to all as Beau, the man who had literally transformed Bath from a somewhat rustic spa into the fashionable watering place frequented by the beau monde it had become. In his heyday, the Beau had been an autocratic Master of Ceremonies, laying down rules of behaviour and running activities as the supreme arbiter of taste. But now age had turned against him and he had become a rather shabby figure, wheeled into the Assembly Rooms in a Bath chair, from which he still attempted to run things through the new Master of Ceremonies, Mr Collet.

  This night, sure enough, with the season at its height and many people of high rank in town, at a few minutes to eight there was a stirring in the doorway and the aged man, approaching eighty-four and frankly grown into a wearisome old fool, was wheeled in by an attendant. John, who had not seen the Beau for many years, took a good look at him.

  His nickname was a misnomer if ever there was one. Even in his youth, Richard Nash had not been handsome, but in old age he looked a positive fright. Still wearing the battered white hat that was his trademark, the Beau slumped in his wheelchair, large and shapeless, while his poor face, with its many chins, seemed as huge as a ham. Tired eyes stared out from pouches reminiscent of fried eggs, and John’s heart ached that such a vital creature could have deteriorated into so decrepit a wreck.

  ‘Looks a nightmare, don’t he?’ murmured Orlando, close to the Apothecary’s ear.

  ‘It’s a pity he doesn’t retire from the scene with good grace.’

  ‘Should have done so long ago, but some of ’em just won’t relinquish power. Poor Collet’s a mere puppet with the ancient dodderer pulling his strings.’

  ‘An unpleasant situation.’

  ‘Just you observe.’

  With the time now fast approaching eight o’clock, Beau Nash stared fixedly at his watch, then poked the Master of Ceremonies in the back with his stick, which he proceeded to wave vigorously at the orchestra. There were frantic sounds of tuning up before the music started in earnest. Collet, jabbed painfully in the back once more, walked across the room with great state to lead out the most noble lord and lady in the minuet to begin the dancing. All this would have been extremely impressive had not the Beau been wheeled along just behind the Master of Ceremonies, which rendered the whole effect ludicrous.

  However, despite the aged bore, the evening was very jolly, and John thoroughly enjoyed the country dances. He also derived a great deal of amusement from watching Orlando and young Sidmouth, who whirled about like a couple of wasps, zooming in and out of the set figures with great élan. Though foppish to a degree, there was something quite likable about them, and John, watching their outrageous cavorting, found himself laughing with honest enjoyment.

  ‘Phew!’ said Orlando, flopping down on to t
he bench as the interval came. ‘I could drink a bottle of champagne to myself. Fine figures like me are entitled to take refreshment more than most.’ He dabbed at his upper lip with a lace-trimmed handkerchief and John saw that beads of sweat were forcing their way through the thick enamel.

  ‘Shall we step outside to cool down?’ he suggested.

  ‘That, and to get drunk.’

  ‘But the Beau has strict rules about drinking,’ shrilled young Sidmouth.

  ‘Bubs to the Beau,’ answered Orlando and, taking John by the arm, hastened him to an anteroom where tea and wine were being served.

  ‘A drink, my friend?’ he asked.

  Feeling like an elderly schoolmaster, John said, ‘Orlando, you vomited earlier today. Have some respect for your guts, I beg you.’

  The beau’s expression was like that of a disappointed child, even his lower lip trembling as he said, ‘Oh, don’t turn into a spoilsport. I want you for a friend and simply won’t be able to abide it if you prove to be boring.’

  The Apothecary shrugged. ‘I was trained to tend the sick and it seems to me that you are drinking somewhat heavily, but your constitution is yours and yours alone. I can’t stop you doing a thing.’

  Orlando turned away. ‘I hate that sort of lecture. It always make me feel guilty.’

  ‘I’m sorry for that.’

  ‘No, you’re not. It’s what you intended.’ Orlando’s manner brightened. ‘However, I shan’t let you spoil my fun. Nor will I let your killjoy attitude ruin a new association. I intend to remain close to you until either you become as debauched as I am or you cure me of all my many and various evils.’

  John’s brows rose. ‘Are they that numerous?’

  The strange expression that the Apothecary had glimpsed earlier, briefly swept Orlando’s face. ‘My dear, I am steeped in sin,’ he said.

  The moment seemed as opportune as any other. ‘Talking of sin, do you remember a servant of your uncle’s named Hannah Rankin?’ John asked casually.