Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was shaped like a bird’s head, with a big beak sticking out at the front and slanting slits for eyes. It looked foreign, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘A Venetian carnival mask?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Toby gripped John’s arm tightly. ‘It frightened me, Sir, and that’s the honest truth. There was something terrifying about it.’

  The Apothecary smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Calm yourself. Sit down and tell me all that you saw. Start at the beginning.’

  They took seats opposite one another and Toby, after a moment’s hesitation, clearly made up his mind to unburden himself.

  ‘Well, I was coming from Mr Kemp’s, having delivered some vegetables to his kitchen. I was just about to let myself out of the gate in his garden – all the trusted employees have a key – when I heard the sound of something approaching. Don’t ask my why I drew back, Sir, because I’ll never know the answer myself. Anyway, draw back I did, and by the light of the moon, quite faint but enough, I saw this terrible figure pushing its wheelbarrow. It came into the garden and immediately took the path heading towards the Fish Pond.’

  ‘And Hannah?’

  ‘She was lying in a pool of blood in the barrow. I thought she was dead, Sir, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘There was enough light for you to recognise her?’

  ‘Yes. You see, when this person told me what they had to say about Hannah on that other occasion, she was present and I had time to study her.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In The Old Fountain, a tavern which stands at the east end of the Gardens. I met my friend, and Hannah Rankin was sitting just round the corner. That’s when he asked me if she was at St Luke’s and informed me of her past.’

  ‘And you are quite certain that it was not him pushing the barrow?’

  Toby’s battle-torn face looked sad. ‘No, Sir, I am not certain. I could not truthfully say who it was or who it wasn’t, and I swear that on my son’s life.’

  ‘Toby, you’ve got to tell me who your friend is. He might be able to help me enormously.’

  The old soldier shook his head. ‘That I’ll never do. I’ve already said more than enough. The rest you will have to discover for yourself. From now on my lips are sealed.’

  ‘Then let me ask you one more thing. What time of day did this occur?’

  ‘It would have been about nine o’clock, Sir. Whoever brought her along waited for darkness to protect them.’

  ‘And they definitely came across the fields?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Either from Islington or the French Hospital or Ratcliff Row, for the path forks three ways, remember.’

  ‘I think,’ said John, more to himself than to poor Tobias, who was by now shaking with the sheer effort of the tale he had decided to tell, ‘that the French Hospital must be my very next place of call.’

  ‘Aye, Sir. Look for the painted old Frenchman,’ answered the soldier unexpectedly. Then, with a salute, he was gone, before the Apothecary could ask him another thing.

  More as a matter of curiosity than in the hope of finding any additional evidence, John took the route that the killer must have taken. Going from the entry lodge to the Fish Pond, walking through the Garden’s pleasant vistas, admiring the shrubs and flowers, the Apothecary traversed the perimeter, raising his hat to the various anglers standing there, then took the path to the right of Mr Kemp’s house. To his left stood the proprietor’s private garden, a high wall protecting it from the fields that lay beyond, a tall hedge shielding it from the gaze of visitors. Within this hedge a small wooden latched gate marked ‘Private’ gave access to William Kemp’s property, but the gate to which Toby had referred lay straight ahead. Much larger, it stood in an arch in the brick wall, its black latch at hand height. Trying it, John discovered that it was locked. Undeterred, he proceeded to Mr Kemp’s front door, protected from the Peerless Pool by yet another brick wall, and rang the bell. A saucy maid answered.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Good morning. Is Mrs Kemp at home?’

  ‘No, she’s taken the carriage into town, Sir.’

  ‘Well, Mr Kemp is busy about the Gardens – I know because I’ve seen him. The thing is I need to borrow the key to the back gate. I …”

  But the girl cut John’s explanation short, smiling and somehow contriving to wriggle her pert breasts and nose simultaneously. ‘Help yourself, Sir. It’s hanging on a hook in the kitchen. Over the fireplace. You can’t miss it.’ And with a further impudent look, she was gone, leaving the Apothecary free to wander through a small outbuilding and take the key, meeting no one other than a skivvy shelling peas, who waved a skinny arm at him and did not challenge him at all.

  ‘Only too easy,’ the Apothecary said to himself as he unlocked the gate and passed through into the fields beyond.

  Three paths, all leading from one track, spread out before him. To his right the path went off into the distance, heading towards Islington, while the track ahead veered left and ended in Ratcliff Row. The path going sharp left went round the outside of the Pleasure Garden and directly to the French Hospital. Locking the gate behind him and dropping the key into his pocket, John set off.

  The fields were bleached by the sun and full of wild summer flowers, and he would dearly have loved to have walked that way, looking for simples. But the Apothecary stuck to what he must do and strode briskly on, crossing Pest House Row and going in at the hospital entrance, admiring, yet again, the fine architecture and beautiful garden of this most gracious building.

  The Hospital was built round three sides of a square, the imposing front door lying in the middle of the right-hand wing, complete with a flight of wide steps and a pillared entrance. Not quite sure how he was going to conduct the interview, John climbed to the top step and rang the bell. An imposing maid, tall and graceful and very French, answered.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur?’

  With not an idea as to what he ought to say, John took a chance and asked, ‘Is Monsieur le Marquis in at the moment?’

  The maid frowned. ‘Monsieur le Marquis? Do you not have his name?’

  The Apothecary put on his buffoon’s face. ‘No need of a name when he is around. One would know him anywhere by his maquillage. Le visage blanc, les grains de beauté noir. Ha, ha, ha, quel homme!’

  The servant stared at him as if he were utterly crazed. ‘Do you mean the old Marquis?’ she asked cautiously.

  John winked a solemn eye. ‘Old, perhaps. Mais un renard sage, n’est-ce pas?’

  The woman looked more unsure than ever. ‘And what is your business with him, if you please?’

  The Apothecary produced his card, bowed so low that his hat brushed the top step, and said with a knowing look, ‘I have a message from one of his friends, Miss Hannah Rankin.’

  ‘I will see if Monsieur is in,’ the maid said, snatching the card from John’s fingers and shutting the door in his face, all in one ill-tempered movement.

  ‘Pray do,’ he said to the closed door, and wondered whether the man he sought really was a marquis or whether that was merely the old fellow’s nickname.

  He was still considering when the door opened again to reveal the Frenchman himself.

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis?’ John enquired, but the other just inclined his head, giving no indication as to his status.

  He really was extremely ancient, and the careful application of cosmetic enamel only served to make him look even older, for each line and wrinkle was filled with white substance, a repulsive effect, particularly when he grimaced, which the Marquis did now.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, his voice coming from some bronchial area deep within his chest, as if he had smoked a pipe from the moment he was born.

  ‘I have some information about Hannah,’ John answered, never taking his eyes from the Frenchman’s.

  ‘Hannah who?’

  ‘Hannah Rankin. My understanding is that you know her, Sir. Her landlady told me that you called at the h
ouse; another informant says that you are her recognised associate.’

  Ringed by black dye, the Marquis’s reptilian eyes did not so much as blink. ‘I know many people, young man. Hannah Rankin could well be one of them. But now you answer me a question. By whose authority do you come to this place of refuge and interrogate me? Your card says that you are an apothecary. Since when have herbalists had the power to pry into private lives?’

  Anticipating this attack, John did not falter. ‘I represent Mr John Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street, Monsieur. The fact is that your companion Hannah was brutally murdered a few days ago. Everyone with whom she had contact is being questioned. However, if you do not wish to talk to me I can easily arrange for you to be taken to Bow Street and there to speak to the Principal Magistrate himself.’

  The old lizard face remained impassive, but the Marquis shrugged a world-weary shoulder. ‘It is of little consequence to me where I tell my story.’

  ‘Then if you would care to ask me inside we may as well get the business done now.’

  ‘As you wish,’ answered the Marquis, and opened the door wide enough to allow John to step within and take stock of his surroundings.

  La Providence, as the French Hospital was known to its residents, was certainly as elegant on the inside as it was on the exterior. From the beautiful and spacious hall rose a graciously proportioned staircase, obviously leading to apartments situated on the first and second storeys, while corridors to the right and left extended the length of the wing, giving access to the rooms on the ground floor. With a humourless smile, the Marquis turned left, cocking his head for John to follow him, and they proceeded down the corridor, the stamp of their feet on the polished wood floor breaking the immense calm of the place. Eventually they reached a door to which the Marquis produced a key, and the two of them stepped into a large room full of sunshine. Yet despite the light and warmth, John shivered.

  It was strange. The room itself was clean, not a speck of dust on the floor or furniture, the window panes shining in the sunlight. Yet an overpowering smell – of clothes saturated with a scent grown stale; of thick white face enamel allowed to harden; of a chamber pot used in the night and not yet attended to – made the atmosphere unbearable. There was also, John thought, a distinct aroma of rot coming from the old man himself.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said the Frenchman, indicating a wing chair.

  The Apothecary sat gingerly, not liking the atmosphere of the place at all, while the Frenchman took a seat opposite, crossing one leg over the other. As he moved, small clouds of powder rose into the air, adding to the generally fusty aroma.

  The Marquis licked his carmined lips. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  ‘By telling me, Sir, your full name and title, that is if you have one.’

  The Frenchman laughed deep in his smoke-filled lungs. ‘I am the Marquis de Saint Ombre, and my estates and properties were originally in Gascony. However, religious persecution of the Huguenots made me seek sanctuary in this country, and now I own nothing.’

  Congratulating himself on guessing the elderly wretch’s title correctly, John continued, ‘Now, Sir, I believe you are connected with a woman called Hannah Rankin. Just to jog your memory, she lived in the house of Mother Hamp in Ratcliff Row and she worked at St Luke’s Hospital for Poor Lunatics. It is thought by some that you were her suitor.’

  The Marquis tapped the side of his nose and a flake of enamel fell on to his coat. ‘I recall the woman now. Yes, of course. Her suitor, eh? Are you suggesting that she granted me her favours?’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything, Monsieur le Marquis. Instead I would prefer you to tell me all that you can remember about her. For example, where did you meet Hannah, and when?’

  The Frenchman looked vague. ‘Let me see now. I fled to this country some twenty years past and came to live directly here in La Providence, remaining ever since. As a gentleman, I do not have a trade and was therefore unable to become part of the London working community. I met Hannah some years ago in The Old Fountain where I sometimes go to take refreshment. That is all there is to it.’

  ‘You visited her in her home, I believe.’

  ‘Oh, yes. She occasionally obliged me with a feather-bed jig, as you English would say.’

  ‘You were Hannah’s lover?’

  ‘Hardly that. But even old men have needs and Hannah catered for mine quite adequately.’

  The Marquis leered unpleasantly, exposing his yellow teeth.

  ‘In that case I must comment that you do not seem particularly upset about her death.’

  ‘I already knew about it. Word spreads quickly in this community. Would you care for a glass of canary?’

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’

  ‘You have no objection to my partaking?’

  ‘None at all.’

  John sat silently, watching the old man go to a decanter and pour himself a deep glass, his hand shaking very slightly as he did so. Taking the opportunity while the Frenchman’s back was turned, the Apothecary snatched a quick look around the room. Other than for the usual books and furnishings there was little of interest to see, but through the open bedroom door John caught a glimpse of a painting, a painting that seemed a little unusual to say the least. Unable to resist, he got to his feet and sauntered towards the door.

  It was the sort of picture that could, at first glance, be thought of as perfectly innocent. A female child, naked but for a wreath of flowers in her hair, stood in a field surrounded by fairy folk. But there all semblance of innocence ended, for each and every one of the immortals was engaged in salacious behaviour of one kind or another. Ghastly grinning gnomes raped a screaming fairy; a satyr bestrode an elfin boy child; a ring of goblins indulged in homosexual intercourse; Oberon displayed magically enlarged privy parts. It was one of the most brutal paintings the Apothecary had ever seen.

  Behind him, the Marquis laughed. ‘I see you like my picture.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that like was quite the right word.’

  ‘I bought it in Paris many years ago. The artist was young and struggling. I paid him a fair price and have treasured it ever since.’

  ‘Personally I find it disturbing.’

  ‘You are meant to, my young friend.’

  John turned round. ‘Monsieur le Marquis, eight nights ago Hannah Rankin was beaten almost to death, then she was thrown into the Fish Pond to drown. I must ask you to tell me where you were on the evening in question.’

  The Frenchman frowned. ‘Eight nights back? Would that have been a Friday? Gracious, I can hardly remember yesterday, time passes so quickly. But if I recall correctly I played whist with friends. Yes, I believe I did.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In town. In a house near Piccadilly. I took a hackney coach.’

  ‘What was the name of your hosts?’

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Menard. They are wealthy Huguenots who have become part of British common life.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to give me their address.’

  ‘But you have my word as a nobleman that I was there.’

  ‘In a case of murder I am afraid that is not good enough.’

  ‘You are impudent, Sir.’

  ‘If so, then I apologise. But let me hasten to assure you that Mr Fielding would have said the same.’

  The Marquis downed the canary with one rapid swallow and refilled his glass. ‘Now, is there anything more I can tell you?’

  “Yes. Did Hannah ever mention to you that she might have enemies of any kind? People from the past who could have known her when she lived in Bath? Or even earlier?’

  There was a definite shift in the whitened features. Something John had said had struck a chord.

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’ the Marquis responded and the Apothecary knew that the old man had asked the question in order to gain time.

  ‘I am simply enquiring whether Hannah, as your mistress, confided in you that she might be afraid o
f anyone. A burly coachman has been mentioned to me. Someone from whom she apparently said she might have to escape.’

  The Marquis gripped the table at which he was standing. ‘I cannot think what you are talking about. Somebody has been joking with you, I believe. Hannah had no enemies that I was aware of.’

  ‘Did you realise that she once lived in Bath?’

  ‘I believe she mentioned it.’

  ‘Only mentioned? How long did you say you knew her?’

  The Marquis waved a vague arm and the overpowering smell of stale scent filled the room once more. ‘I didn’t, but it must be two years or thereabouts.’

  ‘Before she went to work at St Luke’s, then?’

  The lines in the white face hardened. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But she was only there a year. I learned that from the Hospital directly.’

  ‘Then perhaps I am confused. Hannah is a relatively new acquaintance, let me hasten to assure you of that.’

  Why? the Apothecary wondered. Why hasten to assure me? And he became instantly convinced that the relationship between Hannah and the Marquis went back much further than the Frenchman was prepared to admit. He attempted to pursue the idea.

  ‘Are you familiar with Sir Vivian Sweeting, by any chance?’

  A muscle twitched beneath the Marquis’s pallid mask. ‘No, I don’t believe so. Is he a member of the beau monde?’

  ‘Yes, I think one could say he is. In Bath, most certainly.’

  ‘Then how would I know him?’ The Frenchman sprang to his feet and began to pace. ‘My dear Sir, I lost everything when I left France. I had nothing but what money and jewels I could carry on me. I live here on charity and conduct my life by means of my small investments and the kindness of my friends. I do not have the resources to sojourn at Bath, that is for certain.’

  He was ruffled, and John was more than aware of it. He smiled his honest-citizen smile. ‘I did not mean to pry into your affairs, my dear Sir. It just occurred to me that as you were an intimate of hers, Hannah might have introduced you when Sir Vivian came to town.’

  The Frenchman shook his head. ‘No, she did not. Now, Sir, will that be all?’