Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  The Apothecary made a highly elaborate bow. ‘Indeed it will, Monsieur le Marquis. For the time being that will most certainly suffice. Good-day to you, Sir.’

  He bowed again and left the room, well aware of the Marquis’s ravaged face turned towards him, watching his every move as he made his way back down the corridor.

  Having returned the key to Mr Kemp’s walled garden, John set off for St Luke’s Hospital before taking a hackney coach home. The asylum being so close to the French Hospital, it seemed foolish not to seize the opportunity of making another visit, and yet there was no real reason for it. But still something lurked at the back of the Apothecary’s brain, some reason, not yet formulated, why he needed to call and indulge in general conversation, if nothing more serious.

  Warder Forbes was on duty and received John cheerfully once he had managed to get past the trembling individual who manned the wicket gate.

  ‘And how are you today, Sir? I was wondering when we would see you again.’

  ‘How are you is more to the point. Have you recovered from your unpleasant ordeal?’

  ‘You mean identifying Hannah’s body?’ The Apothecary nodded. ‘It took me several days to get over it, Sir, and I’m no coward. God’s life, I’ve never seen such wounds. Whoever beat her put all his hatred into it and that’s for sure.’

  ‘You think it must have been a man?’

  ‘Can’t imagine a woman being strong enough, unless it were one of ours, of course.’

  ‘Do you mean an inmate?’

  ‘I do. When they’re in a frenzy they’ve got superhuman strength. Do you remember me telling you about Petronelle?’

  ‘Not liking children, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Well, she saw one the other day. Child of a visitor, it was. Anyway, it took four of us to hold her down, she went so wild. Eventually we overpowered her and tied her up tight for her own good. Then the apothecary came and dosed her with laudanum and we didn’t hear no more out of her for two days.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Locked in her room.’

  ‘Could I see her?’

  ‘No, Sir. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I am a medical man, remember. And besides, I feel she might have some information for me.’

  ‘About Hannah Rankin?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Forbes shook his head. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth, Sir.’

  ‘Then should I ask Mr Burridge?’

  ‘He’s not on duty, Sir.’

  ‘Then who is in charge?’

  ‘I am.’

  It appeared that they had reached an impasse, and John would have accepted the situation and taken his leave had it not been for the sudden sound of running feet. A second later a woman warder, panting and much out of breath, appeared, coming down the corridor at speed.

  ‘It’s Petronelle,’ she gasped. ‘I think she’s having a fit.’

  Without another word, Forbes beckoned the Apothecary to follow him and they sprinted along the passage until they came to an open doorway giving access to a small cell-like room. Inside, John could see the girl, tied to the bed but conscious, saliva flecking her lips, the pupils of her eyes so contracted that the brilliant blue which was their natural colour had almost consumed the rest, making her look like a demonic angel.

  ‘How much laudanum has this girl had?’ John shouted at Forbes, feeling for Petronelle’s pulse as she slipped into unconsciousness.

  ‘She’s kept under with it constantly,’ the woman warder answered.

  ‘Dear God, she’s had too much,’ the Apothecary said, looking at his patient in horror.

  ‘Should we try to get the medicine out of her?’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t think we can. It must be deep in her system for her pupils to react like that.’

  ‘Is she going to die?’ asked Forbes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Apothecary answered. He lifted the girl into his arms. ‘Petronelle, can you hear me?’

  She opened her terrible, tortured eyes and gave a parody of a smile. ‘She’s gone, the wicked one, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ John said. ‘She’s gone and she won’t come back any more.’

  ‘She thought I didn’t know her, but I did.’

  ‘Who, Petronelle? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘She said she would take me to see Minerva’s head. It was lucky to touch it. Only a shilling, Sir. Just to pay for my lodging.’

  ‘Be quiet, my dear. You are looked after now.’

  ‘She told me I would see Minerva,’ Petronelle replied faintly, then she lowered her lids and went very still.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Afterwards, when he was home, safe in his own surroundings, John had wept, struck to the heart by the futility of Petronelle’s short life, by the sheer devastating waste of it. That so flawless a beauty should have had the greatest flaw of all seemed too terrible to come to terms with. And yet the fact remained. The lovely girl had lost her wits on the streets of London while little more than a defenceless child and had spent the rest of her time incarcerated in an asylum.

  ‘May God have mercy on her,’ John had said aloud, wishing for the hundredth time that he had got to her earlier.

  Yet there was a part of his brain, a little icy sliver, that told him the poor creature was best out of her cocoon of madness, that death while she was still young and perfect was far preferable to life as a gibbering, slobbering wreck of a woman, made ugly by dementia. But even though he knew this logical, rational argument was right, still he grieved for the fact that she had been too far gone for him to administer the treatment of emetic and stimulants which might have saved Petronelle if he had found her in time.

  With his usual tact and wisdom, Sir Gabriel had left his brooding son alone, but eventually there had come a tap at the bedroom door to which John, having washed his face thoroughly and taken a dose of reviving physick, had responded, ‘Come in.’ His father had appeared.

  ‘My dear, you have a visitor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The redoubtable Joe Jago clad in an emerald-green frock. He presents Mr Fielding’s compliments and wonders whether you could spare time for a talk.’

  The Apothecary instantly felt cheered, pleased as he always was to see the Magistrate’s wily clerk. And today was no exception. As he walked into the library, Joe rose to his feet, scratched his red curls and gave a grin broad as a barge.

  ‘Mr Rawlings, Sir, how goes it with you?’

  ‘A mix of fortunes, my friend. And what of yourself?’

  ‘I attended a funeral this morning, not a cheerful event at the best of times and this one worse than most.’

  ‘Was it Hannah Rankin’s?’

  ‘Indeed it was. She went into a pauper’s grave at first light at Tindal’s Burying Ground, with no one to see her off except me. Alone and friendless, as you might say.’

  ‘No one at all? Not even from St Luke’s?’

  ‘Not even from there.’

  ‘What about her lover? Surely he went?’

  Joe’s eyebrows almost hit his hair. ‘A lover, did you say? Well, well. How the world goes on! And who might he be?’

  ‘A decrepit old marquis from the French Hospital. You couldn’t mistake him. He’s all beauty spots and satin breeches.’

  ‘There was nobody within a mile answering to that description.’

  ‘Probably sleeping off the previous night’s dissipations.’

  ‘Could the Marquis be the man we are looking for?’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so. Amazingly, the murderer was actually seen by Toby Wills.’ And John went on to describe everything that had taken place since he had last reported to the Blind Beak. Joe sat silently, taking it all in, then said, ‘So Petronelle is dead. How very tragic. Tell me, was it an accident in your view?’

  ‘I believe so. Either an inept apothecary or, more likely, a member of St Luke’s staff incapable of measuring out the right dosage of laudanum, killed her
.’

  ‘So there is no connection with the murder of Hannah Rankin?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that. When I first encountered Petronelle she spoke about the wicked one who had come for her. Her dying words were of the same thing. It may be fanciful, but I can’t help wondering if she was referring to Hannah, though of course I can never find out now.’

  Joe looked thoughtful, his bright blue eyes clouded. ‘The truth has a way of coming out in the end. Did Petronelle say anything else before she died?’

  ‘Only that the unnamed wicked one, who was quite definitely female, had promised to show her the head of Minerva.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, I know it doesn’t make any sense. Minerva was an ancient Roman goddess, patroness of arts and handicrafts. It really means very little.’

  Joe sighed, then said, ‘Mr Fielding has given me a week off court duties in order that I may help you. Where would you like me to begin?’

  ‘I think the best place would be with the Marquis’s friends, the couple who, according to him, entertained him for whist on the night of the murder.’

  The clerk nodded. ‘The times of his visit are all-important, for logically he is the most likely to have committed the crime. However ancient, he may have had a violent quarrel with his mistress, beaten her half to death, then drowned her.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Perhaps the mysterious coachman was not a threat but a rival. Perhaps the old man thought himself cuckolded. They say that age is no bar to strong emotions.’

  The Apothecary fingered his chin. ‘That wretched coachman keeps cropping up and yet I still have no idea who he could possibly be. I’ll have to visit Mother Hamp again.’

  ‘And try Toby.’

  ‘Toby Wills? The waiter who saw the murderer?’

  ‘He knew about the Frenchman, didn’t he? I think he still might have more to tell you, Mr Rawlings.’

  John sighed. ‘Back to the Peerless Pool again.’

  The clerk looked wise. ‘Try to find him in The Old Fountain. He might be more relaxed in those surroundings, and I believe that most of the staff go there at nightfall when the Pleasure Gardens close.’

  ‘I shall make a point of it. After I have plied Mother Hamp with gin, of course.’

  Joe stood up. ‘Well, I’ve plenty to report back, Sir, so I’ll be on my way. Incidentally, Miss Mary Ann asked me to convey her compliments to you.’

  ‘Impudent little madam,’ John answered before he had stopped to think.

  Joe raised a sandy brow. ‘You’re right there, Mr Rawlings. I’ve noticed her giving the eye to all and sundry, She’s anxious to join the ranks of the women of the world, is that one.’

  The Apothecary groaned. ‘And her principal target is my apprentice.’

  ‘Young Nick? Oh dear! He’s at an age to bust out of his breeches, into the bargain.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done my best with him.’

  ‘Leicester Fields?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Joe looked sage. ‘Ah well, one can only do so much, After that, what will be, will be.’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  There was a twinkle about Joe Jago’s eye. ‘Mr Fielding tells me that Miss Coralie Clive will be going to Bath on behalf of the Public Office. It appears that he has received a letter from her.’

  ‘I believe she is going to pretend to be the wife of an aged Italian diplomat and worm information out of all the gentlemen.’

  ‘Then I wish her luck.’

  ‘As do I, Joe.’

  ‘That girl is something of a rum doxy, I must confess,’ the clerk said with a grin.

  ‘That,’ answered John, ‘she most certainly is.’

  Exactly one hour later, the Apothecary lay in the rum doxy’s arms, telling her about the death of Petronelle, his worst grief now at an end, his emotions beginning to sort themselves out.

  ‘The old midwife,’ said Coralie, when she had heard it all.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Did you not tell me before that a terrible old woman goes on duty at St Luke’s at night? She would be the one who would have given the poor child an overdose, too full of gin to notice.’

  ‘We can’t prove that.’

  ‘No, of course not. But the chances are very likely, would you not agree?’

  Just for one wonderfully challenging yet comfortable moment, John had a vivid picture of what it would be like to be married to Coralie Clive: the excitement, the arguments, the discussions, the love.

  ‘I agree, you rum mort, you.’

  She laughed. ‘Did Joe call me that?’

  ‘No, he called you a doxy – and he’s right.’

  The actress changed the subject. ‘I leave for Bath in the morning.’

  ‘Where will you stay?’

  ‘Where you did, at The Bear. It seems centrally placed and well thought of.’

  ‘Has Mr Fielding written to you?’

  ‘Yes. He suggests, as you did, that I find out all I can about Orlando, the coachman Jack, and Sir Vivian.’

  ‘We must know what Sweeting was up to with those children.’

  ‘I shall make the coachman my first target.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  Coralie undid a button. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I care for you.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and join me there in a few days? Then you can rescue me from the clutches of all those wicked men.’

  ‘That,’ John answered gravely, ‘is exactly what I intend to do.’

  The Shepherd and Shepherdess hostelry and tea garden, built at the turn of the century, commanded a supreme view of the fields stretching to Islington. In fact, even though it stood at the top end of Ratcliff Row, it was really a country inn and a well-known place for convalescence, poorly people coming to stay there in order to benefit from the pure air of the neighbourhood. But for those fitter mortals who had no need to be residents, there was the attraction of cakes and cream and furmity, all served in the tea garden overlooking the attractive vista. Knowing the inn’s reputation for good food, and anxious to see his old friend again, John had sent a message to Samuel to meet him there as soon as he could after both their shops were closed. Thus, at six o’clock, the Goldsmith strolled into the garden and found his friend tucking into an extremely severe high tea.

  ‘Well met,’ he said, thumping John on the shoulder. ‘How goes it all? I expect there have been a lot of developments.’

  ‘A mass,’ the Apothecary answered, and brought Samuel up to date while another vast spread was ordered and attacked.

  The Goldsmith’s eyes widened over his fruit tart. ‘So Toby admitted that he lied?’

  ‘Yes, in the end he was very helpful. However, Joe Jago thinks he might know something further. Something about the mysterious coachman.’

  Even as he said the words, John’s voice trailed away, and he sat with his mouth wide open, a jam-laden scone, halfway to his lips, arrested in mid-air.

  ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Why didn’t I see it before? The coachman. Of course.’

  Samuel stared at him blankly. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Jack, the coachman. The boy brought up by Sir Vivian, the one who remembered Hannah Rankin. He and the coachman who called on her have to be one and the same.’

  ‘How …?’

  But Samuel’s question was drowned as John rushed on. ‘The man was seen sitting on the coachman’s box by Mother Hamp. The conveyance was parked outside her front door and had a coat of arms on the side. It was obviously Sir Vivian’s coach driven there by jack from Bath. No wonder Hannah was afraid of him. It must have been like the past coming back to haunt her.’ He turned his gaze on Samuel. ‘You must remember all this. You were there.’

  ‘Of course I remember it. But not having met Jack I feel at something of a disadvantage.’

  ‘Well, accept it from me, he fits the bill completely. I must write to Coralie at once and tell her.’

  The Goldsmith�
�s affable face took on a gossipy look. ‘I take it, as much from what you haven’t said as from what you have, that your relationship with her has passed the point of no return?’

  John gazed at him blankly for a second, then burst out laughing. ‘What a terrible euphemism. Why don’t you come straight out with it? But the answer is yes, we have at long last been to bed together. And yes, my dear friend, before you ask, it was as wonderful as I had always dreamed it might be. And yes, yes, yes, I do want to marry her, but the little witch won’t have me.’

  ‘Oh, not that wedded-to-the-theatre pose of hers again?’

  ‘Yes, again. But one day I shall marry her. Coralie is for me, Samuel. That fact is inescapable.’

  ‘But does she know?’

  ‘Deep in her heart I think she does. All I am waiting for is the moment when she admits it.’

  ‘Then I wish you joy, my friend, with all sincerity.’

  Samuel was so patently pleased that John flung his arms around him and hugged him over the tea table, dislodging a custard as he did so. Wiping his sleeve and dabbing at his cheek, the Apothecary could not help but laugh at the expressions on the faces of the other patrons, to whose sour looks the Goldsmith responded by throwing a cream bun high in the air.

  ‘Champagne!’ he shouted loudly, then looked duly remorseful as a child sitting close by burst into tears with the shock of it all.

  As dusk fell over the flower-filled fields, above the distant sound of the lowing herds winding their way home to peaceful Islington, the noise of a bell chimed from the direction of the Peerless Pool.

  ‘Closing-down time,’ said John. ‘This is where we make our way to The Old Fountain and hope that Toby will come in for his usual nightly drink.’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered Samuel solemnly. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  They were both very slightly inebriated and walked with care down the path leading from Ratcliff Row across the fields to the eastern corner of the Pleasure Gardens, where stood The Old Fountain hostelry.

  ‘We should have called on Mother Hamp while we were there,’ John commented, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t I run back and invite her to join us for a gin?’

  ‘Do you think she can stagger this far?’