Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  Orlando drew away. ‘Nobody shall see. My shame shall not be shown to the world.’

  ‘I am hardly that. I am an apothecary, not some gawking busybody. I am used to such things.’

  ‘Not like this, you’re not.’

  ‘Who did it? Sir Vivian?’

  ‘Of course. Who else?’

  ‘Is the man mad? Or just plain malicious?’

  ‘Both,’ said Orlando, repeating that same terrible smile. ‘He is the Devil come to earth and put in human form.’

  ‘The children. The children he brought up? What is the truth about them?’

  The beau shuddered, deep to his bone. ‘The truth is that none of us remained children for very long. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Only too clearly,’ said the Apothecary, then he put out his hand to support Orlando as he sunk to his knees, suddenly faint.

  It had not been an easy evening. Every plea to the beau to allow John to examine him had met with an adamant refusal. In the end, the best that the combined forces of the Apothecary, Coralie and young Sidmouth could achieve was to persuade Orlando to book himself into The Katherine Wheel in the High Street and extract a half-hearted promise from him that if he were no better in the morning he would allow someone qualified to examine him. And with that they all had to be satisfied. Hungrier than ever, as he still had not eaten a thing, John saw the wretched young man into a chair and then went back to Lyndsey’s to dine.

  Young Sidmouth, thankfully, had by now gone to join other friends, so that Coralie and John were alone for the first time.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘There’s evil in that house,’ she replied fearfully.

  ‘Did Sir Vivian say anything?’

  ‘Yes. In fact it was extremely unpleasant. He looked at me with those dark pebble eyes of his and remarked that I reminded him very much of a certain actress he had seen at the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘A Miss Coralie Clive?’

  ‘No less.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Bluffed my way through. Became more Italian than the Italians. But all the time I had this terrible feeling that he was smirking at me, laughing at my performance, that he did not believe a word I was saying.’

  ‘What of Orlando? Did he convey anything to you at all?’

  ‘He was lying in a darkened room but made an attempt to rally when he saw me. It seems that he had fallen foul of his uncle for spending too many nights away from home and that Sir Vivian had taken the horsewhip to him by way of punishment.’

  ‘No one whips a man of twenty-odd.’

  Coralie’s lovely face grew dark. ‘There is something awful happening there, I feel certain of it. What with the beating, then the attempt on the coachman’s life. Those young men aren’t safe.’

  ‘Well, they are both in Bath and quite secure, at least for tonight. And now, my sweetheart, I must eat.’

  And the Apothecary fell to with relish as the waiter began to pile before him the enormous helpings of food that he had so eagerly ordered.

  Later, when he was replete, John and Coralie walked back through the darkened streets of Bath to Cheap Street where The Bear was situated. Once there, they whispered their secret plans, then went their separate ways. Looking in on Jack’s room, John saw that the coachman still slept peacefully, no sign of the day’s dramatic events showing on the young man’s handsome countenance. Having thus checked that his patient was completely at ease, the Apothecary stole along the corridor to Coralie’s chamber and there knocked quietly.

  ‘Come in,’ she called.

  She was sitting on the bed wearing her white nightrail with the red ribbon trimming and looked so delicious that he could have kissed her from head to foot.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he said, and snuggled down beside her.

  ‘I have missed you,’ the actress responded, turning to him. There was no reply. ‘My dear?’ she said. But the Apothecary was already sound asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a slow awakening. After the violent escapades of the previous day, the Apothecary slept deeply, though not peacefully. Orlando’s pitiable state, the fact that he had suffered a beating at Sir Vivian’s hands, must have impinged deeply on his consciousness, for all night long he dreamt of children in peril; of Petronelle, small and lost and sad, roaming the streets of London with no one to care for her; of Jack the coachman, knowing nothing of his parents, brought to Welham House, his only memory a garden.

  ‘A garden, a garden,’ John repeated in his sleep, and then very gradually, almost as if layers of oblivion were being peeled away, he woke up, wondering what it was that he ought to know, what piece of information ought to be crystallising in his mind, giving him the answer to a vital question.

  Beside him, Coralie Clive moved, and the Apothecary turned to look at her. She was like a rose, he thought; her lissom body the stem, the cloud of dark hair tumbling over the pillow the petals. With a tilt of his heart, he realised, yet again, that he had finally achieved his ambition, that at long last she shared his bed and his life, at least as far as she would allow herself to do so at this stage of her career.

  ‘One day,’ John whispered, and Coralie smiled and stirred but did not wake. Kissing her very gently, the Apothecary got out of bed, his thoughts turning to Jack, wondering how that particular young man was faring after his narrow escape from the hands of a murderer. Very conscious that he must see to him, John stole down the corridor to his own room, where be washed and shaved and put on fresh clothes before going to his patient.

  It was six o’clock in the morning, and the dose of laudanum that John had administered the night before should easily have cleared Jack’s system by now, leaving him refreshed and ready for the day. Quietly confident that he would find the coachman much better, the Apothecary knocked on the door. There was no reply so he knocked again, this time a little louder. Slightly alarmed that there was still no response, John turned the handle and went inside.

  The room was empty, the bed-linen neatly folded back, the pile of clothes that the landlord of The Ship had lent Jack, his own being too wet to travel in, gone from the chair on which they had been neatly laid. The nightshirt that John had loaned the coachman lay in their place. Of Jack himself there was no sign whatsoever. With frightening thoughts of kidnap running through his mind, the Apothecary rushed downstairs.

  A maid was struggling about in the hall, armed with jugs of hot water to take to the various rooms as the guests awoke. She looked up warily as John approached.

  ‘Was I late with your ewer, Sir? It’s been a bit of a rush this morning. I hope I haven’t put you out.’

  He cut through the pleasantries. ‘It’s about the young man who slept in number six last night. He’d had stitches in his head and went to bed early. Do you recall him?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well, he’s not in his room. Have you any idea where be can be?’

  ‘Yes. He’s gone to London, Sir.’

  John stared at her. ‘Gone to London?’

  ‘Aye. He came down at five and caught the stagecoach leaving just after. He said to tell you he felt much better and to thank you for everything. He also said he’d see you again.’

  ‘Did he have enough money to settle his account?’

  ‘Aye. The gentleman who called on him late last night gave him some, or so the young man remarked to me.’

  ‘God’s love,’ said John irritably, ‘what gentlemen was this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. I was catching a wink. All I can tell you is that the young man with the mauve eyes told me that a friend visited during the night and lent him some money, otherwise he would have been in trouble.’

  ‘But you didn’t see the visitor?’

  ‘No, Tim did.’

  ‘And where’s Tim?’

  ‘Asleep, Sir.’

  It was hopeless. Disturbed and definitely disgruntled, John stepped out into the street to gather his thoughts. During the night, then, someone
had called on Jack, someone who knew where he was, and had given him enough money to pay his bill and to travel to London. But who was that someone? The only person that the Apothecary could possibly think of was Orlando, and the more he thought about it the more sense that answer made. If the motive for the whole thing were for Jack to escape from a murderous Sir Vivian Sweeting, then the pieces of the puzzle certainly fitted. But why London? Why so far away? There were other places in which to hide nearer at hand, surely. Could the reason for going to town be entirely different? If the mysterious coachman who called on Hannah Rankin was indeed Jack of Welham House, then might not something connected with the murder be the cause for Jack’s sudden disappearance to the metropolis?

  The Apothecary had been walking while all these thoughts rushed through his mind, so that now, gazing around him consciously for the first time, he found that he was only a hundred yards or so away from the King’s Bath. Looking at his handsome watch, a present from Sir Gabriel for his twenty-first birthday, he discovered that it was not yet seven o’clock. Acting on a whim, John went inside the Bath, hired drawers, a waistcoat and turban, and prepared to enter the Dragon’s Lake.

  It seemed more vapour-filled and desolate than ever this morning, the whispers of the few dippers present echoing off the walls like the voices of the dead. With his usual sense of apprehension, John descended the steps into the steam, his feet seeking the hot waters that he knew lay in wait for him, and lowered himself with care into the cauldron.

  Out of the mist a voice spoke, right by his ear. ‘Mr Rawlings?’

  John’s turbaned head shot round, but he could see nothing. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you trying to do, raking up memories that should be allowed to die?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You little bastard,’ whispered the voice, ‘you know perfectly well.’ And with that a pair of brawny arms seized John round the waist and dragged him below the scalding surface.

  It was a ghastly sensation, just as if he were being drowned in a vat of boiling oil. Wriggling like an eel, the Apothecary threw frenzied punches with as much strength as he could muster, but his assailant was standing behind him and nothing was hitting home. Gasping for breath, John kicked out backwards as hard as he could and felt his foot come into contact with soft flesh. He was abruptly released and, spluttering and hawking, managed to get his head above the surface and take some deep breaths. Whirling round, he peered through the steam and saw a tall man, bent double and clutching his privy parts, groaning as he did so.

  ‘Serves you right,’ stated John, his voice echoing back off the dripping walls. He eyed his opponent more closely, and the unusual head of hair, striped like a badger’s, confirmed what he had begun to suspect. ‘So you’re Dick Chandler, who went in search of Lucy Allbury,’ he said. ‘What a fool you are, man.’

  The other looked up aggressively but did not have the wind to answer.

  ‘I thought that you, of all people, would have had the sense to check your facts before you attacked someone at your place of employment,’ the Apothecary went on. ‘Why, I could have you dismissed, you blundering idiot.’

  ‘Don’t call me names, you bloody liar,’ gasped the other. ‘You are no more Lady Allbury’s nephew than I am. Her true nephew died at sea.’

  ‘Yes, I must confess I falsified that detail in order to extract as much information as I could from the old ferryman.’

  A distant voice called out, ‘Could you make less noise, if you please. Some of us are trying to bathe in peace.’

  John moderated his tone. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he hissed. ‘Go about your work and when I have finished bathing I shall seek you out.’

  Chandler looked cynical. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  ‘And see it you will. Now, give me a quarter of an hour, then I’ll go to a changing cubicle. Bring my clothes to me so that we can discuss the situation in private.’

  Dick sneered, but at least had the good grace to head towards the steps, where he disappeared into clouds of vapour. Wondering what further misfortunes could possibly befall him. John groaned and submerged his aching muscles in the suddenly comforting warm water.

  Fifteen minutes later, having traversed the bath twice for good measure, the Apothecary headed for the changing cubicles, to be instantly greeted by a hovering Chandler.

  ‘Your clothes, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Could you bring me a towel, please.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir.’

  This formality dispensed with, John went into the cubicle and Chandler followed a moment or two later. The Apothecary lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘My name is John Rawlings and I am in Bath on behalf of Mr John Fielding, who is London’s Principal Magistrate and who presides over the court and Public Office at Bow Street. He is investigating the death by foul play of a woman called Hannah Rankin, who at one time worked for Sir Vivian Sweeting of Welham House. When she applied for work in London, Hannah gave as one of her references Lady Allbury of Bath. When I came here to find Lady Allbury I discovered that she had killed herself after the disappearance of her youngest child, Lucy. The ferryman told me that you investigated that disappearance at the time. Tell me, Mr Chandler, do you believe that Hannah Rankin was involved in the affair?’

  Chandler’s somewhat pointed face, a feature that made him appear even more badger-like, had undergone a transformation from mistrustful to interested as the Apothecary had spoken. Now, though, it looked sorrowful.

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. All I can tell you is that the girl must have been snatched by someone she knew, and Hannah was Sir Vivian’s trusted servant. I combed the gardens of Prior Park and nowhere could I see any sign of a struggle: kicked-up earth, broken branches, that kind of thing. She must have been called to while she was playing hide-and-seek, then gone with a person that she considered a friend. Perhaps a bribe of some kind, a promise of a treat or sweetmeats, was used. Who can say?’

  ‘But why was she abducted, in your view? For what purpose?’

  Chandler sighed deeply. ‘To act as some perverted beast’s little lover, that is my opinion. I believe that she was taken to London and either sold on the open market or to someone who had ordered her in advance.’

  ‘Did you find any evidence of this?’

  ‘In a way. I travelled the route myself and asked at every inn and posthouse if a girl answering Lucy’s description had passed that way, either by stagecoach, post chaise, or private carriage. Several remembered such a child travelling in the company of a dark-haired woman.’

  ‘Hannah!’ John breathed.

  ‘Possibly, Sir.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went to London – Lady Allbury was paying all my expenses – and there I searched the brothels and bagnios. There was no sign of her, Sir. She had vanished into a private residence, of that much I am certain. I spent a month combing that hell-hole of a city and in the end I had to come away empty-handed. Whoever had taken Lucy had concealed her well from prying eyes.’ Chandler coughed a little, then said, ‘I’m sorry I attacked you, Mr Rawlings. I thought the worst when the ferryman told me that Lady Allbury’s nephew had returned from abroad.’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable. I regret kicking you in the cods.’

  Chandler gave a rough laugh. ‘Not for the first time in my life, I might add.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Now, is there anything further you can tell me?’ John asked. ‘I know it may not seem relevant but I am convinced that Lucy’s disappearance is linked with a similar incident involving a boy in Paris, unlikely though that may appear.’

  Chandler scratched his chin. ‘I can’t think of a thing, Sir. Lady Allbury had no connections in France.’

  ‘Did you know Sir Vivian Sweeting at all? Or Hannah?’

  ‘I had heard of her, though I never actually met the woman. Sir Vivian is a different matter, however. He is a member of Bath’s beau monde. I remember that way b
ack he was bringing up a great many of his deceased relatives’ children.’ Dick stopped and stared at the Apothecary. ‘You don’t think he trafficked …?’

  ‘Yes, I do, I’m afraid. The presence of Hannah Rankin in his household, to say nothing of a remark made by one of those children, now grown up, convinces me that Sir Vivian is – or was – a child molester.’

  ‘Then the man must be stopped.’

  ‘As I said, perhaps that has already happened. There is no sign of children in Welham House now. And Hannah left years ago. Perhaps something frightened the man and he ceased his evil trade. But, Mr Chandler, if we are to solve this whole mystery, please rack your brain for any detail that might assist me further.’

  ‘My mind is a blank. What can I say? Lucy was born in 1741, a little bastard alas. She vanished seven years later. Nothing was ever heard of her again.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll have to be content with that. Now, I’d best get dressed. I’m beginning to feel cold.’

  ‘Would you like another towel, Sir?’

  ‘No, I’ll put my clothes on quickly. By the way, I’m staying at The Bear, just in case you should think of anything more.’

  ‘Very good, Sir.’

  It had been an interesting conversation, John thought as he hurriedly put on his garments. Indeed, most enlightening had been the facts about Lucy’s journey to London in the company of a woman who surely must have been Hannah Rankin. Yet how much further had his talk with Chandler got him? Other than for that piece of information, not a great deal forward. Still, the conviction that because of their similarity Lucy and Meredith’s disappearances were somehow connected continued to haunt John as he finally tied his stock and set forth, hatless, in the direction of the Pump Room where, hopefully, he might discover Coralie or even the suffering Orlando.

  It was early, however, and the usual jollities were not yet under way. Taking a glass of the horrible stuff, the Apothecary, feeling tremendously virtuous, paced the almost empty room, listening to the band strike up and watching as various aged invalids hobbled forward to consume their daily dose of health-giving water.