Death in the Peerless Pool

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Death in the Peerless Pool Page 23

by Deryn Lake


  It was a strange experience, knowing that this man was Meredith’s other grandfather, aware that his blood had flowed in the missing child just as much as had that of the Dukes of Bristol. John decided to be perfectly honest.

  ‘Gregg, I have come here because I believe there may be a link between the disappearance of Lord Anthony’s grandson in Paris and the kidnapping of a child from Bath a few years later. The two cases are so similar in the way the children vanished that I cannot get it out of my mind that they are connected. Where can we go that we may talk privately?’

  ‘Have you eaten, Sir?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Then may I suggest that you follow me to my quarters where we may dine and discuss the situation.’

  He was even more bear-like than John remembered; a powerful being who breathed calm and reassurance and strength. Small wonder that Lord Anthony had kept the man in his service despite the transgressions of Gregg’s son.

  In a somewhat daunted silence, John mounted a staircase of vast proportions and, having traversed a long and silent corridor, entered a suite of rooms that were friendly and lived-in. A sputtering fire burned in the main parlour and a maidservant hovered anxiously, ensuring that all was well.

  ‘Are you ready to be served dinner, Mr Gregg?’

  ‘There will be two of us tonight, Millie. So we’ll wait a quarter of an hour or so.’

  ‘Very good, Sir. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’

  John held out his hands to the blaze, feeling that the first fingers of autumn were in the early evening air,

  ‘Gregg, I’m afraid that I am going to rake over old ground. I hope that this will not distress you.’

  ‘What do you hope to achieve by it, Sir?’

  The Apothecary looked solemn. ‘Nothing, really. Nothing I can do or say will ever bring Meredith back.’

  ‘Then why …?’

  ‘To satisfy my own curiosity. To reassure myself that the cases of Lucy Allbury and Meredith Dysart are not related at all and that the similarities are nothing more than mere coincidence.’

  A slow, sad sigh came from Gregg’s hulking frame. ‘Meredith Gregg, Sir, for that’s who the poor child was. For all his father brought shame to the family, Lord Anthony’s grandson still bore my son’s name.’

  ‘So it is true. I had heard a rumour that you were Meredith’s other grandfather but wondered whether it was just gossip.’

  ‘No, it’s a fact. My son Richard seduced Alice.’ Gregg poured John a glass of claret, and the Apothecary could see that the older man’s hand was shaking. ‘But it wasn’t like a seduction, Sir. They were brought up together, just as I was with Lord Anthony. Look, let me show you something.’

  He stood up, beckoning John to follow him, and by the light of candles, for the evening was beginning to draw in, they retraced their steps to the towering staircase, then made their way down another corridor. Throwing open a door, Gregg led the way into a large and beautiful salon, whose long windows overlooked the dusk-drenched park.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and, lighting a silver candelabra, held it up to a painting.

  As was the fashion, it showed Lord Anthony and Ambrosine with their only surviving child, Alice, together with several of their servants. The picture had been painted in the grounds and Westerfield Place appeared in the background, large and impressive yet delicate as a fairy castle. Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart were seated, while Alice stood by her mother. Grouped round them were several of their servants, including a turbaned black slave. Unusually, at their feet sat four boys, aged roughly between ten and fourteen years old. The portrait was signed James Thornhill, whose name John recognised as that of William Hogarth’s father-in-law, and was dated 1722.

  ‘Look at Alice,’ said Gregg, his voice suspiciously hoarse.

  John followed the line of the steward’s finger, peering closely, and could easily see how as a young woman the child would have earned the nickname of Beauty of the County, for she was an exquisite little thing, with Ambrosine’s gorgeous lilac eyes and a great mop of tumbling fair ringlets.

  ‘There’s Richard,’ said Gregg, not without a note of pride, and John looked to the smallest boy, probably about ten or eleven years old, dressed simply as a kitchen lad, but for all that an extremely handsome child. ‘And that’s me,’ Gregg continued, pointing to the figure of a man of thirty or so, standing behind his master and easily recognisable as a younger version of the steward.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said John, and taking the candle tree from the other man’s hand, he held it close.

  For no reason his eye was drawn to the line of boys, and he wondered what it was about one of them that was attracting his attention. For there was something about that particular lad’s face that was faintly familiar. Yet try as he might, the Apothecary could not put a name to it, and he shook his head, dismissing the impression as an optical illusion caused by the light.

  Gregg interrupted his train of thought. ‘They were always friends, Richard and Alice. Then they became lovers. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to them. But they had flown in the face of social convention and they had to pay the penalty.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘When they discovered that she was pregnant, they eloped and were secretly married. But Lord Anthony would not recognise the match and they were forced to go and live in the direst poverty in a cottage that I would have described as a hovel. When Meredith was born, Lady Dysart relented and made Alice an allowance, but up till then she had had to take employment as washerwoman to a big house, while Richard became a footman.’

  Almost absently, John asked, ‘Where did they live?’

  ‘Across the river from Bath in a place called Bathwick.’

  A million clarion calls sounded in the Apothecary’s brain. ‘And what was the name of the man who employed them? Gregg, it is vital that you answer me correctly.’

  The older man frowned deeply. ‘I really can’t recall, Sir. We are talking about something that happened many years ago.’

  ‘Then where did Richard and Alice work? What was the name of the place?’

  ‘Ah, that I do remember. It was Welham House, Sir. For some reason that has always stuck in my mind.’

  ‘Welham House,’ repeated John, and sat down rapidly because of the sudden excitement that bubbled through him like champagne.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was a strange experience, spending the night in the vast echoing emptiness of Westerfield Place. Shown into a bedroom in the completely deserted East Wing, John, not prone to fancies, found himself unable to sleep, certain that deep in that huge deserted house a dead girl sobbed for her missing baby. Once, when he had drifted off into an uneasy slumber, he woke suddenly, convinced that someone was whispering outside his bedroom door. But lighting a candle and going to investigate he found no one there, though he could have sworn that the figure of a woman was just drifting out of sight as he stepped into the corridor.

  Over breakfast, Gregg had stared at the Apothecary’s somewhat haggard appearance. ‘Did she bother you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alice. She’s supposed to haunt the place, though I’ve never seen her. She whispers in the passageways and weeps on the stairs, or so it’s said.’

  John blenched. ‘I certainly did hear something.’

  Gregg looked grim. ‘Some old gypsy woman who came to the kitchens to sell brooms said Alice would never rest until her son came back to Westerfield.’

  ‘But he might well be dead after all this time.’

  The steward looked at him narrowly. ‘You don’t altogether believe that, do you? I think you reckon as I do. If the boy was taken for slavery or prostitution he might yet find his way home.’

  Having had much the same thought, John found himself unable to disagree.

  Perhaps because he looked so tired, perhaps because Gregg felt like a change of scene, perhaps because of a combination of both, the steward, as soon as the meal was over, offere
d to drive John back to Bath. Indeed, he took the reins himself, swinging up on to the box, a stalwart, comforting figure, calling to John over his shoulder, ‘Shouldn’t take long, Mr Rawlings. I can get up a better speed than the stage.’

  ‘How many miles is it?’

  ‘About twenty-four, Sir. I’ll have you there in a couple of hours at most.’

  Glad to be saved the rigours of the stagecoach, John promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep. When he opened them again he was on the outskirts of the city, and a glimpse through the window revealed Gregg, stoic as ever, driving his team of four with the ease born of long practice. Hoping that Coralie was not going to be furious with him for disappearing overnight, John disembarked at The Bear, persuaded the steward that he should take a well-earned break before attempting the return journey, then went into the inn to buy him some ale.

  Going into the parlour, John saw that Orlando, of all the unlikely people, was asleep in one of the more comfortable chairs. He looked ghastly; white and ill, a wreck of humanity. Not knowing quite what to do, John murmured to Gregg, ‘I know that young man but don’t particularly want to have a conversation with him at this moment. Will you walk to The Crown and Sceptre with me? It’s only just up the road.’

  The steward looked over in the beau’s direction. ‘Poor soul. He looks fit to drop. What’s the matter with him?’

  John shook his head, not wanting to reveal the connection with Welham House. ‘He tends to live to the full, I fear. And this does not please his uncle, who chastises him if he stays away from home.’

  ‘Then I pray for him, Sir, I really do, for there can be very little happiness in his life if he burns it all out on folly.’

  ‘I wish he could somehow be rescued,’ answered John, not specifying exactly what he meant.

  They walked in thoughtful silence to the neighbouring inn, where they spent a pleasant hour or so before Gregg, announcing himself refreshed and his horses undoubtedly well watered by the hostlers at The Bear, took his leave.

  ‘I shall be returning to London shortly, Sir. I’ll tell Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart that you called at Westerfield.’

  ‘Please do. And can you also say that I shall visit them in Mayfair as soon as I am able?’

  ‘I certainly will.’ The steward bowed then shook John’s hand warmly. ‘I hope that what I told you was of some help.’

  ‘It answered all the questions I had,’ the Apothecary replied. Then waving Gregg off, he walked back into The Bear, full of a fierce determination to prise Orlando from the clutches of Sir Vivian.

  The beau was just waking up, stretching in his chair and yawning widely, his enamel, which looked as if it must have been on all night, cracking here and there as he did so. Beneath the concealing mask, John glimpsed, as he had on another occasion, strong features and what could well be a handsome countenance. Desperately sorry for the poor creature, the Apothecary spoke earnestly.

  ‘Orlando, you are not to return home. You must leave Welham House for good. I truly believe that your uncle, if that is what he really is, traffics in children – or at least has done so in the past. I beg you, for your own salvation, quit Bath and start a new life away from his corrupting influence.’

  As had happened before, somebody else looked at him out of Orlando’s eyes. ‘With what, my dear friend?’ drawled the beau, hiding that other being. ‘I have no means, I have no training. I could not make a living. I would be dead within a few months.’

  It was out before John could stop the words. ‘You’ll be dead in a few months if you don’t go.’

  The sad being behind the great fop’s veil nodded agreement. ‘Oh yes, assuredly I will.’

  ‘Then get a grip on yourself, man. Sign as an older apprentice, find work in a counting house, do something that would suit you, but get away from that corrupt creature who dominates your life.’

  Orlando got to his feet, and one tragic tear stole out of his eye and ran down his cheek, smudging the kohl line drawn beneath his lashes. ‘You don’t understand, John, do you? Sir Vivian has cost me my soul, and without that there cannot be any life at all.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Orlando,’ the Apothecary shouted, physically shaking him, ‘what do you mean by that? You speak of your sins but never say what they are.’

  ‘If I did you would turn your back on me for good, and you are the only friend I’ve got who has an ounce of worthiness within him.’

  John’s arms dropped to his sides in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What more can I say? Do you want me to go on my knees and beg you to start your life again?’

  Orlando put his hands on John’s shoulders in a movement that was so loving yet so hopeless the Apothecary felt he might weep. ‘Don’t demean yourself on my account, my dear. Return to town and forget you ever met me.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ said John. ‘Tell me one thing. Why did you send Jack to London, for it was you, wasn’t it?’ Orlando nodded. ‘What did he go there for?’

  ‘He went to settle an old score.’

  ‘But Hannah Rankin is dead.’

  ‘Have you never heard of a nest of vipers?’

  And with that Orlando did leave, hurrying out of the door and up the street, before John could ask him another thing.

  It had taken a fine display of penitence to placate Coralie. In fact only by catching her imagination with his recounting of the story of his haunted night at Westerfield Place had he managed to get the actress’s attention away from her desire to be angry with him.

  Green as a cat’s, Coralie’s lovely eyes had narrowed as she had looked at him.

  ‘I am not the sort of woman, Sir, to be fobbed off with scribbled notes and sudden disappearances. And if that is the way you intend to act in the future you can consider our connection at an end.’

  It would be better by far, John thought, to humble myself completely now. Acutely aware of how much she meant to him and how devastated he would be if she were to end their association, he said, ‘Forgive me. It was entirely my fault I was forced to leave in a hurry, but it would have been a great deal more sensible to have missed the stagecoach and to have told you what was happening.’

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘But I had just discovered the truth about Petronelle and was not thinking clearly. I had a fondness born of pity for her. Not love, you understand, for all of that I keep for you.’

  He was winning; Coralie was starting to smile. She changed the subject, a very, good sign. ‘Tell me – do you really think Westerfield Place is haunted by the ghost of Alice?’

  ‘Gregg seemed to believe it, and he is the very last person on earth to suffer from a colourful imagination; built like a bear and solid as a rock.’

  ‘How exciting. The ghost I mean, not Gregg. I would love to spend a night there.’

  ‘Talking of that,’ said John, ‘do you think you could bear to spend a night in a post chaise?’

  ‘If all else fails. Why?’

  ‘There’s one leaving for London in half an hour and it is now essential that I see Mr Fielding. The fact that Lord Anthony’s daughter and son-in-law worked for Sir Vivian Sweeting is conclusive evidence in my view. He obviously saw Meredith and took a fancy to the child.’

  ‘But before he could get his hands on him the boy was removed to Paris?’

  ‘Something on those lines, yes.’

  ‘Surely Sir Vivian would have lost interest at that point. Snatching a child from another country would have presented too many difficulties.’

  ‘Not when that child was the Ambassador’s grandson and easy to find.’

  Coralie looked uncertain. ‘It sounds a somewhat tenuous argument to me, John.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he responded roundly, absolutely certain that not only had he found the link between Meredith and Lucy but that everything pointed to Sir Vivian Sweeting and Hannah Rankin as the people behind the child abduction ring.

  ‘Not enough evidence,’ said the Blind Beak, adjusting the black bandage that hid his
eyes and sighing somewhat wearily.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the Apothecary wrathfully.

  ‘My dear Mr Rawlings, be calm, I pray you. I entirely agree with you that that wretched man in Bath is probably one of the most evil creatures ever to walk the earth, but the few strands of evidence that we have against him would be torn to shreds by a clever advocate.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Listen to me, my friend. A girl dies in St Luke’s Hospital; she is called Petronelle. The child that was abducted in Bath, who would now be the same age as the dead woman, is called Lucy Petronelle. That is the only link between them. There is nothing else.’

  ‘But I know they are one and the same. I feel it in my gut.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ Mr Fielding answered calmly. ‘I feel it too. But there is no evidence to connect them with Sir Vivian Sweeting and Hannah Rankin …’

  ‘Petronelle feared her.’

  ‘That proves nothing.’

  Joe Jago, who had been sitting in the corner, listening silently, spoke up.

  ‘Mr Fielding is right, Sir. We’d be laughed out of court. So far there is nothing but coincidence.’

  ‘But Joe, you think I’m right, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, Mr Rawlings, I truly do. But we cannot bring a man to justice on such paltry findings.’

  ‘Then there’s the matter of the boy,’ the Magistrate continued. ‘He may indeed have been seen by Sir Vivian as a child, yet he disappears from Paris. Even worse. No connection at all could be proved. I’m afraid, my dear friend, that the case is as full of holes as a watering can.’

  ‘Then what are we to do?’

  ‘Either obtain irrefutable fact – or get a confession out of someone.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘Sir Vivian himself.’

  John gave a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘Or the dirty old Frenchman,’ put in Joe. ‘My money is on him, Sir. Just how long had he known Hannah Rankin, that is the question. If he and she had worked together stealing kinchen, then we might be able to take a step forward.’

  John fingered his chin and nodded, and the Blind Beak gave a rumbling laugh.

 

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