Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  ‘It’s a good thought, Jago. Well worth following up.’

  ‘Which reminds me.’ John turned to look at the clerk, who winked a light blue eye. ‘Did you get any further with Toby Wills?’

  ‘Yes and no. He told me no more, yet his very silence revealed something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he fears he knows the identity of the weirdly masked figure that wheeled in Hannah Rankin. Or possibly …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That he let that person into the grounds himself.’

  ‘’Zounds!’ said John. ‘Is it conceivable?’

  ‘I think it could be. His anonymous friend had told him evil stories about Hannah; his sad, mad son was fond of Petronelle. I think that might have been enough to make somebody of Toby’s temperament cooperate in bringing about her death.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said John, ‘how convoluted this terrible story is!’

  The Blind Beak cleared his throat. ‘Mr Rawlings, may I suggest that you call on the Marquis and try, by whatever means you consider necessary, to obtain information from him. Crack his facade, if you can. I believe there is much in what Jago says. In fact that terrible old man may hold the key to all of this.’

  John’s spirits soared from despair to exhilaration. ‘I’ll go now, straight away.’

  ‘No, Sir. Go home and get some rest. It is perfectly obvious that you travelled overnight for you are somewhat red of eye. Tackle the Marquis an hour or so before he goes to dine. In that way you might catch him in and also take him by surprise.’

  ‘I’ll do as you say.’

  ‘Very good. And, Mr Rawlings …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You are right, of course. Sir Vivian is the culprit as far as those children are concerned. Now all we have to do is find out which of the poor souls killed that wicked wretch Hannah Rankin.’

  September sunshine became that most elegant of buildings, the French Hospital. As it shone off its well-proportioned walls, casting pretty shadows on its delightful gardens, the Apothecary was struck again, as he ascended the gracious sweep of its steps, by how well planned and attractive a place had been created to house those poor emigrants who had fled from France because of their religious beliefs.

  The same elegant, unfriendly maid answered the door.

  John swept off his hat. ‘I have come to see the Marquis de Saint Ombre.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ John lied with ease. ‘He is expecting me to dine with him.’

  ‘Then come in. You know where his apartment is.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Apothecary responded, wondering whether he could remember the way.

  She stared after him as he turned left, hoping he was correct, gazing at the identical entrances that led off the corridor at regular intervals and praying he could recall which was the Frenchman’s. Proceeding hesitantly, John eventually came to a door that looked as if it might well be the one he sought. He gave a tentative knock.

  ‘Entrez,’ said a voice.

  He went in to find an extremely pretty young woman reclining in a hip bath. Covered with confusion, the Apothecary bowed his way out again, whereas she smiled cheerfully and assured him in delightfully broken English that there was really no need for him to leave at all.

  Back in the corridor, John took stock, wondering what to do next. Beautiful though the French Hospital was, it was for all that an institution, and there was nothing individual about the apartments or their entrances. Wondering how many doors he was going to have to bang on before he located the Marquis, the Apothecary suddenly caught sight of one that stood slightly open. Through it he could just see the outline of a brocaded wing chair very similar to, if not the same as, the one he had sat on when he had originally called on the Frenchman. Thinking that this must surely be the right place, John knocked. There was no answer, though the door swung inward a little beneath his touch. He knocked again and it opened a fraction more.

  The Marquis was asleep in the capacious fauteuil which stood opposite the wing chair, his back to the door, his white-stockinged legs and buckled shoes sticking out in front of him.

  ‘Monsieur,’ John called from the entrance.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Monsieur le Marquis,’ he repeated, more loudly.

  Still there was no answer. Not quite sure whether he should go in or not, the Apothecary took a step into the room. The Frenchman did not stir.

  The silence became intense, only the ticking of a little clock on the mantelpiece disturbing the calm. Suddenly alarmed, John walked round the chair so that he could see the Marquis face to face.

  A small neat hole with extensive black powder burns covered the area of the old man’s temple, and on the other side of his head was a matching hole where the pistol’s ball had made its exit. The Marquis’s old-fashioned, curling white wig was scarlet with blood, its redness in hideous contrast with the bleached enamel paint that still adorned his face. Lifting the wig carefully, his handkerchief covering his fingers, the Apothecary looked down at the Frenchman’s head and his stomach heaved at what he saw, so violently that he hurriedly dropped the headpiece again and saw it settle grotesquely askew.

  Then his attention was caught by something else. Lying on the floor by the Marquis’s feet was the obscene picture of the child and the fairies. It had been slashed to ribbons with a knife, so that the subject-matter would have been unrecognisable unless one had known what it was before. Whatever perverted acts the Frenchman had committed in his lifetime had obviously been paid for in full.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Without seeing a soul, and thankfully avoiding the austere maid, John left the French Hospital only too aware that he should go straight to Bow Street and inform Mr Fielding of the latest turn of events. Yet the sight of what was left of the old Frenchman’s head beneath that garish scarlet wig had made him feel physically sick. Trained apothecary or no, John Rawlings felt in need of a large tot of brandy, and knowing that The Shepherd and Shepherdess inn was just a matter of a quarter of a mile away at the top of Ratcliff Row, he turned in that direction without another thought. Two glasses later, and somewhat restored, he felt able to marshal his ideas.

  Hannah Rankin’s murderer had clearly struck again, for the Apothecary had no hesitation in thinking that the two killings must be linked. Yet who had had the opportunity to commit both crimes?

  The most likely person, of course, was Jack. Mother Hamp had seen a coachman outside her door and that very same coachman, or presumably so, had disappeared to London only recently. But what of Orlando, who by his own admission had given Jack the money to travel to town? Had he left The Bear and gone straight to some form of public transport? If so, he would have arrived in London well before John and Coralie. Then, of course, there was Sir Vivian Sweeting himself. Could the old Frenchman have known too much about the past, forcing Sir Vivian to silence him for ever?

  Yet, the Apothecary considered, the Dysarts were also very much on the scene. Had they discovered more about the kidnapping of their grandson than they were prepared to admit? If John had been able to unearth as much as he had, why couldn’t they have done the same? And what of their faithful servant, Gregg? Or Toby? Was he shielding someone, or was that just a fabrication? Could he have killed Hannah and the Marquis in order to settle an old score regarding Petronelle?

  It was a considerable enigma, and the more John thought about it the worse he felt. Yet through all the confusion one idea kept coming back to him. Surely Mother Hamp could, if pressed, be more specific about the coachman she had seen. If he were to question her once more perhaps she could come up with a better description of the man. Full of brandy and determination, and yet again delaying the visit to Bow Street, the Apothecary left the hostelry and made his way down Ratcliff Row to the house where Hannah Rankin had once lived.

  As luck would have it, the old besom Hamp was standing outside, chewing the fat with an equally slatternly neighbour. John put on
his best face and she gave him a toothless grin in return.

  ‘Coming to see me, my lovely boy?’

  ‘I thought you might be good enough to accompany me to The Old Fountain, Ma’am.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be at clicket!’ exclaimed the neighbour. ‘Your luck’s high, Mill. That’s the second time this week.’

  Mother Hamp made an obscene gesture. ‘It’s my good looks, that’s what it is.’ She turned to John, puffing stinking breath into his nostrils. ‘Ain’t it, lovely boy? That’s what gets the young coves asking.’

  She was drunk again but not objectionable.

  John bowed low. ‘It is indeed, Ma’am. Now, shall we go?’

  He offered his arm, which she hung on to heavily. ‘I likes going out with the handsome culls, I really does.’ And she gave a frighteningly coquettish toss of her head accompanied by a gummy leer.

  ‘Then let it be my pleasure to escort you,’ the Apothecary answered, thinking he deserved a medal for bravery.

  As it was very close to the dining hour, several customers had gone into the ale-house for a pre-dinner tot. This suited John’s purpose, well aware as he was that it was easier to extract information against background noise than it was when people spoke in whispers. Having plied the old woman with a large measure of gin, he got straight to the point.

  ‘Mother Hamp, it’s about the coachman that you glimpsed one night, the coachman who frightened Hannah so much.’

  Instead of turning on him her usual brainless expression, the old woman looked at him out of cunning eyes.

  ‘What about him?’

  Something had changed, John knew it. He took a wild guess. ‘You’ve seen him again, haven’t you?’

  She cackled soundlessly. ‘What if I have?’

  ‘When was this?’

  The cunning look grew cannier. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘A guinea.’

  ‘Make it two.’

  She held out her hand. John dropped a coin into it. ‘One now. The other when you’ve finished.’

  Mother Hamp swigged down her gin and offered him the empty glass, which the Apothecary refilled for her, watching her carefully while he stood at the counter. She appeared mighty pleased with herself and from her gleeful expression he deduced that she truly had a good story to tell.

  ‘So?’ he said as he handed her the drink.

  ‘He – the coachman – called on me the other night. He’d been to the lunatic asylum first and they had given him my address. He brought me here, the little swell, just for a chat.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He asked about the Marquis, Hannah’s light-of-love. I told him where he could find him. He was very pleased.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘The night before last.’

  So it had to be Jack. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Pretty. Dark hair and handsome face. Beautiful eyes.’

  ‘What colour were they?’

  ‘Violet.’

  ‘As I thought,’ said John with a note of triumph.

  Mother Hamp’s face contorted into a ghastly grin. ‘There’s something else besides.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Another gin and I’ll tell you.’

  Much as it irritated him, the Apothecary did as she asked. ‘Well?’

  ‘He was different.’

  John leant forward, more alert than he had felt all day. ‘Can you explain that?’

  Mother Hamp rocked with laughter. ‘That’s got you interested, hasn’t it?’

  Fighting off a strong desire to throttle her, John said, ‘Are you telling me that this coachman – the young handsome one – was not the same as the one who scared Hannah?’

  ‘Of course I am. You’ll have to do a lot more thinking, my friend. There’s two of ’em about the place and you’re going to have to find them both.’

  It was midnight when they brought the Marquis de Saint Ombre to the city mortuary, taken from the French Hospital by Mr Fielding’s famous Flying Runners. Covered with a cloth, the body was carried into the darkened building, then the door was closed heavily behind him as John and Joe stepped into the street and breathed fresh air.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Jago, who had seen to all the arrangements, Mr Fielding for once being indisposed and having taken to his bed.

  ‘I suppose it must have been Jack who killed him,’ stated John with a sigh.

  ‘Yes, I think it must. But until that is proved, Sir, we can make no assumptions. I mean, weighty though the evidence is against him, it could still be that a madman came in off the streets and killed the Marquis at random.’

  ‘Quite so,’ answered the Apothecary, and the two men stared at one another, straight-faced.

  ‘I’d be getting to your bed, Sir. You look quite done in,’ said the clerk.

  ‘Thank you, Joe, I’ll heed your advice.’

  And so saying, they bowed to one another politely and went off to their individual homes, knowing that the next day the Beak Runners would have to start their investigations into the mysterious death of the man who had once been Hannah Rankin’s lover.

  ‘So there are two coachmen,’ said Samuel Swann incredulously.

  ‘Yes. Jack is one, for sure. The physical description tallies and Mother Hamp found out what he did for a living by the simple means of asking him.’

  ‘Then who is the other?’

  ‘If we knew that I think we would be near to solving the whole wretched mystery.’

  ‘Whom do you suspect?’

  ‘No one and everyone. Our only hope is to break Toby down and make him reveal the name of his mysterious friend. But Joe Jago got no further with him than I did. He refuses to say another word.’

  ‘Then how …?’

  ‘Unfortunately I am duty bound to return to Bath and try to find Jack. I’ve got to face him and ask him about the Marquis’s death.’

  ‘He killed him, didn’t he?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  Samuel looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t look for him too hard, John.’

  ‘Perhaps I might find him and he could change my mind for me,’ the Apothecary answered.

  The two friends were sharing a hackney coach heading towards Mayfair and the home of Lord Anthony and Ambrosine Dysart, where an evening of supper and cards was to be held. Samuel, delighted to have received an invitation, was dressed very finely in a suit of dark blue velvet which became him and hid the fact that he could easily become plump if he did not exercise. John, knowing that he was to see Coralie that night, was wearing green embroidered with silver, a romantic compliment to his mistress’s eyes:

  Lady Dysart had set things out very well, a fact they discovered on arrival. The entire house had been brilliantly lit with dozens of candles, the light spilling out into the street beyond, while inside, the dining room and the great saloon, these two rooms leading into one another, had been set for supper. Card tables were arranged in the Red Room, so called because of its flocked wallpaper, and there was already a good mingle of guests, laughing and talking and generally adding to the light-hearted atmosphere. Ambrosine, her unusual eyes glinting in the brilliance, was receiving her visitors personally and made much of welcoming John and Samuel. But after the usual pleasantries her expression changed and she drew the Apothecary to one side.

  ‘I suppose there is no news?’

  He knew at once what she meant. ‘Madam, I have not found Meredith, if that is what you are asking. When I promised to look I offered little hope on that score. However, for what it is worth I believe I have found a connection between his disappearance and that of Lucy Allbury.’

  ‘The girl from Bath?’

  ‘The same. I consider the link to be a man called Sir Vivian Sweeting who lives across the Avon in Welham House.’

  The fascinating eyes, staring so appealingly into the Apothecary’s, flickered, there could be no doubt about it. From somewhere, somehow, Ambrosine Dysart recognised the name.

  �
��You know him?’ John continued, never taking his gaze from hers.

  Ambrosine’s look dropped to the floor. ‘The name is familiar. You must remember that before the scandal we went in and out of Bath a good deal. It is possible that we might have met him.’

  ‘And after the scandal,’ John continued remorselessly, ‘your daughter and son-in-law went to work for Sir Vivian. Surely you were aware of that?’

  ‘I … er …’

  ‘Gregg, your steward, knew. It was he who told me.’

  Another voice entered the conversation. ‘All that happened a long time ago, Mr Rawlings. However, I do recall Sir Vivian in that context. But what could he possibly have to do with Meredith?’

  John looked round to see that Lord Anthony had joined them. He bowed politely. ‘My Lord, it is my belief, though admittedly there is no sure evidence to prove it, that Sir Vivian, in league with a creature of his called Hannah Rankin, was running a child abduction ring. It is my further belief, though again one I cannot establish, that he may have noticed Meredith as a little boy and snatched him from Paris, perhaps through the agency of a Frenchman calling himself the Marquis de Saint Ombre.’

  Both their faces had stretched themselves into masks, utterly expressionless, revealing nothing. Then, simultaneously, they gave John a half-smile, a fact that would have been amusing had it not been so bizarre.

  ‘What an unpleasant story,’ Ambrosine said, and shivered.

  ‘As you say, it cannot be proved,’ Lord Anthony added. ‘And personally I think your theory somewhat far-fetched.’

  The Apothecary bowed his head. ‘I accept that, my Lord. As Mr Fielding said, the case against Sir Vivian is as full of holes as a watering can.’

  ‘Mr Fielding?’ asked Lord Anthony, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yes,’ answered John. ‘I work for him from time to time, you know.’

  So saying, he bowed very low and excused himself making his way to where Samuel and Coralie stood talking and laughing and generally being two of his greatest friends in the world. Longing to tell them what he had just seen, John put an arm round the shoulders of each and drew them close.

  ‘There’s much that I would discuss,’ he said in an undertone, and planted a swift kiss on Coralie’s lips, shielded from the gaze of the other guests by Samuel’s broad frame.