Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  The gatekeeper became flustered. ‘No, Sir, that wouldn’t do at all.’ He opened the wicket in the wall. ‘Please go through.’

  Yet there was something a little grudging in his manner, and John felt the man’s eyes boring into his back as he set off down the long, straight drive. In fact the Apothecary had got almost as far as the front door before he dared veer off into the shadow of the trees.

  It was about six o’clock, not yet dusk but for all that an overcast evening. Keeping his head low and removing his hat, John cautiously dodged from sheltering tree to sheltering bush, keeping his gaze on the house all the time, hoping to find some means of entry. Eventually, after skirting round most of the building and almost giving up hope, he saw a sash window which had been opened just a fraction, enough to enable him to push it up further and get inside.

  Stepping out had been easy; climbing in was rather a different matter. Eventually, John was forced to scramble up a drainpipe and cling on to it with his knees while he shoved the window higher, a hazardous process to say the least. Then he was obliged to heave himself up by resting his forearms on the sill, hoping to heaven meanwhile that there was nobody sitting quietly on the other side waiting for him to appear. Finally, though, with a mighty hoist, the Apothecary manoeuvred one leg on to the sill and from that position was able to wriggle through into the room beyond. Looking around cautiously, he saw that he was alone.

  Entering in this strange manner and into this unknown room, he found the house suddenly transformed into a maze, a dusky, candlelit rabbit-warren full of shadows and empty corridors. With his heart pounding, the Apothecary crept along, cautiously looking for some sign of the mansion’s occupants. Then, hearing the sound of footsteps, he slunk back into the darkness of a doorway, only to see a footman carrying food up a back staircase. So that was it. In company with many a grand family, Sir Vivian had his dining room on the first floor in order to command a view over the grounds. As stealthily as he could, John followed the footman up the servants’ staircase, which was wooden and creaking and lethally spiralled.

  Reaching the first-floor landing, he stopped, attempting to get his bearings. The corridor stretched in either direction, doors leading off it at regular intervals. To his right and in the far remoteness, the Apothecary could glimpse the imposing central staircase, fluting up giddily to the floors above. Beyond it, and only just visible in the vastness of the house, a great deal of light shone from beneath one particular door. He could also hear the distant drone of voices coming from the same direction. Aware that he had located the dining room, the Apothecary crept forward. But as he did so, the footman he had seen earlier appeared again, this time with an empty tray. Once more, John shrank into a doorway and saw the man walk past him. close enough to’ touch.

  Sir Vivian Sweeting’s voice rang out. ‘You are all dismissed. My nephew and I wish to converse privately.’

  There was a general stamp of feet, then four servants came through the door. ‘We all know what that means,’ said one to the others. There was a muffled snigger and they passed on their way.

  Wildly nervous, John crept forward. ‘I’m telling you, my dear, that your bad behaviour has to stop,’ said Sir Vivian.

  In the darkness, the Apothecary shivered, for somehow the older man’s tone was not sinister enough; indeed it was almost caressing, as if this were the prelude to sex and the arousing beatings that he regularly inflicted on the object of his affections.

  From the candlelit room, Orlando’s voice could be heard. ‘Precisely what do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘Do you dare to question me?’

  There was no doubt about it; this was an oft-enacted ritual.

  Orlando spoke again. ‘Yes, by God, I do.’

  Sir Vivian Sweeting chuckled, low and deep. ‘Then, young man, you deserve a lesson. And a lesson you shall have. Step outside with me to the sanctum sanctorum. Nobody will disturb us there.’

  Listening in the dusk-filled passageway, John felt himself grow tense, ready to rush in and defend Orlando by whatever means were necessary. Then the beau whispered a reply, his voice so low that the Apothecary had to strain to hear it.

  ‘I’ll see you in hell first, you bastard. God give me strength, but you’ve struck me for the very last time.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath, quite audible. This was not part of the rite so often and so vilely enacted.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Vivian, his voice suddenly harsh.

  ‘I mean that you have done enough evil in this world, and now I fully intend to send you to the next.’

  ‘Christ’s mercy!’ screamed the older man, clearly frightened.

  A chair scraped back and somebody stood up. ‘Say your prayers,’ said Orlando, his voice strong and true. ‘Ask your ruler Satan to help you, you wretched devil, because nobody else will.’

  John’s hand was on the knob and he pushed the door just the merest fraction, not wanting to startle Orlando or give Sir Vivian the chance to rush the younger man. The sight he saw then was one that he would never forget, coming to him as it did through a small crack of light.

  The huge dining table, at least eight feet in length, had been formally laid at both head and foot, so that the two diners had no option but to converse down the extent of it. There were candles everywhere, filling the room with glittering light which sparkled on fine china, gleaming cutlery and crystalline glass. Beyond the table, and occupying almost the whole of one wall, were floor-length French doors leading on to a stone balcony overlooking the gracious parkland, misty in the gloaming. The heavy drapes that covered them had not yet been pulled and remained ruched back in tasselled cords. At the foot of the table, Orlando, dressed from head to toe in scarlet satin, stood, a pistol in his hand pointing straight at Sir Vivian’s head. With eyes dull and opaque, hard as pebbles, the older man stared back at him, his tongue, like that of a serpent, occasionally flicking over his lips. Not daring to move, John remained motionless, watching.

  ‘You filthy corrupting sodomite,’ said Orlando, still in that same firm voice. ‘You do not merit the quick and painless death that I am about to deliver you. Oh no, you deserve the agony and persecution that you have inflicted on your victims all these years. By rights I should drag you off to your torture chamber and pay you back in your own kind. But I can no longer wait. My blood is up.’

  And there was a click as the beau cocked his pistol. John stood, frozen in time, and observed soundlessly as Orlando took aim, fired, then watched, quite unable to move, as Sir Vivian’s wig split open and the top of his head came off and hit the wall behind, before he crumpled like a straw man and fell to the floor, Slowly, in an almost leisurely fashion, the beau strolled to where the body lay, emptied the rest of the pistol’s balls into it, then kicked the corpse repeatedly before he sauntered on to the balcony to take the evening air.

  At last John was released from his catalepsy. Throwing the door fully open, he rushed into the room, glancing at the body, fleeting images of the scores of innocent children who had passed through Sir Vivian’s hands and emerged as corrupt and vile as he, filling his mind.

  ‘Orlando,’ he shouted, his tone shrill. ‘I saw what happened.’

  The enamelled face, heavy with beauty spots, turned towards him. ‘John, my dear fellow, what a habit you have of arriving at quite the strangest moments. So what are you going to do about it? Report me to the constable?’

  A ghastly parody of the Apothecary’s crooked smile twisted his features, and when John spoke his voice sounded so strange that he hardly recognised it, even though the words he said were conversational enough.

  ‘By an odd coincidence I met Jack on the stagecoach. He’s come here looking for you. I think he must be downstairs somewhere.’

  The beau laughed and ruffled John’s hair with languid fingers. ‘Then I’d better go and join him, my dear.’ And so saying he leant one hand on the elegant stone balustrade with which the balcony was made safe, and jumped up on to it.

 
A cry came from the dimness below. ‘Orlando, in God’s name what are you doing?’

  ‘What I should have done many years ago,’ the beau answered, staring down into the shadows of the garden to where Jack stood, before turning his head to look at the Apothecary.

  John saw again the terrible expression of despair which he had glimpsed on Orlando’s face on two other occasions, and realised instantly what the beau intended. ‘Don’t, Orlando,’ he shouted. ‘Nothing’s worth that.’

  ‘Oh my friend,’ came the tragic reply, ‘you simply don’t know. He taught me his sins and worse. It became my lot to corrupt and deprave young creatures when he no longer chose to do so. I cannot stand for another instant the horror of what I have become.’ A dreadful laugh rang out.

  ‘Look no further for your murderer, my dear. I killed Hannah Rankin and the Marquis, and I glory in the fact that I did so. Dear God, spare a prayer for poor Orlando.’

  Then he raised his arms as if he could fly and stepped off the balustrade into the night.

  Just for one second John did not move, rooted to the spot by what he had witnessed. Then he rushed from the room, hurling himself down the staircase and through that rabbit warren of a house to where a door led into the garden.

  Jack was already kneeling beside Orlando’s body, cradling him in his arms, the tears running silently down his cheeks.

  ‘He’s dead, he’s dead,’ he kept repeating.

  ‘Let me see,’ answered John, and leant over Orlando to listen for his heartbeat. There was nothing, yet still the Apothecary tore at the beau’s coat and shirt so that he could put his ear to Orlando’s chest. But the heart was silent, and John could see by the first faint rays of the moon that the poor creature had crashed on to his head, smashing his skull to an oozing pulp.

  ‘He died instantly,’ he said to Jack.

  ‘But he’s gone, my poor brother, the only friend I ever had.’

  ‘He killed Sir Vivian before he took his own life.’

  ‘You’re wrong there,’ Jack answered bitterly, ‘Sir Vivian killed him years ago, as he did us all.’

  ‘Rest in peace,’ said John, and went to draw the shirt back over the whitening skin. And then his eye was caught by something, and the Apothecary gasped at what he saw. On the left of Orlando’s chest, as distinct and clear as a patch of blood, was a red birthmark, a port wine stain.

  He looked at Jack, who still knelt beside the body, weeping.

  ‘Has Orlando always had this?’

  ‘Yes, since the day I first met him.’

  ‘God’s mercy,’ said the Apothecary.

  For he knew then that in his arms, quite dead, lay the last mortal remains of Meredith Dysart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘So it’s finished,’ said Mr Fielding, sitting very straight in his high-backed chair, the black bandage that concealed his blind eyes turned in John’s direction, his expression intense.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Before he killed himself, Orlando confessed to both murders.’

  ‘I see.’ The Magistrate steepled his fingers. ‘Yet what puzzles me is the fact that there are so many inconsistencies, so many pieces that do not fit. One small example: how did Orlando find out where Hannah Rankin went after she left Sir Vivian’s employ? He had to know where she was in order to go there and murder her, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Presumably Jack knew her whereabouts. He saw her for some years after she left Welham House, usually dragging some wretched child about.’

  ‘And the Marquis? How did Orlando know where to locate him?’

  ‘Oh, that was simple. Mother Hamp told Jack – for that is definitely who it was who called on her – all about him.’

  ‘Mm. Well, it’s a neat ending, I must say.’

  ‘But you are not convinced?’

  ‘Yes and no. I said to you we needed either proof or a confession. Now we have one. Yet there are too many questions left unanswered, Mr Rawlings. I mean, which was Toby’s anonymous friend – Orlando or Jack? And how did they know him in the first place? And how exactly did they track Hannah down? For I am not convinced that Jack knew her whereabouts all along. And why was Jack in London when the Marquis was shot, when it was Orlando who confessed to shooting him?’

  Joe Jago spoke up from his corner. ‘That final confession poses more problems than it solves, if you ask me, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered the Apothecary, and wished that he were not in the same room as the finest brain in London, together with the cunning fox Jago.

  For ever since Orlando’s tragic funeral, attended by Jack and himself, young Sidmouth and the servants of the house, but none of the beau monde, there had been a scene in John’s pictorial memory that refused to go away. In this scene he was in the Bath Assembly Rooms with Orlando and he had just told him of the death of Hannah Rankin. As clearly as if the poor thing were present, John saw the beau’s features transform into a mask of loathing, followed swiftly by a further change to pure triumph as he learned that she was dead. Was this the reaction of a murderer, he wondered? Could anyone who knew she was gone have acted quite so convincingly? Yet John shied away from investigating further, believing with all his heart that sleeping dogs should now be left to lie.

  Mr Fielding was speaking again. ‘We tread a fine line here, Joe. The case is concluded, Mr Rawlings has brought us the admission of guilt that we needed, yet there are loopholes of which all three of us are aware. Still, I believe we would be quite justified in closing the book on Hannah Rankin.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Sir.’

  ‘Do you think I can safely enter the fact that she was murdered by a young man known as Orlando Sweeting, as was the Marquis de Saint Ombre, together with that vile kidnapper, Sir Vivian Sweeting?’

  ‘Absolutely, Sir,’ said the clerk, and quite deliberately gave John a light-eyed wink which spoke volumes.

  From his high-backed chair Mr Fielding said, ‘I wonder,’ and then there was silence.

  ‘So what’s afoot?’ asked Samuel, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

  ‘Everything and nothing. As you know, the case is closed. Mr Fielding is writing his report and that will be that. And yet …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Samuel, I don’t think Orlando killed anyone except Sir Vivian. When I informed him that Hannah was dead his face was exultant. It was his instantaneous response. I would stake my very life on the fact that I was the first person to tell him and he reacted naturally.’

  ‘Dear God. Then why did he confess?’

  ‘In order to protect those who really did the deeds. He took their guilt on himself so that they could walk free of fear.’

  ‘Was it Jack then?’

  ‘In the case of the Marquis, I’m sure it was. But somebody else murdered Hannah Rankin.’

  ‘Who? Do you know?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ And John uttered a name. Samuel listened, wide-eyed.

  ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure yet. So first of all you and I are going to the Peerless Pool to relax, then to The Old Fountain for a drink.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I am going to Coralie’s house. I shall take the necessary action tomorrow regarding the murderer, that is if I do anything at all.’

  Samuel looked at John most acutely. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you want to tell me but are afraid to say.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it about Orlando?’

  ‘Yes. You are very observant.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The poor thing was the missing Meredith Dysart, or Gregg, however one likes to think of him. I have found Lord Anthony’s grandson, yet how can I tell them? It will break Ambrosine’s heart.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure it was him?’

  ‘Absolutely. He had the birthmark exactly where Lady Dysart said it was.’

  ‘But couldn’t it just as easily have been Jack? You said both boys were brought from Fr
ance.’

  ‘Jack certainly thought they were, and Orlando’s birthmark proved it.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Samuel.

  ‘Well, then, what?’

  ‘Just well, then,’ answered the Goldsmith, and smiled expansively.

  It was September and beautifully fine and warm, but for all that the swimming pool was not as full as it had been that other time; that day when Hannah Rankin’s body had been found lying on the bed of the Fish Pond and John had started on the trail that had led him to such sordid truths. In fact today the waters were reasonably empty, and both the Apothecary and Samuel were able to enjoy a long, leisurely swim. Afterwards they plunged into the cold bath, a withering experience, and then, feeling virtuous, went to have food and wine and sit in the sunshine. As chance would have it, and very much as John had hoped, Toby Wills served them.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the Apothecary. ‘How are you, my friend? It seems a long while since we met.’

  The waiter turned on him an uncommunicative look, his features set, his face expressionless. Irritated, John decided to give the man the shock of his life.

  ‘I suppose you have heard that the killer of Hannah Rankin has been discovered and the investigation is now closed?’

  The waiter’s hands shook violently as he attempted to pour claret into a glass. ‘Really, Sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes. The murderer confessed before he killed himself.’

  Toby’s face was the colour of ash, and he could hardly mouth the next words. ‘So who was it, Sir?’

  ‘Nobody you would have known,’ John replied airily. ‘Hannah once worked in Bath and it was a person connected with that phase of her life, a young man called Orlando Sweeting. He had been badly used by her as a child and he decided to take revenge.’

  There it was; relief, joy, exuberance even.

  The Apothecary narrowed his eyes. ‘You came from round that way, didn’t you, Toby?’

  ‘I was born in Somerset, Sir, but I did not hail from Bath.’

  ‘No, I never thought you did,’ John said, as the final question was answered.