Death in the Dark Walk

by Deryn Lake

  ‘She went off with a Frenchman?’ the Apothecary exclaimed, trying to hide his astonishment.

  ‘Yes. Louis de something. He was very dandified, very rich, and she thought he could give her a better life.’

  ‘Where did he lodge her?’

  ‘In Vigo Lane, behind Burlington House. In a very nice set of rooms. I went there once,’ Diana added just a little wistfully.

  Suddenly sorry for her, John put his arm round the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘What happened to Elizabeth? Have you seen her since?’

  ‘No, she turned too grand for the likes of me. Didn’t want to be reminded of her past, I imagine. I haven’t clapped eyes on her from that day to this.’

  Those words confirmed more clearly than anything else that news of the murder had not yet reached the brothel and John silently congratulated himself on acting so promptly. John Fielding had been quite right in suggesting that the enquiry should begin there. It was obvious that at present suspicions had not been aroused.

  ‘So, as far as you know, she still dwells in Vigo Lane?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘May I know the number in case my kinsman should wish to call?’

  Diana looked mischievous. ‘I wouldn’t advise that. The Frenchman is very jealous. He would probably challenge him to a duel.’

  ‘My cousin is a grown man and can take care of himself,’ the Apothecary answered smoothly.

  Then it’s number twenty-four, tell him.’

  ‘Elizabeth went a long way for a simple country girl,’ John commented wryly.

  ‘Many of us begin like that,’ Diana answered bitterly, then added, ‘How did you know where she came from?’

  ‘Because my cousin told me,’ he replied swiftly. ‘So am I to presume that you also did not start life in London?’

  ‘I came to the city from Winchester and went into service. But the footman took advantage of me and I was put out of the house. One of the two Madames found me and brought me here. It was better than life as a street drab after all.’

  ‘One of the two Madames?’ the Apothecary repeated, something beginning to take shape in the back of his mind.

  ‘Yes, there are two Madames de Blond – sisters, not twins, though they look as if they are. One of them runs this house, the other is out and about procuring any innocent she can get her hands on. They’re a hateful pair, truly, though they feed and protect us well enough. By the way, they both set about the Frenchman when he took Lizzie away. Called him all the vile names under the sun and punched him with their fists. He sent one of them flying.’

  ‘Really?’ said John, amused.

  ‘Yes. But just a minute, Sir,’ Diana went on, suddenly earnest, ‘I have to ask you something. Do you want me or don’t you? We’ve spent so long talking I am no longer sure what you came for.’

  ‘As I said, I really wished to help my cousin out of his dilemma.’

  ‘Very well,’ the girl answered resignedly, buttoning up her clothes, ‘but don’t tell Madame de Blond that nothing happened between us, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ll pay her just as if it did.’

  ‘It’s not because you don’t like me, is it?’

  ‘Indeed no. You’re a very desirable girl.’

  Diana’s fingers hesitated over the last button. ‘Well then . . .?’

  John lowered one lid till the black lashes swept his cheek, while the other blue eye regarded Diana Linacre in a brilliant stare. ‘Well then,’ he said, and gave her a slow and extremely disconcerting smile.

  It was while he was seated in the coffee house drinking a restorative brandy and waiting for Samuel Swann to come down the stairs and join him that Madame de Blond suddenly flitted across John’s line of vision, only to be followed a moment or two later by what appeared to be her double, neither of them dressed in identical blue today but certainly recognisable.

  John cast his memory back to the scene at the Cascade and envisaged them, staring up at the waterfall, rubbing shoulders with Henry Fox, who had appeared to know them.

  ‘I’ll wager he did too!’ thought John. But what new avenues did this discovery open? Had they gone to Vaux Hall in pursuit of Elizabeth, perhaps hoping to lure her back? Could her death be an awful warning to any girl from the brothel who might think of going astray in future?

  With his mind mulling over all these ideas, John Rawlings ordered another brandy and decided that the very next day he must visit number twenty-four Vigo Lane and see what clues, if any, the silent home of a dead girl might yet yield up.

  Chapter Five

  After some discussion with Sir Gabriel over a hasty but hearty breakfast, it had been mutually decided that the role of young blood, much as John had enjoyed it, should be put aside in favour of some less conspicuous guise. Therefore, with a great deal of reluctance, the Apothecary found himself once again putting on the sober attire of an apprentice. City regulations insisted that those under indenture must wear only garments provided by their Master and that hair should be ‘cut in a decent and comely manner’, though the latter rule was frequently violated, John having been one of the worst offenders in this matter. Yet dark respectable clothing had been a necessity of life.

  ‘I had hoped to put this sort of garb behind me now,’ the Apothecary grumbled as he buttoned himself into a long serviceable coat.

  ‘I would imagine that Mr Fielding’s men adopt many strange disguises,’ Sir Gabriel had answered him calmly.

  Nothing could have mollified his son more effectively and John had left the house in Nassau Street with the serious look of one whose purpose in life it is to track down criminals.

  Vigo Lane, which ran behind the magnificent gardens of the great mansion, Burlington House, was easy to reach on foot from Nassau Street, and today John chose the route that led him through Compton Street and the Huguenot quarter. Here so much French could be heard, so many French people passed, that it was almost possible to believe oneself in France, while leading off Compton Street was Greek Street, where a Greek colony had settled in the seventeenth century. But John turned away from this fascinating quarter and, instead, made his way down Knaves Acre, Brewer Street and Glass-House Street, into Vigo Lane.

  Number twenty-four was easy enough to find. A tall terraced house built within the last forty years and not unlike the dwellings in Nassau Street in appearance, it had a fanlight and simple segmental hood above its front door and three steps leading up to the entrance. Moving with hare-like speed, John ascended them and seized the knocker, only to find that the door moved beneath his touch. Giving it a cautious push, the Apothecary saw to his astonishment that the catch had been left open. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Mr Fielding’s man stepped into the entrance hall.

  An elegant angled staircase rose almost directly before him, to its left an internal access obviously leading to a suite of rooms. It occurred to John at once that the two upper floors mirrored this one and that the whole house consisted of three sets of apartments, though whether the place had been built in this manner or converted at some later time he could not be certain. Going to the door, John tapped on it lightly but there was no reply, no sound from within. Feeling somewhat apprehensive, the Apothecary cautiously turned and made his way upstairs.

  He had guessed correctly. The first floor was laid out in exactly the same way as its lower counterpart, but once again a knock at the entry drew no audible response. Preparing, if there was no other alternative, to pick the locks, John decided to try his luck on the top storey, climbing the graceful stairway as silently as he could. Much to his astonishment, as he rounded the bend he saw that the inner door leading to the second floor apartment also stood slightly ajar. Carefully and quietly, John crossed over and peered inside.

  The suite consisted of three rooms: a parlour – into which John was now gazing – together with a dining room, which he could glimpse through yet another open door, a third room leading off it which the Apothecary took to be a bed chamber. Knocki
ng politely, John called out, ‘Is there anyone at home?’ He was greeted only by an overwhelming silence. Feeling daunted and decidedly nervous, he took a few steps inside.

  The parlour was brightly though cheaply furnished in a mixture of styles without a cohesive theme. Looking around at the French tables and chairs, obviously obtained from immigrant craftsmen, and the old-fashioned Dutch walnut couch, which had plainly seen far better days, John guessed that whoever owned this lodging had been forced to buy mostly second-hand goods. Calling out as he went, John proceeded into the dining room.

  Here, someone had made a gallant effort to produce the Oriental look. The mania for Oriental furnishings and ornamentation had come to England with William and Mary, and now John found himself gazing at a black reproduction cabinet with lace-work panels, embellished candle stands and an ornate bedragoned fire screen. Crowning all this self-conscious Chinoiserie was a vivid Chinese wallpaper flaunting birds of every hue, complete with a rainbowed peacock glinting starry eyes. The total effect was garish and slightly repellent and smacked of a country girl let loose in London with a purse of money to spend, though obviously not a very large one. Looking round him, John Rawlings became convinced that he was standing in the rooms of the murder victim.

  The bedroom confirmed his suspicions. A large and old-fashioned bed, hung with scarlet and gold damask, had a mirror cunningly arranged to reveal its occupants. But it was the clothes in the marquetry press, most attractively decorated with a floral design and the finest piece of furniture in the apartments, that revealed all. Hanging in the cupboard were a selection of vivid gowns, their elegance and style declaring that they belonged to a slim and beautiful young woman. While in the drawers beneath were the petticoats and hoops, the small clothes, handkerchiefs and gloves, of a creature of fashion. The final proof lay in her perfume, for from all the garments wafted the faint but delicious smell of otto of roses and sandal, a scent that John remembered vividly lingering on the corpse, trained as he was to recognise such properties.

  ‘Poor Elizabeth,’ he said aloud, and knew that he had found what he was looking for.

  The very drawers into which he was presently staring seemed as good a place as any to start searching for papers, and John went to the task with his usual elegant haste. Tipping the contents on to the bed, he riffled methodically, replacing the contents where he had found them after he had examined each item. However, other than a bottle of medicine which John put in his pocket to examine later, little of interest was revealed. Furthermore, there was something none too pleasant about the task, smacking as it did of violating a dead girl’s possessions. There was something else too, an eeriness in the fact that Elizabeth’s clothes and belongings were still in place, just as if she were due back at any moment. Indeed, so strong was this feeling that John caught himself listening to the silence, almost as though he expected it to be broken by the sound of the murdered woman returning home.

  Then he froze, his blood turning to ice, for there was a noise. Faintly but distinctly came the tap of a light footfall as someone climbed the stairs towards the second floor. Thoughts raced through John’s mind: a ridiculous notion that Lizzie’s shade was revisiting its old haunts dismissed by the idea that he had been wrong all along, that this apartment belonged to another female entirely who would come storming through the door at any moment, demanding an explanation for his presence. Not knowing quite what to do, John concealed himself behind the dining room curtains.

  He had closed the front door behind him and now his heart sank as a key was inserted into the lock and slowly turned. There was a momentary pause followed by the creak of hinges as the door swung open. Terrified, the Apothecary peered out from his hiding place and into the parlour.

  It was almost a relief to discover that an old woman had come into Elizabeth Harper’s apartment, an old woman loaded with various cleaning utensils, who puffed and blew with the effort of the climb and muttered to herself as she set about swiping at the various pieces of furniture with a dusty cloth. Nonplussed, John stood stock still and watched her.

  ‘Fine business,’ the woman grumbled, half-heartedly going to clean out the grate then seeing that it had not been used, ‘still not come home, eh? Dirty little stop-out. God’s old bones, that Frenchie won’t be pleased.’ And she cackled a laugh like a witch’s, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I wonder,’ she said, and plodded through to the bedroom, walking right past John in his hiding place, presumably to see whether the bed had been slept in.

  He seized his opportunity and, moving faster than he ever had in his life before, shot through the front door and down the stairs, not stopping until he was out in the street again, extremely out of breath and wondering what to do next. Then the outline of Lizzie’s medicine bottle in his pocket gave him an idea. Assuming a nonchalant expression, John climbed the stairs at a leisurely gait and gave a polite knock on Elizabeth’s door which still stood open as the old woman had left it.

  From within he could hear the combined sounds of a clattering bucket and further grumbling, but eventually the cleaner’s footsteps became audible and she appeared in the entrance.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, peering at him suspiciously.

  John assumed a charming smile. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings. I am an apothecary.’

  The beldame sniffed. ‘Are you one of Lizzie’s fancy men?’

  John contrived to look slightly shocked. ‘Indeed no. I have been compounding medicine for her.’ He snatched the bottle from his pocket. ‘And have just prepared some fresh. But, in the circumstances, I hardly knew what to do for the best.’

  The old woman glared at him. ‘What circumstances? What babble’s this?’

  John took a step backwards. ‘I’d best be off. It is not fitting that I be the bearer of such tidings.’

  She narrowed her eyes to slits. ‘Nay, you’ll come out with it, whatever it is. Speak up or I’ll box your ears for you.’

  He bowed his head as if in acquiescence. ‘Then may I step inside?’

  She opened the door a little wider and motioned him within. Sitting down carefully, John assumed a grave expression. ‘Before I begin, may I know to whom I am speaking?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said, what is your name.’

  ‘Oh. It’s Hannah Roper. I take care of these apartments, the landlord living elsewhere, like. Now spit out your business.’

  ‘It’s about Elizabeth Harper. She met with an accident two nights ago. I shrink from giving you such grave news but that is the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ Hannah said hoarsely, clearly shocked and astonished.

  John nodded. ‘I fear so.’

  ‘How did such a thing happen?’

  The Apothecary weighed up his answer and decided to tell the truth, knowing that sooner or later the old wretch would learn it for herself. ‘She suffered a violent end at the hands of a murderer whilst visiting Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens. I know because I happened to be there that very night. Acting as her physician, of course, I knew something of her background and it struck me that there might be several who wished her harm. Would you agree with that?’

  The woman snatched a bottle of gin from her pocket and had a swig, offering John the same after wiping the neck with a greasy hand. He took a cautious mouthful as a sign of goodwill.

  ‘Aye, there’s a few who might at that,’ she said, nodding agreement.

  ‘Ah!’ John answered meaningfully.

  ‘You knew her well then? I’ve never seen you round here?’

  ‘I mostly called in the evenings, merely to prescribe, of course.’

  Hannah let out a wheezy laugh. ‘Oh yes, of course! Well, in that case you’ll know there’s been quite a bit going on of late.’

  John shrugged slightly. ‘Well, yes and no. I didn’t see her that often. Tell me.’

  Hannah paused, glancing over her shoulder just as if she, too, thought Elizabeth’s ghost might be walking. ‘Like Lizzie being a kept
plaything and these lodgings and all that’s in ’em paid for by a gentleman of quality.’

  ‘But why should that make her so disliked? It’s an every day occurrence. Or was another woman in love with him?’

  Hannah bellowed a laugh and drank deeply. ‘I don’t know about in love but there was certainly another woman. The gentleman in question is married.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said John, intensely interested. ‘So who is this naughty fellow?’

  ‘A Frenchman, one of the Huguenot immigrants living here in London. But well to do. He’s Count Louis de Vignolles – or that’s what Lizzie called him. But, like I said, there’s been something strange happening recently.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I reckon she’d got someone else as well as him.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘She hasn’t been home for over two weeks and the Count . . . Well, he’s been here looking for her. He used to visit her when he could, but Lizzie still had plenty of spare hours on her hands, hours in which to go out searching for someone younger and richer.’

  ‘I see,’ said John – and did. For it was obvious that the wayward girl had come across the Duke of Midhurst during her idle moments when the Frenchman was, of necessity, spending time with his wife, and had thought him more worthy of her embraces.

  ‘I reckon the Frenchie killed her,’ Hannah went on. ‘He was jealous as a viper. Foreign, you see.’

  ‘What about his wife? Did she know about Elizabeth?’ John asked, almost to himself.

  Hannah shook her head and sucked her teeth reflectively. ‘I’m not sure. She could have done. Though it’s said that wives are often the last to discover such things. Anyway, Lizzie didn’t confide in me. She talked more about her past than anything else.’

  ‘Is it true she was a country girl?’

  ‘Oh yes. Came from Midhurst in Sussex, or so she said. She travelled to London looking for work and ended up in a whorehouse.’

  ‘A common enough event.’