by Deryn Lake
Contents
Cover
By Deryn Lake
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Historical Note
Footnote
By Deryn Lake
The John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH IN THE DARK WALK
DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA
DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S TAVERN
DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH
DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL
DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES’ HALL
DEATH IN THE WEST WIND
DEATH AT ST JAMES’ PALACE
DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN
DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER
DEATH IN HELLFIRE
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL
A John Rawlings Mystery
Deryn Lake
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain by Hodder and Stoughton 1999
This eBook first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 1999 Deryn Lake
The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0132-4 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For JONATHAN GASH
in appreciation
Chapter One
‘Last one in is an oaf,’ called Samuel cheerfully, and breaking into a sprint dived into the Peerless Pool, sending up a vast spout of water which cascaded back on to the tranquil surface with the bright abandon of a royal firework.
Thoroughly soaked by this exhibition, John Rawlings, who stood on the paved surround, stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of flannel bathing drawers, shouted back, ‘Watch what you’re doing! I thought it was high tide.’
Samuel’s head appeared. ‘Come on, man. It’s warm.’
‘Oh, very well,’ John answered, just a trifle tersely, and plunged into the Pool with a neat descent that hardly rippled the water.
His friend was already halfway down the swimming bath’s length, flailing his arms and splashing considerably, much to he consternation of several old gentlemen, proceeding slowly through the Pool like a school of elderly porpoises.
‘Have a care, Sir,’ shouted one. But Samuel, deafened by his own wash, had reached the far end of the pleasure bath and was now heading back, hell for leather.
‘I sometimes wonder,’ said John Rawlings aloud, ‘why I allow myself to be seen about town with you.’
Yet he didn’t mean a word of it, for Samuel Swann, Goldsmith of London, had been his companion since childhood, when the boys had lived next door to one another, and it would take a deep division indeed to sever a friendship as enduring as theirs.
On this particular day, their meeting had been of a lighthearted nature. It being a cruelly hot summer that year of 1758, those beautiful birds of paradise known as the beau monde, who rose at noon then perambulated the streets in search of diversion, had taken to places of deep shade for their leisure. Thus, the city had been deserted, and there had been hardly a hint of custom for those who made a living as shopkeepers. In fact John had been on the point of closing his apothecary’s shop, situated in Shug Lane, just off Piccadilly, when Samuel had come bursting through the door, setting the bell jangling.
‘Well, what a waste of a day this has been,’ he had stated jovially. ‘Not one single customer over my threshold. I’ve decided to shut early and go swimming. What say you?’
‘Yes,’ John had answered without hesitation, removing the long apron which he always wore when compounding his physicks and potions.
‘Shall I close the shop for you, Sir?’ his apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, had asked.
‘No, we’ll all do it,’ the Apothecary had replied. ‘Then you can come too.’
A smile had broadened the somewhat pale features of the young man, nicknamed the Muscovite because of his strange ancestry, which could be directly traced back to the court of Tsar Peter the Great. Now nearly twenty-one years of age, he had been issued indentures by the Apothecary three years earlier. ‘That would be a pleasure, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Then let’s to it,’ his Master answered, and leapt round the premises like a hare, tidying everything away for the night, and throwing covers over those objects that could not be moved.
This done, the trio had walked to Piccadilly and hired a hackney coach which had taken them to Holbourn, then up Hatton Garden and through Clerkenwell Green to St John’s Street, and finally to Old Street where, a mere stone’s throw from the well of St Agnes le Clare, the pleasant resort known as the Peerless Pool was situated.
Now, in hired bathing drawers, all three were in the water, Nicholas swimming beneath the surface like a fish, despite the fact that on land he walked with a limp.
It seemed that most of the male population of London had made for Old Street that late summer afternoon. Bankers and merchants, tradesmen and dandies, soldiers and actors, all overcome by the heat, had retreated to that delightful oasis created by the pleasure bath and its surrounding attractions. John even espied a beau, shaven head pale beneath the sun from constant wearing of his wig, swimming along in fully enamelled maquillage, carmined lips spouting water like a whale.
‘Hare and hounds!’ exclaimed Samuel, surfacing suddenly. ‘I could spend the rest of the day here.’
‘There’s nothing to stop us,’ answered John. ‘We can swim, fish, have supper, and leave when the Pool closes at dusk.’
The Goldsmith gazed round at the other bathers. ‘Pity this isn’t family day so we could have some ladies present.’
‘Do you think of nothing else?’ asked the Apothecary, neglecting to say that his mind had been running along very much the same lines.
‘No,’ answered his friend cheerfully, and dived deep.
For
the sake of decency the rules of the Peerless Pool stated that certain days were designated for members of the male sex to swim, others for females, but on one day of the week men and women were allowed to bathe together, the custom having been set in Bath, where much amusement was derived from seeing the fair sex wading with gentlemen, all up to their necks in water.
Despite the size of the Peerless Pool, a generous 170 feet long by 100 feet wide, it was by now becoming more than a little crowded. So much so that John began to grow weary of making way for those who swashed along heartily like Samuel, or swam with erect head and swan-like necks in order to avoid the merest droplet of water ruining their appearance. Therefore, after another rapid ten lengths, these executed for the sake of his health, the Apothecary hauled himself out and made his way into one of the arched cubicles that lined the Pool on either side. Stripping off his flannel drawers, he rubbed himself down with a towel, then wrapped it around his body as if it were a toga.
‘Where are you going in that?’ called Samuel from the water.
‘I thought about taking a turn in the cold bath.’
‘I’ll come too,’ said the Goldsmith, and climbed one of the series of steps leading out of the water.
Though strictly speaking the Peerless Pool was not a pleasure garden, it was regarded as such by those who regularly walked there from their counting houses and shops in the City, and also by other visitors who came from further afield. Fed by a clear, sweet spring rising in Hoxton, just one of the many to be found in the marshes of Finsbury and Moor Fields, it had originally been known as the Perilous Pond because of its reputation for dangerous swimming conditions. In fact several young men had drowned there and some years earlier the Pool had been closed down. However, in 1743, an eminent citizen and jeweller. William Kemp, had leased the land from its owners, St Bartholomew’s Hospital, and set about transforming the entire terrain.
First of all, Mr Kemp, who greatly believed in the therapeutic quality of the spring’s water, had built a large brick wall round the property, thus guaranteeing privacy to swimmers and pleasure seekers alike. Then he had ensured safety by raising the pool’s depth to three feet in the shallow end and five in the deep, all being kept clean by the springs which bubbled up through the fine sandy bottom, a drainpipe taking away excess water to maintain a constant level. A cold bath, fed by an icy spring, had been installed in a building close by, this pool being 40 feet long and 20 feet broad, faced with marble and paved with stone, the dressing boxes having floors of purest Purbeck.
Mr Kemp’s greatest triumph, however, had been the creation of a fishing lake of stunning proportions. Situated between the two swimming baths, the Fish Pond was 320 feet long, 90 feet broad and 11 feet deep, was stocked with carp, tench and several kinds of other fish, and advertised as being ‘for the use of those subscribers who admire the amusement of angling’. The owner had also established a handsome paved terrace walk on either side of the lake, well planted with lime trees and agreeably covered with shrubs. With the addition of a bowling green, a fine library and a place to take refreshment, the Peerless Pool had been transformed into a most desirable resort. So much so that Mr Kemp decided to spend all his time there and built himself a fine manor house in traditional country-squire style, the back of which looked over the fishing lake, the front the Peerless Pool itself.
On this particular day, extremely hot as it was, the cold bath was reasonably full, some gentlemen swimming in the nude as there were no ladies present. John left his towel in a dressing box and joined them, while Samuel, after a moment’s hesitation, removed his drawers and did likewise, bellowing a hearty laugh as the freezing water consumed his privy parts. The Apothecary gazed at him fondly, thinking, as he had so often before, that subtlety was hardly his old friend’s strong suit.
The breathtaking experience over, the two went in search of Nicholas and found him still swimming, having met some fellow ’prentice lads, who were diving and tumbling and generally annoying the other bathers. Shouting to him that they were going fishing, John and Samuel made their way towards the lake.
Surrounded by trees, the Fish Pond was approached by means of a sloping path winding to the left of William Kemp’s stately house. This led down to the terraced walkway circling the lake, where benches for the comfort of those wishing to fish had been thoughtfully situated. Jetties, too, stuck out into the water, a wooden railing at the end providing something on which to lean as fishing tackle was plied. But neither of these two accommodations for gentlemen of rod and line appealed to John and Samuel, particularly in the high-spirited mood in which the challenge of swimming naked in chilly waters had left them. With much boisterous laughter, they proceeded instead to the arch in the embankment behind Mr Kemp’s house, and from it pulled out a rowing boat, two of which were always kept there for those subscribers who wished to fish over the side. Then, carrying it between them, the friends somehow managed to get the thing launched, an achievement that left both of them extremely wet, particularly Samuel, who pushed the boat out from the terrace then made a somewhat unsuccessful flying leap into the craft, a move which almost sank it.
‘You row, I’ll fish,’ he instructed John as he removed his coat and hat and sat down, wobbling dangerously.
‘Very well.’
Samuel produced the hired fishing rod. ‘Now, just you watch this cast. I’ve been practising recently.’ And with that the Goldsmith whipped the line over his shoulder and tossed it into the water, neatly picking up his own wig and throwing it into the lake as he did so.
John bellowed a laugh. ‘Is that the latest form of bait?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Samuel answered crossly. ‘That wig is both new and expensive, and somehow I’ve got to retrieve it. Can you reach it with your oar?’
‘No,’ said John, attempting to do so and almost tipping them over as he tried. ‘Can’t you hook it back in again?’
Samuel cast frantically, narrowly missing the Apothecary’s eye. ‘Oh, this is infuriating.’
‘It is also extremely funny. I wish you could see your face.’
‘One more remark like that and I shall be forced to punch you.’
‘One more complaint and I shall throw you in.’
They stared at one another beadily like two fighting cocks, then realised the stupidity of the situation and grinned, watching the water-logged wig as it first attracted the attention of a large and belligerent carp, who attacked it, then, growing heavier by the moment, sank slowly beneath the surface.
‘I suppose you want me to dive for it?’ John asked.
Samuel shook his head. ‘If anybody has to do it it will be me.’ He sighed. ‘Do fish bite?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘None the less.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Cast for it, man.’
‘Then you’re not going to …?’
‘No, Samuel, I am not. I’ve done quite enough swimming for one day, thank you.’
The Goldsmith gave another deep sigh, hunched his shoulders, reeled in, then cast once more, promptly catching a tench which he threw back into the water in a dispirited manner.
‘Here, let me try. Give me the rod.’
Somewhat reluctantly, Samuel handed it over. Taking it from his friend, John peered down into the pond’s depths, shading his eyes from the early evening sun in order to see more clearly.
In common with the Peerless and Cold Pools, the Fish Pond was fed by a series of natural springs which kept the water fresh. Further, weeds were not encouraged to grow in profusion, so that in places a clear view to the sandy bottom, eleven feet below, was possible. Leaning over as far as he dared, John sought the missing wig.
A glimpse of something white had him shouting an instruction. ‘Pull to the middle, Samuel. I think I can see it.’
The Goldsmith guided the boat to the centre of the pond. ‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
It was Samuel’s turn to lean over the side, gripping the boat tightly in order to keep his
balance, but not quite succeeding. With a splash equalling the one with which he had entered the bathing pool, the mighty young man toppled over and disappeared beneath the glassy surface.
A few moments later his head broke water, and he gasped for air, obviously frightened, John thought, for his friend’s face had a deathly pallor to it. Seeing the boat, he struck out towards it in a frantic crawl, his manner very agitated, even for one who had just fallen into a lake unexpectedly.
‘What’s the matter?’ John asked, reaching out a hand to help him back in.
‘There’s somebody down there,’ Samuel gasped, clambering aboard and nearly capsizing them.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a body lying on the bottom.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes. I saw it as I plunged near the lake bed. Take a look for yourself.’
With an uneasy sense of apprehension, John leant over the side.
The waters, though translucent, still had a lovely greenish tinge, like glass that had been in the sea. Gazing through them, seeing where the shafts of early evening sun lit the bottom quite clearly in places, the Apothecary had the impression that he was staring into a fairytale and so, when he glimpsed the woman lying on her back on the bed of the lake, looking up at him, just for a moment he felt that she was not out of place. Then his brain engaged. and he hurriedly stripped off his wig, coat and shoes and dived in.
She was down there, waiting for him. As John plummeted towards the bottom, he saw her, the Lady of the Lake, lying so still, her hair floating out round her head, her eyes open and gazing into his. She was dead, of course. no nymph from legend she. And yet with the water eddying over her, causing a slight movement of her clothes, and the damage that her submersion had done not yet clearly visible on her face, just for a moment she gave the strange impression of being alive. Longing to draw breath, the Apothecary surfaced no more than a foot away from the boat, and filled his lungs.
‘Well?’ called Samuel.
‘Yes, you’re right. There’s a dead woman down there.’
‘Then we’d best get assistance,’ the Goldsmith replied frantically. ‘I’ll row for the bank.’
