Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she swore that she glimpsed the Frenchman waiting for Hannah, loitering further down the lane, and that the pair of them set off in the direction of the French Hospital.’

  Mr Fielding gave a quiet and rather shocking chuckle. ‘Do you know, my friends, I have the feeling that this is going to be one of the most intriguing investigations any of us has ever undertaken. For what do we have so far? A victim who appears to have been up to no good, a frightened mad beauty, a waiter who knows more than he should, a gate leading from the scene of the crime into the fields and directly to where the dead woman lived, not to mention a powdered Frenchman and a menacing coachman. It is truly the stuff of novels. How my brother would have relished it.’

  John smiled, one side of his mouth tilting upwards. ‘Is it not said that fact is stranger than fiction?’

  ‘Indeed it is. Now, did Hannah’s landlady reveal anything further?’

  ‘Only that the dead woman kept herself very much to herself. Something confirmed by the gossiping neighbour. But what of Toby, Sir?’

  Joe Jago answered for the Magistrate. ‘We have yet to see him. In fact we kept him to the last, Mr Rawlings, in the hope that you might arrive.’

  Samuel looked excited. ‘Then shall we call him in?’

  ‘By all means.’

  The man who had brought Hannah Rankin’s body to the surface of the Pond was clearly the old soldier that he claimed to be. Scars of battle marked his face, one cut running down so close to his eye that he was lucky not to have lost the sight of it. With his sleeves rolled back, exposing his burly forearms, other healed wounds could be seen. There was a generally stoical air about the fellow, as if he had borne all manner of terrible conditions and still come out uncomplaining. John almost regretted the blow that would shortly fall upon him.

  Mr Fielding leant back in his chair, his face impassive, his voice measured. ‘Be so good as to stand in front of me. As you know, I am completely blind and it helps me to converse if I know whither I should address my voice.’

  Toby did as he had been requested, then stood straight, military style, waiting to be questioned.

  The Magistrate continued urbanely. ‘I will, if I may, recount your part in the tragic events of yesterday, so that you can tell me if they are correct or otherwise. Then, perhaps, we might discuss any points that arise. Is that agreeable to you?’

  ‘It is, Sir.’

  ‘From what I have heard you were summoned by Mr Kemp to assist Mr Rawlings. He told you that a body had been found in the Fish Pond and asked whether you would be willing to dive in and retrieve it. To this you made the somewhat curious reply that you had fought in the war and seen worse sights than dead women.’ Mr Fielding paused, then said silkily, ‘How did you know that it was a female who lay at the bottom of the lake?’

  Toby’s eyes bulged in his head and his jaw sagged, then he recovered himself. ‘Because he said so,’ he answered, pointing at John.

  ‘But that’s just the point,’ the Apothecary retorted, ‘I did no such thing. I was very careful not to mention the gender of the victim.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Toby fell back on the soldier’s creed that attack is the best method of defence. ‘Far be it from me to argue with a gentleman, but I must contradict you there, Sir,’ he announced boldly. ‘You definitely said she was female. How else would I have known?’

  ‘How indeed?’ repeated John Fielding reflectively. The black bandage turned in John’s direction. ‘I feel we must let the matter rest there, at least for the time being.’

  And the Apothecary knew that he had been given an instruction not to argue until there had been a chance for further discussion. However, he could not resist shooting a quizzical glance in Toby’s direction and slowly raising a dark svelte brow, just to show the waiter that he had not been deceived by the downright lie than had just been told about his own recollection of events.

  Chapter Six

  It had been a morning crammed with events and information and nobody felt more relieved than John when Mr Fielding finally announced his intention of returning to Bow Street, believing that, for the moment, all had been achieved that could be at the Peerless Pool. For so far several interesting facts had emerged. Not only had Toby told a barefaced lie when questioned, but also a track had been discovered by the gate behind Mr Kemp’s manor house. The indentation formed by a single wheel made it appear that a wheelbarrow had come along the path from the fields and gone through the gate and into the grounds. There, unfortunately, the marks vanished into the shrubbery, though no abandoned wheelbarrow had been found.

  The Blind Beak, listening to the report of his Runners, had ordered that all the barrows used in maintaining the Peerless Pool gardens be searched and, sure enough, one of them, when the grass it contained had been tipped out, bore indications of dark brown stains. John had examined them, his quizzing glass to his eye.

  ‘Blood, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So it would appear that this is the way Hannah was brought in.’

  Joe Jago had spoken. ‘It seems more and more likely that someone working within these grounds assisted the killer.’

  The Magistrate had stroked his chin. ‘Or was the killer.’

  ‘Things are looking black for Toby.’

  ‘Black – but not black enough. However, I shall have him brought to Bow Street for further examination. He might not be quite so confident away from his own territory.’

  Samuel had asked a question. ‘As there seem to be no relatives or friends, what are you going to do about identifying the body, Sir?’

  ‘I shall call upon Forbes the warder, as Mr Rawlings suggested.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to be very happy about that.’

  ‘It is not a happy task,’ the Beak had replied without cynicism.

  The final undertaking before the four men went to Mr Fielding’s carriage was to ascertain which of Mr Kemp’s servants was responsible for locking the back gate at night. This proved to be a gardener called William, who swore that he had locked up on the night of the crime.

  ‘At what time would that have been?’ Joe Jago had asked, Mr Fielding sitting quietly in his usual solemn pose.

  William had rubbed his hands on his breeches. ‘At sundown, Sir. I tends to lock up when the other gates are done.’

  ‘But what happens if Mr Kemp or any member of his family, or any of the servants come to that, want to go out that way?’

  ‘The family all have keys, Sir. And the servants shares one. It hangs with the household keys in the kitchen.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been easier,’ Joe had commented as the door closed behind the man. ‘The way I see it, the murderer either let himself in, or was assisted by his accomplice. All they had to do was take the key off the hook.’

  ‘The field narrows and widens,’ was the Magistrate’s only comment as they walked through the grounds to the Old Street entrance, where his coach awaited them.

  Taking leave of Mr Fielding, John and Samuel had gone their separate ways; the Goldsmith to his shop, the Apothecary to his home in Nassau Street, Soho, the thought of dining with his father and discussing the morning’s events too great a temptation to be overcome. However, such pleasurable notions were driven straight from his mind by the sight of a carriage just leaving his front door and going round to the stables in Dolphin Yard, where Sir Gabriel Kent’s own equipage was housed.

  Guests, John thought, and made a point of going to his room and not only washing away the smell of the lunatic asylum but also changing his clothes for something far more elegant than he had worn for the morning’s business. And as he entered his father’s library, from which the buzz of lively conversation could be heard from halfway down the stairs, the Apothecary was glad that he had dressed up, for the place seemed full of people.

  The first person to catch his eye was a tall, thin grandee, with dark lustrous eyes, a hawk’s nose, and black eyebrows which contrasted interestingl
y with the full white wig that the man wore. Beside him stood a woman that John took to be the grandee’s wife. Encased as she was in lilac taffeta, with eyes of an almost identical colour, the Apothecary thought for a moment that she, too, was wearing a wig, until he realised that it was the woman’s own hair, swept up and adorned with fashionable feathers. The fact that she was white-haired surprised him, for he had taken her to be not much more than forty-five. Just for a moment the woman’s eyes rested on him and she smiled, transforming herself into a beauty, regardless of age.

  There were two other couples in the room, one of whom John knew slightly, the other very well indeed. The first, a round and jolly physician by the name of Dr Drake and his lanky wife, Matilda, who towered over him, he greeted with a polite and formal bow. The second, Comte Louis de Vignolles and his marvellous wife Serafina, John saluted then embraced. Indeed, he would have spent time talking to them had not his father summoned him to his side.

  Addressing the violet-eyed woman, Sir Gabriel said, ‘Lady Dysart, may I present my son, John Rawlings?’

  She gave the Apothecary a warm glance, replied, ‘How dee do,’ and held out her hand for a kiss. Brushing her fingers with his lips. John smiled up at her and she lowered her lids, thus betraying what a flirt she once had been.

  Turning to the grandee, Sir Gabriel, with a certain ring of pride in his voice, said, ‘Anthony, this is the son of whom I have spoken. May I introduce him to you?’ The grandee nodded his striking head and Sir Gabriel continued, ‘John, this is my old friend, Lord Anthony Dysart.’

  The Apothecary gave his deepest bow and said, ‘An honour, my Lord,’ feeling rather than seeing Sir Gabriel’s smile of approval.

  ‘Your father and I were at school together,’ Lord Anthony remarked. ‘My parents were particularly progressive and disliked the idea of tutors beyond a certain age for their sons. Consequently, I was sent out into the world, and look into what company I fell.’

  He and Sir Gabriel laughed uproariously and John was left to consider that money bought everything. For Sir Gabriel’s father, a minor baronet but an extremely wealthy one, had been able to send his son to Winchester, the great public school and the oldest in England, founded in the fourteenth century. There he had mingled with the sons of the aristocracy, a fact that had done Sir Gabriel no harm at all when he entered the world of commerce in order to enlarge his fortune.

  Lord Anthony interrupted the Apothecary’s train of thought. ‘Your father was senior to me, of course, but was kind enough to help me read Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Entropius. I fear that Latin and Greek were never my strong suit. I was always more interested in learning how to measure the stars.’

  Lady Dysart joined in. ‘There is a general laziness in all Englishmen about studying a foreign tongue, which is something I deplore. I attended the French Boarding School for Young Ladies in the Broadway, Westminster, and there we were obliged to speak the language in its purest form.’

  ‘What else did you study, Ma’am?’ asked John, surprised that she was so well educated and something more than a vapid member of the upper class.

  ‘English, writing, drawing and accounts, to say nothing of needlework and dancing. In fact it was the claim of our headmistress that all her pupils went from her establishment knowing everything that was needed for life as a lady.’ The beautiful eyes twinkled. ‘Of course, the one thing that nobody told us about was men.’

  Her husband smiled broadly. ‘And where did you learn about those, my dear?’

  ‘Attending balls, playing cards, and in the bedchamber,’ she replied with spirit, then added, ‘But only yours, of course.’

  Sir Gabriel, who for this dinner-time was clad in black satin breeches with white stockings, a black full-skirted coat and a white waistcoat intricately embroidered with black threads, turned to his son.

  ‘Will you escort Lady Dysart into dinner, my dear?’

  The Apothecary, thoroughly intrigued by their attractive, outspoken guest, answered, ‘It will be my pleasure to do so.’

  They formed into a line, Lord Anthony offering Serafina de Vignolles his arm, and the Comte walking with Matilda Drake. The fat physician and Sir Gabriel came last of all. In this way, John found himself seated beside Lady Dysart and opposite Serafina, a most fortunate arrangement as far as he was concerned. Looking across the table at his old friend, with whom some years previously he had thought himself madly in love, the Apothecary caught her eye and they exchanged a knowing look. They had come through much together and had been involved in some interesting escapades. Yet even while they were staring at one another with awareness, Serafina slowly winked her eye, leaving John wondering what it was that she wanted to tell him. His gaze slid round to her husband, the handsome Frenchman, Louis, who had also been caught up in certain intrigues in his time, but it seemed that nothing was amiss there, for the Comte was chatting animatedly to his neighbour Matilda, who was flushed with all the attention.

  Lady Dysart addressed herself to the Comtesse de Vignolles. ‘Of course, we are relative newcomers to town life, having until recently divided our time between Paris and Somerset.’

  Serafina looked interested. ‘Oh, why was that, Ma’am?’

  ‘My husband was the French Ambassador and had been so for many years, but at the outbreak of war two summers ago we were recalled. We have spent the intervening months looking for a town house but now we have had one built in the new development of Mayfair. You must call on me, my dear Comtesse, I could do with a little female company.’

  ‘I should be delighted for I, too, have connections with France. My husband, as you know, is of Huguenot extraction and speaks French fluently, even though he was born here.’

  ‘Better and better,’ answered Lady Dysart, and effortlessly changed languages, addressing herself to Louis in his native tongue. ‘I was just saying to your charming wife that I hope we can become friends. I need to enter the social scene once more and can think of no more delightful companion.’

  ‘The only difficulty might be,’ answered Serafina, also in French, ‘that I shall be retiring from public life shortly. I am with child.’

  John and Sir Gabriel, who could follow French with relative ease, both burst into delighted applause, much to the astonishment of Dr and Mrs Drake, who did not speak the language at all.

  ‘When?’ said the Apothecary in English, permitting himself to ask such a personal question because of his long and intimate association with the Comtesse, to whose other child he was a godfather.

  ‘In February.’

  ‘And what does Italia think?’

  ‘She does not know yet but I am sure she will be mightily put out. She has had three years of my undivided attention and now a rival in the camp is sure to displease her.’ Serafina turned to Lady Dysart. ‘Do you have any children, Ma’am?’

  It was an innocent enough question but, for all that, a strange quiet suddenly fell over Sir Gabriel and Lord Anthony, even though the other guests seemed unaware of it, for Matilda chattered on inanely and Dr Drake boomed a laugh at Louis. John, though, close to his father as he was, sensed that something had gone badly wrong and wondered what it could possibly be.

  Eventually Lady Dysart spoke, her face expressionless, though her voice was full of pain. ‘Anthony and I had only one child, a daughter, our son and heir having died at birth. Alice was very beautiful, a lovely girl in many ways and all that we could hope for, but she disappointed us by eloping with the son of one of our servants. Anyway, we put that scandal behind us and shortly after that we were posted to Paris and shut up the Somerset home. Then a message came from England that we were to return at once. Alice and her husband had both been killed in a coaching accident, leaving behind a baby boy of only two years old. Naturally, we rushed home to fetch the child and took him back with us to France.’

  Her voice broke and, shaking her head, Lady Dysart relapsed into silence, then rose from the table and left the room. Her husband stared after her mournfully.

  ‘
Forgive her, please. My wife was foolish to embark on such a tale over the dinner table.’

  Serafina looked fraught. ‘It is my fault entirely. I should never have asked such a personal question.’

  ‘You were not to know, Comtesse,’ Lord Anthony answered sombrely. ‘No blame can be laid at your door.’ He stared down at his plate then cleared his throat, obviously coming to a decision. Eventually he said, ‘I think you should know the rest of the story, terrible though it is to relate. Meredith, our grandson, lived with us until he was three, then one day, with no warning whatsoever, he vanished from the garden in which he had been playing and was never seen again.’

  Everyone gazed at him in horror, and there was a long silence before John found himself asking, ‘But how could this be? Was the child dallying in a public place?’

  ‘No. The garden was situated behind the Ambassador’s residence in the Marais district of Paris, a mansion protected by a high brick wall. After we reported him missing, the officers of the law searched the premises high and low, and further afield we employed our own people to look for the child, but all to no avail. It was just as if Meredith had been spirited off the face of the earth.’

  ‘What did you do? Whatever did you do?’ asked Matilda, with a sob.

  ‘We went on looking, first in Paris, then further and further away. We followed every lead. Our quest took us to remote villages, to Spain even, seeing boys who answered Meredith’s description. But each time we were disappointed. They were either beggars, or tricksters, or just poor homeless creatures who were wandering the streets. In the end I begged Ambrosine to give up the quest, assured her that too much time had elapsed, that we would no longer recognise Meredith even if we were to find him. But still she went on. I think one could fairly say that the hunt for her missing grandson became an obsession with her.’

  ‘Anthony, my dear, I had heard about Alice but had no idea of this,’ Sir Gabriel said quietly. ‘What a grim burden for you to have carried all these years.’

  Just for a second Dysart’s dark eyes welled with tears, then he firmly controlled himself. ‘Even worse than losing the boy has been watching the anguish eat away at Ambrosine. Believe me, she has only returned to anything like a semblance of normality since we came back to England.’