Death in the Peerless Pool

by Deryn Lake

  John stood up. ‘I feel I should go to her. The very least I can do is mix her a concoction.’ Suddenly remembering that there was a physician present, he looked contritely in Dr Drake’s direction. ‘As long as that is agreeable to you, Sir.’

  Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor also lumbered to his feet. ‘Yes, I think we should see the lady. Perhaps a word of cheer and a strengthening mixture might restore her good humour.’

  Lord Anthony looked doubtful. ‘Ambrosine prefers to be left alone when she is in low spirits.’

  Sir Gabriel interjected, ‘My son’s compounds are excellent and Dr Drake is most experienced, my friend. Let them try to help her.’

  ‘Very well. If you wish.’

  Feeling that he ought to walk on tiptoe, so restrained was the atmosphere round the dinner table, John followed Dr Drake from the room, horribly aware that he had never seen Serafina so wretched with guilt.

  They found Lady Dysart in the library, staring out of the window at Sir Gabriel’s garden, the droop of her shoulders exquisitely sad and somehow more heart-rending than if she had been weeping. She turned on hearing their footsteps and regarded the two men with sorrowful eyes.

  ‘Madam,’ said Dr Drake, ‘your husband has told us everything. I grieve for you as a grandfather myself.’ He spoke very sweetly and the Apothecary’s admiration for him rose mightily. ‘My young friend, Mr Rawlings,’ the physician went on, ‘would be most happy to make you a concoction to restore your spirits. I do hope that you will agree to him doing so.’

  Ambrosine smiled sadly. ‘Nothing can ever take away the pain of losing a child – and I have lost three; my baby son, my beautiful daughter, and then Meredith. It is hard to see how a glass of physick could put matters right but I am most happy to try if it would please you.’ She made a little gesture with her hand, so downhearted a movement that John found himself taking it between his own.

  ‘Be brave, Lady Dysart,’ he said. ‘I will do all that I can to help you.’

  He turned to fetch his bag of pills and potions but she stopped him, misunderstanding what he had said.

  ‘You will look for Meredith for me?’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I can hardly do that after all these years.’

  ‘But say you will. Say that you will keep your eyes and ears open. You must meet so many people through your profession. One day somebody might say something that could put you on the right trail.’

  ‘It really isn’t very likely.’

  Dr Drake’s voice drowned his. ‘Of course we will look out, Madam. Both Mr Rawlings and I will stay alert. But you must prepare yourself for disappointment. The chances of either of us hearing anything are very remote.’

  ‘I understand that,’ she answered dismally, ‘but there is always a faint hope.’

  Handing Ambrosine a glass of physick to which he had added a purgation of black hellebore, also known as Christmas rose, a sure cure for melancholy, John asked, ‘How old would Meredith be now?’

  Lady Dysart frowned slightly. ‘He was three when he was stolen and that was eighteen years ago.’

  ‘And, forgive me, no body was ever found?’

  ‘Not in Paris, no. The city was combed, including those dangerous areas where civilised men hardly dare set foot. But as to the rest of France, who can say? It is, as you know, an enormous country.’

  ‘Your husband raised the point, my Lady,’ Dr Drake said tentatively, ‘that even if you were to come across Meredith, you would no longer recognise him. Surely this must be true. By now, a young man would have taken the place of the child.’

  ‘Meredith bore a birthmark,’ Ambrosine answered defensively. ‘He had a red patch, often described as a port wine stain, on the left-hand side of his chest. I would know him anywhere by that.’

  ‘Such marks have been known to fade with age.’

  ‘None the less.’

  John shook his head. ‘Lady Dysart, I wish you success, I truly do. But do not set store on finding and recognising him.’

  Ambrosine set her lips in a firm line. ‘My faith will not be shaken by anything you say. Now, to the present. I feel much recovered. If it would not be considered impolite I would like to join the others. Sir Gabriel suggested that we should play whist when we had dined and I would so enjoy a game.’

  Dr Drake peered earnestly into his patient’s face. ‘You are sure you are up to it, my Lady? This is not just a show of bravado?’

  Ambrosine shook her head. ‘No, I really do feel greatly recovered. I think this young man’s concoction has truly done me good.’ She flashed a brilliant smile in John’s direction.

  She was very slightly hysterical, he felt sure of that, but really there was little he could do to stop her playing cards. Besides, to have to concentrate on something other than her tragic life would undoubtedly do her good. With an answering smile, the Apothecary bowed, then offered Lady Dysart his arm.

  Serafina, who had once been renowned as the greatest gambler in London, the notorious Masked Lady, no less, was clearly suffering from a combination of guilt and pregnancy, for she threw her game of whist away, allowing Ambrosine Dysart to execute a brilliant Bath coup, a move designed to deceive the other players which Serafina would normally have countered at once. Thus Ambrosine had stylishly won the rubber.

  ‘Well played,’ said her husband, clapping his hands at his wife’s skill. John, highly suspicious that his old friend might have lost deliberately, did likewise.

  ‘You are a fine player, Lady Dysart.’

  ‘We got a lot of practice in Paris, of course. Even after Meredith disappeared we had to entertain as before.’

  ‘It must have been a terrible strain on you,’ said Serafina.

  ‘It both destroyed and saved me,’ Ambrosine answered truthfully. ‘I think if I had not been forced to enact my role as ambassador’s wife I would have broken down completely.’

  There was a small silence, then Serafina, her equilibrium restored, asked the ultimate question. ‘Why was he taken? Was it because of who you were?’

  Lord Anthony answered for his wife. ‘That was what was thought at the time but when no demand for money or favours arrived, the authorities began to reconsider the idea.’

  ‘Then why?’

  The people sitting at the other card table started to listen, Matilda already dabbing at her eyes with a large, sensible handkerchief.

  ‘Slavery, possibly,’ said Anthony, in a strained and quiet voice.

  ‘Slavery?’ echoed Dr Drake in shocked tones.

  ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps you did not know that during the time of the Commonwealth, Irish men, women and children were snatched from their villages by English soldiers and shipped off in their thousands to act as slaves in the Barbadoes. They never returned, most of them being literally worked to death. They were treated far worse than the African slaves who were more difficult to come by. But in the case of the Irish, the plantation owners knew that for every one that died the government would send replacements. It was the most evil trade in human life ever recorded.’

  ‘I was not aware of that,’ Louis de Vignolles stated. ‘Though I did know that the poor unfortunate bastards born to the wretched women of Bridewell were sent to the plantations to earn a living.’

  Realising how distressing this discussion must be, Sir Gabriel tried to put a stop to it, but Ambrosine’s voice rose above his.

  ‘My grandson was beautiful, a truly handsome child. I cannot believe that he was taken merely to act as a slave.’

  ‘Then why?’ asked kind but tactless Matilda.

  ‘To satisfy the whim of some terrible creature,’ Lady Dysart answered, blanching as white as her hair. ‘It is my heart’s belief that the child was taken either to work in the brothels or become the plaything of some evil pederast.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Lord Anthony, still unable to listen to such words.

  There was a stunned silence round the table before Lady Dysart, her attempt at rallying at an end, burst into
long and raking sobs, quite terrible to hear.

  It had still been bright, a fine summer’s early evening, as John had journeyed by coach in the direction of the newly built houses of Mayfair, that exciting development lying behind Berkeley Square where all the most elegant members of the beau monde were choosing to make their home. He had accompanied Lord and Lady Dysart from number two, Nassau Street, in order to give Ambrosine a sleeping draught once she was safely in bed, Dr Drake having a professional call to make. Supported by her husband, the bereaved grandmother had not spoken during the journey back, had not said a word as she alighted from the coach and went straight indoors and up the stairs, a maid running along the landing to assist her.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Lord Anthony turned a desperate face to the Apothecary. ‘Come and have a brandy with me, there’s a good fellow. And perhaps you could give me a draught of something while you’re about it. Having to live with this situation is wearing away at my nerves.’

  They had gone, then, into a book-lined library, obviously used as a study from time to time, and there sat down on either side of the fireplace, only to be joined a moment or two later by a footman, come to put a tinder to the wood.

  ‘Begging your pardon, my Lord,’ the man said, as he knelt before the grate, ‘but Mr Gregg presents his compliments and asks if there is anything he can do.’

  Lord Anthony looked up over the rim of his glass. ‘Tell him that I am engaged for the moment but that I’ll see him later this evening.’

  John said nothing, merely sipping his brandy, watching the flames begin to rise and thinking about the terrible fate that might well have befallen his host’s grandson.

  Almost as if he could read them, Anthony broke in on his thoughts, his voice harsh and almost unrecognisable. ‘Do you think our poor boy was taken as a catamite?’

  The Apothecary shook his head, his face very serious. ‘Sir, I have always been led to understand that child abduction rings have been at work since time immemorial, though as to their exact purpose I have never been quite certain. Yet, being honest, I cannot credit that all the children taken are destined just to be plantation slaves. Though I hate to say it, I’m sure some of them must end up in a life of prostitution, in one form or another.’

  The older man nodded, his dark brows furrowing into a harsh line. ‘You’re right, of course. What vile times we live in!’

  ‘Times have always been and always will be vile.’

  Lord Anthony let out a grim laugh. ‘Then there’s little hope for us.’

  ‘Come now, Sir, for every evil act one usually comes across a good one. Perhaps the boy was kidnapped by a childless couple who had fallen in love with the look of him and are now acting as his parents, giving him much love and affection.’

  ‘Even that would not make his abduction any easier to bear.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. But it would give you a great deal more hope.’

  ‘Aye, that it would, my Lord,’ said a voice from the doorway, and John turned in his chair to see that a hulking creature with shoulders broad enough for two men and a shock of iron-grey hair, uncovered by a wig and crowning the man’s ruddy complexion like a cock’s comb, had entered the room.

  ‘Ah, Gregg,’ said Lord Anthony wearily, ‘did you not get the message that I was engaged?’

  ‘That I did, my Lord. But what with her ladyship near to collapse upstairs, and demanding that the young apothecary should give her something to make her sleep all night without so much as a dream, I thought I’d best act on my own initiative.’

  ‘You’re an insolent hound,’ growled Anthony, without rancour.

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ answered Gregg and, advancing into the room, he stood at attention before the fireplace as if he were awaiting orders.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ his lordship said with just a flicker of amusement, ‘this is my steward, Gregg. He has been in my service for ever and a day; in fact he entirely ran the Somerset home while we were in France. But now, with it closed down most of the year, I have brought him here to be close to us, though I must be losing my reason to do so for he is as authoritarian as if he were master.’

  ‘Take no notice, Sir,’ answered Gregg, directing his remarks at John and winking an enormous blue eye in a most familiar manner. ‘I’m as obedient as the hound his lordship just called me.’

  That they were on extremely familiar terms was more than obvious, and even though it was wildly unconventional, the Apothecary was not at all surprised when Lord Anthony Dysart invited his steward to sit down and drink brandy with them.

  ‘Gregg came out to Paris to help me search at the time of the abduction,’ his lordship announced by way of explanation, and suddenly everything was crystal clear. Though deeply divided by class, by the unwritten laws governing servants and their masters, these two men were intimate friends, united by a common tragedy in which both had shared.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Gregg,’ John said.

  The steward rose and bowed. ‘Anyone who helps Lord and Lady Dysart can expect my friendship in return.’

  The situation was getting more unusual by the second, but there was something refreshing about it for all that.

  ‘Did you say that her ladyship wanted me?’ the Apothecary asked the newcomer.

  ‘Aye, Sir. She’s ready for her sleeping draught now. I’ll get one of the footmen to show you the way.’

  So, accompanied by a servant, John mounted a new sharply curved staircase, built in the modern style, and went into a fine bedroom which looked out over Hyde Park. Though most of the curtains were closed against the evening sunshine, the sensational view could be glimpsed through one, only partly drawn. Opposite this window, in a draped bed which stood against the far wall, Ambrosine lay, her face and hair as white as the linen. Only her eyes, deep mauve in the shadows, added any colour to her immense pallor. She held out one of her lovely hands.

  ‘My dear young friend, you have not seen the best of me today.’

  He kissed her fingers, thinking how attractive she was and how very much he wanted to help her.

  ‘Madam, you were forced to recall a most painful episode in your life. Everyone who met you at dinner can do nothing but admire your enormous courage in overcoming your suffering as greatly as you have.’

  She smiled. ‘How kindly put. Now give me my sleeping potion and let me rest. Tomorrow I will wake up strong once more.’

  Opening his bag of physicks and pills, John drew out a dose of laudanum, derived from the white poppy, the most powerful opiate he carried.

  ‘Will I dream?’ asked Lady Dysart as she swallowed it.

  ‘You might.’

  ‘Will the dreams be pleasant if I do?’

  ‘That I cannot say.’

  She was falling asleep already. ‘Mr Rawlings,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t forget your promise to me.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘To help me find poor Meredith.’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ John answered, and left the room, his heart heavy within him at the thought of such a terrible delving, and what might be revealed if by the merest chance such a task should prove successful.

  Chapter Seven

  A sudden wild whim to do something exciting and unplanned overcame John Rawlings as he journeyed back from his visit to Lord Anthony Dysart’s splendid new home. Indeed, so much did it have him in its grip that he lowered the carriage window and called up to the coachman, ‘Would you be good enough to take me to the King’s Theatre in the Hay Market. I should just have time to see the start of the play.’

  ‘Very good, Sir,’ came the reply, and the driver changed direction, turning right off Piccadilly instead of going straight on to Nassau Street. But it was a little more than love of the theatre which drew the Apothecary to a new production of Twelfth Night, now in the first week of its run. In truth, as soon as his eye had alighted on the poster advertising the play, he had determined to see it. For playing the part
of Viola, that Shakespearean heroine who spends most of her time on stage dressed as a boy, was the woman who had haunted him ever since he had met her four years earlier, in 1754; none other than the rising young actress Coralie Clive, younger sister of the famous Kitty. Suddenly most anxious to see her again, John jostled his way into the pit, where sat the professional classes; young merchants of coming eminence, barristers and students of the Inns of Court, physicians and apothecaries. The critics also sat in this part of the theatre and denoted their status by smearing their upper lips with snuff. With only a few minutes to spare, John took his seat and looked around him.

  The stage, as ever, was half filled with boxes, packed with exquisites and fine ladies, all decidedly tipsy, or lounging footmen reserving places for their late-coming masters. Even with the play about to start, a blood swung a high leg over a box’s ledge, staggered slightly, and accidentally sat down hard upon his privy parts, causing him to wheeze with pain and rendering him incapable of further movement. To assist him, one of the two sentries posted upon the stage, a ridiculous custom frequently dispensed with by David Garrick of Drury Lane, heaved the wretched fellow over the edge, where he sprawled in a chair, quite done in. At this, the occupants of the gallery showered the box with oranges until the poor recipient, still bent double, was compelled to leave through a door at the back. Competing valiantly with this chaos, the sounds of the orchestra were lost, and the actor playing the part of the Duke was forced to repeat the immortal words ‘If music be the food of love, play on’ twice, in order to make himself heard. The Apothecary felt his stomach tighten with anxiety at the thought of the fate that awaited Coralie, due on stage next. But she took it all with quiet calm. Dressed from head to toe in a hooded black cloak, she stared out at the audience as if they were the waves of the sea Viola was meant to be regarding. Raked by those beautiful green eyes, even the rowdiest gallery-goer fell quiet, and Coralie began her scene in silence.