by Deryn Lake
Mary Ann smiled, her expression pert, but there could be no doubting the look of guilt in Nicholas’s amber eyes. They had been in the back of the shop toying and kissing, John felt sure of it. However, there was little he could do until he got his apprentice alone, and even then other than thundering on about the pledges of indenture, one of which was that the apprentice would not fornicate, a vow broken by many as they got older, there was not a great deal to be said. Mary Ann, after all, was over twelve, the age of consent, and Nicholas was not far off his twenty-first birthday, having been apprenticed later than most.
Knowing full well that the girl was more than aware of his dilemma, the Apothecary gave a pleasant smile. ‘Is Mrs Fielding shopping with you, my dear?’
‘No. My aunt sent me out with a servant to get a few physicks, so naturally I came to your shop. Nicholas was just showing me how you compound your simples. It was truly fascinating.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ John answered smoothly, controlling a strong urge to put her over his knee and give her a smart smack to remove her smug expression.
The youthful flirt looked up at him from beneath her lashes. ‘Well, I must be on my way, Mr Rawlings. Do you think that Nicholas might carry my parcels for me?’
‘No, Mary Ann, I do not. He has work to do and I cannot spare him. Did you walk here or come by chair?’
‘By chair. That is how I managed to get rid of the maid. I bribed my chairmen to dodge down an alley and thus avoid hers. Isn’t it amusing?’
‘Not in the least,’ answered the Apothecary with much feeling. ‘I shall hail a sedan for your return. You must not go about unaccompanied.’
‘Oh, don’t let me bother you; Nicholas can escort me.’
‘Oh no, Nicholas can’t. He has wasted enough time already this morning. Young man, go and pound me a mortar of vervain while I escort Mr Fielding’s niece to a chair.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ answered the apprentice, peony-faced, and went into the back of the shop, the limp that became worse whenever he was distressed showing badly.
Taking the wayward minx firmly by the arm, John marched her into the street and hailed two passing chairmen, who looked relieved at the prospect of carrying so light a load.
‘To the Public Office in Bow Street,’ he ordered, ‘and no stopping on the way, whatever the pretext.’
‘Very good, Sir.’ And picking up their burden they hurried off at a jog trot.
John did not waste words. Striding into the compounding room, he said, ‘Nicholas, what is going on between you and Miss Whittingham?’
The young man looked doom-laden. ‘Nothing untoward, Sir, I promise you. I respect Mary Ann. However, she is over twelve, Sir, if you take my meaning.’
‘I take it all too clearly. But that aside, she is still very young and unversed in the ways of the world, whereas you have reached years of discretion.’
Nicholas gave him a sudden bitter look. ‘I have experienced a great deal, if that is what you mean, Sir. But none of it has been particularly pleasant. In fact most of it has been harsh and terrible. But as to the promise I made when I was apprenticed, I have kept it, though it has been difficult indeed to do so, especially in recent times.’
John nodded, his expression less severe. ‘It is not an easy constraint to put on any young man, I am more than aware of that. In fact I would say to you that I would turn a blind eye to what you do in your private time were your choice of sweetheart any different. But Mary Ann, Nicholas, is the Magistrate’s niece! I have known her since she was a little girl. She must be treated differently.’
‘Everyone has to grow up some time,’ the Muscovite answered dourly.
John shook his head. ‘But not her, not yet. Mr Fielding would flay you within an inch of your life if you laid one finger on her.’
Nicholas’s eyes suddenly filled with tears of pure wretchedness. ‘Then what am I to do?’
The Apothecary leant towards him and lowered his voice. ‘I am no killjoy, my friend, believe me, and therefore I am prepared to take a risk and rely on your discretion. For what I am about to say to you is not fitting for a Master to tell his apprentice and must never be repeated. But overriding conventional behaviour is my concern for your physical and mental well being, so listen to me.’
And then John explained to Nicholas Dawkins about the house discreetly hidden amongst the trees in Leicester Fields, a house visited exclusively by gentlemen, a house where a young fellow might learn about life and come out none the worse for it.
‘And you think I should visit there?’
‘I do.’
‘But what about my pledge?’
‘I would consider you to have broken that if you began an affaire with Mary Ann.’
The Muscovite looked knowing. ‘You are very protective of her, aren’t you?’
John nodded thoughtfully. ‘There has been much on my mind recently about the dangers children face, from the mad girl at St Luke’s, found working as a prostitute, to a little boy abducted in Paris and never seen again.’
‘But …’
‘Do not protest, Nicholas. Miss Whittingham is too young for love. You know it and so do I. It would be the ruin of her if she were to enter into a liaison with you at this stage of her development.’
The apprentice sighed gustily. ‘Are you forbidding me to see her?’
‘I most certainly am not. The moment something is prohibited, the more attractive it instantly becomes. See your friend, kiss her if you must, but take your pleasures elsewhere.’
Nicholas shot him a penetrating look, ‘You’ll say nothing of this to Mr Fielding, will you, Sir?’
‘My lips are sealed,’ John answered, and found himself the subject of a very warm handshake which ended in an affectionate hug. ‘I thank you for that, Sir. You are wise beyond your years.’
The Apothecary smiled crookedly. ‘If that were true, my friend, I think my life would be a great deal simpler than it is turning out to be.’
Discovering the times of departure from the Golden Cross not convenient to him, the coaches leaving too early to give him a full afternoon in the shop, John caught the 8 p.m. flying coach departing from the Gloucester Coffee House, Piccadilly, having first dined and answered the call of nature before he got aboard. Booking a place before he went to eat, the Apothecary ended up travelling in company with two others, whom he met when he went to take his seat, businessmen from Exeter, both determined to get a night’s rest. Agreeing that this suited him well John settled down to sleep after the short stop at Brentford, and did not wake again until the coach pulled in at Thatcham at three o’clock in the morning. There, the passengers went to take refreshment and relieve themselves, having been allowed twenty minutes in which to do so. And though they grumbled about the shortness of the break, everyone was happy when Bath was reached at ten o’clock the following morning. Alighting at The Bear to take breakfast, John’s fellow travellers bade him farewell, as he went inside to book himself a room in the coaching inn, a pleasant hostelry well used to catering for the needs of visitors to the spa.
The addresses given on the two references which Hannah Rankin had presented to the board of St Luke’s Hospital were both of places fashionably situated, according to the Apothecary’s guidebook. Having studied the locations carefully, John slept for a while in order to sharpen his reactions, then washed and shaved before setting out for Queen Square, that elegant creation of John Wood, whose houses were the chosen resort of the beau monde. However, this first avenue of enquiry immediately presented a mystery. The number given simply did not exist. Eventually, having walked round for a good quarter of an hour, John knocked at a door, the number of which most closely resembled the fictitious number, and asked for Lady Allbury, whose name was signed at the bottom of the testimonial. He was met with a blank stare.
‘There’s no Lady Allbury here, Sir. This is the house of Mr Humphrey Bewl.’
‘Has Lady Allbury moved away, do you know?’
‘There has never been
a Lady Allbury here, Sir,’ the footman intoned frostily. ‘Mr Bewl’s father owned this house before him and came to it when it was newly built.’
Highly suspicious of this latest turn of events, John retired to Sally Lunn’s Coffee House, where he demolished a bun oozing with butter and considered his position. It would seem obvious, he thought, that the reference was a forgery and that Lady Allbury was probably a figment of Hannah Rankin’s imagination. None the less, it would be well worth asking about the mysterious titled woman just to see if anyone at all knew the name. Wondering what he was going to find when he got there, John made his way to the second address, which was given as Welham House, Bathwick, a suburb of Bath lying across the Avon to the east of the city. Crossing the river by ferry, the Apothecary made enquiries of a man sitting on a wall close by, watching the various craft as they plied the Avon’s expanse, and was relieved to hear that Welham House actually existed. Climbing the hill pointed out to him, he toiled to the top to find himself standing before a pair of wrought-iron gates leading on to a straight drive lined by an avenue of trees, at the end of which could be glimpsed a Palladian house, superbly proportioned. John guessed that it might also be the work of John Wood, the architect, a disciple of the great Italian master, Palladio. Patting the letter of authorisation signed by Mr Fielding, now residing in his pocket, he called to the lodgekeeper to open the wicket gate.
Hannah’s reference, headed with the Welham House address, was signed Vivian Sweeting, and the Apothecary’s enquiry as to whether Mr Sweeting was at home was met with the reply that Sir Vivian was in residence but had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed for the next two hours as he was working on his correspondence. Leaving behind his card and the Magistrate’s request for cooperation, John had no option but to retire to the nearest ale-house, a ramshackle establishment built close to the River Avon, called The Ship. Always a great believer in talking to the locals, the Apothecary struck up a conversation with an ancient fellow who announced that he had once been the ferryman, a post he had held for more than fifty years.
‘So you’ve seen a few people come and go in that time, I imagine.’
‘I have, Sir, indeed,’ the old fellow answered, in the soft-toned accent of a native of Bath.
John assumed his honest and confiding face, simultaneously ordering the gaffer a tankard of ale. ‘Truth to tell, I’m down here trying to trace a female who used to work for my aunt. She went off to London and was never heard of again.’
‘Oh, and who might that be?’
‘Hannah Rankin was her name. I believe that she worked at Welham House at one time.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Don’t mean nothing to me, Sir. What was the other lady’s name?’
‘What other lady?’
‘Your aunt, Sir.’
‘Lady Allbury,’ answered John, with a flash of inspiration.
The old man’s face underwent an amazing series of changes. ‘Lady Allbury, Sir? But surely you know, Sir, being her kin and all.’
Realising that he was treading dangerous ground but not certain quite what kind, the Apothecary immediately looked concerned. ‘I know nothing, my friend. I have been abroad for several years and have only just returned to this country.’
The ferryman appeared more distressed than ever. ‘Then it is hardly my place to tell you, Sir.’
John hastily ordered another refill of ale. ‘But I must beg you to do so. There is no one in the family left alive to give me the news.’
Even as he lied, the Apothecary caught himself wondering about the ease with which he could spin yams and not suffer from a guilty conscience. In the line of duty, he reassured himself.
‘Lady Allbury – what happened to her?’ he prompted.
‘She drowned herself. Jumped into the Avon just below the ferry. I was one of those who helped drag her out.’
‘Where was she living at the time?’ John asked, thinking to have put the question rather well in view of the fictitious address.
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Nobody knew, Sir. She really did go mad, in the true sense of the words, after Lucy was taken. She abandoned her home in the Grand Parade and people saw her wandering the streets of town, her garments stained and filthy and her person not much better. Eventually, Lady Chandos, who was down for the season and had been at school with her – but then you’d know that – took Lady Allbury back with her to London in order to care for her. But Lady Allbury escaped and came back to Bath to end it all.’
Realising he had to be very careful, John said, ‘I have been away so long and have forgotten so much. Remind me, Lucy was her daughter, wasn’t she?’
The ferryman drank a vast draught. ‘Yes, Sir. Born to her late in life, when she was well in her forties in fact. Her other three children had grown up and left home long since. But Lucy came along after Lord Allbury had been dead many a year, if you understand me.’
John nodded. ‘I do indeed. A sad tale but not uncommon. Anyway, what happened to the child?’
‘She vanished, Sir. Taken by the Romanies, some said.’
With his flesh creeping at the prospect of hearing a tale that was already reminding him vividly of the Dysart tragedy, John said, ‘Go on.’
‘She was out playing in the grounds of Prior Park, having a picnic with Mr Ralph Allen, the owner, and his family. Her mother was there and her nursemaid and all was well. Then the children played hide-and-seek and that was that, Sir. Lucy never came back.’
‘Dear God!’ said John, very shaken. ‘And was nothing heard of her again?’
‘Nothing, Sir. The constable was called but he could do little. Then Lady Allbury hired a man, an ex-soldier, wounded so living on his wits but with a good reputation for finding things out, and though he searched high and low he came up with no result. That’s when Lady Allbury lost her mind. The shock was too much for her.’
The Apothecary hastily ordered more ale, abstaining himself in view of the interview that lay before him. ‘This man,’ he said, watching the ferryman effortlessly pour the liquid down his throat, ‘the fellow who finds things out, you don’t know his name by any chance?’
‘That I don’t, Sir. Never did.’
‘Does he live in Bath?’
‘I believe he does, though where I couldn’t say.’
The old man’s fund of knowledge was clearly running out. John got to his feet, pressing a coin into his informant’s hand. ‘If you remember anything else, I am staying at The Bear. I’d be grateful for any fact that could help me find out more about poor Lucy.’
‘She was snatched, in my opinion, and in the belief of most others as well.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she was a winsome little thing with her great mass of hair. Like spun gold, it was.’
‘How old was Lucy when she disappeared?’
‘About seven or so.’
‘And how long ago was that?’
‘Roughly ten years.
The Apothecary fell silent, considering the similarities with the Dysart case, appalled, yet again, at the terrible danger in which the young were placed daily; aware, horrible though the thought was, that there were brothels in many of the larger cities staffed entirely by children. Eventually he shook himself out of his reverie and turned to the ferryman.
‘You have been very kind. Don’t forget to look me up if you hear anything more.’
The old man raised his finger to his forelock. ‘I’ll remember, Sir. You can count on me.’
‘Thank you,’ said John, and sensible of a mood of growing depression, he tackled the hill once more and arrived at Welham House at the appointed time.
On this occasion he was ushered straight into the receiving salon where Sir Vivian sat at ease, scanning a book, one exquisite silk-hosed leg crossed over the other. He looked up as the Apothecary came in, his brows raised in question.
‘Mr Rawlings from the Public Office, Sir,’ intoned a footman.
Sir Vivian nodded. ‘D
o take a seat. How may I assist you?’
Without replying, John sat down opposite his host, having first given a bow that would not have disgraced a member of the beau monde. ‘By answering a few questions,’ he said as he settled into the chair.
Sir Vivian waved a white hand. ‘By all means. Pray continue.’
‘It is a little difficult to know where to begin.’
‘Well, tell me why you have come. I am a busy man, Sir.’
There was the merest edge of irritation in his voice and, studying him, the Apothecary could well imagine that Sir Vivian’s temper was on a short rein, for he had the look about him of one whose emotions seethed beneath an implacable exterior. Very dark eyes with a strange dead glitter in their depths looked piercingly from beneath black brows that knitted together in the middle, not a physical characteristic that John liked very much. But the rest of his appearance seemed unremarkable enough, except for the man’s extreme thinness. Beneath Sir Vivian’s skin, somewhat pallid, as if it were rarely exposed to the sun, the bones of his face seemed almost skull-like, while his body bore the same emaciated look. The Apothecary thought that slenderness at this level was very far from becoming. In fact he shuddered inwardly at Sir Vivian’s teeth, large and white, giving the impression that they were far too big for his thin and slightly snarling lips.
On Sir Vivian’s hollow cheek, just below his right eye, was stuck a black beauty spot in the shape of a ship, at which he unknowingly picked as he waited impatiently for the Apothecary to speak. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘I’ll come directly to the point,’ answered John.
‘I wish you would.’
‘Does the name Hannah Rankin mean anything to you?’
Sir Vivian considered, repeating the name a couple of times under his breath. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said finally.
‘A letter purporting to be from you and bearing your signature recommended her as a suitable employee to those whom it might concern. Is it a total forgery?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Sir Vivian. ‘My secretary often signs letters on my behalf, and as it is the duty of my steward to employ staff it is quite possible that he gave her a testimonial which my secretary subsequently endorsed.’
