Death in the Peerless Pool Page 3

‘The clothes she’s wearing … those stripes …’ the proprietor answered incoherently.

  The Apothecary got to his feet. ‘Are you saying that you recognise the victim?’

  ‘Not her as such, no. But she’s wearing the uniform of one of the warders at St Luke’s Hospital.’

  John stared at him. ‘Do you mean the asylum for the insane?’

  William Kemp stared back, eyes wide, ‘Yes, I do. The place that opened some seven years ago to relieve the overcrowding at Bedlam. It’s not far from here, at Upper Moor Fields in fact.’

  Samuel interjected. ‘I’ve heard tell there are some violent inmates there. John, you don’t suppose …’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose anything at this stage.’

  ‘But the savagery of the attack! Might that not point to an unbalanced mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Kemp, eagerly warming to the theme. ‘Surely this murder must be the work of a madman?’

  ‘It could, and there again it could be the doing of someone perfectly sane. Someone with a grudge against the poor woman, so strong that it led them to beat her to a pulp before they killed her.’

  ‘I wonder what conclusion Mr Fielding will draw,’ Samuel replied somewhat peevishly.

  John smiled. ‘Well, we shan’t have to wait long to find out, for here he comes.’

  And all three of them turned to watch the rare sight of the blind Principal Magistrate coming down the path towards them, one arm firmly held by his clerk, Joe Jago, the other by his wife, Elizabeth.

  ‘My dear Sir, how are you?’ enquired Mr Kemp, sweeping a bow.

  ‘Never better, never better,’ answered the Beak, and made a salutation in return.

  Chapter Three

  Darkness had finally fallen on that long summer’s day. The waters of the Peerless Pool and the Fish Pond lay still and tranquil, reflecting on their glassy surfaces the rise of a glittering crescent moon. Similarly, the beautifully kept grounds, the bowling green, the cold-water bath-house, stood in shadow, quiet and deserted, the only sign of life in the entire pleasure resort the blaze of candles coming from William Kemp’s manor house. The light from these spilled out over the walled garden and orchard on the one side, and on the other the terrace and banks of the Fish Pond, so still and blameless in the moonshine, as if no one could recently have breathed their last in its emerald depths.

  Within the house itself there was an almost jovial atmosphere, for Mr Kemp, in company with his wife, a small, elegant lady of uncertain years, was entertaining. Much to the Apothecary’s surprise, it had emerged early in the conversation that the proprietor and the Blind Beak were friends of long standing, John Fielding going to the Peerless Pool both to swim and fish at times when it was closed to the general public.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ William Kemp had said to the Apothecary in a confidential aside, ‘I have observed that man, when I have placed him beside the Fish Pond with rod and line, catch perch of a pound weight as fast as Joe Jago could bait his hook. As for swimming, he is like a fish itself, and that with only a servant to attend him.’

  ‘It is sometimes hard to believe that he cannot see.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Samuel had added loudly, afraid that he was being left out of the conversation.

  John had grinned, and at that moment Mr Fielding himself started to speak.

  ‘How congenial it is to be here again, William. If only the circumstances were a little happier.’

  Mr Kemp sighed gustily. ‘I fear this macabre incident will do the reputation of the Peerless Pool no good at all.’

  The Magistrate had permitted himself a hollow chuckle. ‘On the contrary, you will probably find the place packed when you reopen. The voyeuristic capacity of the public at large is well known.’

  Samuel commented, ‘Dirty devils,’ and the two ladies present, Elizabeth Fielding and Jemima Kemp, both laughed.

  There were seven of them, all seated round a large circular table in the dining salon. The lady of the house, Mr Kemp’s diminutive wife, had hastily organised an early supper, which everyone present was attacking heartily, with the exception of Nicholas Dawkins. He had been sent home to tell Sir Gabriel Kent, the Apothecary’s father, that his son was once again about the business of Mr Fielding. In the meantime the corpse had been removed to the mortuary, while the employees of the Pleasure Garden had removed themselves to a nearby hostelry as the gates were locked for the night.

  ‘I am most impressed, my dear Sir,’ said Mr Kemp reflectively, ‘by the manner in which your Brave Fellows acted. It seemed to take them no time to get here and deal with the situation.’

  The Magistrate contrived to look modest. ‘I must admit that that part of the Public Office’s activity is going very well. My boast that my Flying Runners, as I jokingly call them, are ready to go to any part of the kingdom at short notice is no idle one. Why, during the past year, in fact since we last met, Mr Rawlings, they have been called to places as far afield as Windsor, Maidstone, Bristol, Barnet and Faversham. To say nothing of the famous incident two years ago when they pursued a man to Portsmouth and had a most exciting boat race before capturing their quarry.’

  Joe Jago spoke up, his foxy colouring bright in the candlelight. ‘In the spring of this year the Brave Fellows went in hot pursuit of John Evans, the corpse snatcher.’

  ‘How courageous,’ murmured Mrs Kemp. ‘Did they catch him?’

  Joe looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Alas, no. He was last heard of heading for France.’

  ‘Now, to present matters,’ said the Blind Beak, and everyone fell silent. ‘You say that the dead woman was wearing the uniform of St Luke’s, William?’

  ‘She most certainly was,’ the proprietor answered, and with relish launched into his theory of a homicidal madman having killed a wardress.

  The Magistrate nodded. ‘It is possible, of course. We must check at the hospital first thing in the morning to see if they can throw any light on the matter.’

  ‘May I go, Sir?’ John asked.

  The black bandage that concealed Mr Fielding’s blind eyes from the world swivelled in the Apothecary’s direction. ‘I would be absolutely delighted, my friend. But as ever I have the usual reservations about keeping you from your livelihood.’

  ‘These days, with Nicholas coming along so well, ably assisted by Master Gerard when I am absent, there is absolutely no need.’

  Samuel spoke up. ‘If you have no objection, Sir, I would like to accompany John. I do believe that I have certain skills when it comes to ascertaining facts.’

  The Apothecary smiled to himself, remembering all too clearly some of the gaffes that his friend had made in the past. Momentarily the Magistrate’s mouth twitched, but he said, ‘By all means, Mr Swann, providing that Mr Rawlings is agreeable.’

  ‘What I want to know,’ said William Kemp, ‘is how the killer got into the grounds to dispose of the body. The gates both to the Old Street and Pest House Lane entrances are locked at night and everything kept secure.’

  ‘And the entrance to your own premises?’

  ‘My house is reached by a path leading directly from Old Street which continues on to Islington. The gate is similarly safe.’

  The Apothecary asked a question. ‘Are all your staff utterly trustworthy. Mr Kemp?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That one of them might be in league with the murderer and have opened the gates for him.’

  The proprietor appeared a little put out. ‘As I told you earlier, I employ none but the best at the Peerless Pool.’

  ‘None the less,’ interjected the Magistrate, ‘in a case of murder one can trust nobody.’ He turned his sightless eyes in the direction of Mr Kemp. ‘Tell me, William, when do you intend to reopen?’

  ‘Well, I had thought tomorrow. I have no wish to raise alarm in the minds of my subscribers by being closed.’

  ‘I agree with that. However, if you could delay by one day I should be grateful. I would like to send some of my mo
st experienced men here in the morning to comb the grounds for signs of unlawful entry. Further, I myself, in company with Jago, would like to question every member of your staff about their whereabouts on the night the poor woman was thrown in to drown.’

  Mr Fielding’s words had a sombre ring to them, and there was an uneasy silence after he had spoken. Eventually, though, the proprietor answered, ‘It shall be as you say, of course.’

  ‘In that case there is little further we can do until daylight.’

  Mrs Kemp interrupted. ‘Then may we forget this sad and sorry affair for an hour? It would please me if you finished your supper with a modicum of enjoyment.’

  At her words there was a general but unsuccessful attempt to rally. For haunting them all as they sat in that pleasant house, picking at a cold collation and sipping wine, was the thought of the suffering of the woman who had died a terrified death but a few yards away from where they all sat at leisure.

  It was well after midnight when John finally alighted from a hackney coach outside his home in Nassau Street, and looked up fondly at the house in which he had lived since Sir Gabriel Kent had taken himself and his mother off the streets of London where they had been begging for an existence. Though not a large building, it had once accommodated in comfort the Apothecary’s adopted father and his new family, together with their servants. But when Phyllida Kent, as John’s mother had honourably become, died in childbirth, the establishment had reverted to an all-male household, and the boy had been brought up by Sir Gabriel as if he were his own son. In fact the Apothecary thought of himself as such, and sometimes had to remind himself that he was in reality a bastard child of the house of Rawlings of Twickenham.

  Creeping indoors quietly so as not to disturb the grand old man, John was thoroughly startled to hear a further set of wheels draw up outside, followed by the neigh and stamp of mettlesome horses. As the footman on duty threw open the door, the Apothecary turned to see Sir Gabriel’s equipage just being driven round to the mews in which it was housed.

  ‘Ah, my son,’ his father said, alighting and swirling off his white-lined black cloak with a flourish. ‘I take it you have just returned from the Peerless Pool. Nicholas told me the details of what happened there and I must say that it sounds a highly unpleasant and sordid affair.’

  John nodded, then smiled at Sir Gabriel’s arresting appearance. Clad as always in stark black and white, or black and silver for special occasions, tonight his father sported a top coat and breeches in dark silk velvet. The waistcoat that complemented this ensemble was made of contrasting ivory satin, however, profusely embroidered with a floral border pattern of silver silks, as was the coat. The total effect was stunning; a sight to behold with awe.

  ‘You look very fine,’ said the Apothecary appreciatively. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Playing whist with Lord and Lady Dysart, who are connected with the Hampshires. They’ve recently had a new town house built and wanted me to see it.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you knew them.’

  ‘To be frank with you, neither was I. But the other night at Marybone, whilst throwing dice, Anthony Dysart came up to me. It seems we were at school together and he recognised me, even after this passage of time.’

  John patted his father affectionately on the arm. ‘Nobody could ever forget you, that’s for certain.’

  Sir Gabriel’s golden eyes crinkled at the corners and he said. ‘Tush,’ though the Apothecary could tell that truly he was pleased.

  ‘Would you care for a glass of port before you retire?’ the older man asked.

  ‘I certainly would. Besides, I want to discuss this latest event with you.’

  They settled down comfortably in the library and John put more coal on the fire in order to avoid disturbing the servants, nearly all of whom had bedded down for the night. Then he told his father everything that had occurred since he and Samuel had taken a boat out on the Fish Pond.

  ‘So you believe that someone employed by Mr Kemp must have given assistance to the killer?’

  ‘Yes, I do. The woman was not dead, though grievously beaten, and must have been transported to the Peerless Pool in some kind of conveyance, even be it a wheelbarrow. It seems that the proprietor locks up securely enough, so it’s my theory that a gate was opened from within. Now think back to the various remarks that were made to me and see if you notice the same thing that I did.’

  Sir Gabriel imbibed his port, staring thoughtfully into the flames. Eventually he asked a question to which John nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. I did not notice at the time but later on that evening it suddenly occurred to me.’

  ‘Did you tell Mr Fielding?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. There were too many people present. However, I shall send Nicholas round with a note early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘A good plan. Forewarned is forearmed.’

  Sir Gabriel’s longcase clock chimed its tuneful melody, ‘The British Granadears’1 then struck one. ‘I must go to bed,’ said John, standing up. ‘I have arranged to meet Samuel early so that we can get to St Luke’s at breakfast time. I hope to be the first to break the news of the woman’s death.’

  ‘And thus have the element of surprise on your side?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  But as John mounted the stairs he wondered whether this would be the case, or whether someone more closely connected with the Peerless Pool had already taken the news of the wardress’s death to the asylum for the insane.

  Chapter Four

  It was not until he approached St Luke’s Hospital for Poor Lunatics on foot, walking up the length of Windmill Hill from Upper Moor Fields, that John Rawlings realised just how close to the Fish Pond the building actually was. It had once been used by John Wesley as a Meeting House, but the lease had been obtained by a consortium of six worthy citizens of London intent upon establishing a new dwelling to assist and supplement the ancient and overcrowded asylum known as Bethlehem Hospital, commonly referred to by all strata of society as Bedlam.

  No provision being made by the state for the proper care and treatment of mentally ill persons belonging to the impoverished classes, Bedlam, the one refuge offered to them, was packed to suffocation point, and desperate patients were constantly turned away. Accordingly, much to the relief of the staff of Bethlehem Hospital, in the summer of 1751 the doors of St Luke’s were opened, the asylum to be administered by Dr Thomas Crow, one of the six original founders. And it was to see this man that John, accompanied by an extremely eager Samuel, was presently making his way.

  Turning through the gates, the Apothecary took stock of the lie of the land. Though the building had been extended beyond the boundaries of the original Meeting House, St Luke’s was for all that small, an austere, joyless place, admirably suited to housing those whose madness brought about frenzies. But despite its harsh appearance, the hospital’s surroundings were pleasant; fields to one aide, trees to the other. Apart from a few straggling cottages, the only other building in sight was the distantly glimpsed Lord Mayor’s Dog House, owned by the City Hunt.

  Just beyond St Luke’s, the path known as Windmill Hill forked right, leading to the well of St Agnes le Clare, situated at the junction with Old Street. If one bore left at the well, the site of the Peerless Pool lay just a matter of yards away. In the other direction from the hospital gates was Tindal’s Burying Ground, where the great Daniel Defoe was buried. Any number of back alleys led from there directly to the Fish Pond.

  ‘Well?’ said Samuel.

  ‘I was just thinking that it wouldn’t have been difficult to transport the victim from here to the Peerless Pool. That is if the beating took place near the hospital.’

  ‘Would the woman have been conscious, do you think?’

  ‘Barely. However, there is always the possibility that she walked to the Pond unharmed and was viciously attacked once she got there.’

  Samuel looked portentous. ‘It was the work of a lunatic, John. I feel certain of
it.’

  His friend regarded him gravely. ‘Everyone is a lunatic when they kill. Even if you did so in self-defence, the heart would pound, the blood rush, and extra strength would come in a rush. Just for a split second, as you pitted your life against your assailant’s, you would be mad, Samuel.’

  The Goldsmith pursed his lips. ‘I’m afraid I cannot agree. In such a situation I would remain in full possession of my faculties.’

  ‘Like a drunk who considers himself sober?’

  ‘No, not like that at all,’ Samuel answered irritably.

  They had traversed the path leading to St Luke’s and were now standing outside a high and substantial brick wall, beyond which lay the hospital. Looking up, John saw that every window in the place was barred by iron grilles and that the door in the wall, complete with wicket, was equally well fortified.

  ‘Appears to be more of a prison than a place of treatment,’ he remarked.

  Samuel shivered dramatically. ‘I can just imagine what goes on behind those windows. Scenes from a nightmare, I dare swear.’

  The Apothecary rolled his eyes. ‘Well, be of stout heart, my friend. You are about to find out. Now remember, look neither to the right nor left of you, or you may never come out again.’

  Samuel appeared fractionally startled, then gave a hearty guffaw and clapped John on the shoulder. ‘Ho, ho, what a wit!’ And with that he leaned across his friend and tugged the bellrope, which distantly echoed with a hollow and somehow sinister sound.

  ‘I told you,’ said John, smiling unevenly, a characteristic of his.

  They waited in silence, listening as chains and bolts were undone; this sound followed by footsteps crossing the few yards that lay between the hospital and the wall. Then a small window opened in the wicket and a pair of nervous, pale grey eyes shifted uneasily from side to side, regarding them.

  ‘Who is calling?’ asked a muffled voice.

  ‘John Rawlings and Samuel Swann, visiting on behalf of Mr Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street. We would like to see Dr Crow, if that is possible.’