Death in the Dark Walk Page 8

  Nodding, the Apothecary cleared his throat and began an account of everywhere that he had been and all that he had learned.

  There was no noise in the room except for his voice and the scratching of the clerk’s pen, and even while he spoke John wondered at the intensity of the Blind Beak’s powers of concentration. Not a muscle twitched, nor was there a cough or splutter. Every ounce of John Fielding’s attention was concentrated on what his newly recruited Runner had to say.

  ‘So,’ the Magistrate commented at last, ‘it seems you have made considerable progress.’

  ‘I thought quite the opposite, Sir,’ John answered in some confusion. ‘I am not at all certain how I should proceed from here.’

  Mr Jago looked up and grinned widely, resembling one of the more sardonic types of gargoyle. He had a gap between his two front bottom teeth and through it he now emitted a whistle. This was obviously a sign that something amused him, for the Blind Beak rumbled a responsive laugh.

  ‘Do any of us, ever? Eh, Joe?’ he said, turning his bandaged eyes in the clerk’s direction.

  ‘Never, Sir,’ Joseph Jago answered, and whistled low once more.

  ‘Come now, Mr Rawlings,’ Mr Fielding continued briskly, ‘there’s no call for despondency. You’ve done as well as any of my regular fellows.’

  ‘But how do I . . .?

  ‘Simple,’ the Magistrate cut across. ‘The boy with the country accent won’t have ended his search for Lizzie at the first failure. If he discovered that she worked in a brothel he will have gone there, for sure. As for the Comte de Vignolles, you say that his wife is ailing. Call without an appointment – they live at number twelve, Hanover Square, by the way – and offer to treat her with physic. Say the story of her suffering has touched you to the heart or some such flam. If she seeks attention, as is popularly believed, then she’ll welcome you with open arms.’

  ‘But how do I ever discover the true identity of the Masked Lady when the whole of London has failed?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a rum doxy if ever there was one,’ put in Joe Jago, raising a bushy brow.

  ‘You’ve obviously heard of her.’

  ‘I know of her, but then who doesn’t?’ the clerk answered.

  ‘The Lady has of late become something of a legend,’ John Fielding added. ‘Take my advice, Mr Rawlings, and go to Marybone tomorrow night. You may well kill two birds with one stone, for I hear that not only can she often be discovered at play there but it is likely Henry Fox will also be present.’

  John turned to the Blind Beak. ‘Have you any idea who the Lady is, Sir?’

  ‘None whatsoever. You see, she has done nothing illegal, Mr Rawlings. Her only crime is to fleece some of the greatest gamesters alive, and for that I can do nothing but respect her. She has entered a man’s world and now appears to be in the process of conquering it.’

  A slight movement from the clerk drew John’s attention back to him. ‘A morte of mystery, that one,’ Joe Jago said, shaking his ginger curls from side to side, obviously lost in admiration and wonder at the very thought of so remarkable a woman.

  ‘Talking of mystery,’ said the Blind Beak, smiling in the direction of his assistant, of whom he was clearly fond, ‘there’s one new piece of information which needs to be looked into.’

  ‘And what is that, Sir?’

  ‘The fact that, according to the woman Hannah, Elizabeth Harper came from Midhurst. Combine this with the knowledge that her former keeper is Duke of that very place and some interesting questions pose themselves, do they not?’

  ‘Where is the Duke at present, Mr Fielding?’

  ‘He has returned to his country seat much shaken, or so I am told, by the death of his mistress.’

  ‘Should I go there to question him?’

  ‘After you have finished in London, yes. Yet first of all you must track down those who were known to be in Vaux Hall on that fatal night.’

  John shook his head. ‘But that’s impossible. Obviously there were several hundred present.’

  The Magistrate nodded. ‘Indeed there were. So concentrate first on those who knew her. If the girl moved in high circles it is likely her murderer came from the beau monde.’

  ‘But what,’ said John, ‘if this is the work of a madman? A lunatic with a grudge against whores – or even against women in general?’

  Fielding shook his head. ‘I have a feeling, call it my sixth sense, that Elizabeth’s death is somehow connected with her past. But whether it is or whether it isn’t, I want you to watch yourself Mr Rawlings. I believe Mr Tyers might well be right. The killer may possibly have seen you and think that you know more than you do.

  Therefore, if you believe that someone is following you in the street or watching your home, you are to tell me at once. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then go to it, Mr Rawlings. Talk to everyone who could possibly have known the girl. Somewhere, somehow, our man will reveal himself. I feel sure of it.’

  He rose to his feet to indicate that the meeting was at an end and Joe Jago, catching the Apothecary’s eye, dipped his head to one side to confirm this. John, too, stood up, feeling not only confused but also decidedly nervous.

  ‘One moment more, Sir,’ he said pleadingly.

  ‘Yes?’ answered the Blind Beak, his cane tapping before him as he made for the door.

  ‘To whom should I dissemble and to whom should I announce myself as your man?’

  ‘The list, Jago,’ the Magistrate answered shortly, and went out.

  The clerk, grinning enormously, thrust a piece of paper in John’s direction. ‘There you are, Sir, bless your worried phiz. It’s a bit of a plan for you to follow.’

  ‘Were you writing that while I was speaking?’

  ‘It’s my job to make lists, Mr Rawlings. I was only doing my duty.’

  ‘This is most comprehensive,’ said John, casting his eyes over the neatly written instructions.

  Joe Jago’s foxy face creased into a million lines. ‘I have my uses for one born a rum cove. Good day to you, Sir. And just you take care of yourself, d’ye hear?’ And with that he followed his master out of the room.

  Over the cold collation which had been left out for him in the dining room, John read Joe Jago’s plan in detail. People he had yet to interview were written in one column, those whose identities were still to be discovered in another. There were only four entries in this last: The Apprentice Lad at Vaux Hall, the Country Boy, the Masked Lady (you will win many a wager should you manage to solve this mystery!) and Those Visitors to the Pleasure Gardens not known to Mr Tyers (this will best be done by dredging the memories of others present).

  Underneath these two lists was a rough itinerary —Most Adaptable to Your Own Convenience and Wishes but written with the Geographical Intent of Saving you Travelling Time and Labour. The final entry was a suggestion as to those in front of whom John should appear formally, and others amongst whose number he might insinuate himself.

  ‘Remarkable,’ thought John, and made a note to discover the origins of Joseph Jago, Register Clerk to the principal Justice of the Peace for London, amongst his many other tasks.

  His supper done, the Apothecary descended the curving staircase which ran through the heart of the house and went to his father’s study where ink, pens and other writing materials always stood available. Here, he added some of his own notes to those of Joe: Urgently visit Samuel and ask him to Recount All He Saw. Take Hannah her Ointment and Discover what She has found.

  But this last, John realised, might present certain difficulties. Having left his Master’s premises and not having had time to find any of his own, he had nowhere to mix and compound, to distil and brew, even to store his herbs. Temporarily, he was that somewhat useless figure, a qualified apothecary without a place to practise his calling.

  The next day sending down as big a deluge as John could remember on a May morning, he stayed in bed for an extra hour and rose to find that Sir Gabriel
Kent had already left the house, not saying where he was going. Rather surprised by this, the Apothecary had just gone into the study to reread Joe Jago’s instructions when Samuel was let into the hall after knocking thunderously on the front door.

  ‘John,’ he gasped, ‘I have run all the way here! I’ve remembered something, you see!’

  As he had journeyed from West Cheap, the first statement was, to say the least, an enormous exaggeration, but pandering to Sam’s apparent state of exhaustion, John immediately ordered him coffee and a restorative brandy.

  ‘Now what’s all this?’ he said, as soon as they were seated on either side of the library fire, lit to fend off the chills of the dismal day.

  Samuel gulped his drink. ‘You will recall me telling you that I observed poor Lizzie arguing with a man in a black cloak.’

  ‘Whom I now have every reason to believe, having heard Mr Tyers’s description, was her former lover, the Comte de Vignolles.’

  ‘Was it, by God! Then that makes things even stranger. You see, I’ve remembered there was another man giving her the eye at just that moment. He winked and nodded at her then disappeared into The Dark Walk, and mighty furtive he was acting too. Glancing all about as if he did not wish to be detected. And not to keep you in suspense, I’ll tell you straightway who it was.’ Samuel paused and swallowed noisily.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That rampant young blade, the Duke of Richmond.’

  ‘And he winked at Lizzie? You’re positive?’

  ‘I most certainly am.’

  John’s brows leapt. ‘Then perhaps she went to meet him . . .’

  ‘And he strangled her in passion.’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘We can’t jump to such a conclusion even though Richmond must obviously be implicated in some way.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad my journey was not in vain.’ Samuel finished his glass and held it out for a refill. ‘There’s something else too. You know that mysterious woman who wore a mask?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Odds life, if she wasn’t standing near me too. In fact she was so close I could have touched her.’

  ‘I don’t suppose her disguise slipped by any chance?’

  ‘Not a hope of that. But she wore a distinctive scent. It filled my nostrils.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Now how would I know that?’

  The Apothecary clicked impatiently. ‘Because every perfume is unique.’

  Samuel shifted his broad shoulders. ‘It is in your line of business to identify smells – though I can’t say I envy you some of ’em! So don’t blame me if I’ve no knowledge of such things. It was lovely, though. By God, it was.’

  John grinned. ‘Now don’t start hankering after its wearer. She is unobtainable in every way.’

  Samuel sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He finished his brandy and brightened again. ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘First and foremost, I visit the Comte de Vignolles and his ailing wife. Then, if I’ve time, Lucy Pink. And tonight, my friend, if you’re game, we go to Marybone to watch the gamblers. The Masked Lady will probably be there,’ John added casually.

  ‘Then I’ll join you,’ answered Samuel.

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘Do you think I could borrow those clothes of your father’s again? I did not come prepared for a social occasion.’

  ‘I’ve got the feeling that these days a visit to Nassau Street means being prepared for anything,’ John answered ruefully.

  ‘It would certainly seem that way,’ agreed Samuel as the two of them made their way in to breakfast.

  An hour later the friends left the house together, and proceeded on foot down the length of Piccadilly where they parted company, John turning right into Old Bond Street and thence to Evans Row. Here he called into the shop of his former Master, Richard Purefoy, and stood as he had for so many years looking outwards through the two bow-fronted windows with their shelves containing jars and bottles, all tall and elegant, the latter swollen with bulbous bases. It seemed strange to be buying a mixture which he himself had not compounded, but for the moment John had no choice in the matter. Wishing Master Purefoy good day, making some excuse about his father wanting the physick urgently, John hurried out again, glad not to have been drawn into conversation, anxious to get the next part of his mission over and done. Substituting a label that he had written at home for the bottle’s original, John strode towards Hanover Square, wondering what kind of reception he would receive from the sickly Comtesse de Vignolles and her wayward husband when he called upon them unannounced.

  Chapter Eight

  The area between Piccadilly and Oxford Street was indeed one of the most fashionable in London, for here could be found two of the great squares, Hanover and Berkeley. The former was unashamedly a Whig enclave, its inhabitants supporters of the German Kings of England. And just as St James’s Square boasted its own church, so, too, dwellers in Hanover Square worshipped at St George’s. In fact the great Mr Handel maintained his own pew there, into which the blind old man, the most celebrated composer of his time, had to be guided every Sunday. Dwelling on this fact and thinking how depressing were the rigours of old age, John turned into Hanover Square from Great George Street and set about looking for number twelve.

  He found it almost at once, so quickly in fact that he stood for a moment or two gathering his wits before daring to approach, for the exterior spoke of the sort of moneyed people who would not care to be bothered by a passing tradesman, albeit an apothecary bearing physic. Above the fine doorway, with its pilasters and carved pendants, was a resplendent hood bursting with moulded foliage and amorini. While the house itself, though constrained by being part of a terrace, rose to an elevation of four floors below a parapet and stood three windows wide. Feeling decidedly nervous, John climbed the flight of steps leading to the front door and raised the elegant knocker.

  A footman answered the summons and, explaining that he had come to see the Comtesse de Vignolles bearing medicament and making it sound very much as if he had an appointment, John found himself being ushered into a narrow hallway dominated by a monumental double staircase. This entrance hall, though small, was lightly decorated in pale green and salmon pink, and such graceful colours, combined with the delicate mouldings, instantly revealed not only that it had been chosen by a woman of taste but also one of considerable charm.

  ‘If you will wait in the library, Sir,’ the footman intoned plummily, ‘I will see if the Comtesse is able to receive you.’

  And that said, John was shown down a slim passageway next to the great staircase to a small comfortable book-lined room beyond. Always of the opinion that books reveal a great deal about the characters of their owners, the Apothecary gazed at the titles. There was a good selection of volumes by Defoe and Swift, together with The Works of Mr Alexander Pope, published by Bernard Lintot of Between the Temple Gates, in 1717. There were also several examples of the chief literary innovation of the period, the novel; these included Richardson’s Pamela, Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison, together with Henry Fielding’s The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and His Friend Parson Adams and The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling. Also on the shelves stood The History of the Life of the Late Mr Jonathan Wild the Great, a mock biography of an actual criminal, but in truth Fielding’s bitingly satirical portrait of Sir Robert Walpole. John found it hard to believe that the author of these works was not only the Blind Beak’s half-brother, but the man who had actually founded the band of law enforcement officers who currently fought against crime in the metropolis.

  A noise in the doorway had him wheeling round sharply to see that the footman had returned, grandly announcing, ‘The Comtesse de Vignolles will see you now, Sir.’ Congratulating himself on getting over the first and most difficult hurdle, the Apothecary followed the servant up the imposing staircase to a drawing room on the first floor. Situated at the back of the house, he was instantly stunned by its beauty, for
it was graceful, intricately moulded, having a barrel ceiling and semi-domes decorated with a minute fragility that was breathtaking. And in the middle of all this splendour, lying on a Louis XV duchesse en bateau, placed before the windows so that its occupant could gaze wistfully out, was the Comtesse herself.

  ‘Madam,’ said John Rawlings, and gave an old fashioned bow, very low and very deep and utterly without artifice.

  ‘Well?’ answered the Comtesse.

  ‘Madam,’ he repeated, taking a step forward, ‘forgive my temerity in calling unbidden. The truth of the matter is that I am a newly fledged apothecary who, until recently, was working with my Master on an Elixir of Health. Having heard of your unfortunate indisposition I took the liberty of bringing a bottle for you to try.’

  ‘How?’ asked the invalid disconcertingly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ John replied, nonplussed.

  ‘I said how.’

  ‘Well, by mouth, Madam. It is an elixir, a physic.’

  The Comtesse sighed impatiently. ‘No, I meant how did you hear of my illness? Am I a byword in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘My Master’s shop was in Evans Row, Madam, not far away. And as cases of suffering are always of interest to the medical profession, your health was discussed, yes,’ John answered smoothly.

  ‘Ah ha!’ said the Comtesse, and made a little sound that could have been a cough or a muffled laugh. ‘Step closer, young man.’

  The Apothecary obeyed with alacrity, anxious to get a better look at this supposed malingerer, but with the light behind her it was not easy to see the woman’s features distinctly. However, he did get the impression of good bone structure, a mouth that could have been beautiful had not the corners been drawn petulantly downwards, and a pair of eyes that gleamed intelligence before their owner drooped opalescent lids to conceal their expression.

  The Comtesse fluttered a white hand. ‘So where is this cure-all of yours?’

  ‘Here, Madam,’ and John produced the elixir from deep within his pocket.

  ‘Pray pass it to me.’

  The Apothecary did so and, stepping even closer, detected an overwhelming scent of roses with an underlay of something else. John felt a quiver of amusement as he recognised the smell of gin. Was this, then, the lady’s problem? Was this why she preferred to remain at home couched supine? Was it to her secret vice that the Comtesse had sacrificed her good health?