Death in the Peerless Pool Page 8

  She was as attractive as ever, John thought, her dark hair shining in the lights, her lashes black against her roses-and-snow complexion. Watching her, the Apothecary wished, as he had so very many times before, that Coralie did not have the power to move him to such vivid fantasies about loving her. For truth to tell, though he had enjoyed the favours of several young ladies during his lifetime, he had never for one moment forgotten Miss Clive, nor stopped caring for her in a very deep and special manner. In fact, John had one great wish: that Coralie would put aside her burning ambition to be as great an actress as her famous sister and love him in return.

  Her opening scene done, the gallery, who obviously adored her, burst into wild cheering, and were only stopped by the entrance of Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the latter tremendously well played by a famous queer-garter who minced about the stage on such tremendously high heels that John wondered how on earth the actor kept his balance. To further add to the general hilarity, one of the sentinels guarding the stage, by day no more than a common soldier, became overcome with laughter at the sight of Sir Andrew’s strut and visibly clutched his sides.

  Coralie appeared dressed as a boy, her costume deepest violet, and received a wild cheer from her supporters in the gods. John would have joined in had it not been for the intellectual company amongst whom he sat. Speaking her lines in a clear, carrying voice, with just the merest attractive catch in it, the actress took her part with great skill, far outshining a very stilted Miss Hippesly, struggling to give some sparkle to Olivia. Unable to help it, John felt himself falling in love with Coralie all over again.

  The first two acts over, there followed a short interval during which the Apothecary was tempted to go backstage. However, he resisted, and went instead to take refreshment with the rest of the audience. And it seemed that not only the spectators had consumed wine, for, the interlude done, the outrageous Mr Sparks attacked the role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek with even more verve than he had in the first half, obviously enjoying the benefits of alcoholic liberation. The sentry who had laughed so heartily in the opening acts was now so overcome with mirth that he actually fell convulsed upon the boards, much to the amusement of the rest of the house, who roared alongside him. They also guffawed at the ill-treatment of Malvolio, something that the Apothecary had never found in the least amusing, considering that this revealed a dark, cruel element to the play which he did not care for at all. However, everything else was redeemed by the performance of Miss Clive, a grave and serious as well as beautiful Viola. Entranced, John sat in the darkness of the theatre and listened to the plaintive voice of the Clown as he sang the closing words of Twelfth Night: ‘When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.’

  Outside the theatre there was the usual throng of people waiting for their coaches, summoning hackneys, or rushing to find sedan chairs. The Apothecary stood amongst them, longing to see Coralie but afraid that she might be otherwise engaged, or no longer wish to speak to him. Then he chided himself for being faint-hearted and strode round the building to the entrance used by the actors and actresses.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ said the doorman.

  ‘Could you take this to Miss Clive, please.’ And John wrote in pencil on the back of one of his cards, ‘May I take you to a late supper and renew our acquaintanceship?’ He handed it to the man together with a tip, then waited nervously for something to happen.

  A great crowd of people surged forward as Mr Sparks, arrayed in canary silk, sallied forth, leaning on a beribboned great stick and announcing his intention of going off to sup at the Old Black Jack in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, lovingly known as The Jump. His admirers duly piled into hackney coaches and followed in the wake of his carriage, grinning and chattering like a troop of merry monkeys. The Apothecary stared after them, much amused, and thus missed the very thing he had been waiting for. It was only a waft of her distinctive perfume which told him Coralie Clive was standing beside him. He turned to look at her and in his eyes she had grown even lovelier in the year since he had last seen her.

  Her emerald gaze sparkled. ‘Mr Rawlings, we meet again.’ She curtseyed politely.

  The Apothecary gave his very best bow. ‘Miss Clive, it has been too long a time.’

  ‘It has indeed been quite a while. Tell me, how have you been faring?’

  John smiled crookedly. ‘May I answer that over supper? I hope you will do me the honour of joining me.’

  She tortured him for a good half-minute. ‘Well …’

  ‘You have another appointment?’

  ‘I promised my sister, Kitty, that I would go straight home and play cards with her.’

  Despite the fact that he attempted to control it, the Apothecary could feel his face falling. ‘Oh, I see.’

  Coralie smiled, and John’s heart lurched. ‘But as it has been such an age since we met, I am quite sure she will understand.’

  The grin was on his lips before he could stop it. ‘I am the happiest man in London.’

  Coralie’s cool green stare had a hint of mordancy in its depths. ‘Oh, surely not.’

  Momentarily, the Apothecary showed his real feelings.

  ‘Oh, surely yes,’ he said, bowing very slightly. He became incisive. ‘Now, Madam, where would you care to sup? I had thought of The Rose in Covent Garden, but if that is not acceptable to you …’

  Coralie gave him a ravishing look, fair set to steal his heart. ‘It would be most acceptable. We are bound to see the leading dramatists of our day at its tables.’

  ‘To say nothing of our leading actresses. Your performance tonight was sovereign, if I may speak so boldly.’

  Like all in her profession, Miss Clive glowed. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I think, Madam, that you have now reached the high mark set by your sister, and that one day, not so far away, you may well surpass her.’

  Coralie looked modest. ‘Kitty is the leader of our field, despite the pretensions of Miss Woffington, who has risen to the heights of her fame in the prone position, in my view.’

  John’s elegantly mobile eyebrows rose. ‘You refer to Mr Garrick?’

  ‘Indeed I do.’

  The Apothecary laughed. ‘There’s mischief in your look, Miss Clive.’

  ‘Is there really, Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘There certainly is. Now let me hail a hackney coach before I tell you how beautiful you are and make a complete fool of myself.’

  Miss Clive lowered her eyes. ‘I thought your interests lay elsewhere.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Your long absences.’

  ‘Last time we met you called me a positive ruffian.’

  ‘Well, so you were; unshaven, unwashed, a veritable vagabond.’

  ‘I had just come straight from the Romney Marsh to London with not a moment in which to do anything about my appearance.’

  Coralie smiled. ‘I know, but in my defence I was not aware of it at the time.’

  ‘Then you forgive me?’

  ‘Let us forget the whole incident.’

  ‘Gladly,’ said John, and kissed her hand.

  It was at that moment that a hackney appeared round the corner and dropped off a passenger. Hurrying, the Apothecary managed to secure it and made much of helping Miss Clive up the step and into its somewhat odoriferous confines. And, once inside, he snuggled as close to her as he possibly could without appearing extravagant in his behaviour. To his relief, Coralie did not move away.

  John cleared his throat. ‘I read that Richmond married last year,’ he said with a bold attempt at being casual.

  The actress raised her chin. ‘Yes, I went to the wedding, and a very fine affair it was.’

  ‘His bride is very beautiful, I believe.’

  ‘Her nickname is The Lovely, she is so blessed with looks. Do you know what Walpole said about the pair of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The perfectest match in all the world; youth, beauty, riches, alliances, and all the
blood of all the kings from Robert the Bruce to Charles II. Isn’t it sickening?’

  ‘Nauseating.’

  Coralie turned a brilliant glance in the Apothecary’s direction. ‘I take it you are much relieved that the Duke is finally spoken for.’

  His attempt at nonchalance became pitiable. ‘I’ve always been fond of Richmond. He and I have never fallen out.’

  ‘That is not what I said. John, you glowed green every time the poor man’s name was mentioned. Confess it. You were convinced that he and I were lovers, weren’t you?’

  ‘I admit that I believed that last time we met.’

  The actress gave a scornful laugh. ‘You openly accused me of it, you mean.’

  ‘I thought we were going to put that incident behind us and start afresh.’

  Coralie nodded, her expression softening. ‘You’re right, let us not rake over old ground. And the answer to your question is no. Richmond had a hundred conquests but I was never one of them. I preferred to be his friend rather than his creature. Do you understand?’

  John longed to say that should she ever become his mistress she would be adored, not regarded as a creature, but could not get the words out of his mouth. Miss Clive, not noticing his silence, went on speaking.

  ‘Anyway, that said, tell me about yourself. What have you been up to in the time since we last met?’

  ‘Precious little. That is until a few days ago.’

  Coralie’s green eyes rolled. ‘Not Mr Fielding again?’

  ‘I fear so. There has been a mysterious death at the Peerless Pool which I am helping to investigate.’

  ‘One of these days,’ the actress predicted weightily, ‘you will find yourself in trouble, my dear Sir.’

  ‘You mean that I’ll get too close to a killer for comfort?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘But surely that has already happened, and it was you, if memory serves. who saved my life on that occasion.’

  ‘Just as you once saved mine.’ Coralie laid her gloved hand in his. ‘Does that not mean that we are bound together in some way? Or have I already asked you that?’

  ‘Yes, you did at the time and I replied that I did not know. But I have been making enquiries since and the answer is that, as a result, your life belongs to me and mine to you.’

  Miss Clive laughed but did not withdraw her hand. ‘Surely not. It sounds so dramatic.’

  ‘It was a dramatic thing we did.’

  She turned to look at him, her profile a mere silhouette in the dimness. ‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly,’ John said, and would have kissed her had the hackney not rumbled to a halt and the driver called out, ‘The Rose Tavern’. Cursing his luck, the Apothecary got out to pay the fare, wondering if the day would ever come when his wish would be granted and he would make love to the elusive Coralie Clive.

  ‘So, my dear,’ said Sir Gabriel Kent, picking delicately at a piece of fruit while his son devoured eggs and great hunks of gammon which he had carved off a side set upon the table.

  ‘So?’ John answered, innocently raising his eyes from his breakfast.

  ‘You stayed late at the Dysarts’?’

  ‘No. I left early and on a whim went to the King’s Theatre and there saw Miss Coralie Clive in Twelth Night. Then I renewed my friendship with her by taking her out to supper. Afterwards I escorted her home to the house she shares with her sister, and that, alas, was that. I returned to Nassau Street as chaste as when I left it.’

  Instead of smiling one of his whimsical smiles, Sir Gabriel laid down his fruit knife and leant on the table, looking at his son in a penetrating manner.

  ‘Naturally you confide in me only what you want me to hear, but I have, none the less, drawn certain conclusions over the years, one of which is that you have held a deep tendresse for Miss Clive for some time.’

  John smiled wryly. ‘There have been other people too, Father.’

  ‘I am aware of that, my dear, and I would have thought it very odd if there had not been. Still, I think Coralie is queen of your heart.’

  ‘She has never gone completely from my thoughts, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘Have you considered wooing her formally, then asking her to be your wife? After all, you were twenty-seven in June, not too young to enter into matrimony.’

  The Apothecary sighed. ‘Father, as I have told you several times – Miss Clive is wedded to the theatre. She has no wish to marry at this stage of her career.’

  Sir Gabriel attacked a pear, rather savagely, John thought. ‘I fail to see why she cannot have both,’ he said with acerbity. ‘Many great ladies of the theatre are married women.’

  ‘Perhaps she is afraid that a child might come along and spoil her chance of success.’

  ‘But you are an apothecary, John, and obviously know a great deal more about the prevention of such an occurrence than does the average male.’

  His son nodded. ‘Thanks to that gallant soldier, Colonel Cundum, there really is no longer any need for men to go forth and multiply.’

  Sir Gabriel smiled wickedly. ‘But is Miss Clive aware of such an invention?’

  For the first time during their conversation, John looked embarrassed. ‘How would I know? She is a woman of our times, so I presume so. After all, the Colonel created his device over a hundred years ago. It is hardly anything new.’

  Sir Gabriel lifted an elegant hand. ‘Enough of that. The question of your future can be decided only by you. As to the present, a Runner from Bow Street called last evening with a letter from Mr Fielding. Would you like it brought to the table?’

  The Apothecary nodded, and his father gave instructions to a footman. A few minutes later the letter bearing the seal of the Public Office was delivered on a silver tray. Breaking the wax, John scanned the contents.

  My dear Mr Rawlings.

  Much of Interest has occurred in the last Few Hours. Forbes, the Warder from the Hospital for Poor Lunatics, has been to the Mortuary and Identified the Dead Woman as Hannah Rankin. He was Sore put about at the Duty and in Much Need of Brandy due to the Ordeal of It.

  Further, the References presented by Hannah Rankin when She made Application to the Hospital have now Been Located. They give Two Addresses in Bath. Sir, may I Trespass Yet Again on your Good Nature and ask if You might go there to make Further Investigation. Though I could send the ‘Flying’ Runners I feel that You might Succeed more Greatly with Society Folk. All Expenses will be met by this Office.

  I remain, Sir, your most Sincere Friend,

  J. Fielding.

  A couple of addresses were enclosed on a separate piece of paper.

  ‘A summons?’ said Sir Gabriel.

  ‘To Bath, no less.’

  ‘That should prove amusing. It will be the height of the season.’

  Thinking that he would rather stay in London and pay court to Coralie, John nodded. ‘It will indeed. Ah well, I had better get to the shop and warn Nicholas that he will be in charge once more.’

  ‘Will you send for Master Gerard?’

  ‘He is getting very old and frail. I think I shall ask him to attend only on alternate days. Nicholas has been apprenticed three years now and his area of knowledge is considerable.’

  ‘Perhaps that is one of the advantages of signing indentures with an older boy.’

  ‘You may be right at that.’ John stood up. ‘I’ll get to my packing. I shall catch a flying coach from the Golden Cross, Charing Cross, late this afternoon, and so go straight from the shop.’

  Sir Gabriel looked very slightly put out. ‘That is a blow. A footman of Lord Anthony’s came earlier this morning with an invitation for us to dine today.’

  ‘A pleasure I shall have to forgo, though please present my compliments.’

  John’s father looked reflective. ‘What a terrible tale they had to tell us yesterday; about the abduction of young Meredith. Do you think that by any chance the boy is still alive?’

  The Apothecary’s expressio
n was grim as he answered, ‘If he is, you can depend on it that it is better by far they never find him.’

  Chapter Eight

  The early morning rush of custom, generally made up of those attempting to cure the excesses of the night before – nausea, a pounding head or fear of the clap – was clearly well and truly over. As John Rawlings walked into his apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane, it was to find the place unnervingly quiet, not a soul being visible on either side of the counter. As part of his duty as an apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins would have risen early and gone to sweep and clean the premises before his Master appeared, and, sure enough, the place was glistening, but of the young man himself there was no sign whatsoever. Slightly puzzled, the Apothecary stood looking around him, then his lively eyebrows rose as from the compounding room at the back of the shop came the distinct sound of a suppressed giggle.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said with considerable emphasis, and waited to see what would happen next.

  Nicholas, his pale face unusually flushed, appeared like a jack-rabbit out of a burrow. ‘Good morning, Sir.’

  ‘You have company?’ John asked pleasantly, then drew in a breath of surprise as in Nicholas’s wake, walking with her nose tilted saucily and a mighty confident expression on her face, came none other than Mary Ann Whittingham, the Blind Beak’s niece, adopted by him as a daughter and brought up as such.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the Apothecary, too confounded for words.

  She made a charming curtsey. ‘Mr Rawlings, how pleasant to see you again.’

  Inwardly he could do nothing but smile at the barefaced gall of the little witch, at fourteen quite one of the most ravishing creatures in town. Outwardly, John looked severe, his mind racing over the exact nature of the relationship between his apprentice and John Fielding’s kin.

  Nothing daunted, Mary Ann spoke up. ‘I see you are startled at my presence but, if you recall, I have known Nicholas for an age. Remember that he lived in our house until he signed indentures and went to live with you, Sir.’

  ‘Of course,’ John answered lightly. ‘How foolish of me to forget.’