Death in the Peerless Pool (15 page)

Amazed that the beau had gone to so much trouble, the Apothecary walked in the man's footsteps through scores of vast rooms, all classically furnished with busts and paintings, until, at last, they came to a cosier part of the house. Here, forgathered in a comfortable anteroom with couches and cushions, were an elderly couple who looked like husband and wife, and, surprisingly, the young coachman, Jack.

John came straight to the point. ‘Thank you for assisting me. As Master Orlando may have told you, I am trying to trace any friends or relatives of Hannah Rankin, now deceased. I presume by asking you to come here he thought that one of you might have known her.'

The old man spoke up. ‘She didn't work here that long, Sir, and it must have been twenty years ago that she did, but I do remember her, yes. I was an under-gardener in those days. Now I'm head gardener and tell the others what to do.'

The woman chimed in. ‘I'm Doris Cotter, Sir, and this is my husband, Thomas. I remember Hannah Rankin because I was working in the kitchens then as a cook. I used to see her when she came down to order the children's meals.'

John stared at her. ‘Children's meals? What do you mean? I thought she was just a skivvy.'

‘No skivvy she,' Jack put in quietly. ‘Hannah used to be in charge of the young people.'

‘What young people?'

‘There were children living here then. I was one of them, Orlando was another. As well as us, there were two other boys and two girls.'

Still amazed, the Apothecary said, ‘But who were they?'

A shadow crossed Jack's face. ‘Sir Vivian's nieces and nephews. That is all but me.'

‘Are you telling me that Sir Vivian was guardian to a group of children? But why? What had happened to their parents?'

‘All dead, Sir,' answered Doris. ‘Out of the goodness of his heart he took them in. And so he did for quite a few years, looked after orphans that had nowhere else to go.'

‘What a Christian and charitable thing to do.' John turned to Jack. ‘And you? Where did you come from? Were you an orphan too?'

The coachman shrugged and shook his head. ‘I have no idea, Sir. I can remember little before this house. Just a large garden, that is all. Yet I have a recollection of Hannah bringing me here by coach. More than that I cannot tell you.'

Still hardly able to believe this strange new twist in the dead woman's tale, John said. ‘Then Sir Vivian brought you up with his nieces and nephews?'

‘Not exactly, Sir. I was …' Jack paused very slightly. ‘… badly behaved, and so he sent me to work as a stable boy. I shovelled dung for many years, and only by hard work did I get to be second coachman.'

‘What happened to Hannah?'

Thomas answered. ‘She went back to London when the children were grown a bit. We never heard no more of her after that.'

Jack spoke again. ‘She used to visit Sir Vivian occasionally.'

The two Cotters looked surprised. ‘Did she?'

‘Yes. I used to pick her up from the coaching inn and bring her here. And once Sir Vivian asked me to drive her to Bristol where she was buying a Negro slave child to take to a lady in London for employment as a black boy.'

‘So Hannah's main concern was with the young?'

Jack dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Oh yes. Sir. She was very interested in them.'

Was the coachman trying to tell him something? John wondered. Could the unpleasant notion that had just now crossed his mind possibly be right? With a courteous smile, the Apothecary turned to the elderly couple.

‘Tell me, did you live in the house at this time?'

Thomas answered. ‘No, Sir, we didn't. We had a cottage on the estate which we have still.'

John nodded. ‘I see. Well, thank you for your time. Everything you have said has been most useful. I take it that you know of no relatives or friends of Hannah's that I should contact?'

‘No, Sir. Not a one for a lot of friends was Hannah.'

They all three made to go but John said, ‘If I might have another word with you, Jack, in view of the fact that you were one of the children concerned.'

Jack's eyes, an arresting shade of iris blue, almost mauve in fact, glanced piercingly in John's direction, but he merely said, ‘As you wish, Sir.'

The Cotters looked uncertain. ‘You won't keep Jack long, will you, Sir? He'll be wanted soon to go and fetch Master Orlando.'

John looked at them reassuringly. ‘Don't worry. Just a few minutes, that is all.'

Looking duly relieved, the old couple left the room and the two young men were left facing one another.

‘Jack,' said the Apothecary tentatively, ‘forgive me asking this, but the plight of certain children has been much on my mind of late. Tell me, were Sir Vivian's motives in adopting so many orphans as truly Christian …'

But he got no further. The noise of pounding feet drowned his words, then the door was flung open to reveal Orlando panting in the entrance.

‘He's back,' he gasped. ‘Sir Vivian has returned. He must find neither of you here. Jack, out of the window and leg it to the coach house. John, into this cupboard and don't make a sound.' And without ceremony he bundled the Apothecary into a cupboard containing candlesticks and candles, where he crouched uncomfortably beneath the bottom shelf.

There was the sound of someone else coming in and approaching the chair into which Orlando had thrown himself, picking up a book at random.

‘My dear,' said Sir Vivian's voice, ‘you seem out of breath. Have you been running?'

‘I hurried back from the grounds when I saw your coach coming through the gates.'

‘Taking the air? How very unlike you.'

‘The weather is oppressive, don't you think? I stepped outside in order to breathe more freely.'

There was something sarcastic and sharp about the way in which Sir Vivian addressed his nephew, almost as if he didn't believe a word he said. With a sinking heart, John hoped that Jack hadn't been seen sprinting towards the coach house.

Orlando spoke again. ‘I had not expected you back, Uncle. I thought you had gone to dine in Bristol.'

‘That was cancelled, my dear, and so I would have informed you had you been good enough to put in an appearance at breakfast this morning. But I was told when I enquired of your valet that you had risen with the lark and gone into Bath to take the waters. Such strange behaviour I can hardly credit. It is almost as if you have reconsidered your avowed intent to kill yourself by the time you are twenty-five.'

There was a noise from the chair, and through the door crack John saw that Orlando was stretching and yawning in his usual languid pose. ‘Damme, no. Nothing will shake me from that resolve. If drink don't get me, then the pox surely will.'

‘You bloody little fool …' Sir Vivian started, but Orlando cut across him.

‘Don't worry, Uncle dear. I haven't got it yet. The creatures I corrupt are still as pure as snow.'

Sir Vivian breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘Make sure it stays that way.'

‘You can count on it.'

The beau got up and disappeared from John's eyeshot, but he heard him move across the room.

‘And what would my beloved uncle like to do now that he finds he has the afternoon to himself?'

There was a reply but the words were uttered in such a low tone that John could not hear them.

‘Very well,' Orlando answered with just the slightest edge to his voice. ‘If that is your pleasure.'

‘It will be a pleasure indeed,' Sir Vivian said glutinously. ‘It is quite some considerable while since we went there.'

‘Then allow me to escort you,' Orlando replied, and John heard him lead the older man from the room.

The Apothecary cautiously opened the door and, seeing the window through which Jack had departed still open, stepped through it and into the garden. Then, by means of dodging from tree to tree, he made his way to the gates, only stopping once to listen to the distant sound of voices coming from a little temple which stood in the gardens. But he was too far away to identify who was speaking, and as thunder was now rolling overhead, the Apothecary decided that to make a hasty retreat was the wisest course. Indeed he did not stop again until he had reached the city of Bath.

Much put out that there was no seat available on the overnight flying coach to London, John was forced to take a place on the slower conveyance which stopped for the night at The Pelican near Newbury. Setting off again after breakfast, a hearty affair which he much enjoyed, the Apothecary finally arrived at St Paul's late in the afternoon, irritated that the journey had taken a full twenty-four hours but pleased that he was not exhausted through lack of sleep. Taking a hackney coach, John went straight to the Public Office in Bow Street to report his somewhat extraordinary findings to Mr Fielding.

The court was still in session, and John stood at the back of the public seats to hear the final cases, one in particular catching his attention. Mr Fielding was evincing every sign of not being trifled with by a thickset young man who stood at the examination bar staring truculently around him.

‘This is a pack of lies,' he shouted, even before Joe Jago had opened his mouth.

The Magistrate ignored him. ‘Read the charges,' he boomed, his voice drowning all other sound.

Joe cleared his throat and with a long finger scratched the red curls that peeped out from beneath his wig.

‘That the prisoner, William Barnard, a former employee of the Duke of Marlborough, did make threats against the person of the Duke and sent him threatening letters. Further, he called upon several occasions at the Duke's London residence where he threatened the male servants and made indecent proposals to the female.'

There was a stifled giggle which the Blind Beak quelled simply with a movement of his head.

‘Is the Duke in court?'

‘No, Sir. He made a verbal charge to the Public Office which I have here in the form of a statement.

‘That will suffice,' replied Mr Fielding, which surprised John, who knew how particular the Magistrate normally was about the complainant being present at the hearing. The Beak turned his eyes, hidden by the familiar black bandage, in the direction of Barnard. ‘How do you plead?'

‘Not guilty. The old fool bears a grudge against me.'

‘I would rather take the word of a peer of the realm to that of someone who is not even a gentleman,' John Fielding answered in a highly elitist manner. ‘Six months in Newgate.'

Somewhat startled by the peremptory fashion in which the Beak had administered justice, John turned his attention to the final case.

A complaint had been lodged by an extremely brave member of the public, a young man called Joshua Merryweather, who openly admitted to frequenting brothels, against Mother Cocksedge, an infamous brothel keeper with an equally disgusting nickname, always used because nobody knew what she was actually called. Mother had premises right next door to the Public Office and, as if this weren't enough, it was now alleged that she had employed a girl of eleven as a prostitute, and by doing so had broken the law.

‘And you admit to seeing this child while you were actually in the brothel?' asked Mr Fielding in ringing tones.

‘I not only saw her, Sir. I witnessed her going to a room with a man for the purposes of having sexual intercourse.

There was a stunned silence in court which John felt certain was hypocritical in many cases. Children were exploited ruthlessly by parents too poor to keep them. The sons were turned out of doors to become pickpockets, the daughters whores. He was absolutely certain that there was not one person present who did not know it, and further that many of the men in court had taken advantage of under-age girls.

‘This kind of criminal activity must stop,' replied Mr Fielding sombrely. ‘Half the females working in brothels are aged between twelve and eighteen. As some members of the public here present may well be aware, the appeal for support of my plan to set up a refuge for these defenceless creatures is under way. In fact the first batch of youngsters was admitted to the Female Orphan Asylum on July fifth this year. I ask anyone present who would care to make a subscription to this worthy cause to contact the Duchess of Somerset, who heads the list of benefactors.' The Magistrate paused in order that his words might sink in, then he turned once more to young Mr Merryweather. ‘I must ask you one final question, Sir.'

‘And what is that?'

‘How did you know the girl was under twelve years old?'

‘Because Mother Cocksedge had offered her to me, Mr Fielding, but thinking she looked so terribly young I asked the child her age, and she told me eleven.'

‘Remember, Mr Merryweather, that you are on oath.'

‘I do remember, Sir. Indeed I do.'

The Magistrate turned his blind gaze on Mother Cocksedge, who stood where young Barnard had, facing Joe Jago and John Fielding, the Beak raised above her on a dais. ‘What have you to say for yourself, woman?'

‘I didn't know her age, I swear it. Why, she said to me she was fifteen.'

‘I don't believe you. If the child told Mr Merryweather the truth why should she not tell you?'

‘Because she wanted the work, see. These girls will say anything to get into a comfortable establishment like mine.'

Mr Fielding lost his temper in a spectacular manner. ‘How dare you utter such words. It is you and your evil kind who are ruining these children. Whether the girl is eleven or fifteen makes no difference whatsoever in this sordid case. You should not have employed so tender a creature in the first place. Now, get you gone to Newgate for a year. You are not fit to walk the streets with decent citizens.'

A Runner moved forward to take the woman down, but not before she had shot one contemptuous look at the public gallery and shouted, ‘How fine, Mr Beak, to punish me for the sins of all those gallant gentlemen sitting there. Why, if they were not so obsessed with the delights of young flesh I would not have to cater for their lewd and jaded tastes by providing it.'