Death in the Dark Walk (15 page)

‘Then I'll prescribe something to restore your lost energy. But there's only one thing . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘If you were to take strong liquor with this compound it could make you very ill.'

The veiled face turned in his direction and just for a second John saw the flash of the Comtesse's eyes as she regarded him. Then she said, ‘And would this magical pick-me-up enable me to go out again? It seems such an age since I set my foot out of doors.'

‘That and your own determination, Madam. If you want to get well, you will, mark my words.'

She was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘I once loved my husband very much, you know.'

‘One should never love anyone so greatly that you allow them to take control of your destiny,' John replied with conviction.

‘How knowing you are for such a boy.'

‘I am not far off my twenty-third birthday,' John answered with a certain dignity.

The veiled head nodded. ‘Then go, my wise young friend, and mix your compounds. I'll pay you well if you can bring about my reawakening to life.'

‘Only you can do that,' he repeated levelly. And then he stopped, determined to progress in the matter of Elizabeth's death even if it meant lying to the Comtesse to do so. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,' John added. ‘I found this piece of material lying on the pavings outside your house. I thought it might be torn from one of your husband's coats and could be useful when it comes to making repairs.'

The thin hand he had seen before emerged from the floating materials in which the Comtesse lay déshabillée, and took the fragment.

‘Where did you say you found this?'

‘Just outside.'

‘Well, I have never seen it before,' the Comtesse said quietly, so quietly that John wondered if she were controlling a shake in her voice. ‘The Comte most certainly does not have a garment made of such material.'

‘Ah well, it must have been dropped by a passer by,' he answered nonchalantly, retrieving the piece and putting it back in his pocket. ‘So I'll say adieu, Madam. I shall return tomorrow with your medicaments, for after that I shall be out of London for a few days. I am going into the country to gather some simples.'

‘How well I like that word,' the Comtesse answered, and for the first time there was a smile in her voice. ‘It conjures up a picture of such unwordly innocence, of the guileless apothecary gathering his plants and herbs.' The concealed face turned in his direction once more. ‘But, somehow, I do not feel that description quite fits you, Mr Rawlings. On the contrary, I would guess you are in fact quite a clever young man.'

‘It is kind of you to say so,' answered John, starting to bow his way out.

‘Yes, yes,' said the Comtesse with a sigh. ‘Until tomorrow.'

The court at Bow Street was in full session. Seated in a high chair on a raised dais, his hands folded in front of him, his bandaged eyes turned towards the prisoner under examination, John Fielding loomed large. To his left, almost unrecognisable in a smart white wig, sat Joe Jago, while directly in front of the Magistrate and almost at his feet, the clerk of the court was ensconced at a desk, busily taking notes.

The sides of the courtroom and the gallery above were packed with finely dressed people, those members of the public who came daily to watch the remarkable Blind Beak, who had succeeded his half brother Henry only in April of that year, 1754, but who in that short time had already become something of a legend. For it was said by those who knew him that John Fielding could recognise over three thousand villains by their voices alone. Further, that the man could learn the entire contents of books, newspapers, letters and reports simply from hearing them read out to him.

It was also said that the Beak was hideously underfunded by the government, who treated his job lightly, more concerned with funding themselves. But short of money or no, the Justice for Westminster and Middlesex, the Metropolitan Magistrate, had already gained a reputation so fierce that the courtroom was packed with spectators every time it was in session.

Arriving late, John was obliged to squeeze into the back of the gallery, where he sat wedged between a fair fat lady and a small thin beau, this last complete with face smothered in plaster of Paris to conceal time's ravages, a cane dangling from his top button and one eye completely tucked beneath his hat. Pressed rather too close to them for comfort, John attempted to concentrate on the cases being heard below.

First came a gentleman accused of intending to do grievous bodily harm to a pretty young woman. Mr Fielding found the defendant guilty only of pursuing her with amorous intent and merely bound him over to keep the peace in the surety of forty guineas. At this the girl's attorney volubly protested how unfair it was that his client should pay the costs of the accused's arrest, and John was just thinking that fact to be perfectly true when the beau whispered in his ear that the plaintiff came from a well-known family of bawds and harpies. It was obvious that Mr Fielding, with his prodigious memory, had recognised the girl's name and acted accordingly. Very impressed by the acuteness of the Blind Beak's mind, John stared down into the hall of justice as two further prisoners came to the bar together.

Aged ten and twelve respectively, the boys had been arrested for assaulting and robbing a cabinet maker on the highway. Despite their youth they were committed to Newgate awaiting trial by jury, upon whose findings it was quite possible they would receive the death sentence, though it was unlikely that this would be carried out as both were under fourteen.

‘Transportation for life, I expect,' said the large lady with satisfaction.

Her voice was drowned, however, by that of the Blind Beak, who was passing judgement.

‘I have no alternative but to send you both for trial. Yet it is a melancholy truth that, if you could avoid prison, you might be of some use to society before you become hardened criminals.'

John, listening intently, thought that Mr Fielding might well be right, for in gaol men, women and children were herded together indiscriminately, prey to vice and disease, helpless to fight against either and therefore only too easy to corrupt.

The last case to be heard that day was particularly unpleasant, and the harshness in the Magistrate's voice as he sent the miscreant for trial at the Old Bailey revealed the strength of his feelings. A woman stood at the bar accused of beating her female apprentice to death, a hapless child who had been sent to her from the workhouse. It was further revealed that the murderess had treated the tragic girl most cruelly while she still lived. Even in that courtroom, packed with those powdered and patched creatures who had nothing better to do than while away an hour or two watching a blind man administering justice, there were cries of ‘Hang the bitch!' and ‘Put her down.'

The fat lady sitting next to John affected to faint at all the excitement, and he was forced to revive her by means of the salts he always carried in his pocket. Thus occupied, he missed John Fielding's dramatic exit from court, flicking his switch in front of him to feel his way. In fact, by the time the Apothecary had helped his patient from the courtroom there was no sign of the man he had come especially to see. However, Joe Jago was still visible amongst the throng, his wig – in defiance of convention – already snatched from his head which he was busily scratching. He grinned as John hurried over.

‘Ah, Mr Rawlings, have you found our murderer for us yet?'

The Apothecary rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘I've found nothing except, perhaps, who it isn't.'

‘Well, that's a step forward, I suppose.' Joe Jago tapped his nose. ‘By the way, Mr Fielding requires you to dine with him, if that would be convenient.'

John looked thoroughly startled. ‘How did he know I was here?'

‘I saw you and whispered the information in his ear. I think he would like a progress report.'

‘Progress, huh!' answered John bitterly.

‘Ah well,' said the clerk, scratching hard. ‘Now, if you will make your way upstairs, Sir, you'll find Mr Fielding in the parlour.'

The ground floor of the house in Bow Street being entirely devoted to the Public Office and its affairs, the Principal Magistrate and his family had made their home in the upper storeys, four in all, including the attic in which the servants were housed. Ascending the steep stairs, wishing that he had some really relevant information to impart, John found himself on the first floor, which consisted of a narrow landing with three doors leading off it. Knocking tentatively on the one facing him, he heard Mr Fielding answer, ‘Come,' and stepped inside.

The room which John had entered stretched the entire width of the house and had three large sash windows, two of which stood slightly open to let in the afternoon air. The general effect was one of light and space, and John thought what a pleasant scene it made to see the Blind Beak and his family seated in comfortable chairs by those very windows, engaged in conversation. Before Mr Fielding was set a small table on which stood a glass of cool punch which he was sipping as John came into the room, picking up the glass with as much dexterity as a sighted man. The two females who sat with the Blind Beak looked up curiously as their visitor entered.

Elizabeth Fielding, John's wife, was just on the verge of prettiness but missed being so because of the commonplace cast of her features. Ordinary was the word John would have used to describe her and yet, taken individually, her facial characteristics were pleasant enough. The child with her though, whom John took at first to be the Magistrate's daughter, was a stunning little thing, her dark hair tied with a red ribbon and her pert nose not detracting in any way from her lovely rosebud lips. John imagined her to be about nine years old and momentarily allowed his mind to wander on to what she would look like in ten years' time.

‘Ah, welcome Mr Rawlings,' said the Beak, and the black bandage turned in John's direction.

‘How did you know?' he asked amazed.

‘Your personal aroma, Sir, as individual to any man as the very air he breathes. Now may I present my wife and niece?'

‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,' said Elizabeth Fielding, curtseying neatly, an action which the child copied.

John bowed. ‘My pleasure entirely, Madam.' He turned to the little girl. ‘How nice to meet you, Miss . . .

‘Whittingham. Mary Ann Whittingham. How dee do?'

She was such a perfect adult in miniature that John found himself smiling, then he remembered that he had come to report not to enjoy himself, and he turned to John Fielding.

‘Sir, I have little to tell you, I fear. I seek people out and ask them questions but all to no avail. If there is a murderer amongst them he is cunningly concealing himself.'

‘Then we must look elsewhere,' the Magistrate answered simply.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You should remove yourself to Midhurst as soon as possible. The key lies there, albeit not directly, I feel sure of it.'

‘But what of the Masked Lady and that damned boy – or boys?'

‘You can forget them for the moment. I'll set one of my men the task of following her and another to search for the lad.' The Blind Beak paused, then said, ‘As you know we are not a large force and your help is therefore invaluable to me. Yet perhaps I was wrong to give you so much responsibility. Would you like a Brave Fellow seconded to you? If so, you must say so.'

‘But if I answered yes, would it not take him from other duties?'

John Fielding sighed. ‘Indeed it would.'

‘Then let me continue alone for as long as I can.'

Elizabeth joined in the conversation. ‘There speaks a good citizen. Mr Rawlings, I cannot tell you how overstretched the Public Office is. In taking on this enquiry you have, indirectly, assisted in the control and apprehension of London's other criminals.'

He bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Madam.'

She smiled charmingly, then stood up. ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I must check the arrangements for dinner. Mary Ann, do you want to come with me?'

‘No,' said her niece, bright-eyed. ‘If you have no objection, Aunt, I am enjoying listening to the revelations of Mr Rawlings.'

Mrs Fielding suddenly looked rather fetching. ‘What a bundle of mischief it is to be sure. Does she bother you, John?'

‘No,' chorused the Blind Beak and the Apothecary in unison. With that they both laughed and, for the very first time, John Rawlings felt his feelings of awe for the older man tinged by a certain warmth and empathy.

By tradition the various forms of transportation which plied between the capital and the Southern Counties set forth from that part of London known as The Borough. Here, in the yards of the many inns that stood on the main thoroughfare – The Ship, The King's Head, The White Hart and The George, to name but a few – the public carriages drew up every day to receive their passengers. Beside the carriers' wagons, responsible for the conveyance of goods and the more humble type of traveller, there were two other forms of public transport on offer, namely the postchaise and the stage coach. The chaise was fast, smart and expensive and lived up to its nickname, The Flying Coach. The stage, by contrast, was slow and lumbering, could be more sociable, but was decidedly cheaper. On the rare occasions that John had used it, he had rather enjoyed himself despite the jolting and general discomfort. This morning, however, time being of the essence, he fastened his eyes on a four-seater postchaise, drawn up beside a notice saying, ‘For the Better Conveyance of Travellers, the Chichester fast coach. Dines at Guildford. Horses changed, Leatherhead and Midhurst'.

Seeing three passengers clambering aboard, two older people and a pale-looking girl whom John took to be their daughter, he called out to the man, ‘I'm going to Midhurst, Sir. May I share your conveyance and the cost?'