Death in the Dark Walk (20 page)

‘With the Ardent Hope that All Your Ventures prove Successful. I Remain Your Friend, Samuel Swann.'

Despite the somewhat ingenuous tone of the letter, it was none the less descriptive and John could vividly picture all that had happened in London since he'd left. With a twinge of apprehension he wondered why the Comte had been enquiring about him, and remembered John Fielding's warning that the murderer had probably got a better look at John than John had at him.

‘I hope he doesn't know where I am now,' he muttered to himself, and then considered that even though de Vignolles might not there were several who did, including, of course, the two Dukes and the vivacious Miss Rigby. Very thoughtfully, John went into the stable yard, mounted his horse, then cantered briskly away towards the home that had once been occupied by Elizabeth Harper.

Benbow's mill lay a mile outside Midhurst, back along the road to Goodwood, a sturdy set of buildings beside a sheet of water, still as glass beneath the rising sun. Close to the attractive cottage, built about a hundred years earlier, or so John reckoned, stood the mill, its wheel motionless, the sluice above it shut, the overflow pouring into the tail-race which flowed out into the centre of the mill pool. The pool in which, if rumour were to be believed, a man had died for love of a girl destined to meet a violent end herself. Hardly able to credit that it was from rural surroundings as humble as these that the beautiful Lizzie had set forth to capture herself a place in London society, however scandalous, John stared about him.

The place did indeed have a haunted air, as quiet as the grave with the great mill wheel silent. Proceeding cautiously, John removed his herb baskets from his saddle and slowly made his way round the pond to the little wooden bridge which spanned the mill race just where it flowed into the gushing brook which fed the pool. Stooping now and then to pluck the wild flowers, John left the bank and crossed the bridge, making his way towards the cottage. The door, which had been closed as he had stared at it across the pond, suddenly flew open as he approached, startling him, and at the same time a voice called out, ‘And what's your business?' in a menacing tone. Blinking slightly, John put on his studious face, screwing up his eyes as if he were somewhat short-sighted.

‘Forgive me, good Master,' he called back. ‘I should have asked your permission to gather some simples but as your door was closed, I did not wish to disturb you.'

‘Who are you?' the miller answered, taking a step outside.

John held out his hand. ‘Rawlings, Master. John Rawlings, apothecary of London, come to this lovely part of the country to pick plants for my medicines. Forgive me my trespasses . . .' He beamed as if delighted at this terrible joke. ‘ . . . but I do need a certain variety of willow bark – for the treatment of fever, you know and just such a thing grows upon the banks of your pool.'

He smiled again, widely, an ingenuous look beaming from his countenance.

Miller Benbow narrowed his eyes. ‘From London, you say?'

‘Yes,' answered John, certain he knew what was coming next.

‘I had a daughter went there,' the man went on, heaving a sigh and displaying all the signs of a truly lonely individual, glad to converse with anyone. ‘She thought to make her way in the world, find some fancy man to marry her. Yet she had a good strong chap for sweet-heart hereabouts. I'll never understand the ways of womankind.' He sighed again, then peered at John even more closely. ‘You didn't know her, I suppose? Her name was Elizabeth Harper.'

There was a moment of agonising choice whilst the Apothecary hovered between the roles of friendly stranger and keen official, then answered, ‘No.'

‘It was just a hope,' the miller replied, and relapsed into moody silence.

He was not the sort of man, John thought, observing him covertly, of whom he would like to fall foul. For Jacob Benbow stood over six feet in height and was built like a bull. A mass of curling dark hair, heavily streaked with grey, covered his head and chest, and dark brown eyes which held an angry, molten look in their depths, glared out from beneath his mat of curls. The miller also boasted a vast pair of shoulders and arms shaped like legs of mutton. Staring at him, the Apothecary felt positively slight in build in comparison.

‘Of course,' John went on, his voice pleasant, ‘so many country girls come to town looking for work. One wonders why they do it, particularly when they have a comfortable home.' He let his eyes sweep over the mill cottage with an expression of approval.

‘You're right there, Sir, she has a good place here. And I dote on that girl, love her as if she were my own.'

John looked perplexed. ‘But I thought you said . . .'

‘I have
two
daughters – leastwise I call them so. But only one was my child of flesh and blood, that was Eleanor. The other, Elizabeth, is my wife's sister's girl, orphaned young, and taken into our household out of the kindness of our hearts. Little did we know what a viper we were welcoming into our nest.'

‘Dear me!' said John sympathetically.

‘Aye. She grew up lovely as a rose, that child did. Even more beautiful than my own sweet girl. Anyway, it happened that they'd both played since childhood with Jemmy Groves, old widow Groves's son from the nearest cottage. You can guess the rest I suppose?'

John shook his head.

‘Well, my poor Eleanor fell in love with him, in the way that young females do at a certain age. But he only wanted Lizzie, besotted to foolery with her he was, truly mad. Anyway, when she ups and leaves him to make her way in London, he kills himself, here in this very pond.'

‘That was a little extreme, surely.'

‘I think she wrote him that she wasn't coming back. He could read and write a little, could Jem.'

John nodded, seeing yet again the words of the poor man's tragic note. ‘So what happened exactly?'

‘He came here one winter's night and jumped in. I found him next morning, all icy. I'd have spared Eleanor the sight but she rushed out of the cottage and took her beloved in her arms. I'll never forget the expression on her face till the day I die.' The miller's great chest heaved, ‘Anyway, she had gone to join her sweetheart by nightfall.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That Eleanor wandered away as soon as darkness came. It's my guess she went down to the sea and threw herself off the cliffs.'

‘What a terrible tale,' John said, a sense of horror beginning to consume him. ‘So have you been left all alone ever since? Have you no wife to keep you company?'

Miller Benbow shook his head. ‘She went to her rest when those two girls were naught more than children. I brought the pair of 'em up single handed.'

There was a feeling in the air which John could sense but not identify. ‘No easy task for a man,' he answered slowly.

‘No,' Benbow agreed shortly. ‘You know, it's said in these parts that the mill is cursed, haunted, evil. Perhaps it would be best not to gather your plants hereabouts.'

John gave a short laugh. ‘I am a man of science, Master. You can't expect me to believe in such superstition.'

Benbow shook his head. ‘I tell you there's something strange about this place. How else could a man be so ill-used by fate?'

It was on the tip of John's tongue to say that people are often parent to their own misfortune but he thought better of it. Instead, he answered, ‘Ah well, who knows?' and turned to look back at the cottage. ‘I wonder, Master, if I might just step inside for a glass of water? I've been out since dawn and am parched dry.'

Benbow looked as pleased as was possible for a man of his stamp. ‘Yes, by all means. We'll have a pint of ale together. I'll be glad of the company.'

John gulped, thinking he had had quite enough to drink the day before but accepting the offer for all that, longing to get a look at the place in which Lizzie, to say nothing of the doomed Eleanor Benbow, had formerly dwelled. Yet there was no clue in the downstairs room that two young females had once lived there, for the place had the general air of spartan untidiness always associated with a man who fended for himself. But added to this there was an extraordinary atmosphere, not only of sadness but of brooding tension. It seemed to John, man of medicine though he might be, that something terrible had happened within those walls, though whether this was simply the miller's anguish over the loss of his daughters, he could not be altogether certain.

Accepting the ale and downing a draught, somehow refraining from pulling a face at its sharpness, John stared round and said, ‘What a pleasant home you have here. Do you own the mill and cottage?'

Benbow shook his head. ‘No, I'm a tenant of Squire Leagrave, just as my father was of his father. It's an arrangement that goes back well over a century.'

John looked interested. ‘Leagrave? I'm sure I've heard that name before.'

‘They are the most prominent family hereabouts, along with the Wiltons and the Brownes, and employ many local people. My Lizzie was in service with the Squire before she left home.'

John gaped and gave the game away. ‘Elizabeth used to work for Squire Leagrave! Then, by God, she must have known his son.'

The miller stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you say that? Of course she knew him. But of what interest is that to you?'

John's face rapidly became unreadable. ‘My medical training has given me a lively interest in human behaviour. I just wondered whether your adopted daughter had eloped with the Squire's son, that's all.'

Miller Benbow looked entirely askance. ‘Whatever next? I've never heard such foolishness. Young James is just a boy and still here in Midhurst, as upset by everything that happened as anyone else.'

John downed his ale and got to his feet. ‘I've taken up enough of your time, I fear. So I'll just collect a few plants and be on my way.

‘You don't think they might be accursed then?'

John smiled. ‘No, I'll risk it. Thank you so much for your hospitality.'

The miller nodded dourly and poured himself another draught of ale as John stepped out into the sunshine.

It was the sight of a stage coach, its passengers gone into The Spread Eagle to dine, that made John do what he did next. Before going inside to have a midday break, the Apothecary booked himself a seat on the Chichester to London postchaise which would be passing through Midhurst the following morning. It had been a spontaneous decision, yet behind it lay the urgent need to confer not only with the Blind Beak but also with Sir Gabriel Kent. For it seemed to John that the investigation had now reached a critical stage.

He had eaten his midday repast in the kitchen in order to get a word with Anne Pruet but almost immediately afterwards set out for Court Green, the house at the bottom of Castle Hill, upon which had once stood the castle of the de Bohuns, who had held the barony of Midhurst. It was in this grand domain, so the landlady had informed him, that he would find Squire Leagrave and his family. So, taking his simples basket with him and adopting his earnest face, John made his way.

The house was very old in parts, obviously having been added to over the centuries, but the new part of the building dated from the reigns of William and Mary, and Queen Anne, and the Apothecary found himself looking at a home that combined both grace and dignity with charm and comfort. Delighted to see that it had not only a formal but also a wild garden, he knocked on the front door and was relieved when a fresh-faced maid rather than an overbearing footman answered him.

‘Good afternoon,' John said cheerfully, doffing his hat. ‘I wondered if I might have a word with your master.'

The girl shook her head. ‘He's out riding, Sir. But would Miss Edith do?'

Not quite certain who this might be, John made his eyes look bewildered. ‘Er . . .'

‘She's the master's sister. The lady of the house. Who shall I say is calling?'

‘My name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, but I must tell you that she doesn't know me and I haven't an appointment. In fact I've called to ask whether I might gather a few flowers and herbs from her wilderness. I am an apothecary, you see, and could not help but notice the very interesting selection of plants there.'

The maid frowned. ‘Well, I'm not sure about that, Sir. Neither the master nor the mistress are very fond of strangers about the place.'

‘Indeed, I understand,' answered John. ‘One cannot be too careful in these violent times. But perhaps you would inform the good lady that I visited and sought permission to see her garden. Tell her that I will return in a day or two that I might know her mind.'

The maid misunderstood. ‘I can't do that, Sir. She's lying down at the moment and I've orders not to disturb her.'

‘No, of course not. I trust she is not ill?' he added slyly.

The maid grinned. ‘Not ill, Sir. But the poor soul is a martyr to wind.'

John guffawed uncontrollably. ‘What did you say?'

The girl joined in, clapping her hands over her mouth. ‘Not of the farty kind, young Sir. I meant heartburn. The mistress has been its victim for years.'

The Apothecary wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Well, that's a relief at least.'

‘Oh don't,' said his companion, giggling loudly. And it was at that moment an inner door was thrown open and a grim-faced female appeared in the hall.

‘Really! What is the meaning of this outrageous noise?'

Struggling desperately to keep a straight face, John bowed. ‘A thousand pardons, Madam. The last thing I wished to do was disturb your repose.'

‘Who are you?' asked the newcomer, peering suspiciously.

‘John Rawlings, apothecary of London. I am in the Midhurst area to collect simples for my medicines and was drawn, as if by a lure, to beg a closer look at your lovely gardens. I cannot remember when I have seen such a fine selection of herbs and flowers.'