Death in the Dark Walk (21 page)

Looking not the least mollified, Miss Leagrave glared at him. ‘And do you make a habit of snooping round other people's property?'

John became extremely dignified. ‘No, Madam, I never snoop, as you put it. Were it not for the fact that I believe you to be in poor health, I would have to take exception to that remark and leave at once.'

She stared, somewhat surprised. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because you have called my honour into disrepute.'

‘No, I meant about my health.'

‘Why, your suffering is written on your face,' lied John vigorously, studying her countenance and thinking that the woman looked as if she'd just consumed a pint of vinegar, so sharp and unfriendly was her expression.

Miss Leagrave continued to gaze at him narrowly. ‘You say you are an apothecary?'

‘Yes, Madam, fully qualified and trained. D'you know, I'd hazard a guess that your problem is caused by dyspepsia. I would imagine that you suffer agonies from heartburn.'

There was a muffled snort from the maid which turned into a cough.

‘It's true,' answered the Squire's sister, her voice slightly less harsh. ‘I do.'

‘Then I think I may be able to help you. I am returning to London, a mere flying visit you understand, but will be back in a day or so. While I am there allow me to compound for you a strong physick that should cure you not only of the pain but also of the melancholy attached thereto.'

‘And how much money would this cost me?'

‘Why none,' said John, drawing himself up. ‘I would present it to you as a token of my goodwill.'

‘I see,' said Miss Leagrave. When she spoke again her tone was less abrasive. ‘Perhaps I have misjudged you, Mr Rawlings.'

He maintained a steadfast silence.

‘I thank you for considering my health and I will gratefully receive a bottle of your physick. In return I promise to show you the wilderness.'

The Apothecary bowed. ‘Then I'll bid you good day.' And with that he turned to go and would have done so had the front door not been flung open, almost knocking him over. Somewhat startled, John stared at the person who had come in so precipitously and found himself looking at a boy, a boy with fair hair and blue eyes, somewhat taller than John had imagined, whose features already had about them the square-jawed look of determination. So this, it would seem, was Master James Leagrave who, quite possibly, had ruthlessly done Elizabeth Harper to death.

‘Charmed!' said John, and inclined his head, amazed to be finally face to face with the elusive young wretch.

‘Who are you?' asked the newcomer rudely.

‘James!' remonstrated his aunt. ‘This is Mr John Rawlings, an apothecary from London.'

‘London?' the boy repeated, and just for a moment a slightly wary expression crept across his face.

‘Yes London,' said John firmly. He stared James Leagrave in the eye. ‘Do you know, Sir, there is something familiar about you. Is it possible that we could have met when you were last in town?'

James flushed uncomfortably. ‘I doubt it. I am hardly ever there.'

‘That is not quite true,' Edith put in. ‘James enjoys going to the capital to study the fashions and to mix with young bloods of his own age. Why, I'd swear he'd move there if he had half the chance.'

‘That is an exaggeration,' answered her nephew sulkily.

John looked urbane. ‘I could not blame you if it were so. The excitements of town life are many indeed. Though, of course they are not all pleasurable. Why, danger even stalks in paradise. Do you know, Mam there was a murder at Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens the other night.'

‘Oh how dreadful!' Miss Leagrave exclaimed, clutching her breast.

‘It was, utterly,' answered John, and he turned his head to stare straight at James Leagrave who, he was interested but not surprised to see, had turned white as frost, and had sat down on the hall seat so fast it would appear his legs had buckled under him.

John's journey back to London, shared with an elderly couple who slept most of the way, heads lolling and mouths wide, was fast and uneventful and he arrived back at The Borough as dusk fell. Hailing one of the many hackneys that waited nearby to take passengers alighting from the stage coaches and postchaises on to their final destination, John proceeded straight to number two, Nassau Street, where it pleased him to see that candles had been lit and every window gleamed a welcome. Running swiftly up the steps, he knocked at the door, then swept into the hall as if he had been away for a month.

Sir Gabriel Kent was at that delicate stage of preparation to go out during which he allowed no one to disturb him. So, John had no option but to hastily organise himself a bath and to dress as finely as he could, in fact in the clothes he had worn on the night of the murder, determined to accompany his father on whatever diversion he had planned. Yet despite all this, he was ready first and awaited Sir Gabriel in the library, his mulberry satin coat, gleaming in the firelight, reflected in the glass of sherry which he sipped pensively.

And then John stopped, his glass halfway to his mouth, arrested in sudden thought. ‘Um,' he said slowly, and was standing thus, still thinking, when Sir Gabriel came through the door.

Tonight his father walked very mincingly, in black shoes with pinchbeck heels and silver buckles, his full-skirted coat, heavily laced with silver, thrown back to reveal a dark waistcoat of silver-flowered silk. His shirt and cravat were faultless and there was a flaunting of jewels about him that John found quite breathtaking.

‘Oh Sir, I shall never be as fine as you,' he found himself exclaiming, and was rewarded with a smile so wise that he caught his breath.

‘My son,' said Sir Gabriel, his eyes twinkling, ‘old age brings few compensations, but one of them is the ability to be exactly who one desires without a care as to what the next man thinks. It is my choice to dress as I do, eccentrically, and thus I do so boldly. When you come to my age, perhaps even before, you may follow suit.' He kissed John on the cheek. ‘You should have sent word that you were returning. I would have arranged a celebration.'

‘But I've only been away a few days.'

‘Another trick of old age; celebrate all life's small festivities to the full, remembering that they are growing increasingly precious.'

‘I intend to emulate you in everything, have no fear about that. So, may I celebrate with you at whatever place you have chosen for your evening's diversion?'

‘White's,' answered Sir Gabriel succinctly. ‘I had intended to take a chair there, but if we travel by hackney you can tell me all that has befallen you.'

‘Excellent,' said John, ‘for I need the benefit of your advice.'

The journey from Nassau Street to St James's Street, where the great gambling club was situated, being one of quite short duration, John found himself talking non-stop while Sir Gabriel listened in silence. And it was not until they had drawn up before the former chocolate house that the older man held the hackney a few minutes before alighting, in order to ask a question.

‘So do you believe the apprentice and James Leagrave might be one and the same person? And, if so, it is possible that James assumed a country accent and came to London looking for Lizzie?' He paused, then provided the answer himself. ‘Of course a youth could well become smitten with a beautiful servant somewhat older than he is. It has happened many times before and, no doubt, will continue as long as time itself. Yet there is something that bothers you, isn't there?'

‘Yes,' said John, and told his father what it was.

Stepping through the somewhat commonplace doorway – the proprietor of the former White's Chocolate House was anxiously seeking new premises – John Rawlings and Sir Gabriel Kent found themselves in a room from which all evidence of its previous usage had long ago been removed. Elegant chandeliers hung from a moulded ceiling and the many tables at which the gamesters sat each had their own individual candelabra to light the play. Conversation in these most gracious surroundings was hushed and, as at Marybone, John stood for a moment looking at those who sat absorbed. He saw fists clenched in anguish, grins of malicious exultation and the white faces of despair. He also saw the frenzy of those who had risked all upon a game of chance. For it was true to say that enormous sums of money, vast estates and fabulous jewels could be staked, lost and won, in a night.

This was a male preserve, that was for certain, for only gentlemen of rank or position sat at the gaming tables. And yet John knew by the very fragrance in the air that she was there. Turning his head to the table at which there was deep play at hazard, he saw her and his heart quickened its beat. Clad in claret velvet, her face covered in a matching domino, was the most fascinating representative of womankind, the Masked Lady.

Following his son's gaze, Sir Gabriel said with a certain wry amusement, ‘I would gladly join them, knowing that you are investigating her, but, alas, the stakes are too high for me.'

And indeed they were. For as far as John could see from where he stood, rouleaus of a thousand guineas were being staked on each throw of the dice.

‘'Zounds and life!' he exclaimed to his father. ‘How can anyone sustain it?'

‘They gamble their all,' Sir Gabriel answered. ‘Quite literally.'

‘But the Masked Lady . . .'

‘She must have accumulated a fortune already and now no longer cares whether she wins or loses.'

‘But how could any woman be strong enough to endure such pressure yet remain so calm?'

‘My dear John,' said Sir Gabriel, laughing, ‘women are the strongest creatures of all. Look at her now.'

For there had been an audible gasp in the room as the stakes were raised at the Masked Lady's table, followed by the murmur that she stood to win £50,000 if the dice fell her way. Yet to see her, it was almost impossible to credit that fact, for she sipped her glass of champagne and smiled as serenely as any lady of fashion at a levée.

‘I must get closer,' said John urgently.

‘There are two places being vacated at the table next to hers. I'll take them.' And Sir Gabriel slipped into one of the empty chairs, bowing to the Lady as he did so.

She recognised him from Marybone, that much was obvious, for she inclined her head in return. Trembling slightly, John took his seat beside his father, his eyes fixed firmly on the Lady's face. She must have felt his admiring stare, for she momentarily lost concentration and rolled the dice without thinking, gleaming a glance in his direction as she did so.

A second later there was a cry of triumph from old Lord Stavordale. ‘You're beaten, Madam. I've thrown three sixes to your fives. Now what say you?'

‘That I'll play you one great throw, my Lord,' the Masked Lady answered in her husky voice.

‘On what terms?'

‘For all that you have just won plus another ten thousand pounds.'

‘You are saying this before witnesses, you realise?'

The Masked Lady made a noise of contempt. ‘Of course I do – and I'll repeat it louder. The fifty thousand you've just won from me plus another ten. Is that acceptable to you, my Lord?'

The elderly nobleman cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Yes, it is indeed.'

‘Then pass me the dice box, if you please.'

John had never seen anything like it. Cool as an April shower, the creature about whose true identity the whole of London speculated, dropped a swift kiss upon the box in her hand then threw the contents on to the green baize cloth before her. He could not bear to look and turned his eyes away, gripping his father's arm as the assembled company drew its breath. Then there was a gasp as Lord Stavordale made his play, followed by a cry and the sound of the Masked Lady's laugh.

‘She's won,' gasped Sir Gabriel. ‘By God's fair fingers, she's won.'

Relief swept through the Apothecary so strongly that he could have wept. ‘You're enthralled by her, aren't you?' asked his father softly.

‘Is it written all over my face?'

Sir Gabriel smiled his worldly smile. ‘Let me simply say that your interest seems somewhat more than professional.'

But the Lady was rising and addressing the company as she did so. ‘Now if I had been playing
deep
I might have won millions. Good night to you, gentlemen.'

There was a burst of laughter and the scrape of chairs as, in the manner of Marybone, every person present stood up. And it was at that moment that John turned to his father, his manner urgent. ‘Sir, I am going to follow her. Forgive me for leaving you but it is something I have to do. I will see you at home, at what hour I do not know.' Then before Sir Gabriel could argue, the Apothecary had sauntered from the room in as nonchalant a manner as he could possibly manage.

A flunky helped him into his cloak and from his vantage point in the hall John could see that the porter was calling a chair from the street, while the Masked Lady stood in the doorway, her black boy beside her. Drawing as close as he dared, John tried to hear what it was she murmured to the two chairmen who came running to do her bidding, their empty sedan swaying on its poles between them. But to no avail. She had entered the conveyance and rapped on the door that she was ready to leave before he had even come into earshot. Moving swiftly, John did the only thing possible and followed the sedan up St James's Street towards Piccadilly.

At the junction of the two thoroughfares, the chairmen hesitated, and John was forced to draw into a doorway as one of them looked back over his shoulder. But after a second in hiding, the Apothecary realised that they only were checking the whereabouts of the black slave, who was running a yard or so behind his mistress's conveyance, the butt of the pistol he carried in his belt gleaming in the light cast by the torch of the linkboy who walked ahead. Having satisfied themselves that the page was keeping up, the small procession moved on, John slipping out of concealment to follow it once more.