Death in the Dark Walk (25 page)

It stopped raining as night fell. John, glad of the time and the solitude which walking gave him, made his way along the wooded path leading to Midhurst, his mind teeming with ideas, by far the most powerful of which was the extraordinary impression created on him by Eleanor Benbow's few possessions. He had stooped his way into the narrow confines of the little attic room and looked about him, to see that one bed and its accompanying shelf had been stripped, cleared, only the belongings of one girl remaining in evidence. John had turned to Jacob questioningly.

‘All Eleanor's,' the girl's father had said. ‘What Elizabeth left behind, my daughter burned when Jemmy died.'

The Apothecary had said nothing, letting his eyes wander over the collection of tawdry things that once had been a young woman's treasures. He saw a cheap fan and some laces, a little painted box and a plait of ribbons, a handful of tricks and trinkets of the kind that gypsies sell at fairs. And then, nestling beside them, incongruous and somehow out of place, John had also seen a pack of cards and a pair of dice.

He had turned to Jacob, surprised. ‘You did not tell me that Eleanor liked to gamble.'

The miller shook his head. ‘She didn't, Sir, not as such. Yet she was the finest card player in the district. She learned up at the Squire's house, you see.'

‘Extraordinary,' the Apothecary had said, and had quivered momentarily as just for a second he had felt something of Eleanor's personality.

Thinking about her like that, utterly absorbed through all the journey back, it was almost a shock to John to walk into the light, warmth and noise of The Spread Eagle. A noise which tonight seemed twice as loud as usual. Following the sound, he made his way through the hall towards the parlour and opened the door to see a merry bucolic scene, one, indeed, that could have come straight from a print depicting country life.

Seated round the table near the fire, a table currently groaning beneath a whole assortment of bottles and glasses, were half a dozen or so gentlemen, the state of whose clothes showed that they had just returned from a day's hunting and were now taking liquid refreshment to cure any ailments brought about by damp. At the precise moment that John entered, one of the company had risen to his feet and was proposing a toast.

‘Here's to the fox and here's to the hounds and here's to the Squire for giving us grounds.'

It was a meaningless enough rhyme but it brought a roar of approbation from the assembled huntsmen, who chorused, ‘The Squire,' and rose to their feet.

‘Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,' answered one of them, then turned his head to look at the newcomer who stood framed in the doorway. ‘Welcome, Sir, whoever you are. I hope you're a drinking man for we don't like shirkers round here.'

‘I'll sink a bumper with you gladly,' John answered in a cheery voice reserved for just such hearty occasions. He held out his hand. ‘Rawlings, Sir. John Rawlings.'

‘How dee do,' answered the other. ‘Ralph Leagrave's the name. I own the house yonder.'

‘Ah,
Squire
Leagrave,' John responded respectfully. ‘How nice to make your acquaintance, Sir.'

Sir Ralph looked pleased. ‘You've heard of me then?' This said amidst a roar of raucous laughter.

‘Most certainly,' John answered, endeavouring to look impressed. ‘Why, it was said in the kitchen on the very first night I came here that no one could claim to know Midhurst if they did not know the Squire.'

Leagrave roared and slapped his thigh. ‘Well said, boy. Take a seat.'

He was a caricature of his type, his face the colour of crisp bacon, his hair sandy, his eyes both blue and bloodshot. Further, Squire Leagrave boasted a set of huge white teeth which sprung over his lips when he smiled. John stared at them, fascinated, wondering if they could possibly be his own.

‘Now, Sir, what will you have, you being a drinking man and all?' The Squire winked heavily at his companions.

‘A little brandy, I think,' John answered, ‘the night being somewhat chill.'

‘Good fellow,' roared the other, and poured John a measure so strong that he quailed at the very sight of it. ‘Now let's see you get that down,' he added, and slapped the Apothecary on the back.

So here, obviously, lay the initiation rite. Anybody who could remain upright at the end of the session was considered fit for the Squire's company, those who fell to the ground or vomited would be shown the door. Wondering quite how he was going to cope, John took a tentative mouthful.

The liquor burned his throat like fire, causing him to splutter, a fact which sent the assembled company into gales of laughter. Thinking to himself that this was going to be an unforgettable night, John swallowed the lot and held out his glass for a refill.

The Squire bellowed his approval, great teeth flashing. ‘I see you're a fellow to be reckoned with, Sir. Whereabouts did you say you come from?'

‘London.'

‘Ah, now there's a place.'

‘I take it you visit our sinful city?'

‘Damme, do I look the sort of man who would not?' Ralph Leagrave rumbled a laugh. ‘Believe me, I go to taste the town's sweet fruits as often as I can.'

‘God preserve us! thought John, only to hear the huntsmen guffaw en masse at the
double entendre
. The Apothecary's mind ran on, wondering how Elizabeth could have brought herself to flirt with such a creature. With a wave of courage brought about by the brandy, he decided to find out.

‘I met a girl from Midhurst recently,' he said. ‘A beautiful creature she was, name of Elizabeth Harper. Did you know her by any chance?'

The Squire's eyes tightened and his terrible smile disappeared. ‘Yes, I did as it happens. She used to work for me. Where did you come across her?'

Wondering just how much the man knew and whether he might possibly be aware by now that Lizzie had been killed, John answered with caution.

‘Well, to be honest, Sir, I encountered her in the brothel in Leicester Fields. She was – er –
employed
there, if you take my meaning.'

The Squire hesitated, a man-of-the-world expression hovering but not quite appearing. He downed a vast glass of port and appeared to come to a decision.

‘You're a cock sparrow and no mistake,' he said, slapping John on the back with a leathery hand, hard as a hammer. ‘Why, we're all chaps together, what?' He looked round at his fellow huntsmen with a confiding leer. ‘Of course, it's well known in these parts that Lizzie left for London because I would not take her for my wife.'

‘Eh?' said John, totally surprised.

‘Ah, you might well look askance, as did my sister. Truth to tell, John my friend, the gal threw herself at me. Hoped I'd make her the next Lady Leagrave, ideas above her station, d'you see. Damme, but that was an awkward situation 'cos I'd been a naughty chap, when all's said and done. Anyway, my sister – God bless her – gave Lizzie notice to quit, so that saved my face.'

‘Not just your face!' commented one of the cronies.

Sir Ralph roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘Not just my face! 'Zounds, but that's rich. Don't you think so, John?'

The Apothecary, now downing brandies to give himself strength, nodded feebly.

‘So she ended up in a brothel, eh? I might have guessed.'

‘Then you never saw her after she left Midhurst?' asked John, focusing what was left of his wits.

The Squire narrowed his eyes. ‘Strange that you should say that, because I did, just once, though she didn't notice me.'

‘Where was this?'

‘In Vigo Lane,' Sir Ralph answered surprisingly. ‘I was going to visit a little lady of my acquaintance who had an apartment there. And there was Lizzie, mincing along as dainty as you please. I didn't call out in view of the circumstances.'

The brandy was beginning to take effect and John realised that he was slurring very slightly as he said, ‘Do you go to the balls and assemblies when you're in town, Sir, or do you prefer the theatre and pleasure gardens?'

‘I like Covent Garden best and you can guess why,' Sir Ralph answered, smirking. ‘But the pleasure gardens and assemblies are more my meat than theatres. Trouble with them is, you have to listen.'

‘Damn shame, that,' answered an associate, slumping forward in his chair.

‘Do you prefer Vaux Hall or Ranelagh?' persisted John, gamely trying to make some sense of his line of questioning.

‘Love the former, particularly The Dark Walk. Don't like Ranelagh at all. Only visited there twice and went off it straight away. No Dark Walk, that's the damnable trouble. All puff, no blow.'

John consumed yet another brandy, feeling that he had now reached the stage of kill or cure. ‘Indeed, sir, indeed. Forgive my saying, but you have a look about you that's familiar, do you know. I wonder if I could have seen you at Vaux Hall. I all but live there in the season.' He concentrated his fast scattering wits and gazed at Squire Leagrave as narrowly as his swivelling eyes would permit.

‘Possible, I suppose,' said Sir Ralph, belching a little. ‘I was there in April at the start of the season but haven't been since.'

‘Then I must be mistaken,' John answered lamely, unable to judge by now whether or not the Squire was lying.

Sir Ralph sank a bumper. ‘You're a fine young fellow, so you are. Would you not agree, gentlemen?' There was a groan of assent from the others at the table, ‘I've a mind to ask you to the ball I'm giving. In fact, I will. Come on Saturday night and see how we country fellows amuse ourselves.'

John's faculties were still sharp enough to register that here lay the golden opportunity not only to see James Leagrave at close quarters but also to examine the clothes press of both father and son.

‘Honoured, Sir,' he said, rising swayingly to his feet. ‘However, there is one small difficulty.' His words were falling over one another and he knew it.

‘Which is?'

‘I have not brought any good garments with me.'

‘My tailor will run you something up,' responded Sir Ralph, his expression betraying that he was pleased John should regard rural pastimes so highly he should worry on that account.

‘Just so,' the Apothecary answered and, as he fell back into his chair, hoped fervently that Mr Fielding would regard the purchase of a new suit of clothes as a justifiable expense.

For a country tailor, the Squire's man did very well indeed. Clothed entirely in rose red velvet, an unusual choice of both colour and material as far as John was concerned, he felt quite the rake as he set off for the ball with his buckled shoes shining, and his white shirt and hose immaculate, wondering whether there would be any pretty maidens present whom he could impress with his tales of London life. And then he remembered Miss Edith Leagrave and hoped that she would not put too great a damper on the evening by telling her brother that John was nothing more than an inquisitive young apothecary who had asked too many questions to suit her taste. Therefore, it was with mixed feelings that John arrived on foot at Court Green and announced his presence by a firm knock on the door.

Earlier that afternoon he had tried to picture what such bucolic revels might be like and now John found himself pleasantly surprised. A great effort had been made with the Squire's ballroom, which was brightly decorated with garlands of flowers and many shining candles and even had a little gallery above in which sat a group of musicians, more notable for their enthusiasm than the accuracy of their playing. Down the sides of the room had been placed benches and chairs for those who wished to sit out the dances and, looking along their length, John was pleased to observe several personable young women in pretty dresses. Leading off the ballroom was an alcove in which Miss Leagrave had laid out some lighter refreshments, cakes, syllabubs, lemonade and the like. Another table, standing close by, bore an enormous punch bowl and dozens of bottles of wine, standing in coolers, waiting to be decanted into jugs. Peering into the dining room, John could see yet another board groaning with hams and sides of beef and vast hands of pork. There could be little doubt Squire Leagrave did very well for himself, and his friends and neighbours into the bargain.

The musicians struck up a country dance with a chord of flute, fiddle and drum, and John, turning to the lady on his left in order to invite her to dance, found himself staring straight at Edith Leagrave.

‘Oh, it's you,' she said rather coldly. ‘I was not aware that you and my brother were acquainted.'

John bowed. ‘We met in The Spread Eagle, Madam. May I have the pleasure of this dance?'

She looked fractionally annoyed but none the less gave a small curtsey and John, seizing her round the waist, whirled her away to the jolly tune of Big Breasted Susan. Somewhat flushed, Miss Leagrave gamely kept up as her partner leapt and cavorted in a positive frenzy of steps.

‘Heavens,' she exclaimed, as the music ended, ‘I had not realised that dance was quite so wild.'

John bowed again. ‘May I fetch you a cooling syllabub, perhaps?'

‘Thank you, no. I must see to my other guests, if you will excuse me.' And dabbing at her forehead with a lace handkerchief, Miss Leagrave made her escape.

Standing by the punchbowl, dressed in dark green and looking every inch the typical tippling rural squire, was Ralph Leagrave and, there beside him, quite the dandy in powder blue, John spied the youthful figure of James.

‘Ah,' said the Squire cheerfully as the Apothecary approached. ‘Here's a chap after your own heart, my boy; a bright young sprig from London. Mr Rawlings, may I present to you my son, James.'

‘We've already met,' said the young man, colouring up.

‘Have you?' exclaimed Sir Ralph, surprised.

I
must
get in quickly, John thought, before the wretched little beast says something.