Death in the Dark Walk (5 page)

‘There's something else, Sir, something of which I did not tell the Beak Runners because I wanted to show it to you personally. The girl had a small piece of blue brocade clutched in her hand, pulled from her murderer's coat.' John reached in his pocket and took the thing from its resting place of safe-keeping within his handkerchief. ‘Here it is. Look for yourself.'

Having said those words he could have died of shame. Yet if the Blind Beak's feelings were wounded he revealed none of it. Instead, he took the torn brocade and delicately turned it over and over in his fingers.

‘So you believe that this was ripped off during the struggle?'

‘It must have been, Sir. What other explanation could there be for its presence? It did not come from her own clothing.'

In the silence that followed, John peered into Fielding's face, trying to hazard a guess as to what the Beak might be thinking, Eventually, the Magistrate spoke again. ‘The Duke of Midhurst wore blue last night.'

The Apothecary stared at the blind man uncomprehendingly. ‘The Duke of Midhurst?'

‘The young rip who accompanied the dead girl. He was found asleep in his barge, drunk as a wheelbarrow, or apparently so. His story is that he quarrelled with his light of love and, leaving her to her own devices, returned to their box, then eventually staggered down to the river and went aboard.'

John frowned. ‘Mr Fielding, Sir, there were many at Vaux Hall wearing blue last night, so many, in fact, that I began to suspect there must be a rage for the colour.'

‘Did you know any of them?'

‘Some, by sight.'

‘Then tell me who they were, Mr Rawlings.'

John flashed a series of pictures into his mind's eye and came up with that of the crowd, jostling and laughing as the Cascade was lit in its pretty grotto.

‘Well, there was the Duke of Richmond and his brother-in-law, Henry Fox. The younger man was stunningly arrayed and the elder not greatly outshone. They were both in blue. Then next to them stood the Masked Lady . . .

‘Who?'

‘A fascinating woman, dressed in scarlet and gold with a red domino, a most mysterious creature. Strangely, there was a tall man in a black cloak who was staring at her almost as hard as I was. He had a blue garment beneath his mantle. Then there were two middle-aged ladies and their servant. They were got up very finely, though rather ridiculously.'

‘In what way?'

‘Their gowns matched, as if they were twins. I got the impression they were trying to look younger than they were.'

Mr Fielding's expression did not change. ‘And the maid?'

‘She was simply clad, in grey. But of course there
was
the apprentice.'

‘Who was he?'

‘A young lad, far too grandly dressed for his station. I put him down for a thief.'

The Blind Beak said, ‘Ah!' but made no further comment and lapsed into another of his long silences. Finally, he asked, ‘What do you look like, Mr Rawlings? Are you regarded as a handsome man?'

‘I don't know, Sir,' John answered modestly.

The bandaged eyes drew frighteningly close. ‘Don't mince with me, Mr Rawlings. Describe yourself. Every detail.'

‘Well, I'm of medium height and build, not conspicuous in either of those things. My father maintains that I move with elegance, though not in a dandified way you understand. My hair is curly, auburn in colour, more red than brown, and my eyes are blue, quite a dark shade.' John paused. ‘I find this a little embarrassing, Sir.'

Mr Fielding made an impatient noise. ‘Really, Mr Rawlings, when one is dealing with a case of wilful murder, the solving of the crime must override all other considerations.'

‘But I don't quite see . . .'

‘There is a reason for everything I do. Continue, if you please.'

‘Well, I'm good at hiding what I think. Sir Gabriel maintains I have a gambler's face, rather composed of feature. Oh, and when I smile I do so crookedly.'

The Blind Beak made a slight sound in response to this and John stared at him suspiciously. But Mr Fielding's features remained impassive. ‘So other than for your strange grin would you say there was anything that sets you apart from the crowd?'

‘No, Sir.'

The Magistrate put the tips of his fingers together. ‘Tell me about your memory. Does it work pictorially?'

‘Yes, I see scenes as if they were paintings in which I can recall every detail. It is the same with the written word. I can summon it back and read it once more.'

‘That must have been very useful to you in your studies.'

‘It was.'

The sightless eyes turned fully in John's direction and yet again there was a protracted silence. The Apothecary caught himself thinking that if this were a trick to throw witnesses off balance it certainly worked most effectively.

Mr Fielding cleared his throat. ‘You have unusual powers of recollection, I believe, Mr Rawlings,' he said at last.

‘It has been my gift since childhood, Sir.'

‘Then in that case I would like you to undertake a commission for me.'

The hare in John Rawlings quivered, getting the scent of something rare, and at that moment he looked anything but one of the crowd, burnished and graceful, yet strong as wire. ‘And what is that, Sir?' he asked.

‘To find the owner of the garment from which that piece of material was torn.'

The gambler's face vanished and John's features lit up before he drooped his lids to hide the expression in his eyes, forgetting momentarily that Mr Fielding could not see his reaction.

‘You want me to act as one of your Runners, Sir?' he asked, astonished yet thrilled.

‘I do.'

‘But why not choose one especially trained for such a task?'

‘Because they did not see what you saw. They did not glimpse that elusive figure taking to its heels and fleeing from the scene of the murder. Nor, Mr Rawlings, do they have such a formidable memory as you claim to possess.'

John looked up, dark-eyed, glinting with the thoughts that teemed through his mind.

‘How would I start? How should I go about such a quest?'

‘The Duke of Midhurst is here in the Public Office and has already been questioned. He tells me that the dead girl was called Elizabeth Harper and until a few months ago worked in the brothel in Leicester Fields. You must begin by going there to discover all you can about her: where she came from, who her friends and enemies were, where she went between leaving the brothel and being put under the Duke's protection.'

John's smile appeared briefly. ‘And you believe I am capable of this?'

‘Why not, Mr Rawlings? You are a trained apothecary, which fact declares you to be of no mean intelligence.'

‘But would people confide in me, do you think?'

‘That remains to be seen. I shall give you a letter of authorisation which will convince those like Mr Tyers of Vaux Hall that he must co-operate with you. It is his proud boast, incidentally, that he knows more about his visitors than they do themselves. Should that be true, it would prove very useful.'

The smile reappeared and remained. ‘I'll do it,' said John.

The Magistrate's face stayed expressionless beneath its full white wig and the Apothecary found himself wondering how old the Blind Beak actually was. Despite the large build and heavily jowled chin, despite his aura of power and authority, the younger man guessed shrewdly that John Fielding was probably still in the early part of his thirties, probably little more than ten years older than John Rawlings himself.

‘Do you ever play chess?' Fielding asked by way of answer.

‘I do indeed, Sir.'

‘Then, Mr Rawlings, you are about to embark upon the finest game of your life. By your skill and ingenuity you will track down the evil being who choked the life from poor Elizabeth Harper and bring him to the justice he deserves. Before you leave here a letter of authorisation and five guineas for expenses will be yours. You have, Sir, entered the service of the Public Office, albeit unofficially.'

With those words the Blind Beak got to his feet, thrust the piece of material back into John's hand, then made for the door, his stick tapping in front of him.

‘When shall I report back to you?' asked John, nervous again.

‘When you have something of genuine interest to tell me. Good day, Mr Rawlings.'

And with that the Metropolitan Magistrate was gone.

He had fallen into a restless sleep almost as soon as he had closed his eyes, dreaming of murder and violence, of voices raised in quarrel, of seeing a man hurrying down the Grand Walk, of hearing a girl cry out. Then the sound of wheels had awoken him abruptly and Samuel had sat bolt upright, briefly unable to get his bearings, before realising that he was in one of Sir Gabriel Kent's guest rooms and that the noise which had disturbed him was that of his host leaving the house. With a sigh, Samuel wondered if it was time to get up, but the faint light reflected on the bedroom ceiling told him that the day had not yet broken, so he lay back on his pillows thinking about the dream and whether it had any substance in reality.

Though it would certainly not sound well if he were questioned, Samuel had to admit that he had followed the fated Beauty deliberately, longing to have a closer look at her, walking just a few paces behind her down the Grand Walk, trying to pluck up the courage to introduce himself. He had attached himself to the throng leaving the Cascade, with that intention, if truth were to be told, but had lost his chance when she had been joined by a man in a black cloak, a man who had taken her by the arm and shouted at her in anger. Then a crowd of people had got in the way, and by the time Samuel had been able to get another look both the man and the girl had gone. The only thing he had seen was the elegant creature who had escorted the Beauty to Vaux Hall striding out of The Dark Walk and turning towards the river.

The thought of John, incarcerated in the Public Office, and a sudden feeling that he ought to go and help him, ought to seek out Mr Fielding and tell him what he had eye-witnessed, had Samuel leaping out of bed and crossing to the window to draw back the curtains. But then, seeing the gardens below, small but elegant and presently filled with an abundance of spring flowers, a wave of nostalgia engulfed him once more and, with a sigh, he sat down on the window seat and remembered.

He and the man who was to become his closest friend had originally been introduced as children, when Samuel Swann senior had moved into the town house next door to that of Sir Gabriel Kent. Nassau Street had been in existence only a few years then, in 1737, and was considered a good address for those of the professional class. Thus, the fathers became friendly and the sons followed suit, while Mistress Marjorie Swann, clapping her eyes on the motherless child who clung to her own boy's hand so pitifully, had taken pity on the poor soul, all great eyes and curling hair as the imp of humanity had been. But Marjorie had died of a fever two winters later and the children had been thrown together even more, both of them brought up by a father and servants, and no other young people around for company.

In 1741, when the boys had been ten years old, John and Samuel had been sent together to the Reverend Mr Johnson's boarding school for twenty pupils, situated in a house on the edge of Kensington village. The Principal had promised the two widowed fathers that as well as learning arithmetic and geometry, plus trigonometry plane and spherical, as applied to navigation and astronomy, to say nothing of book-keeping after the Italian method, his scholars would dine with the Master, be kept clean, and have bedchambers, beds and bedding as fine as any gentleman could desire for his son. He also assured the enquiring parents that his charges would be instructed in Latin so well they could converse in it, and would in addition read the best authors in the English language. Furthermore, they would be taught to read and write grammatically and spell most true.

Mr Johnson's academy had kept John and Samuel within its learned walls for six years, when a final examination had proved to the Principal's satisfaction that they were now qualified to go out into the world and the time for them to take indentures had come – for apprenticeship was still the best method of entry into the companies which governed the economy, and indeed the only way of obtaining the freedom of the city of London.

In that year of 1747, when John and Samuel were both sixteen, apprentice lads and lasses came from all walks of life, for girls that did not go into service young could also expect to endure the rigours of being sent into a strange household at an early age. Indeed, the daughter of one of Sir Gabriel's servants had been apprenticed to a milliner in the sum of twelve guineas some months previously. But where orphans and paupers could look forward to little else other than an apprenticeship to an obscure workman, the sons of gentlemen and merchants had their future guaranteed, knowing that they would become men of substance and prominent citizens when their indentures finally came to an end. Thus, his formal education over, John Rawlings had been apprenticed to Richard Purefoy, Apothecary, of Evans Row, for the sum of £200 and Samuel Swann to Edward Hall, Goldsmith, of West Cheap, for £50 less. The premiums had been high but one Master had been a member of one of the Twelve Great Livery Companies, the other the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, and could, within limits, charge what they wished.

‘And now it's over,' Samuel thought. ‘And we can apply to be made free.'

And with that he remembered the celebrations of the night before and their violent and terrible end.

‘John!' he exclaimed out loud. Furious with himself for lapsing into a daydream, Samuel hurled on his clothes and hurried from the house, still doing up his cravat.

One of the most enviable qualities of Sir Gabriel Kent, in the estimation of his adopted son at least, was his ability to remain silent when the situation so demanded. Indeed John was never more grateful for this attribute than during the short journey back to Nassau Street from the Public Office. Having seen his son emerge onto the step of the house in Bow Street, Sir Gabriel had merely held open the carriage door and beckoned him inside, then called to the coachman to take them home. After that he had simply remarked that it promised to be a fine day and had said nothing further. At home, he had behaved similarly. Wishing his son good morning and saying that he would speak to him over dinner, John's father had disappeared in the direction of his study leaving the Apothecary no option but to go to bed and sleep off the effects of such a devastating night.