Death in the Dark Walk (9 page)

John hesitated, then said, ‘No. But I'll ask you to do so in my stead. If you find any papers, regardless of what they might be, can you keep them for me until I come with your medicines?'

Hannah looked cunning. ‘It would have to be in my working time.'

‘I'll see that you're compensated,' John answered tersely, thinking what a grasping old bitch the creature really was and wishing he hadn't offered to treat her.

‘Then I am your servant in all things, Sir,' replied Hannah and much to his consternation gave the Apothecary a somewhat alarming wink.

It still being little after noon, John, recalling the Blind Beak's assertion that the proprietor of Vaux Hall claimed to know more about his clientele than they knew themselves, decided to make his way there forthwith. Going home merely to change his clothes into something more appropriate for a visit to the Pleasure Gardens and to seek his father's permission to borrow his coach and horses for the rest of the day, he set out in good spirits, feeling that certain interesting facts had already come to light and that by the end of the day, with the help of Jonathan Tyers, he might have learned some more.

In normal circumstances John would have appreciated clattering over the many arches of Westminster Bridge, then bowling along the leafy lanes of the South Bank, past that fine example of Tudor brickwork, Lambeth Palace. But today he was preoccupied, going over his conversation with Hannah, wishing he had had the sense to ask her where Comte Louis de Vignolles lived, then wondering whether the country boy who had come calling on Lizzie and the apprentice at the Cascade were one and the same person.

At this time of day, of course, the Pleasure Gardens were closed. Between nine and ten o'clock at night was the hour at which the
beau monde
made an appearance, while those less refined or who enjoyed the lighting of the Cascade tended to arrive somewhat earlier. Yet knowing what be did of Mr Tyers's character, a subject discussed quite frequently in London circles, John was fairly certain that he would find him on the premises somewhere.

Dropped at the Coach Entrance situated at the corner of Kennington Lane, the Apothecary proceeded the rest of the way on foot and, after making an enquiry at the admission gates, was shown to an office in the rooms to the left of the entrance where, sure enough, he found the Proprietor himself, seated behind a desk.

‘Yes?' said Mr Tyers, not looking up from the ledger of accounts over which he was poring.

‘Sir, I am here on behalf of Mr John Fielding,' John answered steadily and was rewarded not only by getting Mr Tyers's full attention but the sight of him rising to his feet as well.

It was an interesting face that John was regarding, handsome in a hawkish kind of way. The clearly defined features were dominated by a great beak of a nose above which a pair of fine, rather melancholy, eyes stared out as if they were seeing all the troubles of mankind. It seemed extraordinary to John that the creator of such a glorious fantasy as Vaux Hall should be revealed as profound rather than frenetic. Yet perhaps the very nature of such a dream world revealed a need to escape.

‘How may I help you?' said Jonathan Tyers in a dark voice which, too, was tinged with a certain sadness.

‘Very simply by telling me all you know about the night of the murder, Sir. Mr Fielding informs me that your knowledge of your patrons is formidable. It is my hope, therefore, that you will share some of it with me.'

Mr Tyers nodded silently, the curls of his elegant wig brushing against the hollow of his cheeks. ‘I will do all that I can, naturally. Such a dreadful affair will not help the reputation of my Gardens, to say the least of it. It is in my own interest that the matter be cleared up without delay.' He sat down again, indicating the chair opposite his desk to John. ‘Now, where would you like me to start?'

John took a seat, grateful beyond measure that he had changed his clothes, for the Proprietor was a man of understated elegance and enormous style. ‘Well, Sir, perhaps you could begin by discussing the evening itself. Was there anything unusual about it as far as you were concerned?'

Jonathan Tyers smiled wryly. ‘Yes, in that I took a night off. Normally, as you may already be aware, I sit at the counter and see the patrons in, take their money if one wishes to be blunt about it. But on that particular occasion I had gone to have supper with friends, though thankfully not far distant from the Gardens.'

‘Then how did you hear about the murder?'

‘I have an assistant who deputises for me when I am away or indisposed. He sent a beadle running to fetch me. I returned at once and despatched a rider to the Public Office, from whence Mr Fielding sent forth a set of Brave Fellows.' Mr Tyers smiled once more, though no humour reached the rest of his face. ‘Is it not a profound indictment of our times that such men as these are always kept ready to venture to any part of the kingdom at a quarter of an hour's warning?'

John shook his head. ‘I cannot entirely agree with you, Sir. I find it heartening that the Blind Beak has formed such a squad, able to fly anywhere at such short notice.'

The deep eyes fixed themselves on the Apothecary. ‘And what is your connection with the Public Office, if I may ask? Are you one of the Magistrate's Runners?'

There was no question of lying to such a powerful individual. ‘No, sir. Truth to tell my only association with the case is that I was the one to find the body.'

Interest quickened the hawkish features and Mr Tyers looked positively animated. ‘Really? How did this come about?'

‘I was one of your patrons that night. I came here with my friend Samuel Swann, celebrating the fact that our indentures had finally reached an end. I am a newly fledged apothecary and, thus, when I heard a scream emanating from The Dark Walk ran to see if I could be of assistance. But all I found was a dead girl, beyond my help or that of any mortal man.'

‘Then, why . . .?'

‘Because I glimpsed the murderer, Sir. Vaguely saw a fleeing figure.'

‘And so Mr Fielding thought you could be of assistance to him?'

‘That is the fact of it, yes.'

Jonathan Tyers turned to stare out of the window behind him, a window that overlooked the wonderland he had created. ‘How strange to think that a murderer stalked these glorious groves,' he said softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. ‘The worm that hides in the heart of a perfect rose, no less.' He turned back to look at John. ‘It has already affected my trade, you know. The Gardens had far few visitors both last night and the night before.'

‘But why, for God's sake?'

‘Perhaps they feel he still lurks here, mad enough to vent his spleen on any hapless woman.'

John considered the idea. ‘They might be right at that. Perhaps he bears a grudge against the sex.'

‘Or maybe just against whores and kept women,' Mr Tyers added quietly.

It was a thought that had not occurred to the Apothecary but it seemed to make a terrible kind of sense. ‘But if there is a lunatic at large he could strike again at any moment!' he exclaimed.

‘Even, perhaps, at you,' said the Proprietor, almost in a whisper.

‘What do you mean?'

‘That he may have had a better sighting of you than you did of him. If that is the case he might not be sure how much you actually saw.'

John shivered. ‘And thus wish to silence me for ever?'

‘Just so.' Mr Tyers made a sudden sympathetic face. ‘You have grown pale, Sir. May I offer you a glass of claret to restore your colour?'

‘You most certainly may, Sir,' John answered with feeling.

‘Brace up,' the Proprietor continued, smiling and pouring two generous glasses, ‘the killer may equally well have seen nothing. It seems most likely to me that he knew the girl and hated her. She had led quite an interesting life, I believe.'

‘So I have been informed. Pray tell me what you know of the Comte Louis de Vignolles.'

The Proprietor sipped his claret, his long thin fingers winding round the stem of his glass.

‘The dead girl's former protector?'

John nodded.

‘Well, he's tall, dark and handsome in a typically Gallic manner. I believe his parents were aristocratic Huguenot immigrants, arriving in this country with plenty of good breeding but scarcely a sou between them. He solved the family's problems for them by marrying money.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, the daughter of some wealthy Sussex landowner. I presume the Comtesse's father craved a title for her, albeit a foreign one. Anyway, they were wedded and bedded, and since then friend Louis hasn't looked back.'

John looked thoughtful. ‘And the Comtesse? Was she aware of her husband's infidelity?'

‘That is a question I cannot answer. You see, nobody knows a great deal about her. She's a veritable drab of melancholy and took to her bed some years ago, a martyr to ill health. I've heard it said that the lady likes nothing better than to spend all day lying upon a chaise suffering with the headache.'

‘Are you suggesting that she seeks attention in this manner?'

‘That is the consensus, yes.'

‘I see. Then it is hardly surprising her husband took a mistress.'

‘There was no-one in the
beau monde
who blamed him.'

‘So I imagine he was extremely upset when that self-same mistress abandoned him for another?'

Mr Tyers nodded. ‘Very much so.'

‘Upset enough to kill, do you think?'

‘Quite possibly.'

‘And what of the Duke of Midhurst, the young man she was with that evening?'

The Proprietor frowned. ‘It struck me as odd when I heard that he had stolen the Comte's woman. You see . . .' he hesitated.

‘Yes?'

‘I had always thought the Duke to be of the other persuasion.'

‘A Miss Molly?' asked John, surprised.

‘If not outrightly so, then with leanings in that direction.'

‘How astonishing.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Mr Tyers, I saw both the Duke of Richmond and Mr Fox at Vaux Hall that night. Do you think they could have known Elizabeth Harper?'

A world-weary look appeared on the Proprietor's face. ‘My dear young friend, the brothel in Leicester Fields is a favourite haunt of gentlemen of quality. I would warrant that half the men of the
beau monde
were acquainted with her, with varying degrees of intimacy, of course.'

John sighed. ‘That does not make my task any easier.'

‘It certainly does not.'

‘I must somehow narrow the field to those who had a motive for doing away with the girl.'

‘I wish you luck, Sir.' Mr Tyers refilled his visitor's glass. ‘Now, is there anything further I can tell you?'

‘Yes, though I doubt it would have any bearing on the case. Is it possible that by any chance you know the identity of the Masked Lady?'

The melancholy eyes suddenly brimmed with laughter. ‘No, that is a question no-one can answer. All I can tell you is that she is the most notorious gambler in London. Every night she is to be found at cards or dice, involved in
deep
play, too. Yet for all that, who she is remains a mystery.'

‘How extraordinary.'

‘The gambling fraternity find her intriguing, you know. She is even admitted at White's.'

‘I can hardly believe it!'

‘It's a fact I assure you. The rumour is that she is actually the Princess Augusta. There is a vague similarity.'

‘Oh nonsense!' John exclaimed. ‘The Lady looks amused and amusing, whereas the Princess is as miserable as a toothpick.'

The Proprietor laughed for the first time. ‘How colourfully put! Well, if you solve the enigma please let me know.'

John stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir.'

Mr Tyers rose too. ‘I hope I have been of some assistance.'

‘You have certainly given me a great deal to think about. By the way, one last question, do you have an apprentice lad among your regular patrons?'

‘Most certainly not. The Pleasure Gardens are somewhat beyond the means of such people.'

John nodded. ‘I know that from bitter experience. It was just an outside chance.' He bowed. ‘I wish you good day, Sir. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

The Proprietor's naturally sombre cast of features returned. ‘Good day to you too, Sir. I shall pray you pick your way through the maze. Indeed I'll not rest easy until you do.'

‘You really think he might kill again, don't you?'

‘I fear it's possible,' said Mr Tyers as he showed his visitor out.

It had started to rain while he had been engaged with Jonathan Tyers, not a heavy downpour but a gentle dewing which freshened the grass and brought out the smell of blossom. All the way back, driving through the pleasant pastures and riverside stretches of the South Bank, John breathed the sweet air and felt refreshed. It was only when the coach reached Lambeth marshes, a dank unpleasant area which in Tudor times had been famed for concealing the corpses of unwanted children, that the Apothecary stopped staring out of the window with unabashed delight. Nor did he look again until the coach crossed Westminster Bridge and entered the built-up areas of the metropolis, going down White Hall to the Strand, and then through the back streets to the area known as Covent Garden, famous for its brothels and gaming houses, and also, of course, for their unlikely neighbour, the Public Office at Bow Street.

At this hour of the late spring day the city glowed with a bright clarity that would soon be tinged with rose. Every building and dwelling place looked fine and fresh, belying the fact that as soon as twilight fell the entire area would become the centre of London's night life. The whore houses and taverns, the last-named with rooms for assignation, would open their doors; the bagnios would receive their first customers, answering the call of the ladies who sat in their windows inviting the passing trade with impudent gestures and poses. Tom's coffee house, presided over by Old Etonian Tom King and in fact the most notorious gaming hell of all, would welcome its clientele of bucks, bloods, demi-rips and choice spirits of London, while the Covent Garden Playhouse would usher in its rowdy audience. Now, though, all was calm, all was quiet, almost as if Mr John Fielding and his Brave Fellows, his band of trained Beak Runners, had everything tightly under control.