Death in the Peerless Pool (19 page)

‘Oh yes I would,' John answered nastily. ‘The murdered woman, Hannah Rankin, has a strange past, one that has not yet been untangled. If ordering a lunatic to tell what he knows, cruel though that might be, is necessary to find out who and what she was, then so be it.'

Toby coughed and stared at the floor. ‘Don't bring the boy into it, Sir. It wouldn't be right. He knows nothing.'

The Apothecary had a moment of inspiration. ‘He's your son, isn't he?'

Tobias did not look up.

‘I see. What a tragedy for you. How long has he been incarcerated?'

At last Toby stared him in the eye. ‘Since the hospital was built. I used to pay for him to be looked after, but it stretched my army wage to the limit. I was a regular soldier, you see, and Tom was born to a camp follower, my woman of the time.'

‘What became of her?'

‘She was a bad lot. She took off with an officer and put Tom out to a baby farmer. I think something that happened to him in her charge unhinged him. He was born normal as a rosebud but had gone quite simple when I came back from fighting and went to find him.'

‘Was any of this to do with Hannah Rankin?'

Toby looked genuinely surprised. ‘No. I'd never come across her before I saw her at St Luke's.'

‘Then why did you dislike her so much?'

‘Because she used to beat my boy. That's what he told me, and though Tom might be an imbecile he has never lied in his life.'

‘And that fault was sufficient to allow you to calmly watch her being wheeled in here, bleeding and beaten, then thrown, weighted down, into the Fish Pond?'

‘No, there was something else,' Toby answered reluctantly.

‘What was it?'

‘Something somebody said, nothing I knew for sure.'

‘Can't you give me any details?'

‘No. It concerns other people. I swore to keep it to myself.'

‘Mr Fielding could order you to tell him on oath what you know.'

More white than usual showed in Toby's eyes. ‘Don't let that happen, Sir. I would be betraying a trust.'

‘Then just give me the gist of it and I promise to say no more.'

‘Somebody I know came to me when they heard my boy was in St Luke's. They asked me to find out if a Hannah Rankin worked there. Then they said a little about her past, that's all.'

‘What did they say?'

‘Simply that it was unsavoury. I can't go any further.'

‘Very well. So you were not surprised when you saw her murderer wheel her body in through the gate from the fields?'

‘No.'

‘Who was it, by the way?' John asked casually.

Toby flung up his head. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Who was her killer?'

The old soldier gave the Apothecary a steadfast look. ‘I don't know and that I swear to you. All I saw was a figure in a voluminous cloak that hung to the ground,'

‘Was it a man or a woman?'

‘That I couldn't tell you. The person wore a hat and mask, and a most eerie thing the mask was too.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It was shaped like a bird's head, with a big beak sticking out at the front and slanting slits for eyes. It looked foreign, if you know what I mean.'

‘A Venetian carnival mask?'

‘Possibly.' Toby gripped John's arm tightly. ‘It frightened me, Sir, and that's the honest truth. There was something terrifying about it.'

The Apothecary smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Calm yourself. Sit down and tell me all that you saw. Start at the beginning.'

They took seats opposite one another and Toby, after a moment's hesitation, clearly made up his mind to unburden himself.

‘Well, I was coming from Mr Kemp's, having delivered some vegetables to his kitchen. I was just about to let myself out of the gate in his garden – all the trusted employees have a key – when I heard the sound of something approaching. Don't ask my why I drew back, Sir, because I'll never know the answer myself. Anyway, draw back I did, and by the light of the moon, quite faint but enough, I saw this terrible figure pushing its wheelbarrow. It came into the garden and immediately took the path heading towards the Fish Pond.'

‘And Hannah?'

‘She was lying in a pool of blood in the barrow. I thought she was dead, Sir, and that's a fact.'

‘There was enough light for you to recognise her?'

‘Yes. You see, when this person told me what they had to say about Hannah on that other occasion, she was present and I had time to study her.'

‘Where was this?'

‘In The Old Fountain, a tavern which stands at the east end of the Gardens. I met my friend, and Hannah Rankin was sitting just round the corner. That's when he asked me if she was at St Luke's and informed me of her past.'

‘And you are quite certain that it was not him pushing the barrow?'

Toby's battle-torn face looked sad. ‘No, Sir, I am not certain. I could not truthfully say who it was or who it wasn't, and I swear that on my son's life.'

‘Toby, you've got to tell me who your friend is. He might be able to help me enormously.'

The old soldier shook his head. ‘That I'll never do. I've already said more than enough. The rest you will have to discover for yourself. From now on my lips are sealed.'

‘Then let me ask you one more thing. What time of day did this occur?'

‘It would have been about nine o'clock, Sir. Whoever brought her along waited for darkness to protect them.'

‘And they definitely came across the fields?'

‘Yes, Sir. Either from Islington or the French Hospital or Ratcliff Row, for the path forks three ways, remember.'

‘I think,' said John, more to himself than to poor Tobias, who was by now shaking with the sheer effort of the tale he had decided to tell, ‘that the French Hospital must be my very next place of call.'

‘Aye, Sir. Look for the painted old Frenchman,' answered the soldier unexpectedly. Then, with a salute, he was gone, before the Apothecary could ask him another thing.

More as a matter of curiosity than in the hope of finding any additional evidence, John took the route that the killer must have taken. Going from the entry lodge to the Fish Pond, walking through the Garden's pleasant vistas, admiring the shrubs and flowers, the Apothecary traversed the perimeter, raising his hat to the various anglers standing there, then took the path to the right of Mr Kemp's house. To his left stood the proprietor's private garden, a high wall protecting it from the fields that lay beyond, a tall hedge shielding it from the gaze of visitors. Within this hedge a small wooden latched gate marked ‘Private' gave access to William Kemp's property, but the gate to which Toby had referred lay straight ahead. Much larger, it stood in an arch in the brick wall, its black latch at hand height. Trying it, John discovered that it was locked. Undeterred, he proceeded to Mr Kemp's front door, protected from the Peerless Pool by yet another brick wall, and rang the bell. A saucy maid answered.

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘Good morning. Is Mrs Kemp at home?'

‘No, she's taken the carriage into town, Sir.'

‘Well, Mr Kemp is busy about the Gardens – I know because I've seen him. The thing is I need to borrow the key to the back gate. I …”

But the girl cut John's explanation short, smiling and somehow contriving to wriggle her pert breasts and nose simultaneously. ‘Help yourself, Sir. It's hanging on a hook in the kitchen. Over the fireplace. You can't miss it.' And with a further impudent look, she was gone, leaving the Apothecary free to wander through a small outbuilding and take the key, meeting no one other than a skivvy shelling peas, who waved a skinny arm at him and did not challenge him at all.

‘Only too easy,' the Apothecary said to himself as he unlocked the gate and passed through into the fields beyond.

Three paths, all leading from one track, spread out before him. To his right the path went off into the distance, heading towards Islington, while the track ahead veered left and ended in Ratcliff Row. The path going sharp left went round the outside of the Pleasure Garden and directly to the French Hospital. Locking the gate behind him and dropping the key into his pocket, John set off.

The fields were bleached by the sun and full of wild summer flowers, and he would dearly have loved to have walked that way, looking for simples. But the Apothecary stuck to what he must do and strode briskly on, crossing Pest House Row and going in at the hospital entrance, admiring, yet again, the fine architecture and beautiful garden of this most gracious building.

The Hospital was built round three sides of a square, the imposing front door lying in the middle of the right-hand wing, complete with a flight of wide steps and a pillared entrance. Not quite sure how he was going to conduct the interview, John climbed to the top step and rang the bell. An imposing maid, tall and graceful and very French, answered.

‘Yes, Monsieur?'

With not an idea as to what he ought to say, John took a chance and asked, ‘Is Monsieur le Marquis in at the moment?'

The maid frowned. ‘Monsieur le Marquis? Do you not have his name?'

The Apothecary put on his buffoon's face. ‘No need of a name when he is around. One would know him anywhere by his maquillage. Le visage blanc, les grains de beauté noir. Ha, ha, ha, quel homme!'

The servant stared at him as if he were utterly crazed. ‘Do you mean the old Marquis?' she asked cautiously.

John winked a solemn eye. ‘Old, perhaps. Mais un renard sage, n'est-ce pas?'

The woman looked more unsure than ever. ‘And what is your business with him, if you please?'

The Apothecary produced his card, bowed so low that his hat brushed the top step, and said with a knowing look, ‘I have a message from one of his friends, Miss Hannah Rankin.'

‘I will see if Monsieur is in,' the maid said, snatching the card from John's fingers and shutting the door in his face, all in one ill-tempered movement.

‘Pray do,' he said to the closed door, and wondered whether the man he sought really was a marquis or whether that was merely the old fellow's nickname.

He was still considering when the door opened again to reveal the Frenchman himself.

‘Monsieur le Marquis?' John enquired, but the other just inclined his head, giving no indication as to his status.

He really was extremely ancient, and the careful application of cosmetic enamel only served to make him look even older, for each line and wrinkle was filled with white substance, a repulsive effect, particularly when he grimaced, which the Marquis did now.

‘Who are you?' he asked, his voice coming from some bronchial area deep within his chest, as if he had smoked a pipe from the moment he was born.

‘I have some information about Hannah,' John answered, never taking his eyes from the Frenchman's.

‘Hannah who?'

‘Hannah Rankin. My understanding is that you know her, Sir. Her landlady told me that you called at the house; another informant says that you are her recognised associate.'

Ringed by black dye, the Marquis's reptilian eyes did not so much as blink. ‘I know many people, young man. Hannah Rankin could well be one of them. But now you answer me a question. By whose authority do you come to this place of refuge and interrogate me? Your card says that you are an apothecary. Since when have herbalists had the power to pry into private lives?'

Anticipating this attack, John did not falter. ‘I represent Mr John Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street, Monsieur. The fact is that your companion Hannah was brutally murdered a few days ago. Everyone with whom she had contact is being questioned. However, if you do not wish to talk to me I can easily arrange for you to be taken to Bow Street and there to speak to the Principal Magistrate himself.'

The old lizard face remained impassive, but the Marquis shrugged a world-weary shoulder. ‘It is of little consequence to me where I tell my story.'

‘Then if you would care to ask me inside we may as well get the business done now.'

‘As you wish,' answered the Marquis, and opened the door wide enough to allow John to step within and take stock of his surroundings.

La Providence, as the French Hospital was known to its residents, was certainly as elegant on the inside as it was on the exterior. From the beautiful and spacious hall rose a graciously proportioned staircase, obviously leading to apartments situated on the first and second storeys, while corridors to the right and left extended the length of the wing, giving access to the rooms on the ground floor. With a humourless smile, the Marquis turned left, cocking his head for John to follow him, and they proceeded down the corridor, the stamp of their feet on the polished wood floor breaking the immense calm of the place. Eventually they reached a door to which the Marquis produced a key, and the two of them stepped into a large room full of sunshine. Yet despite the light and warmth, John shivered.

It was strange. The room itself was clean, not a speck of dust on the floor or furniture, the window panes shining in the sunlight. Yet an overpowering smell – of clothes saturated with a scent grown stale; of thick white face enamel allowed to harden; of a chamber pot used in the night and not yet attended to – made the atmosphere unbearable. There was also, John thought, a distinct aroma of rot coming from the old man himself.

‘Sit down, please,' said the Frenchman, indicating a wing chair.

The Apothecary sat gingerly, not liking the atmosphere of the place at all, while the Frenchman took a seat opposite, crossing one leg over the other. As he moved, small clouds of powder rose into the air, adding to the generally fusty aroma.

The Marquis licked his carmined lips. ‘Now, how can I help you?'

‘By telling me, Sir, your full name and title, that is if you have one.'

The Frenchman laughed deep in his smoke-filled lungs. ‘I am the Marquis de Saint Ombre, and my estates and properties were originally in Gascony. However, religious persecution of the Huguenots made me seek sanctuary in this country, and now I own nothing.'