Death in the Peerless Pool (30 page)

‘Who?'

‘Alice. She's supposed to haunt the place, though I've never seen her. She whispers in the passageways and weeps on the stairs, or so it's said.'

John blenched. ‘I certainly did hear something.'

Gregg looked grim. ‘Some old gypsy woman who came to the kitchens to sell brooms said Alice would never rest until her son came back to Westerfield.'

‘But he might well be dead after all this time.'

The steward looked at him narrowly. ‘You don't altogether believe that, do you? I think you reckon as I do. If the boy was taken for slavery or prostitution he might yet find his way home.'

Having had much the same thought, John found himself unable to disagree.

Perhaps because he looked so tired, perhaps because Gregg felt like a change of scene, perhaps because of a combination of both, the steward, as soon as the meal was over, offered to drive John back to Bath. Indeed, he took the reins himself, swinging up on to the box, a stalwart, comforting figure, calling to John over his shoulder, ‘Shouldn't take long, Mr Rawlings. I can get up a better speed than the stage.'

‘How many miles is it?'

‘About twenty-four, Sir. I'll have you there in a couple of hours at most.'

Glad to be saved the rigours of the stagecoach, John promptly closed his eyes and fell asleep. When he opened them again he was on the outskirts of the city, and a glimpse through the window revealed Gregg, stoic as ever, driving his team of four with the ease born of long practice. Hoping that Coralie was not going to be furious with him for disappearing overnight, John disembarked at The Bear, persuaded the steward that he should take a well-earned break before attempting the return journey, then went into the inn to buy him some ale.

Going into the parlour, John saw that Orlando, of all the unlikely people, was asleep in one of the more comfortable chairs. He looked ghastly; white and ill, a wreck of humanity. Not knowing quite what to do, John murmured to Gregg, ‘I know that young man but don't particularly want to have a conversation with him at this moment. Will you walk to The Crown and Sceptre with me? It's only just up the road.'

The steward looked over in the beau's direction. ‘Poor soul. He looks fit to drop. What's the matter with him?'

John shook his head, not wanting to reveal the connection with Welham House. ‘He tends to live to the full, I fear. And this does not please his uncle, who chastises him if he stays away from home.'

‘Then I pray for him, Sir, I really do, for there can be very little happiness in his life if he burns it all out on folly.'

‘I wish he could somehow be rescued,' answered John, not specifying exactly what he meant.

They walked in thoughtful silence to the neighbouring inn, where they spent a pleasant hour or so before Gregg, announcing himself refreshed and his horses undoubtedly well watered by the hostlers at The Bear, took his leave.

‘I shall be returning to London shortly, Sir. I'll tell Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart that you called at Westerfield.'

‘Please do. And can you also say that I shall visit them in Mayfair as soon as I am able?'

‘I certainly will.' The steward bowed then shook John's hand warmly. ‘I hope that what I told you was of some help.'

‘It answered all the questions I had,' the Apothecary replied. Then waving Gregg off, he walked back into The Bear, full of a fierce determination to prise Orlando from the clutches of Sir Vivian.

The beau was just waking up, stretching in his chair and yawning widely, his enamel, which looked as if it must have been on all night, cracking here and there as he did so. Beneath the concealing mask, John glimpsed, as he had on another occasion, strong features and what could well be a handsome countenance. Desperately sorry for the poor creature, the Apothecary spoke earnestly.

‘Orlando, you are not to return home. You must leave Welham House for good. I truly believe that your uncle, if that is what he really is, traffics in children – or at least has done so in the past. I beg you, for your own salvation, quit Bath and start a new life away from his corrupting influence.'

As had happened before, somebody else looked at him out of Orlando's eyes. ‘With what, my dear friend?' drawled the beau, hiding that other being. ‘I have no means, I have no training. I could not make a living. I would be dead within a few months.'

It was out before John could stop the words. ‘You'll be dead in a few months if you don't go.'

The sad being behind the great fop's veil nodded agreement. ‘Oh yes, assuredly I will.'

‘Then get a grip on yourself, man. Sign as an older apprentice, find work in a counting house, do something that would suit you, but get away from that corrupt creature who dominates your life.'

Orlando got to his feet, and one tragic tear stole out of his eye and ran down his cheek, smudging the kohl line drawn beneath his lashes. ‘You don't understand, John, do you? Sir Vivian has cost me my soul, and without that there cannot be any life at all.'

‘For God's sake, Orlando,' the Apothecary shouted, physically shaking him, ‘what do you mean by that? You speak of your sins but never say what they are.'

‘If I did you would turn your back on me for good, and you are the only friend I've got who has an ounce of worthiness within him.'

John's arms dropped to his sides in a gesture of helplessness. ‘What more can I say? Do you want me to go on my knees and beg you to start your life again?'

Orlando put his hands on John's shoulders in a movement that was so loving yet so hopeless the Apothecary felt he might weep. ‘Don't demean yourself on my account, my dear. Return to town and forget you ever met me.' He turned to leave.

‘Wait!' said John. ‘Tell me one thing. Why did you send Jack to London, for it was you, wasn't it?' Orlando nodded. ‘What did he go there for?'

‘He went to settle an old score.'

‘But Hannah Rankin is dead.'

‘Have you never heard of a nest of vipers?'

And with that Orlando did leave, hurrying out of the door and up the street, before John could ask him another thing.

It had taken a fine display of penitence to placate Coralie. In fact only by catching her imagination with his recounting of the story of his haunted night at Westerfield Place had he managed to get the actress's attention away from her desire to be angry with him.

Green as a cat's, Coralie's lovely eyes had narrowed as she had looked at him.

‘I am not the sort of woman, Sir, to be fobbed off with scribbled notes and sudden disappearances. And if that is the way you intend to act in the future you can consider our connection at an end.'

It would be better by far, John thought, to humble myself completely now. Acutely aware of how much she meant to him and how devastated he would be if she were to end their association, he said, ‘Forgive me. It was entirely my fault I was forced to leave in a hurry, but it would have been a great deal more sensible to have missed the stagecoach and to have told you what was happening.'

‘Yes, it would.'

‘But I had just discovered the truth about Petronelle and was not thinking clearly. I had a fondness born of pity for her. Not love, you understand, for all of that I keep for you.'

He was winning; Coralie was starting to smile. She changed the subject, a very, good sign. ‘Tell me – do you really think Westerfield Place is haunted by the ghost of Alice?'

‘Gregg seemed to believe it, and he is the very last person on earth to suffer from a colourful imagination; built like a bear and solid as a rock.'

‘How exciting. The ghost I mean, not Gregg. I would love to spend a night there.'

‘Talking of that,' said John, ‘do you think you could bear to spend a night in a post chaise?'

‘If all else fails. Why?'

‘There's one leaving for London in half an hour and it is now essential that I see Mr Fielding. The fact that Lord Anthony's daughter and son-in-law worked for Sir Vivian Sweeting is conclusive evidence in my view. He obviously saw Meredith and took a fancy to the child.'

‘But before he could get his hands on him the boy was removed to Paris?'

‘Something on those lines, yes.'

‘Surely Sir Vivian would have lost interest at that point. Snatching a child from another country would have presented too many difficulties.'

‘Not when that child was the Ambassador's grandson and easy to find.'

Coralie looked uncertain. ‘It sounds a somewhat tenuous argument to me, John.'

‘Not at all,' he responded roundly, absolutely certain that not only had he found the link between Meredith and Lucy but that everything pointed to Sir Vivian Sweeting and Hannah Rankin as the people behind the child abduction ring.

‘Not enough evidence,' said the Blind Beak, adjusting the black bandage that hid his eyes and sighing somewhat wearily.

‘What?' exclaimed the Apothecary wrathfully.

‘My dear Mr Rawlings, be calm, I pray you. I entirely agree with you that that wretched man in Bath is probably one of the most evil creatures ever to walk the earth, but the few strands of evidence that we have against him would be torn to shreds by a clever advocate.'

‘But …'

‘Listen to me, my friend. A girl dies in St Luke's Hospital; she is called Petronelle. The child that was abducted in Bath, who would now be the same age as the dead woman, is called Lucy Petronelle. That is the only link between them. There is nothing else.'

‘But I know they are one and the same. I feel it in my gut.'

‘I agree with you,' Mr Fielding answered calmly. ‘I feel it too. But there is no evidence to connect them with Sir Vivian Sweeting and Hannah Rankin …'

‘Petronelle feared her.'

‘That proves nothing.'

Joe Jago, who had been sitting in the corner, listening silently, spoke up.

‘Mr Fielding is right, Sir. We'd be laughed out of court. So far there is nothing but coincidence.'

‘But Joe, you think I'm right, don't you?'

‘I do, Mr Rawlings, I truly do. But we cannot bring a man to justice on such paltry findings.'

‘Then there's the matter of the boy,' the Magistrate continued. ‘He may indeed have been seen by Sir Vivian as a child, yet he disappears from Paris. Even worse. No connection at all could be proved. I'm afraid, my dear friend, that the case is as full of holes as a watering can.'

‘Then what are we to do?'

‘Either obtain irrefutable fact – or get a confession out of someone.'

‘But who?'

‘Sir Vivian himself.'

John gave a contemptuous laugh.

‘Or the dirty old Frenchman,' put in Joe. ‘My money is on him, Sir. Just how long had he known Hannah Rankin, that is the question. If he and she had worked together stealing kinchen, then we might be able to take a step forward.'

John fingered his chin and nodded, and the Blind Beak gave a rumbling laugh.

‘It's a good thought, Jago. Well worth following up.'

‘Which reminds me.' John turned to look at the clerk, who winked a light blue eye. ‘Did you get any further with Toby Wills?'

‘Yes and no. He told me no more, yet his very silence revealed something.'

‘What?'

‘That he fears he knows the identity of the weirdly masked figure that wheeled in Hannah Rankin. Or possibly …'

‘Yes?'

‘That he let that person into the grounds himself.'

‘'Zounds!' said John. ‘Is it conceivable?'

‘I think it could be. His anonymous friend had told him evil stories about Hannah; his sad, mad son was fond of Petronelle. I think that might have been enough to make somebody of Toby's temperament cooperate in bringing about her death.'

‘Dear God,' said John, ‘how convoluted this terrible story is!'

The Blind Beak cleared his throat. ‘Mr Rawlings, may I suggest that you call on the Marquis and try, by whatever means you consider necessary, to obtain information from him. Crack his facade, if you can. I believe there is much in what Jago says. In fact that terrible old man may hold the key to all of this.'

John's spirits soared from despair to exhilaration. ‘I'll go now, straight away.'

‘No, Sir. Go home and get some rest. It is perfectly obvious that you travelled overnight for you are somewhat red of eye. Tackle the Marquis an hour or so before he goes to dine. In that way you might catch him in and also take him by surprise.'

‘I'll do as you say.'

‘Very good. And, Mr Rawlings …'

‘Yes?'

‘You are right, of course. Sir Vivian is the culprit as far as those children are concerned. Now all we have to do is find out which of the poor souls killed that wicked wretch Hannah Rankin.'

September sunshine became that most elegant of buildings, the French Hospital. As it shone off its well-proportioned walls, casting pretty shadows on its delightful gardens, the Apothecary was struck again, as he ascended the gracious sweep of its steps, by how well planned and attractive a place had been created to house those poor emigrants who had fled from France because of their religious beliefs.

The same elegant, unfriendly maid answered the door.

John swept off his hat. ‘I have come to see the Marquis de Saint Ombre.'

‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘Oh yes,' John lied with ease. ‘He is expecting me to dine with him.'

‘Then come in. You know where his apartment is.'

‘Of course,' the Apothecary responded, wondering whether he could remember the way.

She stared after him as he turned left, hoping he was correct, gazing at the identical entrances that led off the corridor at regular intervals and praying he could recall which was the Frenchman's. Proceeding hesitantly, John eventually came to a door that looked as if it might well be the one he sought. He gave a tentative knock.