Death in the Dark Walk (12 page)

‘No sugar for me,' said John. ‘It rots the teeth.'

Mrs Cole, who had been about to give herself a generous helping, stopped with the spoon in mid-air. ‘Just so,' she replied.

‘And now I really must get down to business,' the Apothecary said determinedly. ‘Tell me about the letter Hannah found.'

His hostess rearranged herself in her chair, breasts wobbling as she took a sip of wine. Staring at the floor, John felt himself break into a sweat.

‘Well, it was a communication of sorts, though the most ill-spelt, ill-educated thing it has ever been my misfortune to observe.'

‘May I see it?'

Mrs Cole made a little moue. ‘There now, I've just settled comfortably – and little Quin-Quin too.' She patted the dog which growled again. ‘Be a sweet fellow and fetch it for me. It's over there in my writing box.'

Longing desperately for a quick escape, John opened the lid and saw lying on top a grubby piece of paper. ‘Is this it?'

‘Most certainly. I trust you do not think that any of
my
correspondence would look like that.'

John unfolded the scrap and gazed on a scrawling, unformed hand which had obviously cost its author dear to write as much as it had.

‘My swet Lizie,' he read. ‘Yew have Broke Mi Hart. I canot Live Wit Yew Gon. If Yew do not Reetun I shalle Kil Miselfe. Cum home for the Love of God. Jem.'

‘How tragic!' exclaimed John involuntarily.

‘Tragic indeed,' responded Mrs Cole, misunderstanding. ‘The ignorance of the labouring classes is quite reprehensible. I employ them in my workrooms, you know, and, believe me, can vouch for their stupidity.'

‘It is hardly their fault if they have not received the benefits of a good education,' John answered reasonably. ‘What is more reprehensible is the lack of schools for the poor, I believe.' He cleared his throat, determined not to get involved in deep discussion. ‘Anyway, meagre though it is, this letter is enlightening enough.'

‘In what way?'

‘It reveals that Elizabeth Harper had a sweetheart when she left to come to London, someone who felt so deeply about her that he threatened suicide.'

Mrs Cole drained her wine glass and gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Then more fool him. The girl was a thoroughly bad lot. I've never seen such a little schemer in all my born days. Small wonder that she came to a violent end.'

‘You knew her well?'

The widow looked indignant. ‘Certainly not! Respectable folk do not associate with a creature of that sort.'

‘Then there is nothing of interest you can tell me about her?'

A look of cunning crossed Mrs Cole's countenance. ‘Well, I'm sure if I put my mind to it I could recall something. Why don't you stay awhile and see what I can remember? I feel certain I could be of service to you.'

And with this last remark she thrust the pumpkins forward until they were only an inch or so from John's nose.

Gulping audibly, he got to his feet. ‘No, really, I must be on my way. Duty calls and all that.'

‘Men who work and never play are dull fellows,' she replied sulkily.

‘Alas, that is very true,' he answered, edging away.

Brightening, Mrs Cole stood up once more, yet again ignoring the dog which cascaded downwards, howling as it went. ‘You could come back tomorrow, surely Mr Rawlings? There is much for us to talk about, I feel certain of it.'

‘I'll do my best,' he said, hastening to the entrance. ‘Thank you for the wine.'

‘Are you going to keep the letter?'

‘Oh yes, that is evidence which Mr Fielding will most certainly want to have.' He paused as an idea came to him. ‘If you think of anything further perhaps you could contact him at the Public Office. Good day to you.' And with that the Apothecary was out of the door before she could utter another word, only stopping to thrust the jar of ointment into Hannah's hand, where she stood eavesdropping in the passageway, as he hurried out into the street.

No sooner had John set foot inside his own premises than he knew something unusual had taken place. The very air breathed it and he was not in the least surprised when, even while relieving him of his hat, the footman murmured, ‘There is a gentleman to see you, Master John. He arrived just now and I have shown him into the library.'

‘Is he French by any chance?' John asked, gleaming with triumph.

‘Yes, Sir. He gave his name as the Comte de Vignolles.'

‘Well, well,' said the Apothecary. ‘Even sooner than I expected. Tell him that I will join him shortly.'

Five minutes later he strode into Sir Gabriel's fine book room in an exact reverse of the situation which had been acted out earlier that day, to find the Comte staring moodily out of the window.

‘I believe you have tried to trick me,' said de Vignolles abruptly, without turning round. ‘Who the devil are you, pray, to live in a town house yet act like some common blackmailer off the streets?'

‘I am exactly what I say,' John replied calmly. ‘I am an apothecary who served his apprenticeship in Evans Row. This house belongs to my father, Sir Gabriel Kent, under whose roof I am again dwelling now that my indentures are over. What I did not tell you, Monsieur, is that not only did I see you at Vaux Hall the other night, but that I am also assisting Mr John Fielding in his hunt for the killer of Elizabeth Harper.'

‘So you bluffed your way into my home and would, no doubt, have told my wife everything had I not interrupted you.' And the Comte wheeled round and stared at John furiously.

‘And that is where you are completely wrong. I went to visit her only because I wanted to understand you better. I am not a married man, Monsieur, so I needed to know why you took the dead girl as mistress.'

‘And now you do, I imagine. Having met the sickly creature that my lively wife turned into, perhaps all is clear.'

John sighed. ‘Monsieur, Mr Fielding has asked me to question all those who were in the Pleasure Gardens on the night of the murder. Indeed, he has instructed me to treat every one of them with suspicion. Therefore I have to point out that you could have had a motive for killing Elizabeth. Is it not the case that, although you set her up in comfortable apartments in Vigo Lane, she deserted you and went to live with another man? Could not the quarrel you had with her – to which we have a witness – have led to something far more violent?'

‘By God,' the Comte cursed furiously. ‘It could have done, but it most certainly did not. Of course I was angry, hurt too. But by all that is holy, I swear I walked away and left her for the cheap slut she was.'

John nodded silently. ‘And this quarrel, this quarrel from which you strode away, exactly where did it take place?'

‘In the Grand Cross Walk.'

‘And where did you go after it was over?'

‘To the Grand Walk.'

‘So according to you Elizabeth made her way across to The Dark Walk alone and there met her death?'

‘Yes.'

‘Monsieur le Comte,' said John gently. ‘I pray you sit down and briefly tell me the whole story. Everything you can remember about Lizzie, with particular reference to anything that could shed light on this matter.'

De Vignolles shot him a penetrating glance. ‘For a young man you have a very soothing manner. I suppose it comes from working amongst the sick.'

‘Possibly. Now please continue.'

‘There is not a great deal to tell. My wife changed completely not long after we were married . . .'

‘Because you started a love affair with another?' John guessed shrewdly.

The Comte looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, that is true.' He spread his arms wide, palms uppermost. ‘I am a Frenchman.'

The Apothecary gave a small chuckle. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, I began to frequent the brothel in Leicester Fields and there I met Elizabeth Harper, as bright and saucy a being as any man could ever wish for.' He gave John a tragic look. ‘I confess I fell in love with her, old fool that I am.'

‘But surely you are only in your thirties.'

‘And she not eighteen. I could have been her father, and yet I was totally infatuated. Then along came Midhurst, who had youth as well as money, and she upped and abandoned me without a word.'

‘Simply moved out?'

‘Yes. I expect you know about Vigo Lane and the fact that she left all her things behind her.'

John nodded. ‘So you went to the Pleasure Gardens on the off chance, and at last had the opportunity to air your grievances?'

‘Yes, but that is all I did do. I adored the cruel bitch. Even though she had betrayed me, I would never have harmed her.'

And with that the Comte, quite suddenly and without warning thrust his head into his hands, his shoulders heaving. If it was an act it was a fine one indeed, and John could do nothing but stare uncertainly before ringing for a servant to fetch brandy. Then he, too, took his place at the window until de Vignolles had once more controlled himself.

‘Love's a damnable thing,' gasped the Frenchman.

‘Perhaps your wife also thinks so,' John answered quietly.

‘Alas, she does not. She long ago ceased to care about me and now is totally preoccupied with her health. It really isn't easy living with her, you know.'

‘I'm sure of that.' John turned round as a footman came in bearing a tray which he set down on a side table. ‘Thank you, Perkins. I'll pour for our visitor.' He handed the Comte a generous measure. ‘There is just one more question I would like to ask you, if I may.'

‘And what is that?'

‘At Vaux Hall that night, you were present at the lighting of the Cascade?'

‘Yes, I was.'

‘Did you by chance notice a boy, quite a small young fellow whom I would have taken for an apprentice had he not been so elegantly dressed?'

Louis frowned. ‘No, I can't say that I did.'

‘He was crouching quite near you, having crept through the crowd to get a better view.'

‘Oh yes, I vaguely remember someone now you come to mention it.'

‘You don't know who he was by any chance?'

The Comte shook his head. ‘I have absolutely no idea.'

John smiled wryly. ‘I was rather afraid you might say that.'

De Vignolles looked interested. ‘Why? Is he connected with this affair in some way?'

‘That,' said the Apothecary, ‘is what I am most anxious to find out.'

Just as darkness fell over London, Samuel Swann returned to Nassau Street with a smile on his face, so broad a smile, in fact, that it took no great act of clairvoyance on John's part for him to guess where his friend had gone after they had parted company earlier that day.

‘You've been to Leicester Fields, haven't you, you sly old fox?'

Samuel attempted to look serious. ‘But on your behalf, my friend.'

‘
My
behalf? Odds my life, now I've heard every excuse known to man!'

‘I went to observe,' Samuel replied, with an attempt at dignity. ‘And to ask questions.'

‘Did you now? Well, you can tell me all about it in the hackney to Marybone. Now hurry and get changed.'

‘Did Sir Gabriel give permission for me to borrow his clothes?'

‘I have not seen my father all day,' John answered with just the slightest note of asperity. ‘He left the house early, then returned while I was gone, changed into evening dress and went out again.'

‘I wonder what he's up to.'

The Apothecary's crooked smile appeared. ‘Something or other, I'll warrant. This is odd behaviour for my parent. Anyway, there's no time to think about it. We must get to Marybone. So, in his absence, I give you permission to wear what you like. Within reason,' he added.

An hour later, finely arrayed, the friends stepped forth and hailed hackney coach number 44 in which they set out for the village of Marybone, lying some distance from London's heart, the name deriving from the old church of St Mary le Burn, much favoured for illicit and runaway marriages, which had once stood on the banks of the River Tyburn. Fourteen years earlier, in 1740, a new church had been built further up the village High Street, but the old title had gone with it and the entire district had thus been given the name of Marybone.

It was a flawless night, the moon coming up over rolling fields, casting long and extraordinary shadows over the winding contours of Marybone Lane. High above the small dark dot of the carriage, the star-filled sky hung like the spangled canopy of an exotic tent from Araby, and the lights of the Pleasure Gardens, resembling a cluster of terrestrial stars, enhanced the glow and added to the splendour of the evening's enchanting vistas. For having left the town behind, the carriage was passing through pastoral land, cattle grazing in the moonlight and pretty rivers flowing like quicksilver amongst the verdant grasses.

The village of Marybone itself was much favoured by London families of good position, who had country houses in its High Street. It was these gentry folk who had become the principal patrons of the Gardens, availing themselves of subscription tickets for its balls and concerts. For Marybone Gardens, even more than those of Vaux Hall, had a strong musical tradition, together with a reputation for providing supreme cakes of rich seed and plum, made by the manager's daughter, Miss Trusler. All this, added to Miss Trusler's almond cheesecake, meant that visitors from town would also make the journey to this rural retreat. Yet there was another, far less innocent, reason why the
beau monde
set forth for the village, risking attack from highwaymen and footpads.

In the seventeenth century a little group of Huguenot immigrants from France had settled in Marybone and, in recognition of their presence, a tavern called The Rose of Normandy had been built in the High Street. At the back of this rural inn there had been bowling greens and gardens, and these had become the origin of the Pleasure Gardens, entrance to which eight-acre site was currently reached through the tavern. But The Rose of Normandy itself had undergone a change and had now become notorious as a gaming house where deep play was commonplace. And it was to these gaming rooms, rather than to the less innocent pastimes, that John and Samuel now made their way, determined to play yet not to wager beyond their limited means.