Death in the Dark Walk (23 page)

‘As you please,' the Comtesse said dismissively and returned her attention to the harpsichord, flexing her fingers over the keys.

She had most cleverly turned the situation round to her advantage, as John was more than aware. He decided on one more attempt at riling her.

‘Miss Rigby asks to be remembered to you, by the way.'

‘Oh yes?' said the Comtesse, playing a note. ‘Are you two then well acquainted?'

‘Not really,' said John, as he made his way towards the door. ‘It was just that I was dining with her and the Duke of Richmond recently. That is why the subject of Vaux Hall came up. They were both there that night, you see. The night of the murder.'

She had gone pale again, though her voice was calm enough. ‘Some poor woman was done to death, was she not?'

‘Yes. A girl in keeping, mistress of some rich wretch.'

‘Did he do it?' she asked, starting to play.

‘He – or his wife,' said John, and bowed his way out.

By the time he arrived at the Public Office, the effects of the previous night were beginning to catch up on him, and John was only too pleased to take a seat in Mr Fielding's first floor room, the air blowing the curtains back from the windows, and avail himself of a glass of cordial.

‘So,' said the Blind Beak, ‘you have been successful?'

‘Yes and no, Sir.'

And John told him everything that had transpired in Sussex, right down to the smallest detail.

The Beak sat in silence for a while, the black bandage turned towards the window just as if he were looking out. ‘So it looks as if the Squire's son could be the boy you are seeking.'

‘He practically fainted when I mentioned Vaux Hall, as did the Comtesse de Vignolles for that matter.'

‘You think that both of them were there?'

‘I'm positive of it.'

‘You have done well.' The Blind Beak smiled at the Apothecary ruefully. ‘But there has been little progress here, I'm afraid. The identity of the Masked Lady still remains a mystery.'

‘I must confess that I tried following her from White's last night and got nowhere for my pains.'

‘It is her habit to pay off her chairmen and then proceed on foot, I believe.'

‘Yes, and she sends her black boy off to act as decoy. She's as cunning as a vixen, that one.'

‘Obviously.'

‘Her voice is strangely gruff,' John continued pensively. ‘Do you think she is disguising an accent of some kind?'

‘Perhaps she is a man,' said John Fielding with a laugh. ‘She certainly has a masculine character in the way she stays so ruthlessly calm.'

‘No, she's a woman,' John protested violently. ‘I'm absolutely certain of it. Her very atmosphere breathes femininity.'

Mr Fielding chuckled, a deep melodious sound. ‘I bow to your judgement. You have obviously been closer to her than I have.'

‘Yes,' said John, and went bright red.

The Blind Beak became business-like. ‘Well, you have achieved much on Joe Jago's list, my friend. I must congratulate you.'

‘But I am nowhere near solving the crime.'

‘On the contrary. You have discovered a great deal. When do you intend to return to Midhurst?'

‘Tomorrow morning, early.'

‘I imagine you will find out even more on your second visit. You say you have ingratiated yourself with the Squire's spinster sister?'

‘I am taking her some medicine for dyspepsia.'

‘Excellent, she will no doubt be glad of a new face to look at and a new ear to bend. I am sure that she will be the source of much valuable gossip.'

‘I hope so.' John got to his feet. ‘I shall come back to London as soon as I have learned something of interest. But, Mr Fielding . . .

‘Yes?'

‘Do you think the Masked Lady
is
involved? Do you include her in your list of suspects?'

The bandaged eyes turned towards John. ‘Anyone who keeps their true identity so well concealed and was also present on the night of the murder must indeed come under suspicion. I assure you that this Office will continue to watch her with hawk-like alertness.'

The fine weather vanished in the night and John woke to see pewter skies and deluging rain and soggy, sad trees in the gardens of Nassau Street. Creeping out of the house at daybreak in order to board one of the early flying coaches, he was forced to step through filth and garbage which washed down the streets in a noisome tide, averting his eyes as he did so from a particularly revolting dead dog which came floating slowly past him. Much as he loved London, it was almost a relief on this occasion to get aboard the postchaise and head out to the somewhat cleaner conditions of the Sussex countryside.

Slowed down by mud, the journey took longer than advertised and John did not arrive until after nightfall, bidding farewell to his three fellow passengers who, somewhat nervously, were bound for Chichester in the darkness.

‘Good luck,' he called and waved his arm, glad to step into the warm and comfortable confines of The Spread Eagle and, after putting his bag in his room, head for the kitchen.

The fire had been lit on so wretched a night as this and seated before it, as good luck would have it, was Dickon of the wheezing chest. He looked up with a malevolent expression at the sound of a stranger approaching but on seeing John transformed his features into a grimace, as close to a grin as he would ever get.

‘Well, that done me some good, that liniment of yours. I reckon I'll have another jar of that,' he said, nodding.

‘I'll fetch you some.' And John made to go back upstairs.

Dickon laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘No, sit ye down, Sir. I'll buy you some ale to show my content.'

‘Well, thank you,' said John, and took a chair beside him.

It wasn't difficult on this occasion to bring the conversation round to the black-hearted Lizzie, nor was it hard to get Dickon talking, his earlier suspicions of the Apothecary now having been allayed. In fact it seemed almost as if the man wanted to unburden himself in some way, and after a few moments John realised why.

‘You remember that girl I told you of, that Lizzie Harper who went to London? You never did meet her, did you, Sir?'

‘No, I never met her,' the Apothecary answered truthfully.

‘Well, just steer clear if ever you do. She tempts a man, you know, and drags him down to ruin.'

John assumed his sympathetic face. ‘Surely she never tried her wiles on you?'

‘No, not on me, but on the husband of my poor sister-in-law, God rest her.'

‘Your brother, you mean?'

‘Bless you, I never did have no brother. No, I meant my dead sister-in-law's husband, Jacob Benbow.'

John's eyebrow's, ever mobile at the best of times, flew across his forehead. ‘So Elizabeth Harper was related to you?'

‘Aye, she was my niece, as she was Jacob's by marriage. But she led him on, she did, even when she was little more than a child. It broke my sister-in-law's heart to see it and she died of grief.'

John shook his head. “I can't quite work this out. How many sisters were there?'

‘Three. Lizzie's mother, my wife and Jacob's wife. Leastways, when the girl's mother passed away it was between Jacob and me which took the child on. I can tell you, she'd have felt my belt about her. I'd never have mooned after her like Jacob did.'

‘No wonder you dislike her so much.'

‘I'm not the only one. What with the trouble she made in the Leagrave household and breaking poor Jemmy Groves's heart, to say nothing of Eleanor's, why I could have throttled the bitch.'

John took a chance. ‘Somebody has,' he said.

Dickon stared at him. ‘What was that?'

‘Somebody
has
murdered her. It is true that I am an apothecary but I am also here investigating Lizzie's death.'

Dickon's eyes widened further. ‘Are you a constable?'

‘No, I work for John Fielding, Principal Magistrate of London.'

‘Then I'll say no more to you. For I think whoever did it should be rewarded.'

John nodded. ‘I respect that view but none the less would like to ask you one final question, not really connected with the killing. It's this. Was Eleanor Benbow's body ever washed ashore?'

Dickon paused reflectively, then downed the contents of his tankard in a single swallow, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘No, Sir, it weren't. And there's some as say that without a body one can never be sure there's been a death.'

‘Was she the type of female to do away with herself?'

‘No, Sir, she were not,' Dickon answered firmly, and there the matter was allowed to rest.

Despite all John's hopes for a fine day, the next morning was as dark and discouraging as the previous one, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that he set out for Court Green, the home of the Leagrave family. It was hardly the weather for gathering simples from a wild garden and yet he had little other excuse to call, except for the bottle of physick, wrapped in paper and tied neatly with string, a blob of wax sealing the ends, which he carried in his pocket. Onto the bottle itself, John had stuck a label which read, ‘Compounded by John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane.'

The lady of the house, much as he anticipated, was already about the mind-achingly dull tasks which comprised her daily life. Having, no doubt, made it her duty to give her brother and nephew a hearty breakfast in the comfort of the morning room, she was presently overseeing the servants as they followed their many pursuits around the establishment. This last, of course, combined with a stint in the kitchen, to say nothing of checking the menus, providing for her household and working in the still room. In the afternoon, when she could relax, Miss Leagrave would undoubtedly be taken up with her needle or paints, this to be followed perhaps by a little practice on the harpsichord so that the men of the household could be entertained while they slumped in front of the fire, exhausted after a hard day's riding, a decanter at their side. Yet, John supposed, she was probably contented enough in her way.

Miss Leagrave received him in the small parlour, looking extremely flustered, a mobcap on her head to protect her hair from dust.

‘Oh la, I had not expected you quite so soon, Mr Rawlings,' she said in somewhat accusatory tones.

He bowed. ‘My visit to London did not take as long as I thought. Forgive me, Madam. I was anxious to give you your bottle of physick.' And he produced it with a flourish.

His hostess glanced out of the window at the dismal day. ‘And what of your wish to look at the garden?'

John assumed a stoical face. ‘Madam, I am used to all kinds of climatic conditions. It will make little difference to me. But, of course, if you desire to accompany me . . .' He smiled endearingly. ‘ . . . just to point out those plants that I may not touch, I could not presume to ask you to get your feet wet. I shall call back another time.'

Miss Leagrave's stern features relaxed slightly. ‘Perhaps you should wait a while to see if the rain passes. I can offer you some coffee. It may be only London fashion to drink it but my brother, the Squire, is very partial to the beverage.'

‘I would be honoured to have a cup,' said John, ‘provided that you will take one with me.'

‘Well, I am very busy . . .'

‘Then I shall go.'

‘But perhaps I could spare a half hour or so. Pray take a seat, Sir, and I will ring the bell.'

‘How very kind,' said John, and divesting himself of his cloak, settled himself in a chair by the fire which he felt certain belonged to the Squire.

‘Very comfortable,' he said, stretching his legs. ‘How I envy you your country life.'

‘Really?' responded Miss Leagrave in surprise. ‘Why?'

‘So peaceful and healthy. The streets of town were stinking with refuse when I left it.'

‘But surely one is prepared to endure that for the many compensations.'

‘You mean the theatres and assemblies, I take it? Or perhaps you refer to the various pleasure gardens? Or to the balls?'

‘All of them really,' Miss Leagrave answered wistfully. ‘Of course we do have entertainments here but nothing on the scale of London's gaiety.'

‘I must confess,' answered John, taking the coffee which his hostess had just poured from a silver service brought in by a servant, ‘that I do have a certain partiality for Vaux Hall. Have you ever been for a visit, Madam?'

‘Oh yes, several times. But not for about a year or so.'

John shook his head and looked grim. ‘As I mentioned on my last visit, a very nasty incident took place there recently. Some poor wretch was murdered. A girl by the name of Elizabeth Harper.'

Miss Leagrave's cup rattled violently in its saucer. ‘Elizabeth Harper? But how extraordinary!'

‘Why, surely you do not know her?'

‘A girl of that name once worked here as a servant. But that would be too great a coincidence to be believable.'

‘They say,' said John, looking gossipy, ‘that the victim did indeed come from the country. That she had made her way to town to better herself. She was the mistress of a French nobleman, you know.'

‘Was she very beautiful, this murdered woman?'

‘Glorious, I believe,' John answered, with an extravagant gesture. ‘A regular Helen of Troy.'

‘Then it has to be the same girl. How strange.'

‘A freakish chance, I'd say. Do tell, what was she like as a person?'

‘Cruel,' said Miss Leagrave, tightening her lips. ‘Cruel and heartless. Every man was her prize, if you follow me.'

‘I do most certainly. How very shocking.'

‘She came here from the mill, the miller was her adopted father, you see. Some poor unhappy young man, a labourer called Jemmy Groves, was totally besotted with her, but, not content with that, the little minx set her cap at my own brother.'