Death in the Peerless Pool (20 page)

Congratulating himself on guessing the elderly wretch's title correctly, John continued, ‘Now, Sir, I believe you are connected with a woman called Hannah Rankin. Just to jog your memory, she lived in the house of Mother Hamp in Ratcliff Row and she worked at St Luke's Hospital for Poor Lunatics. It is thought by some that you were her suitor.'

The Marquis tapped the side of his nose and a flake of enamel fell on to his coat. ‘I recall the woman now. Yes, of course. Her suitor, eh? Are you suggesting that she granted me her favours?'

‘I am not suggesting anything, Monsieur le Marquis. Instead I would prefer you to tell me all that you can remember about her. For example, where did you meet Hannah, and when?'

The Frenchman looked vague. ‘Let me see now. I fled to this country some twenty years past and came to live directly here in La Providence, remaining ever since. As a gentleman, I do not have a trade and was therefore unable to become part of the London working community. I met Hannah some years ago in The Old Fountain where I sometimes go to take refreshment. That is all there is to it.'

‘You visited her in her home, I believe.'

‘Oh, yes. She occasionally obliged me with a feather-bed jig, as you English would say.'

‘You were Hannah's lover?'

‘Hardly that. But even old men have needs and Hannah catered for mine quite adequately.'

The Marquis leered unpleasantly, exposing his yellow teeth.

‘In that case I must comment that you do not seem particularly upset about her death.'

‘I already knew about it. Word spreads quickly in this community. Would you care for a glass of canary?'

‘Not at the moment, thank you.'

‘You have no objection to my partaking?'

‘None at all.'

John sat silently, watching the old man go to a decanter and pour himself a deep glass, his hand shaking very slightly as he did so. Taking the opportunity while the Frenchman's back was turned, the Apothecary snatched a quick look around the room. Other than for the usual books and furnishings there was little of interest to see, but through the open bedroom door John caught a glimpse of a painting, a painting that seemed a little unusual to say the least. Unable to resist, he got to his feet and sauntered towards the door.

It was the sort of picture that could, at first glance, be thought of as perfectly innocent. A female child, naked but for a wreath of flowers in her hair, stood in a field surrounded by fairy folk. But there all semblance of innocence ended, for each and every one of the immortals was engaged in salacious behaviour of one kind or another. Ghastly grinning gnomes raped a screaming fairy; a satyr bestrode an elfin boy child; a ring of goblins indulged in homosexual intercourse; Oberon displayed magically enlarged privy parts. It was one of the most brutal paintings the Apothecary had ever seen.

Behind him, the Marquis laughed. ‘I see you like my picture.'

‘I wouldn't say that like was quite the right word.'

‘I bought it in Paris many years ago. The artist was young and struggling. I paid him a fair price and have treasured it ever since.'

‘Personally I find it disturbing.'

‘You are meant to, my young friend.'

John turned round. ‘Monsieur le Marquis, eight nights ago Hannah Rankin was beaten almost to death, then she was thrown into the Fish Pond to drown. I must ask you to tell me where you were on the evening in question.'

The Frenchman frowned. ‘Eight nights back? Would that have been a Friday? Gracious, I can hardly remember yesterday, time passes so quickly. But if I recall correctly I played whist with friends. Yes, I believe I did.'

‘Where was this?'

‘In town. In a house near Piccadilly. I took a hackney coach.'

‘What was the name of your hosts?'

‘Monsieur and Madame Menard. They are wealthy Huguenots who have become part of British common life.'

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to give me their address.'

‘But you have my word as a nobleman that I was there.'

‘In a case of murder I am afraid that is not good enough.'

‘You are impudent, Sir.'

‘If so, then I apologise. But let me hasten to assure you that Mr Fielding would have said the same.'

The Marquis downed the canary with one rapid swallow and refilled his glass. ‘Now, is there anything more I can tell you?'

“Yes. Did Hannah ever mention to you that she might have enemies of any kind? People from the past who could have known her when she lived in Bath? Or even earlier?'

There was a definite shift in the whitened features. Something John had said had struck a chord.

‘What do you mean exactly?' the Marquis responded and the Apothecary knew that the old man had asked the question in order to gain time.

‘I am simply enquiring whether Hannah, as your mistress, confided in you that she might be afraid of anyone. A burly coachman has been mentioned to me. Someone from whom she apparently said she might have to escape.'

The Marquis gripped the table at which he was standing. ‘I cannot think what you are talking about. Somebody has been joking with you, I believe. Hannah had no enemies that I was aware of.'

‘Did you realise that she once lived in Bath?'

‘I believe she mentioned it.'

‘Only mentioned? How long did you say you knew her?'

The Marquis waved a vague arm and the overpowering smell of stale scent filled the room once more. ‘I didn't, but it must be two years or thereabouts.'

‘Before she went to work at St Luke's, then?'

The lines in the white face hardened. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘But she was only there a year. I learned that from the Hospital directly.'

‘Then perhaps I am confused. Hannah is a relatively new acquaintance, let me hasten to assure you of that.'

Why? the Apothecary wondered. Why hasten to assure me? And he became instantly convinced that the relationship between Hannah and the Marquis went back much further than the Frenchman was prepared to admit. He attempted to pursue the idea.

‘Are you familiar with Sir Vivian Sweeting, by any chance?'

A muscle twitched beneath the Marquis's pallid mask. ‘No, I don't believe so. Is he a member of the beau monde?'

‘Yes, I think one could say he is. In Bath, most certainly.'

‘Then how would I know him?' The Frenchman sprang to his feet and began to pace. ‘My dear Sir, I lost everything when I left France. I had nothing but what money and jewels I could carry on me. I live here on charity and conduct my life by means of my small investments and the kindness of my friends. I do not have the resources to sojourn at Bath, that is for certain.'

He was ruffled, and John was more than aware of it. He smiled his honest-citizen smile. ‘I did not mean to pry into your affairs, my dear Sir. It just occurred to me that as you were an intimate of hers, Hannah might have introduced you when Sir Vivian came to town.'

The Frenchman shook his head. ‘No, she did not. Now, Sir, will that be all?'

The Apothecary made a highly elaborate bow. ‘Indeed it will, Monsieur le Marquis. For the time being that will most certainly suffice. Good-day to you, Sir.'

He bowed again and left the room, well aware of the Marquis's ravaged face turned towards him, watching his every move as he made his way back down the corridor.

Having returned the key to Mr Kemp's walled garden, John set off for St Luke's Hospital before taking a hackney coach home. The asylum being so close to the French Hospital, it seemed foolish not to seize the opportunity of making another visit, and yet there was no real reason for it. But still something lurked at the back of the Apothecary's brain, some reason, not yet formulated, why he needed to call and indulge in general conversation, if nothing more serious.

Warder Forbes was on duty and received John cheerfully once he had managed to get past the trembling individual who manned the wicket gate.

‘And how are you today, Sir? I was wondering when we would see you again.'

‘How are you is more to the point. Have you recovered from your unpleasant ordeal?'

‘You mean identifying Hannah's body?' The Apothecary nodded. ‘It took me several days to get over it, Sir, and I'm no coward. God's life, I've never seen such wounds. Whoever beat her put all his hatred into it and that's for sure.'

‘You think it must have been a man?'

‘Can't imagine a woman being strong enough, unless it were one of ours, of course.'

‘Do you mean an inmate?'

‘I do. When they're in a frenzy they've got superhuman strength. Do you remember me telling you about Petronelle?'

‘Not liking children, do you mean?'

‘Yes. Well, she saw one the other day. Child of a visitor, it was. Anyway, it took four of us to hold her down, she went so wild. Eventually we overpowered her and tied her up tight for her own good. Then the apothecary came and dosed her with laudanum and we didn't hear no more out of her for two days.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘Locked in her room.'

‘Could I see her?'

‘No, Sir. It's too dangerous.'

‘I am a medical man, remember. And besides, I feel she might have some information for me.'

‘About Hannah Rankin?'

‘Possibly.'

Forbes shook his head. ‘It's more than my job's worth, Sir.'

‘Then should I ask Mr Burridge?'

‘He's not on duty, Sir.'

‘Then who is in charge?'

‘I am.'

It appeared that they had reached an impasse, and John would have accepted the situation and taken his leave had it not been for the sudden sound of running feet. A second later a woman warder, panting and much out of breath, appeared, coming down the corridor at speed.

‘It's Petronelle,' she gasped. ‘I think she's having a fit.'

Without another word, Forbes beckoned the Apothecary to follow him and they sprinted along the passage until they came to an open doorway giving access to a small cell-like room. Inside, John could see the girl, tied to the bed but conscious, saliva flecking her lips, the pupils of her eyes so contracted that the brilliant blue which was their natural colour had almost consumed the rest, making her look like a demonic angel.

‘How much laudanum has this girl had?' John shouted at Forbes, feeling for Petronelle's pulse as she slipped into unconsciousness.

‘She's kept under with it constantly,' the woman warder answered.

‘Dear God, she's had too much,' the Apothecary said, looking at his patient in horror.

‘Should we try to get the medicine out of her?'

John shook his head. ‘I don't think we can. It must be deep in her system for her pupils to react like that.'

‘Is she going to die?' asked Forbes.

‘I don't know,' the Apothecary answered. He lifted the girl into his arms. ‘Petronelle, can you hear me?'

She opened her terrible, tortured eyes and gave a parody of a smile. ‘She's gone, the wicked one, hasn't she?'

‘Yes,' John said. ‘She's gone and she won't come back any more.'

‘She thought I didn't know her, but I did.'

‘Who, Petronelle? Who are you talking about?'

‘She said she would take me to see Minerva's head. It was lucky to touch it. Only a shilling, Sir. Just to pay for my lodging.'

‘Be quiet, my dear. You are looked after now.'

‘She told me I would see Minerva,' Petronelle replied faintly, then she lowered her lids and went very still.

Afterwards, when he was home, safe in his own surroundings, John had wept, struck to the heart by the futility of Petronelle's short life, by the sheer devastating waste of it. That so flawless a beauty should have had the greatest flaw of all seemed too terrible to come to terms with. And yet the fact remained. The lovely girl had lost her wits on the streets of London while little more than a defenceless child and had spent the rest of her time incarcerated in an asylum.

‘May God have mercy on her,' John had said aloud, wishing for the hundredth time that he had got to her earlier.

Yet there was a part of his brain, a little icy sliver, that told him the poor creature was best out of her cocoon of madness, that death while she was still young and perfect was far preferable to life as a gibbering, slobbering wreck of a woman, made ugly by dementia. But even though he knew this logical, rational argument was right, still he grieved for the fact that she had been too far gone for him to administer the treatment of emetic and stimulants which might have saved Petronelle if he had found her in time.

With his usual tact and wisdom, Sir Gabriel had left his brooding son alone, but eventually there had come a tap at the bedroom door to which John, having washed his face thoroughly and taken a dose of reviving physick, had responded, ‘Come in.' His father had appeared.

‘My dear, you have a visitor.'

‘Who?'

‘The redoubtable Joe Jago clad in an emerald-green frock. He presents Mr Fielding's compliments and wonders whether you could spare time for a talk.'

The Apothecary instantly felt cheered, pleased as he always was to see the Magistrate's wily clerk. And today was no exception. As he walked into the library, Joe rose to his feet, scratched his red curls and gave a grin broad as a barge.

‘Mr Rawlings, Sir, how goes it with you?'

‘A mix of fortunes, my friend. And what of yourself?'

‘I attended a funeral this morning, not a cheerful event at the best of times and this one worse than most.'

‘Was it Hannah Rankin's?'

‘Indeed it was. She went into a pauper's grave at first light at Tindal's Burying Ground, with no one to see her off except me. Alone and friendless, as you might say.'

‘No one at all? Not even from St Luke's?'

‘Not even from there.'