Death in the Peerless Pool (28 page)

They shook hands.

‘Now, is there anything further you can tell me?' John asked. ‘I know it may not seem relevant but I am convinced that Lucy's disappearance is linked with a similar incident involving a boy in Paris, unlikely though that may appear.'

Chandler scratched his chin. ‘I can't think of a thing, Sir. Lady Allbury had no connections in France.'

‘Did you know Sir Vivian Sweeting at all? Or Hannah?'

‘I had heard of her, though I never actually met the woman. Sir Vivian is a different matter, however. He is a member of Bath's beau monde. I remember that way back he was bringing up a great many of his deceased relatives' children.' Dick stopped and stared at the Apothecary. ‘You don't think he trafficked …?'

‘Yes, I do, I'm afraid. The presence of Hannah Rankin in his household, to say nothing of a remark made by one of those children, now grown up, convinces me that Sir Vivian is – or was – a child molester.'

‘Then the man must be stopped.'

‘As I said, perhaps that has already happened. There is no sign of children in Welham House now. And Hannah left years ago. Perhaps something frightened the man and he ceased his evil trade. But, Mr Chandler, if we are to solve this whole mystery, please rack your brain for any detail that might assist me further.'

‘My mind is a blank. What can I say? Lucy was born in 1741, a little bastard alas. She vanished seven years later. Nothing was ever heard of her again.'

‘Very well, I'll have to be content with that. Now, I'd best get dressed. I'm beginning to feel cold.'

‘Would you like another towel, Sir?'

‘No, I'll put my clothes on quickly. By the way, I'm staying at The Bear, just in case you should think of anything more.'

‘Very good, Sir.'

It had been an interesting conversation, John thought as he hurriedly put on his garments. Indeed, most enlightening had been the facts about Lucy's journey to London in the company of a woman who surely must have been Hannah Rankin. Yet how much further had his talk with Chandler got him? Other than for that piece of information, not a great deal forward. Still, the conviction that because of their similarity Lucy and Meredith's disappearances were somehow connected continued to haunt John as he finally tied his stock and set forth, hatless, in the direction of the Pump Room where, hopefully, he might discover Coralie or even the suffering Orlando.

It was early, however, and the usual jollities were not yet under way. Taking a glass of the horrible stuff, the Apothecary, feeling tremendously virtuous, paced the almost empty room, listening to the band strike up and watching as various aged invalids hobbled forward to consume their daily dose of health-giving water.

‘My spleen has never been better,' commented one old fellow.

‘Nonsense,' replied the other. ‘I believe it is all in the imagination. I cannot credit that a glass of disgusting liquid like this could be of any benefit at all.'

‘Well, the Romans thought so. They came here and bathed and no doubt drank the water, and they were an advanced civilisation.'

‘Rome fell, didn't it,' responded his companion, chuckling.

‘You are very cynical, Thomas. I personally find it fascinating to know that another culture sported here before us. Which reminds me, have you seen the head of Minerva?'

‘No, I haven't. Where is it?'

‘It's on display at the baths themselves.'

John froze, a black hole in his mind where there should have been a memory. Who had spoken to him about the head of Minerva, and recently at that? Who had told him it was lucky to touch it? Without waiting for the answers to come, the Apothecary turned on his heel and literally ran back to the King's Bath. As luck would have it, Dick Chandler, a bundle of towels over his arm, was standing in the doorway.

‘The head of Minerva,' gasped John. ‘Where is it?'

‘There,' Chandler answered, and pointed upwards.

John followed his finger and looked to where the gilded bronze head of a statue stood in a small niche in the wall. Underneath was a handwritten notice.

‘Head of a Roman statue,' it read, ‘found by a workman in Stall Street, 1727. Believed to be the goddess Minerva.'

The Apothecary thumped his forehead with his fist. ‘Who was it?' he said aloud. And as Dick stared at him, obviously thinking he had gone completely mad, it came to him. Once again, John saw those terrible tortured eyes and heard the mad girl's dying voice. She said she would take me to see Minerva's head. It was lucky to touch it.

‘Petronelle,' he said aloud.

A ghastly expression crossed Chandler's face. ‘Did you say Petronelle, Sir?'

‘Yes, I did. Why? You didn't know her, did you?'

‘In a way I did, for it was Lucy's second name. Lucy Petronelle Allbury was the girl I went looking for all those years ago.'

John turned on him a ravaged face. ‘Then, my friend, it grieves me to tell you that your search for her is finally over.'

It had been no use. Instead of seeking company, John had deliberately avoided it. When he should have made strenuous efforts to find Orlando and ask him exactly what was happening, instead the Apothecary walked through Bath alone, ignoring the passing parade and concentrating solely on his thoughts.

The revelation that poor tragic Petronelle and the missing child of ten years earlier were the same person had come as a great shock, yet in a way it had not been unexpected. Petronelle's fear of Hannah Rankin, Forbes, the warder's, belief that the poor lunatic had met the woman before, both served to confirm John's certainty that a child abduction ring had at one time flourished in Welham House and that Lucy Allbury had been snatched by that very circle. And now, aware that the Dysarts had lived only twenty miles from Bath, his conviction that Meredith's disappearance must somehow be linked grew even stronger. The boy had been over two years old when he had left the country to live in Paris, not too young to have attracted the attention of an English kidnapping gang. Despite flaws in the argument, John's conviction remained. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the address given him by Ambrosine Dysart. ‘Westerfield Place, Westerfield Abbas, Somerset,' she had written. Filled with an absolute certainty as to what he should do next, the Apothecary walked back to The Bear to enquire about transport.

It had not been an easy journey. Study of a map had revealed that the only towns of any size reasonably close to Westerfield Abbas were Wells and Glastonbury, and enquiries at The Bear had resulted in John catching the stagecoach to Glastonbury. From there, the Apothecary was advised to hire a man with a trap to take him the rest of the way.

It was some while since John had travelled by stage, preferring the faster post chaise or flying coach, therefore he was much amused to find himself boarding the Bath Magnet, an antiquated, lumbering affair that went as far as Taunton and back. The design of it was not of the latest, to say the least, yet it could accommodate an unbelievable fifteen passengers. The coachman's box hung forward, secured to the main bodywork by a series of leather straps. Dangling their feet into the space thus provided were three travellers, two men and a woman, all sitting on the roof, while beside the driver was squeezed one more. Similarly, at the back perched two other people alongside the guard, while in the basket behind squatted a couple of passengers, sitting on their luggage and a pile of parcels. With a heave, John went in with them, and he, together with the six travellers within, made up the full complement. Dreading to think what would happen if the conveyance shed a wheel in mid-career, the Apothecary gritted his teeth as, with a blast of the coachman's horn, the four-horse team strove to pull the loaded vehicle over the cobbles and away.

Getting his bearings, John saw that two other young men shared the basket with him.

‘James Jinks,' said one, bowing his head and holding out his hand. ‘Thomas Hasker,' added the other, doing likewise.

The Apothecary returned the compliment. ‘John Rawlings, at your service, gentlemen.'

‘Travelling far?' asked Jinks.

‘To Westerfield Abbas. I'm getting off at Glastonbury and hope to hire a trap.'

‘Then allow me to offer you a ride, Sir. My conveyance will be waiting for me and as I am travelling in that direction I can drop you where you wish.'

‘How very kind. I'm actually going to Westerfield Place.'

Jinks and Hasker, who were clearly acquainted, looked at one another.

‘The Dysart house, eh?'

Instantly sensing something of interest, John said, ‘Yes. Why?'

Jinks grinned. ‘I come from close by, a small place called Meare. My papa used to play cards with Lord Anthony. Knew the family quite well before they left for France.'

‘Then you would have been acquainted with their daughter?' John asked casually.

‘Not really. I was just a child at the time. But my elder brother was much smitten with her. She was known as the Beauty of the County, you know.'

‘Wasn't she involved in some sort of scandal?' the Apothecary said, his face ingenuous.

‘Ran off with a footman and pregnant into the bargain. Just about as scandalous as you can get,' Jinks answered cheerfully.

Hasker looked at him reprovingly. ‘Steady, James. Mr Rawlings is probably a friend of the family.'

John instantly became bland. ‘No, no, not at all. I am merely going to the house to deliver something. I hardly know the Dysarts, though I must confess something I heard about them recently intrigued me.'

‘Oh? What was that?'

‘Did a child of theirs vanish in Paris, or have I got it all wrong?'

Jinks shook his head. ‘No, you're right. It was Lord Anthony's grandson. The progeny of the Beauty and her runaway husband who, sadly, were both killed in a coaching accident.'

As he said the words, the stagecoach bumped over a large stone in the road and the three occupants of the basket flew aloft, laughing despite the seriousness of the topic.

‘Anyway,' Jinks continued, ramming his hat back on his head, ‘they left behind a baby, aged about two years or so. After they died the child was brought to Westerfield by Gregg the steward …'

He and Hasker exchanged another look and Hasker shook his head slightly.

‘… who looked after him until Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart arrived from France to fetch him. Anthony was the British Ambassador, you know. Anyway, they took the boy back with them, then one day he vanished from their garden in Paris, never to be seen again.'

‘What a terrible tale.'

‘Terrible and rum, don't you think?'

‘Very rum,' John answered, watching Hasker while he and Jinks conversed, wondering why he had indicated ‘no' when Gregg's name came into the conversation. He decided to find out.

‘I've been told to make my delivery to Lord Anthony's steward. Would that be the same man you mentioned?'

Jinks, who was clearly the greater gossip of the two, answered, ‘Oh yes, old Gregg is still there. I reckon he'll keep the post until the day he dies.'

‘That's unusual, isn't it? I thought old servants were pensioned off.'

Jinks opened his mouth but Hasker spoke up firmly. ‘Gregg is more of a friend to the Dysarts, Mr Rawlings. He was a child working round the place when Lord Anthony was a boy. Though they will relieve him of duties in the years to come, he will always retain the honour of being steward.'

He spoke with an air of finality, giving John the impression that there was a lot more to the story which would not come out until Jinks was left on his own. Quite deliberately, the Apothecary changed the subject.

‘Do you live in Meare also, Mr Hasker?'

‘No, I reside in Wells, just outside the town to be precise. However, James and I have known each other since schooldays, and whenever we have the time we go into Bath for the balls and theatre.'

‘How delightful! I envy you that. I think it a charming spot. I only have one friend living there, though, Orlando Sweeting. You don't know him, by any chance?'

Jinks and Hasker shook their heads. ‘Can't say we do.'

‘He's the nephew of Sir Vivian Sweeting.'

Still they looked blank, and John felt a vague sense of disappointment. He had somehow hoped that a connection, however tenuous, between Sir Vivian and the Dysarts could be established.

The conversation, conducted between bursts of laughter and fierce drawings in of breath as the track became ever more perilous, now changed to general topics. Those sitting on the roof beside the guard joined in, and the Apothecary had to come to terms with the fact that Jinks would say no more until after his friend had left the coach. Indeed, pleasant though young Hasker was, it was quite a relief when The Magnet rumbled into the courtyard of The Swan with Two Necks in Wells and he got off.

His place was taken by an enormously fat, belligerent woman, determined to get a seat within the coach itself. Furious that nobody would give up their place for her, she finally flopped into the basket like an angry flounder and glared at John and James as if it were all their fault.

‘No manners,' she said loudly, crushing baggage and parcels as she heaved her weight from one side to the other.

‘Perhaps you'll acquire some soon,' the Apothecary answered, just loud enough for his companion to hear.

‘Eh?' the woman asked suspiciously.

‘I said, “Perhaps you'll expire at noon”, to my friend.'

She glared all the more. ‘Why should you say a thing like that?'

‘Because he's a very bad traveller, Ma'am. Prone to sickness and all sorts of terrible things. He's been known to go into a faint and be taken for dead. That's why I said it.'

The woman, as best she could, moved to the far side of the basket. ‘If you feel vomitous you're to lean over the side, young man. D'ye hear?'