Death in the Dark Walk (11 page)

The area between Piccadilly and Oxford Street was indeed one of the most fashionable in London, for here could be found two of the great squares, Hanover and Berkeley. The former was unashamedly a Whig enclave, its inhabitants supporters of the German Kings of England. And just as St James's Square boasted its own church, so, too, dwellers in Hanover Square worshipped at St George's. In fact the great Mr Handel maintained his own pew there, into which the blind old man, the most celebrated composer of his time, had to be guided every Sunday. Dwelling on this fact and thinking how depressing were the rigours of old age, John turned into Hanover Square from Great George Street and set about looking for number twelve.

He found it almost at once, so quickly in fact that he stood for a moment or two gathering his wits before daring to approach, for the exterior spoke of the sort of moneyed people who would not care to be bothered by a passing tradesman, albeit an apothecary bearing physic. Above the fine doorway, with its pilasters and carved pendants, was a resplendent hood bursting with moulded foliage and amorini. While the house itself, though constrained by being part of a terrace, rose to an elevation of four floors below a parapet and stood three windows wide. Feeling decidedly nervous, John climbed the flight of steps leading to the front door and raised the elegant knocker.

A footman answered the summons and, explaining that he had come to see the Comtesse de Vignolles bearing medicament and making it sound very much as if he had an appointment, John found himself being ushered into a narrow hallway dominated by a monumental double staircase. This entrance hall, though small, was lightly decorated in pale green and salmon pink, and such graceful colours, combined with the delicate mouldings, instantly revealed not only that it had been chosen by a woman of taste but also one of considerable charm.

‘If you will wait in the library, Sir,' the footman intoned plummily, ‘I will see if the Comtesse is able to receive you.'

And that said, John was shown down a slim passageway next to the great staircase to a small comfortable book-lined room beyond. Always of the opinion that books reveal a great deal about the characters of their owners, the Apothecary gazed at the titles. There was a good selection of volumes by Defoe and Swift, together with
The Works of Mr Alexander Pope,
published by Bernard Lintot of Between the Temple Gates, in 1717. There were also several examples of the chief literary innovation of the period, the novel; these included Richardson's
Pamela, Clarissa
and
Sir Charles Grandison
, together with Henry Fielding's
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews and His Friend Parson Adams
and
The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling
. Also on the shelves stood
The History of the Life of the Late Mr Jonathan Wild the Great
, a mock biography of an actual criminal, but in truth Fielding's bitingly satirical portrait of Sir Robert Walpole. John found it hard to believe that the author of these works was not only the Blind Beak's half-brother, but the man who had actually founded the band of law enforcement officers who currently fought against crime in the metropolis.

A noise in the doorway had him wheeling round sharply to see that the footman had returned, grandly announcing, ‘The Comtesse de Vignolles will see you now, Sir.' Congratulating himself on getting over the first and most difficult hurdle, the Apothecary followed the servant up the imposing staircase to a drawing room on the first floor. Situated at the back of the house, he was instantly stunned by its beauty, for it was graceful, intricately moulded, having a barrel ceiling and semi-domes decorated with a minute fragility that was breathtaking. And in the middle of all this splendour, lying on a Louis XV
duchesse en bateau
, placed before the windows so that its occupant could gaze wistfully out, was the Comtesse herself.

‘Madam,' said John Rawlings, and gave an old fashioned bow, very low and very deep and utterly without artifice.

‘Well?' answered the Comtesse.

‘Madam,' he repeated, taking a step forward, ‘forgive my temerity in calling unbidden. The truth of the matter is that I am a newly fledged apothecary who, until recently, was working with my Master on an Elixir of Health. Having heard of your unfortunate indisposition I took the liberty of bringing a bottle for you to try.'

‘How?' asked the invalid disconcertingly.

‘I beg your pardon?' John replied, nonplussed.

‘I said how.'

‘Well, by mouth, Madam. It is an elixir, a physic.'

The Comtesse sighed impatiently. ‘No, I meant how did you hear of my illness? Am I a byword in the neighbourhood?'

‘My Master's shop was in Evans Row, Madam, not far away. And as cases of suffering are always of interest to the medical profession, your health was discussed, yes,' John answered smoothly.

‘Ah ha!' said the Comtesse, and made a little sound that could have been a cough or a muffled laugh. ‘Step closer, young man.'

The Apothecary obeyed with alacrity, anxious to get a better look at this supposed malingerer, but with the light behind her it was not easy to see the woman's features distinctly. However, he did get the impression of good bone structure, a mouth that could have been beautiful had not the corners been drawn petulantly downwards, and a pair of eyes that gleamed intelligence before their owner drooped opalescent lids to conceal their expression.

The Comtesse fluttered a white hand. ‘So where is this cure-all of yours?'

‘Here, Madam,' and John produced the elixir from deep within his pocket.

‘Pray pass it to me.'

The Apothecary did so and, stepping even closer, detected an overwhelming scent of roses with an underlay of something else. John felt a quiver of amusement as he recognised the smell of gin. Was this, then, the lady's problem? Was this why she preferred to remain at home couched supine? Was it to her secret vice that the Comtesse had sacrificed her good health?

He came abruptly back to the present as she spoke again. ‘How much?'

‘I would like you to accept it with my compliments. If it does you good I can arrange to deliver further supplies. The cost would then be sixpence.'

‘Not cheap.'

‘It is made from the finest ingredients,' John answered solemnly.

For a second a flicker crossed the Comtesse's mouth, though whether she was smiling or simply irritated, John was not absolutely certain. But it was at that moment, just as he was trying to make up his mind about her, that he heard a door open behind him and turned to see that a man had come into the room, a man whom he instantly recognised as the wearer of the black cloak in Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens.

‘Louis,' said the Comtesse, feebly leaning back against the cushions, ‘our visitor is an apothecary who has called with some medicine for me.'

John bowed low, ‘My name Is Rawlings, Monsieur le Comte. John Rawlings.'

‘Have we met before?' asked the newcomer, narrowing an eye.

John hesitated, wondering whether to broach the subject of the Pleasure Gardens quite so soon in their acquaintanceship. Eventually he said, ‘I have recently been freed from my indentures, Sir, and have been out and about a great deal since. Perhaps that is why my face seems familiar.'

The Comte looked bored. ‘I doubt we would have been at the same assemblies,' he answered in supercilious tones, and walking past the Apothecary went, without any marked enthusiasm, to kiss his wife's hand.

He was an attractive creature with the dark hair and eyes typical of his race; in fact it was only too easy to visualise him as a lady's man of prodigious charm. Enormously irritated by him, John decided to fire the opening shot and wipe the smile from the Comte de Vignolles's handsome face. He made for the door, then turned as if he had forgotten something.

‘How observant you are, Monsieur!' he exclaimed. ‘I would never have remembered if you had not said. Of course I saw you the other night at Vaux Hall. I was there with a friend and together we studied the
beau monde
with interest. How sad it was that such an enjoyable evening should have ended in so terrible a tragedy.'

‘Tragedy?' said the Comtesse, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘What tragedy?'

‘Ah, Madam, I hardly know how to speak of it,' John gushed on, aware that de Vignolles's brown velvet eyes were glaring in his direction. ‘You see, there was a fatality. A lady of the night, a kept creature so it is said, was cruelly done to death by an unknown hand. Though, strangely, the friend who accompanied me saw her arguing with a man and has made a statement to that effect to the Public Office.'

‘What man?' asked the Comte abruptly.

John gave him a radiant smile. ‘Oh, it was no-one he knew, merely a fellow in a black cloak. A dark foreign-looking chap, so my friend said.'

‘Sounds like you, Louis,' said the Comtesse drily.

‘There are hundreds of foreigners in London,' de Vignolles answered, yawning, and John mentally awarded him a point for coolness.

‘Well, I must take my leave,' he said, giving the invalid another bow. ‘Let it be hoped that the Elixir will serve its purpose. I am resident at number two Nassau Street should you require any further supplies.'

‘And should you decide to speak to me privately,' he thought, as he followed the footman down the stairs and left the home of the Comte Louis de Vignolles.

As Vigo Lane was on his route home, John decided that now was the moment to call on Hannah and present her with the jar of ointment which he had purchased in Evans Row. Somewhat guilty that he had made none of these preparations personally, he consoled himself with the thought that he was investigating a murder and all was fair in the circumstances. Yet, despite that, the Apothecary made a mental promise to explain his deceit to Master Purefoy in the near future and somehow try to make amends. But passing beside the wall and high trees which protected the beautiful gardens of Burlington House from the common herd, John put such thoughts from his mind as he entered the quiet surroundings of Vigo Lane.

Exactly as on the previous occasion, the door of number twenty-four stood invitingly open but this time the Apothecary unhesitatingly stepped inside, only to find that the house was not empty. A large fair lady, well rouged and painted, stood in the hallway passing the time of day with Hannah, who was half-heartedly swishing the floor with a tattered mop.

‘Excuse me,' said John and turned to go, afraid that the caretaker might be on the point of saying something tactless about the murder.

‘It's no trouble,' rejoined the buxom creature boldly. ‘How may I help you?'

‘Well, er, it is Hannah I came to see actually. I have some ointment for her rheumatism.'

The woman's eyes lit. ‘Are you a physician, Sir?'

John smiled crookedly. ‘No Ma'am, I am an apothecary.'

‘And I am Mrs Cole, widow of the late Mr Cole, milliner. Allow me to present you with my credentials.'

And from nowhere she produced a trade card which she thrust into John's unwilling hand. Bewilderedly he read, ‘Mrs Candace Cole, Artist in the Treatment of Feathers, Flowers, Muslins, Gauzes, Crapes and Velvets. At the Sun in St Paul's Church Yard. Wholesale or Retail at Reasonable Rates.'

‘Pray step inside for a glass of Rhenish and sugar,' Mrs Cole continued. ‘Wine is so refreshing in the heat of the day, is it not?'

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' answered John, frantically seeking an excuse, ‘but, alas, I have an urgent visit to make. I merely called to see Hannah
en passant
as it were.'

Mrs Cole waved a waggish finger. ‘Five minutes will make little difference, surely.'

The Apothecary, horridly aware of the gleam in her eye, decided on desperate action. ‘Madam, I have only told you half the truth. I am an apothecary as I said. But I am also here to enquire into the death of your neighbour, Elizabeth Harper. I am one of Mr Fielding's Fellows.'

‘Are you now?' she answered, surveying him with even greater interest. ‘Then you must indeed come in, You see, Hannah found a letter when she searched the girl's apartment and, as she could not read, brought it to me. So now what do you say?'

‘I say that a glass of Rhenish would be delightful,' John answered manfully, and allowed himself to be led into the downstairs suite of rooms, well aware that Hannah was giving him a knowing leer as the front door was closed firmly behind him.

‘Now do sit down and make yourself comfortable Mr . . .?

‘Rawlings. John Rawlings.'

‘. . . while I slip into something cooler. The afternoons are tedious hot, are they not?'

‘Er . . .' answered John,

But she had already vanished and he was left alone except for the presence of a particularly repellent dog which bared its teeth at him and growled.

‘Be quiet,' whispered John commandingly, at which it growled all the more, getting up from its cushion and approaching his leg in a speculative manner.

‘One move nearer and I'll cane you, so I will,' he hissed again, but was saved by the return of Mrs Cole who swept the creature up in her arms and deposited it on her lap. She was now wearing a flowing robe made of some diaphanous material which revealed that she did not have a great deal on underneath. Averting his eyes from a pair of breasts the size of pumpkins, John cleared his throat.

‘Now, Ma'am, you have something to tell me I believe.'

She brushed a straying curl with a plump hand. ‘I could certainly tell you many things, Mr Rawlings, and indeed would like to.' She smiled winsomely. ‘But I take it you refer to Hannah's finding?'

‘Yes, I do.'

Mrs Cole stood up again and the dog crashed to the floor, yelping. ‘But I forget my manners. I asked you in to take wine with me and take wine you shall.'

And with that she swept to a side table, her garment trailing, and poured out two glasses of Rhenish.