Death in the Dark Walk (17 page)

‘Mind out for the Green Lady,' said Dickon nastily.

‘And who might she be?' John asked, surprised.

‘Someone who's beyond your skills.'

‘I take it you're talking about a ghost?' he answered lightly.

‘I certainly am. And she's a soft spot for gentlemen, so they say.'

‘Then I must watch myself,' the Apothecary said as he made his way upstairs.

The jars and bottles he had brought with him, envisaging very much the sort of situation in which he now found himself, had survived the journey well. A box of pills had come apart, scattering its contents all round his bag, but other than for that everything else was intact. Taking his portmanteau by the handles, John carried it back down to the kitchen with an air of triumph.

‘Now, gentlemen,' he said, and smiled engagingly.

The landlord's wife, who had been hovering in the background and now introduced herself as Anne Pruet, came forward at once to enquire after a complexion whitener. With a flourish, John presented her with a large bottle for which he would accept no payment. She, in return, insisted that he enjoy a free supper.

‘. . . though it's not fitting you should eat down here, Sir. Let me serve you in the dining parlour.'

‘I beg you not' John answered. ‘I prefer to be amongst the folk of Midhurst rather than in the company of my fellow travellers.'

Looking round at the circle of bucolic faces, many of them still unfriendly despite his manful efforts, John thought himself a blatant liar, but one who was prepared to go to almost any lengths to get information. He lowered his lashes at Anne Pruet.

‘So The Spread Eagle is haunted, is it, Ma'am?'

‘Oh yes, we have two ghosts. A Golden Lady walks in what used to be the medieval hall and the Green Lady, she wears Tudor dress, appears in the parlour during the small hours.'

‘Well, well,' answered John, determined to lead the conversation towards local gossip. ‘Do you think they were crossed in love?'

‘Who knows?' answered Mrs Pruet, and bustled away to serve the humbler travellers a simple repast of roast fowl with sauce, potatoes and melted butter, poached eggs and a hunk of cheese.

‘Why did you ask that?' put in Dickon. ‘About ghosts who were crossed in love?'

‘I don't really know,' said John carefully, a sudden pricking at his spine telling him that something was about to be revealed. ‘Because that is one of the most common causes of suicide, I suppose.'

The man drained his pot of ale which John signalled to the boy should be refilled. ‘Do you come from round these parts?' Dickon asked, staring at the Apothecary narrowly.

‘No, from London. I've made the journey to collect plants and herbs for my various medicines.'

‘Oh, so you just took a good guess.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That we
do
have a ghost, no more than five mile distant, who died for love. He drowned in the millpond when his sweetheart upped and left him.'

‘How extraordinary!' said John, certain that he was on the point of discovery. ‘I must make a point of visiting the spot.'

‘Aye,' Dickon answered taciturnly.

As the conversation appeared to be about to dry up, John asked desperately, ‘What happened exactly?'

‘I told you. The miller's daughter had a sweetheart, one Jemmy Groves. And when she went to London to make her way in the world . . .' Dickon laughed meaningfully. ‘ . . . he jumped into the millpond and killed himself. Another death came out of that incident, as well. She has a lot to answer for, has Lizzie Harper.'

Barely able to control his triumph, John said, ‘What other death was that?'

Dickon looked over his shoulder. ‘I've said enough. There's folk round here don't like to hear it talked about. She breaks hearts, does Lizzie.'

‘You mean . . .?'

‘Yes, I do. There's some in this very kitchen who fancied themselves smitten with her.'

‘Is she very beautiful, then?'

‘No,' said Dickon surprisingly. ‘She has a black heart and that will never make up for a pretty face.'

‘You are a very perceptive man,' commented John. ‘Now, will you take a jar of my liniment or does your perception not stretch that far?'

The other man smiled for the first time, revealing a mouthful of wildly craggy teeth. ‘I'll try it,' he said, and held out his hand.

A call to supper, coming at that very moment, provided a welcome excuse to sit alone and think. Chewing his leg of fowl, John set his pictorial memory to work and up came a copy of the scarcely literate note that Hannah had found in Elizabeth Harper's apartments. The words ‘If Yew do not Reetun I shalle Kil Miselfe. Cum home for the Love of God, Jem' ran before his eyes. Jem and Jemmy Groves, then, must be one and the same, which led to the obvious conclusion that Elizabeth Harper had been the miller's daughter. It seemed that the hunt for her murderer was beginning to grow warm at last.

‘And are you off to gather simples tomorrow, Sir?' asked Anne Pruet as she cleared away the main course and served John a portion of cheese that was a meal in itself.

‘Yes, but I shall need to hire a horse. The particular thing I'm looking for can only be found at Goodwood.'

‘Goodwood?' she echoed. ‘But there's nothing there except the Duke of Richmond's place.'

‘That is where I am going to seek,' said John, childishly enjoying his play on words. He lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Pruet, Dickon told me such an intriguing thing.'

‘And what was that?'

‘That the mill nearby is haunted by a young man, Jemmy Groves, who killed himself for love of a girl called Lizzie. He also said that
two
deaths resulted from the tragedy. What did he mean by that?'

Anne glanced round cautiously. ‘That after Jemmy's death, Eleanor Benbow vanished without trace and has never been heard of since.'

‘Eleanor Benbow? But who is she?'

‘The miller's only daughter, of flesh and of blood.'

‘You mean that Lizzie was adopted?'

‘Aye, the traitorous little bitch.'

‘Why do you say that?'

But another customer was calling and Mrs Pruet was turning away, and there was nothing left for John to do but consume his cheese and quietly ponder the evening's interesting revelations.

The Spread Eagle inn had been in the hands of the Pruet family since 1716, so John learned the next morning when, after breakfast, he set about hiring himself a horse. First in line had been Henry Pruet, knacker, succeeded by his son John, a tallow chandler, who had now passed the lease on to
his
son William. John Pruet, however, had not retired completely and was in charge of the stables where, with much pride, he cared for his string of beasts, some of which were very fine indeed. Leading out a chestnut mare of rippling proportions, the old man insisted on pointing out her good qualities to the Apothecary who stood somewhat impatiently, ready to tie his herb and flower baskets on to the saddle.

‘This is Blade, Sir; very fast but very even-tempered, an exceptional animal in every way. Now how many days might you be wanting her for?'

‘Two or three, I imagine. Perhaps more.'

‘But you'll be bringing her back at night? For though she is of impeccable temperament, she does prefer her own stable.'

‘I certainly will. I have a room here.'

‘Then cherish her well. They are all like children to me.'

And with this admonition, the business was transacted and John clattered out of the yard, somewhat nervously for he had not ridden for quite a while, and headed south towards Goodwood House, the country seat of that naughty young rake, the Duke of Richmond.

He had decided earlier that morning to make his first task a visit to the two Dukes, Richmond and Midhurst, in order to question them about their activities in Vaux Hall on that fateful night. For much as he longed to investigate the strange story of the mill and the suicide of Jemmy Groves, to say nothing of the disappearance of Eleanor Benbow, a new character in the drama, there could be no escaping the fact that the young noblemen were high on the list of suspects. Obviously, of the pair of them, Richmond appeared to have no motive for killing Elizabeth Harper though, John thought, a well-heeled blade such as he, known to have patronised the house in Leicester Fields, might well have been one of the girl's clients and fallen out with her for some reason not, as yet, revealed. As he rode along, the Apothecary summoned into his mind everything he knew about Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond.

The first thing he recalled was that the Duke was the great grandson of Charles II, this particular line of royal bastards having sprung from the King's liaison with his French mistress, Louise de Queronaille. From these two accomplished lovers, the family of Lennox had inherited a certain wildness as well as their dark good looks, both these characteristics never more prevalent than in the present holder of the title who, still aged under twenty, was enjoying life to the full before custom insisted that he wed. Stopping before the great gates of Goodwood House and showing the lodge keeper John Fielding's letter, the means to gain admittance, John started up the long drive to the house, deciding that in order to handle such an ebullient young scamp as this, serious formality must be the keynote.

The Duke received his visitor in the library, standing before one of the room's many windows so that the light of the June morning shone directly in John's face. Whether he had had time to prepare especially, the Apothecary was not certain, but Charles Lennox, youthful as he was, certainly looked imposing. Elegantly dressed and wearing a neat white wig with a queue tied back in a bow, he was every inch the aristocrat, the privileged young being in whom flowed the blood of kings, the boy to whom the squandering of money must mean very little indeed.

‘How can I help you?' Richmond asked disdainfully and without the flicker of a smile.

John bowed respectfully. ‘By answering a few questions, if you will, your Grace. I take it you have already seen my letter and know that I represent Mr Fielding, Principal Magistrate of the Public Office in Bow Street.'

‘Yes,' said Charles, affecting a yawn.

‘Well, on his behalf I have come to enquire as to your movements when you were last in Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens. That was the night, just in case your memory fails you, when a young woman named Elizabeth Harper was done to death in The Dark Walk.'

‘Really?' said the Duke, yawning again.

‘Yes, really,' John replied, an edge in his voice. ‘Come, Sir, let us not shilly shally. It is a known fact that you frequented the brothel in Leicester Fields and would, therefore, most likely have known the girl – well. It is also known that you were in The Dark Walk at the time, that you winked at the deceased and gave her the eye, and that you also appeared to be searching for someone. Now what do you say to that, remembering that you are as much obliged to answer for yourself as any man in the kingdom?'

‘I say damn you,' answered Richmond, and sat down, rather fast.

‘May I?' asked John, and on the Duke's nod took a seat directly opposite him.

‘I'd also say,' Richmond continued, recovering himself, ‘that your precious Mr Fielding – is it true that the mob call him the Blind Beak? – is remarkably well informed.'

‘Then that being the case,' John said in a reasonable voice, ‘why don't we discuss the matter sensibly? We are of an age, Sir, you and I, and can speak to one another without barriers I believe.'

There was a pause and John saw the Duke's saturnine face tighten as he gave the matter his consideration. He caught himself thinking that the young man looked terribly like his royal great-grandfather at such a moment of intense concentration.

Then Richmond spoke. ‘If I trust you, will everything I say be kept in confidence?'

‘It will be my duty to report back to Mr Fielding but, sentence for sentence, I shall not repeat what you tell me.'

‘Do I have your word on it?'

‘Yes, you do.'

‘Then I'll make a clean breast. I knew Elizabeth Harper, of course I did. Why, I'd taken my measure with her several times, you know the way it is?'

‘Yes,' said John, thinking of Diana. ‘I know.'

‘Well, I'd heard rumours that she'd been set up by a fancy man but thought no more about it. And then, that night at Vaux Hall, I saw her in company with Midhurst – a right Miss Molly that fellow, in my view – so was startled, to say the least. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I got damnably drunk. Truth to tell, I sank six half-pint bumpers of champagne and some super numeral bumpers into the bargain. Anyway, not being at the stupid stage, the drink made me desirous of female company and I went in search of Miss Patty Rigby, whom I had escorted to the Pleasure Gardens but who had gone to visit friends in another box. They told me she was looking for
me
and, guessing her mind, I went off to The Dark Walk.'

‘And what about Lizzie?'

‘I saw her, strange to say and, yes, I did ogle her up, thinking that if Miss Rigby didn't appear, she would do equally well.'

In the face of such unbridled naughtiness it was impossible to maintain formality, and John found a crooked grin creeping over his features. ‘Your Grace, I beg leave to tell you that you are a rampant young blood,' he said, and burst out laughing.

‘Yes,' said Richmond, grinning back. ‘I know.'

‘So what happened then?'

‘I went into The Dark Walk and found Miss Rigby and we disappeared for a while about our business. By the time we'd finished, the cry was up that a girl had been murdered and, discretion being the best course, or so I believe, we went back to our box.'

‘Um,' John answered thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, did you see anyone as you made your way to your trysting place?'