Death in the Peerless Pool (12 page)

The addresses given on the two references which Hannah Rankin had presented to the board of St Luke's Hospital were both of places fashionably situated, according to the Apothecary's guidebook. Having studied the locations carefully, John slept for a while in order to sharpen his reactions, then washed and shaved before setting out for Queen Square, that elegant creation of John Wood, whose houses were the chosen resort of the beau monde. However, this first avenue of enquiry immediately presented a mystery. The number given simply did not exist. Eventually, having walked round for a good quarter of an hour, John knocked at a door, the number of which most closely resembled the fictitious number, and asked for Lady Allbury, whose name was signed at the bottom of the testimonial. He was met with a blank stare.

‘There's no Lady Allbury here, Sir. This is the house of Mr Humphrey Bewl.'

‘Has Lady Allbury moved away, do you know?'

‘There has never been a Lady Allbury here, Sir,' the footman intoned frostily. ‘Mr Bewl's father owned this house before him and came to it when it was newly built.'

Highly suspicious of this latest turn of events, John retired to Sally Lunn's Coffee House, where he demolished a bun oozing with butter and considered his position. It would seem obvious, he thought, that the reference was a forgery and that Lady Allbury was probably a figment of Hannah Rankin's imagination. None the less, it would be well worth asking about the mysterious titled woman just to see if anyone at all knew the name. Wondering what he was going to find when he got there, John made his way to the second address, which was given as Welham House, Bathwick, a suburb of Bath lying across the Avon to the east of the city. Crossing the river by ferry, the Apothecary made enquiries of a man sitting on a wall close by, watching the various craft as they plied the Avon's expanse, and was relieved to hear that Welham House actually existed. Climbing the hill pointed out to him, he toiled to the top to find himself standing before a pair of wrought-iron gates leading on to a straight drive lined by an avenue of trees, at the end of which could be glimpsed a Palladian house, superbly proportioned. John guessed that it might also be the work of John Wood, the architect, a disciple of the great Italian master, Palladio. Patting the letter of authorisation signed by Mr Fielding, now residing in his pocket, he called to the lodgekeeper to open the wicket gate.

Hannah's reference, headed with the Welham House address, was signed Vivian Sweeting, and the Apothecary's enquiry as to whether Mr Sweeting was at home was met with the reply that Sir Vivian was in residence but had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed for the next two hours as he was working on his correspondence. Leaving behind his card and the Magistrate's request for cooperation, John had no option but to retire to the nearest ale-house, a ramshackle establishment built close to the River Avon, called The Ship. Always a great believer in talking to the locals, the Apothecary struck up a conversation with an ancient fellow who announced that he had once been the ferryman, a post he had held for more than fifty years.

‘So you've seen a few people come and go in that time, I imagine.'

‘I have, Sir, indeed,' the old fellow answered, in the soft-toned accent of a native of Bath.

John assumed his honest and confiding face, simultaneously ordering the gaffer a tankard of ale. ‘Truth to tell, I'm down here trying to trace a female who used to work for my aunt. She went off to London and was never heard of again.'

‘Oh, and who might that be?'

‘Hannah Rankin was her name. I believe that she worked at Welham House at one time.'

The old man shook his head. ‘Don't mean nothing to me, Sir. What was the other lady's name?'

‘What other lady?'

‘Your aunt, Sir.'

‘Lady Allbury,' answered John, with a flash of inspiration.

The old man's face underwent an amazing series of changes. ‘Lady Allbury, Sir? But surely you know, Sir, being her kin and all.'

Realising that he was treading dangerous ground but not certain quite what kind, the Apothecary immediately looked concerned. ‘I know nothing, my friend. I have been abroad for several years and have only just returned to this country.'

The ferryman appeared more distressed than ever. ‘Then it is hardly my place to tell you, Sir.'

John hastily ordered another refill of ale. ‘But I must beg you to do so. There is no one in the family left alive to give me the news.'

Even as he lied, the Apothecary caught himself wondering about the ease with which he could spin yams and not suffer from a guilty conscience. In the line of duty, he reassured himself.

‘Lady Allbury – what happened to her?' he prompted.

‘She drowned herself. Jumped into the Avon just below the ferry. I was one of those who helped drag her out.'

‘Where was she living at the time?' John asked, thinking to have put the question rather well in view of the fictitious address.

The old man's eyes widened. ‘Nobody knew, Sir. She really did go mad, in the true sense of the words, after Lucy was taken. She abandoned her home in the Grand Parade and people saw her wandering the streets of town, her garments stained and filthy and her person not much better. Eventually, Lady Chandos, who was down for the season and had been at school with her – but then you'd know that – took Lady Allbury back with her to London in order to care for her. But Lady Allbury escaped and came back to Bath to end it all.'

Realising he had to be very careful, John said, ‘I have been away so long and have forgotten so much. Remind me, Lucy was her daughter, wasn't she?'

The ferryman drank a vast draught. ‘Yes, Sir. Born to her late in life, when she was well in her forties in fact. Her other three children had grown up and left home long since. But Lucy came along after Lord Allbury had been dead many a year, if you understand me.'

John nodded. ‘I do indeed. A sad tale but not uncommon. Anyway, what happened to the child?'

‘She vanished, Sir. Taken by the Romanies, some said.'

With his flesh creeping at the prospect of hearing a tale that was already reminding him vividly of the Dysart tragedy, John said, ‘Go on.'

‘She was out playing in the grounds of Prior Park, having a picnic with Mr Ralph Allen, the owner, and his family. Her mother was there and her nursemaid and all was well. Then the children played hide-and-seek and that was that, Sir. Lucy never came back.'

‘Dear God!' said John, very shaken. ‘And was nothing heard of her again?'

‘Nothing, Sir. The constable was called but he could do little. Then Lady Allbury hired a man, an ex-soldier, wounded so living on his wits but with a good reputation for finding things out, and though he searched high and low he came up with no result. That's when Lady Allbury lost her mind. The shock was too much for her.'

The Apothecary hastily ordered more ale, abstaining himself in view of the interview that lay before him. ‘This man,' he said, watching the ferryman effortlessly pour the liquid down his throat, ‘the fellow who finds things out, you don't know his name by any chance?'

‘That I don't, Sir. Never did.'

‘Does he live in Bath?'

‘I believe he does, though where I couldn't say.'

The old man's fund of knowledge was clearly running out. John got to his feet, pressing a coin into his informant's hand. ‘If you remember anything else, I am staying at The Bear. I'd be grateful for any fact that could help me find out more about poor Lucy.'

‘She was snatched, in my opinion, and in the belief of most others as well.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because she was a winsome little thing with her great mass of hair. Like spun gold, it was.'

‘How old was Lucy when she disappeared?'

‘About seven or so.'

‘And how long ago was that?'

‘Roughly ten years.

The Apothecary fell silent, considering the similarities with the Dysart case, appalled, yet again, at the terrible danger in which the young were placed daily; aware, horrible though the thought was, that there were brothels in many of the larger cities staffed entirely by children. Eventually he shook himself out of his reverie and turned to the ferryman.

‘You have been very kind. Don't forget to look me up if you hear anything more.'

The old man raised his finger to his forelock. ‘I'll remember, Sir. You can count on me.'

‘Thank you,' said John, and sensible of a mood of growing depression, he tackled the hill once more and arrived at Welham House at the appointed time.

On this occasion he was ushered straight into the receiving salon where Sir Vivian sat at ease, scanning a book, one exquisite silk-hosed leg crossed over the other. He looked up as the Apothecary came in, his brows raised in question.

‘Mr Rawlings from the Public Office, Sir,' intoned a footman.

Sir Vivian nodded. ‘Do take a seat. How may I assist you?'

Without replying, John sat down opposite his host, having first given a bow that would not have disgraced a member of the beau monde. ‘By answering a few questions,' he said as he settled into the chair.

Sir Vivian waved a white hand. ‘By all means. Pray continue.'

‘It is a little difficult to know where to begin.'

‘Well, tell me why you have come. I am a busy man, Sir.'

There was the merest edge of irritation in his voice and, studying him, the Apothecary could well imagine that Sir Vivian's temper was on a short rein, for he had the look about him of one whose emotions seethed beneath an implacable exterior. Very dark eyes with a strange dead glitter in their depths looked piercingly from beneath black brows that knitted together in the middle, not a physical characteristic that John liked very much. But the rest of his appearance seemed unremarkable enough, except for the man's extreme thinness. Beneath Sir Vivian's skin, somewhat pallid, as if it were rarely exposed to the sun, the bones of his face seemed almost skull-like, while his body bore the same emaciated look. The Apothecary thought that slenderness at this level was very far from becoming. In fact he shuddered inwardly at Sir Vivian's teeth, large and white, giving the impression that they were far too big for his thin and slightly snarling lips.

On Sir Vivian's hollow cheek, just below his right eye, was stuck a black beauty spot in the shape of a ship, at which he unknowingly picked as he waited impatiently for the Apothecary to speak. ‘Well?' he said.

‘I'll come directly to the point,' answered John.

‘I wish you would.'

‘Does the name Hannah Rankin mean anything to you?'

Sir Vivian considered, repeating the name a couple of times under his breath. ‘No, I don't think so,' he said finally.

‘A letter purporting to be from you and bearing your signature recommended her as a suitable employee to those whom it might concern. Is it a total forgery?'

‘Not necessarily,' said Sir Vivian. ‘My secretary often signs letters on my behalf, and as it is the duty of my steward to employ staff it is quite possible that he gave her a testimonial which my secretary subsequently endorsed.'

Thinking that the interview was going to be difficult, John asked politely, ‘Would it be possible to see your steward? Might he remember her name?'

‘Why do you want to know all this?' Sir Vivian replied, his dead eyes boring into his visitor's. ‘Before I waste the time of one of my employees, I would have to be given a very good reason as to why I should do so.'

‘As Mr Fielding stated in his letter, Sir, we are trying to learn all we can about Hannah Rankin's past.'

‘And what care I what is going on in Bow Street, London? What is Hannah Rankin's past to me?'

‘Nothing, except for the fact that she has been murdered and it is the duty of all citizens to help track her killer down.'

Sir Vivian raised a heavy brow. ‘Is it? Is it really? In a perfect world no doubt everyone would be public-spirited. But this is Bath, not London, Sir, and therefore what happens in the capital is really of little concern to us.'

‘Then you cannot help me further?'

‘No, Mr, er …' He glanced at John's card … ‘Rawlings, I cannot. Hannah Rankin might have worked for me, the testimonial could have been signed by my secretary. That is the most I can tell you.'

John stood up. ‘Then I'll bid you good-day, Sir.'

‘Good-day,' said Sir Vivian, and returned to the study of his book.

Inwardly, John seethed with anger at his abrupt dismissal, but there was little he could do. Bowing very briefly, he turned on his heel and left the room. Yet even on his way to the front door he decided somehow to approach one of the servants, however difficult it should prove to be. He turned to the footman who was escorting him out.

‘A glorious place this. Have you worked at Welham House long?'

‘No, Sir,' came the stony reply.

‘Then you probably wouldn't have known Hannah Rankin, who was a servant here at one time.'

‘No Sir.'

‘Oh, that's a pity. I have a reward for information about her. You could have stood to gain there.'

‘No I couldn't, Sir,' answered the footman as he closed the door in the Apothecary's face.

There still being two hours to occupy before the time to dine, John crossed the river back to Bath and, after a brief call at his lodgings to tidy himself a little, made his way to the Pump Room to take the waters. It being well beyond the hour for bathing, which usually began at six in the morning and continued until nine, there were few people about, most having gone to change for dinner or to pursue their various afternoon recreations. Thus, other than for a handful of infirm folk, the Apothecary found himself alone as he was served a glass of the hot Bath water by the pumper.

It was disgusting, there could be no doubt of that; sulphurous and horrid and made all the worse by the fact that it was warm. However, John, fascinated by water as he had always been, poured a little sample into a phial to take back to The Bear and analyse as best he could with the equipment he had brought with him. This done, he turned his attention to the others present, wondering if any of them might be able to give him some more information about Lady Allbury. For though her terrible tale had nothing to do with the death of Hannah Rankin, it was clear from the forged reference bearing Lady Allbury's name that the murdered woman had at least known of the bereaved mother.