by Deryn Lake
She put her head on one side and looked at John with bright eyes, reminding him vividly of a robin, even to her shape.
‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you are quite right. You see indications are that the murdered man knew his killer and that it was more than likely somebody who was travelling on the same coach.’
‘I must protest,’ Augusta said loudly, ‘vye should the Constable think it is me?’
‘I don’t know that he does,’ John answered mildly. ‘He just wishes to talk to you, that is all.’
Fraulein Schmitt burst into a noisy and showy fit of weeping. ‘I am being persecuted,’ she sobbed. ‘It is not fair. It is cruel. Ach, Matilda, vot have I done to deserve such treatment?’
Her sister had obviously learned long ago how to control such outbursts.
‘Now hush Augusta, do. Mr…?’ She gave John a docile smile.
‘Rawlings, Madam. John Rawlings.’
‘… Rawlings might think you are guilty of something if you continue.’
Augusta turned a horrible colour, a cross between putty and curds, but stopped moaning. ‘Of vot could I be accused?’ she asked.
John merely smiled, thinking that the draining of colour was probably caused by panic. Yet for all that his instinctive dislike of Augusta Schmitt made him rule nothing out. He turned to the woman.
‘If I were you, Madam, I would come to Exeter tomorrow and go to see the Constable voluntarily. I am sure he would appreciate it.’
‘That is a very good idea,’ said Matilda Mitchell firmly. ‘I could drive you there in the trap.’
John stood up, addressing himself to his hostess. ‘Madam, if you will forgive me. My hackney is waiting outside and I fear the fare will be enormous. I must make haste.’
‘Of course. It was nice of you to call, Mr Rawlings.’
The Apothecary bowed. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.’ He made another, more formal, bow in the direction of the Fraulein. ‘Good day, Miss Schmitt.’
She growled something inaudible in return and John made his way out thinking how different the two sisters were not only in looks but also in personality.
Elizabeth, as usual, had not realized how long he had been and was happily dining with Lady Sedgewick and her family. Milady had a large modern house built close to the cathedral but standing in its own pleasant grounds. John, feeling that he looked like a tramp, made his way on foot to the imposing front door and was greeted by a black footman standing well over six feet in height.
‘I’ve come to collect the Marchesa di Lorenzi,’ John said, staring up at him. ‘She is expecting me.’
‘Very good, Sah. If you wouldn’t mind waiting.’
The footman strolled off nonchalantly, ushering John into a small reception room before he went. He returned after a few minutes, a great smile adorning his features.
‘This way, if you please, Sah.’ And he bowed John into a magnificent dining-room where Elizabeth sat with a youngish, attractive woman and children of assorted ages and sizes gathered around the dining-table.
They all looked up as John entered. Feeling decidedly ill-dressed and as if he smelt of the country, he took a seat where Lady Sedgewick indicated. She raised a lorgnette and looked at him.
‘So this is the young man!’ she said.
The Apothecary felt terrible, just like a boy who has been caught out committing some major schoolboy sin. He stood up and bowed ornately.
‘Allow me to present myself, Madam. I am John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane.’
‘What a quaint name,’ said Lady Sedgewick, though whether she was referring to him or his address John could not be certain.
‘Isn’t it,’ Elizabeth answered carelessly. ‘Though there is nothing quaint about young John.’ She laughed. ‘Though on second thoughts…’
The eldest boy and girl, aged about eighteen and sixteen respectively, giggled wildly, while their mother laughed aloud.
‘Hush, there,’ she said when she had calmed herself. ‘We are embarrassing the poor fellow. Grevil, Dorinda, be silent. We have finished dining but are currently on the port, Mr Rawlings. As my eldest boy is but a sprig we have dispensed with the formality of withdrawing.’ She smiled at the Apothecary, rather too broadly for his liking.
He turned a somewhat cold look in Elizabeth’s direction. ‘I take it you have enjoyed yourself, madam.’
‘Very greatly,’ she said, and flickered her eyelid at him.
The apothecary was thoroughly discomfited imagining that the Marchesa had told Lady Sedgewick of her pregnancy. He could almost hear them.
‘And who is the father, my dear? Anyone from round here?’
‘No, my friend, it is an apothecary from London.’
‘Gracious me. He must have mixed a rare potion!’
And he could picture the older children, standing outside the door and craning forward to listen as they collapsed in heaps of uncontrollable giggles. The port bottle came round to the left and John was sufficiently perturbed to pour himself a glassful which he immediately downed.
‘Would you like another, Sir?’ asked the girl called Dorinda.
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Then help yourself.’
John did so before passing the bottle to the left. And then, having swallowed the further drink, he took control of himself once more. If they were all making fun of him — and this went for Elizabeth as well — he would act the role of the rake from hell. He slouched back in his chair and addressed the boy called Grevil.
‘D’you know London at all?’
‘No, sir. I have never visited the city.’
‘Ah well, you must ask your mama for permission to do so. It’s a wild place indeed and truly suitable for a young buck like yourself.’ John lowered his voice to an audible whisper. ‘There are girls ripe for the taking.’ And he winked his eye.
Lady Sedgewick, who was a fine-looking woman with a mass of dark hair, large luminous eyes and an expression like a well-bred horse, tutted disapprovingly. Elizabeth, who had immediately read John’s motives, gave him an amused smile.
‘Grevil shall go to the capital when he is a little older, Mr Rawlings. I consider him too young at present to venture forth unattended,’ said his mother.
‘But I could attend him, Ma’am.’
‘Thank you, Mr Rawlings but I must decline your kind offer. I think a tutor would be a better kind of escort.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me, Elizabeth, are you going to Lady Sidmouth’s ball?’
‘Indeed I am. Nothing could prevent me. This morning I ordered a new gown especially.’
‘As have I. The children are taking dancing lessons and Grevil and Dorinda have received personal invitations.’
‘Then I will have the pleasure of inviting your daughter to dance,’ said John, his tone exceptionally warm.
‘We shall have to see about that,’ answered Lady Sedgewick, giving him a dark and extremely reproving look.
Going home in the carriage afterwards, Elizabeth said, ‘Why did you behave so badly?’
‘Because they were all giggling and laughing, making snide jokes about me fathering your child.’
‘Oh come now, what an infantile attitude. You’re a poor creature if you cannot take a jest made at your expense.’
John turned his head to look at her. ‘How can you be so insensitive? I love you and I love the forthcoming baby. I do not find it a fitting subject for tomfoolery.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘No, you are right. It is a serious matter.’ She fixed him with a gaze that held various emotions in its depths. ‘We love each other, you and I, and yet we can never be together.’
John knew that he should argue, that he should protest, but suddenly he felt at the end of that particular road. He sighed.
‘You’re correct, Elizabeth. We are too different. Tomorrow I shall leave you.’
‘I see,’ she answered stiffly. ‘And do you intend to come back?’
‘If you wish me to.’
‘Of course I wish i
t. John, do not tease me. I am vulnerable at the moment.’
‘I could never depart unless you wanted me to,’ he answered solemnly, a feeling of great gloom descending on him.
‘I think a few days apart would do neither of us any harm. But promise me to return in time for Lady Sidmouth’s ball.’
‘I promise,’ the Apothecary answered solemnly, and stared out of the window at the wild countryside just beginning to fade into darkness.
Eleven
In contrast to the day he had left London for Devon, this morning was fine and fair. The words ‘Golden October’ ran through the Apothecary’s mind as he climbed aboard the London-bound stagecoach in company with a thin nervous lady whom he helped into her seat. Somewhat to his surprise he saw that sitting directly opposite him was Lucinda Silverwood. He half rose and bowed to her.
‘Good day, Madam. How nice to be travelling with you. I take it your daughter has had her child?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, indeed. A healthy boy. So my job is now done and I am going home.’
‘Which is where?’ the Apothecary enquired.
‘In Sussex. I live just outside Lewes.’
‘What a coincidence. That is where I am heading.’
An infinitesimal look of anxiety crossed her face to be rapidly replaced by her usual serene expression. ‘How delightful. I shall have a travelling companion.’
‘It will be entirely my pleasure.’
They relapsed into silence and John thought about his meeting with the Constable earlier that morning when they both had to admit that they were no further forward with the case.
‘It’s the very devil, Sir. I’ve interviewed them all bar the German woman and you say that she is coming to see me this morning.’
‘I am certain she will. Her sister is very different from her and she is driving Fraulein Schmitt in in a trap, so I have no reason to doubt it.’
‘Well, though none of them has an alibi, they seem a fairly straightforward bunch to me.’
Straightforward would have hardly been the word he would have used to describe such a diverse mixture of people considered John. But he had said nothing. Instead he had offered the information that he was on his way to Sussex to discover as much as he could about William Gorringe’s past.
‘Well, I wish you luck, Sir. But don’t be too disappointed if you come away empty-handed.’
And with that comforting thought the Apothecary had left to go to The Half Moon to catch the stagecoach. As he had gone he had spotted a trap in the distance being driven by the redoubtable Matilda Mitchell and had given a small sigh of relief.
Now he sat in the coach while the horses were backed into the traces amidst a certain amount of encouragement and swearing from the hostlers and the horsekeeper. Looking out of the window he saw with a certain amount of surprise that the Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome had come into the yard. Then he noticed they were carrying luggage and realized that they were going to travel with him as well. He watched as the great black man swung himself up onto the roof and put down a mighty hand to pull Nathaniel up to sit beside him.
‘All aboard, ladies and gentlemen?’ called the driver.
‘Wait for me,’ shouted an elderly man, puffing into the inn yard at the last minute. He was hauled up by unseen hands and the coachman cracked his whip.
‘Well, we’re away,’ said Mrs Silverwood, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘You will miss your daughter no doubt,’ John answered her.
‘Oh yes, I shall. She is my only child, alas. And Nicholas my only grandchild.’
‘So far,’ the Apothecary said cheerfully, and brought a smile to her lips.
The journey to London was a repetition of the excursion down but done in reverse. Having left Exeter at nine in the morning — as opposed to mid-evening — they stayed once again in Bath. During their first break John, having gallantly handed the ladies out and assisted a clergyman to descend, found himself face-to-face with Jack Beef, alias the Black Pyramid.
The black man had swept him a fulsome bow. ‘My word. So we meet again. How delightful to see you Mr Rawlings.’
‘The pleasure is entirely mine,’ the Apothecary answered, returning the compliment.
There was a great flash of white teeth. ‘I take it that you are returning to London?’
‘Actually I am travelling on further. What about yourself?’
‘I am going to a fight in Islington. At Stokes’s Amphitheatre to be precise.’
‘Oh, I like that place. I went there years ago and saw a female boxing match.’
‘Well, now it’s Jack’s turn,’ said Nathaniel, coming round the corner and tipping his hat in the direction of the Apothecary.
‘Did you do well from your bout in Exeter?’ John asked conversationally.
‘Extremely well. In addition to my purse I got a reward from some young blade who had wagered a great deal on my winning. It was a most enjoyable trip.’
‘But marred by the murder of William Gorringe no doubt.’
The black man straightened his face while Nathaniel swept his hat from his head.
‘That was an unfortunate business. Both Nat and I have seen the Constable but we found it hard to give him any information. I imagine it was some burglar who crept in and was surprised during the robbery.’
‘I think not,’ John answered briefly.
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘The man was attacked with unbelievable savagery. All the evidence points to him being killed by somebody who really hated him.’
The Black Pyramid looked grim, his face tautening into deep lines and dark furrows. ‘Must have been someone from his past,’ he said.
‘And that,’ replied John, ‘is precisely what I am about to investigate.’
He raised his hat to the pair, who stood staring at him, astonished, and proceeded into the inn to partake of a light repast.
They reached the Gloucester Coffee House late the next night, having raced back from Bath only stopping to allow the passengers food and comfort. John had tried to sleep as darkness fell but he had found his brain too full of thoughts to allow him to doze. Opposite him Mrs Silverwood had slept deeply, so deeply that John had been forced to wake her when they arrived in London. He had gone immediately into The Gloucester Hotel to book himself a room for the night; Lucinda had followed him, yawning. The Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome, however, had hired a hackney coach and had disappeared into the night without further ado.
The only room left had been one for two persons and John had turned to Mrs Silverwood.
‘Do you object to sharing with me, Madam? I promise that I will not embarrass you in any way.’
‘I would share with anyone tonight,’ she had answered, her voice sounding exhausted.
So John had signed them in as Mr and Mrs Rawlings and they had been shown to a small attic dwelling at the very top of the house.
Without false modesty Lucinda had removed her upper and outer garments and had lain down in the bed in her stays, shift and under-petticoat. She had immediately fallen asleep. John longed to take off his breeches but did not dare strip down to his drawers. Instead he removed his shoes and stockings, his coat and waistcoat, and also dived into bed, making sure that he kept a good distance between himself and the slumbering Mrs Silverwood.
He, too, must have slept deeply because he awoke the next morning to find her missing. He sat up in bed, slightly annoyed that she hadn’t woken him to go to breakfast, where he presumed she was. But having made his way downstairs he was informed that his wife had already left the inn and further had settled the account for the two of them. Grateful but for all that puzzled, John ate a somewhat indifferent breakfast, then made enquires about coaches leaving for Lewes.
‘They leave from The Borough, Sir. From The White Swan.’
John recalled with a mixture of mirth and misery his memories of the place at which he had stayed when he had been on his way to the Romney Marsh.
‘Thank
you very much. You are quite sure Mrs… er… Rawlings has paid the bill?’
‘Positive, Sir,’ answered the man, and gave John a lewd wink.
Not feeling in the least like walking, John hired a hackney coach and proceeded in this conveyance to the busy part of London known as The Borough, crossing the Thames by means of a slow progress over London Bridge. When he eventually arrived he found that a stagecoach was leaving for Brighthelmstone at eight o’clock and felt a great sense of relief that he only had to wait ten minutes before it departed. Hurrying, he managed to secure a place on the roof in a rather precarious seat at the very back. As he scaled the coach’s side he realized that he was probably on a fool’s errand.
‘First stop is Croydon,’ called the guard and with a turn of wheels and a crack of the whip, John set off on this extremely nebulous adventure.
They reached Lewes approximately nine and a half hours later having stopped at Croydon, Godstone, East Grinstead and Uckfield before they reached their destination. Dropping John and another woman, large and grumpy and wearing eyebrow wigs made of mouse fur, at an establishment named The White Hart, the Apothecary decided to book himself a room for the night and afterwards go into the taproom to pick up any local gossip.
But first he must dine, feeling very empty and decidedly in need of a good glass of claret. He made his way to the dining parlour which was totally devoid of people and addressed an ancient waiter.
‘Good evening. I have just arrived off the stagecoach. Am I too late to get a bite of supper?’
‘Provided you take what the cook has to offer, Sir, no, you are not.’
‘Then fetch me some pottage and pie and I’ll be happy.’
‘And what would you like to drink?’
‘Some wine, if you please.’
‘Certainly, Sir.’
The waiter left the room and John was just starting to read a newspaper when the woman with the eyebrow wigs, which John regarded as quite the most monstrous fashion, came in and sat down at a table adjacent to his.
‘Where’s the serving man?’ she enquired abruptly.
‘He’s just gone out to put in my order,’ John answered, lowering the paper.