by Deryn Lake
“I suppose you want to discuss the witches,” said Tim in a loud whisper.
“No, it’s something else I’m afraid. Tim, you must prepare yourself for a shock. I am sorry to have to tell you that Kathryn is dead.”
To say that the ne’er-do-well gaped at him would have been a gross understatement. His jaw quite literally dropped and for once in his life he looked utterly devastated.
“Dead? But that’s not possible. I only saw her an hour ago. She was perfectly well then.”
“Yes, I saw her too remember. But after our conversation she went to Loe Pool and threw herself in.”
Tim let out a terrible cry, then turned his head away and John could see that he was weeping. He leant forward. “I’m sorry, believe me. It must be a terrible blow.”
“It is. Poor Kathryn. What had she done to merit such an end?” She met you, thought John, but would rather have died than say it aloud. Instead he said, “I think it was principally the death of Isobel that unhinged her.”
“Yes.” Tim dried his eyes. “You’re right. But where did the child go? That is something we have never discovered.”
John shook his head slowly. “I believe she drowned in Loe Pool.”
“And her mother followed her,” Tim said quietly. He sat up straight. “Let us have another drink and toast her memory.”
“Yes,” answered John, but inside his head he was thinking how extraordinary Tim Painter was. But then, he considered, the entire nation, indeed the world, was made up of such individual people that one should never be surprised by the behaviour of anyone.
They raised their glasses. “To Kathryn,” said Tim, “may God rest her soul.”
“Amen to that,” answered John. He drained his glass and stood up. “Now, are you going to be alright?”
“Yes. I intend to drown my sorrows. You won’t join me?”
“No, I must get back to my daughter. We plan to leave -“ John pulled his watch out and looked at it “- this afternoon. Now I see it will have to be tomorrow. I’ll bid you farewell in case our paths do not cross again.”
Unbelievably Tim’s eyes filled with tears once more. “Oh no, we cannot part like that. I shall come and wave farewell to the stagecoach. After all, I consider you a close friend.”
He suddenly seemed unbelievably sad and lonely, and John thought that he probably had few male friends having spent most of his adult life concentrating on women.
“That will be most kind of you. Thank you.”
“It will be my pleasure. We must meet when I am next in town.”
John bowed, Tim made to stand up but couldn’t quite achieve it. None the less he gave a small salute before he addressed himself once more to his wine, another bottle of which had been ordered on the Apothecary’s arrival.
Back in the street, John ran the short distance to The Angel, suddenly full of fear for his child. But she was playing happily enough with the landlord’s wife, a dark comely creature of some forty years. They both looked up as he approached.
“Oh, there you are, Sir. I was feeling somewhat worried.”
“Is Rose all right?”
“She’s perfectly well, Sir. I had to remove her from the custody of the girl because she had so much to do the poor thing was at her wit’s end. So I took Rose from her. I hope you don’t mind, Sir.”
“Mind? I am more than grateful to you, Madam.” He produced a guinea from his pocket. “I wonder if I could ask you a favour. Would it be possible for you to care for Rose tonight? I have to go out later and I am very nervous of leaving her on her own. If you could, perhaps, sleep in her room.” The landlord’s wife looked askance. “Why, Sir? Surely you’re not afraid once the child has bedded down.”
“But that’s when I do worry. Suppose some stranger were to come in off the streets.”
“Bless you, Sir. They’re all locals.”
John thought wildly and came up with the answer. “It’s ever since the disappearance of Isobel Pill. She vanished as you know. I couldn’t bear it if anything like that were to happen to
Rose.”
The woman looked thoughtful. “Aye, Sir, “ee do have a point. I’ll sleep with the child tonight.”
“Just this once. We’re leaving tomorrow. Can you tell me at what time the stagecoach departs?”
“Are you going to Truro or Falmouth, Sir?” t*-p> lruro.
“Then your luck holds, Sir. The Truro stage leaves in the morning at nine o’clock.”
“And we’ll be on it,” said John, and felt a sudden uplifting of his heart.
He never afterwards could tell what drew him back to Loe Pool. But immediately after dining with his daughter and handing her into the care of Mrs King, who fussed over the child, presumably thinking that another guinea might be on the way, he set off on foot to see that stretch of mysterious water for the last time. The sun was just going down and the lights were transforming the Loe into a glittering mirror. All around him the trees were etched darkly against the fading light, sinister sentinels of the night that was to come. From where he stood John could glimpse Penrose House and immediately opposite it, almost hidden by the undergrowth, the home of Lord Lyle himself. Penrose was lit by a shaft of dying light but the other house lay in gloom. Suddenly, for no reason, John needed to go there to see the owner and tell him that the game was up. That he should get out before the wrath of the law descended on him. Almost without knowing it, his feet started to walk to where the steep path ascended upwards.
It was almost dark by the time he reached it and in the undergrowth on either side of the track he could hear the little rustlings of wild creatures. For no reason the sounds made him nervous and he would have turned back had he not been over half way up. As he drew nearer the Apothecary could see that the place was in total blackness, not a candle lit anywhere. This made him even more frightened and he stood still for a second. Then he pulled himself together, thinking he had come this far and really must continue on his way. Gritting his teeth, John proceeded towards the house.
As he drew nearer he realised that the place was deserted. No light shone from the windows, which gazed out onto the night, shutters open. Drawing closer, John peered in through one of them, seeing dim reflections of the room beyond. He was staring into a library for the walls were lined with books, a high stool drawn up before one wall. There were two chairs standing on either side of the fireplace, which had been cleaned out and laid but remained unlit. John leant closer, his face pressed against the glass, peering into the room. As his eyes adjusted to the light he found that he could see the interior more and more clearly, and he allowed his gaze to wander, picking out individual items of furnishing. Then suddenly he started forward, staring with total concentration. For in front of the chair with its back to the window he could see a pair of buckled shoes - shoes with stockinged legs inside them.
John pulled back into the shadows, his heart pounding. So the house was not empty after all. Whoever it was in there obviously preferred sitting in the dark, his only light coming from the unshuttered windows. He waited silently, listening for the noise of the occupant stirring. There was none and after a few minutes he ventured another cautious glance inside. The legs and feet were in exactly the same position as they had been when he had last seen them. It occurred to him then that the legs” owner was asleep and so he had nothing to fear. None the less John’s hand went into his pocket checking that he had brought his pistol. He allowed himself another quick peer and saw that, yet again, they were just as they had been when last he looked.
Now he began to feel slightly worried. Supposing, just supposing, that the man sitting in the room had had a seizure and was incapable of movement. Or, even worse, that he had died in the chair and would slowly be starting to stiffen. It was too much for someone trained as the Apothecary had been. Cautiously, for he was very far from certain that the man was ill, John made his way round to the front door.
It was open, just a crack, but open for all that. Moving cautiously John push
ed it and the door swung back with a loud creak. He stood motionless, half expecting the man from the library to stagger to his feet and come into the reception hall to see who had arrived. Nothing moved.
“Lord Lyle,” called John quietly.
There was no reply and walking softly over the wooden floor the Apothecary, losing his sense of direction, began to open doors and peer into the rooms thus revealed. Eventually he came to the library which he recognised from the close covering of books on the walls.
“Lord Lyle,” he said again.
Nobody stirred. Moving with extreme caution, John went into the room.
Lord Lyle was asleep in the chair wearing that same cruel make-up with which he had been adorned on the last occasion they had met. An enamel white macquillage, carmined lips and looping black brows completely blotted out his natural colour, while a white wig atop only added to the general ghastly effect. Creeping forward, calling his name softly, John wondered at the deepness of his sleep.
And then he drew level with him and saw that the head had fallen to one side at a most unnatural angle, and that round his lordship’s throat was a black scarf pulled tightly. As if released from a catalepsy, the Apothecary rushed to Lord Lyle’s assistance. Snatching off the scarf, he felt for the pulse but, much as he had expected, there was none. Someone had done for his lordship, someone who had come, perhaps, as the shadows began to fall, and then, deed finished, had hastened away into the roseate evening.
John stood up. There was nothing further he could do. His mission now must be to get back to Helstone in the darkness and raise the alarm. For a moment he felt desperately sorry for William Trethowan, whose troubled plate was already overflowing with disaster. But then he thought it was the man’s turn to do the job of Constable and there was nothing for him but to get on with it. However, this matter put a slightly different complexion on his leaving town tomorrow. Suddenly overcome with worry about Rose, about the situation in general, John left the house, closing the front door behind him.
The night had become treacherous - or at least he imagined it had. Trees and bushes scratched his face and hands and he seemed to lose his path several times. But at long last he found himself in open fields and the lights shining from the houses of Helstone seemed as bright as if they had lit every candle in Christendom. Hurrying up Coinage Hall Street, John made his way into The Blue Anchor. There was no one there he knew, Tim Painter and the man he most wanted to see - William Trethowan - being all too clearly absent. Turning round abruptly John ran towards The Angel.
It was strangely quiet within, indeed there was hardly anyone around. With a feeling of growing panic John went into the taproom. A few huddled locals sat about but they too seemed oddly restrained. Deciding he would have to go to Trethowan’s home - a small dwelling in Meneage Street - the Apothecary was aware that he must first check on his daughter. Going upstairs, he went to his room to change his coat and breeches which had become somewhat soiled by his encounter with various pieces of undergrowth.
The place was in darkness but striking a tinder, he lit the several candles that were dotted round the room. And then he saw that a letter had been pushed under his door. With a sudden rush of fear, the Apothecary picked it up and broke the clumsily applied seal.
“Sir, take care of your child, I beg you. She is in mortal danger,” he read.
There was no signature, no address, no date, nothing. But the very sight of it had John running, half-dressed, to the room next door to his. He flung open the door without ceremony, gazing at the white bed where Rose’s small figure should have lain. It was entirely empty. His daughter had vanished.
Chapter 30
A cry of sheer despair broke from the Apothecary’s lips, then turning abruptly he left the room and hurried down the stairs, the sheet of paper still clutched in his hand.
“Mrs King,” he called. “Mrs King, where are you?”
There was no answer and he started to run through the inn, shouting the landlady’s name, his panic rising with every passing second. She appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth.
“Mr Rawlings, whatever is it? What’s the matter?” He saw her expression change. “It’s not Rose surely? I only left her for a minute. There was a crisis I had to attend to.”
“Rose has gone,” he said, and sat down suddenly in a chair, his face drained entirely of colour.
“Oh no!”
“And this letter was pushed under my door.”
He handed it to her and watched her expression as she read. Then she looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic.
“Oh my God. I feel so guilty. What shall we do?”
“We must rouse everyone we can and search for her. I will go to the Constable straight away.”
He stood up, realising that he felt utterly weak, his limbs heavy and useless. But despite this the Apothecary knew that to act quickly was essential and that he must overcome this feeling. Hurrying back upstairs he put on his jacket and went out into the night.
From the moment he left The Angel John started calling his daughter’s name. Yet he was racked with indecision, longing to start searching for her but knowing that he must get William Trethowan’s assistance, and get it promptly. With this thought in mind he ran as fast as he could to the Constable’s cottage and arrived there sweating profusely and gasping for breath.
He had just put his hand to the knocker when he heard a strange rustling sound down by his feet and looked at the cobbles to see what was causing it. There, of all things, was theblind fiddler’s monkey picking round for food. For some reason John drew back into the shadows of the cottage wall and watched.
A few seconds later the blind man came down the street calling, “Wilkes, Wilkes. Where are you, you little wretch? Come here.”
Once again, John stood quietly, not knowing why he did so. In total silence he watched the fiddler draw near. The monkey meanwhile had ceased its scrabbling and now sat up, its head on one side, watching as the Gaffer approached.
The fiddler looked up and down the street rapidly, then he bent and picked the monkey up. “You’re a naughty boy, running away like that.”
In that one movement, done without witnesses except for himself, John knew that the blindness was assumed, that the Gaffer could see as well as he could. Yet now he had more pressing things on his mind. Waiting till the fiddler was out of earshot, he banged the knocker and called out, “Mr Trethowan, please come to the door. It’s John Rawlings. My little girl has disappeared.”
Surprisingly it was thrown open almost straight away to reveal the Constable, still fully dressed and smoking a long clay pipe.
“What’s happened, Sir?” he asked.
“It’s Rose. She’s been taken from her room. And this was put under my door.” And he thrust the letter into the Constable’s hand.
Moving back into the light of the hall, Trethown scanned its contents. Then he said, “Have you any idea where she might be?”
“None. None at all. All I know is that she has been taken and I must find her quickly. I am certain her life is in danger.”
“I’d agree with you there, Sir,” William answered, struggling into his coat. “I’ll come at once.”
It took a few minutes to return to The Angel and there John found that John King, the landlord, had already started to organise a search party. They stood around in the entrance, looking determined and large and ready to take the town apart if necessary. The terrible reality of what they were searching for hit the Apothecary so hard at that moment that he groaned audibly. The eyes of several Cornishmen fixed on him and he saw pity in all of them. He felt then that he wanted the floor to open and for him to disappear into a black pit.
Mrs King was hovering nervously in the background. Seeing John, she approached.
“Oh Sir, will you ever forgive me? I promise you I only left her for five minutes.”
The Apothecary shook his head. “How can I blame you? You did your best. But it suggests to me that you were
being watched and the abductors chose their moment.”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“Obviously they were in the inn, otherwise how could they have known that you had gone downstairs?”
Mrs King shivered. “How horrible. Who do you think is responsible, Sir?”
“I would imagine that we won’t have to look much further than Mrs Anstey and her friends. I think they kidnapped Isobel Pill and their latest victim is my daughter.” He turned to go. “God help the poor child,” he added in an undertone.
They set out. The majority of the party looking in every corner, every outbuilding, everywhere it would be possible to conceal a small being. But John and Trethowan, their faces stern and set, went in pursuit of the members of the satanic coven.
None of them was staying at The Angel; after consulting the landlord that much was clear. Yet they had to have a base to which they could retreat. John racked his brain, trying desperately to remember where the Colquites lodged, but no answer came up.
“I shall knock on every door in Helstone till I find them,” the Constable announced grimly.
“And I’ll be beside you,” John announced. “We’ve got to find her. I love the child. She’s all I have left: now.”
“You stay close, Sir, and we’ll discover where those witches are hiding.”
“I forgot to tell you and I apologise for it. Lord Lyle - the head of them - has been murdered. I found him in his house above Loe Pool earlier this evening.”
Trethowan stopped walking and turned to stare at him. “Murdered you say? Are you certain?”
“He had been strangled with a black scarf. He was struck from behind while he was sitting in a chair. But the interesting thing was that the house was deserted. Not a servant or soul about. It was almost as if he had ordered everyone to go and leave him.”
The Constable pulled at his nose thoughtfully. “That would mean the entire coven are moving on.”
“Then why should they choose this moment to abduct Rose? And who wrote the letter to me?”