by Deryn Lake
‘It’s moving, John. The child has quickened.’
He ran to her side and placed his hand beside hers, but she laughed and shook her head.
‘A butterfly opened its wings, that is all. You will not be able to feel it yet.’
He laughed, realizing as he did so that he sounded like a youth, not a mature man. ‘I think this is one of the most exciting moments of my life.’
‘But you have experienced it before. With Emilia.’
At the mention of the past the Apothecary felt some of his earlier mood dissipate. He looked at Elizabeth solemnly
‘Yes, indeed I have. But you and Emilia are very different people. I feel that I have been fortunate, and honoured too, to have had the pleasure of loving you both.’
She must have sensed the sudden seriousness in him for she put out her hand and took his. ‘Just as I am honoured to be carrying your child. Come on, sweetheart. Let us enjoy the beauty of the day. Shall we go for a carriage ride?’
‘I would like to travel beside you on horseback if that is all right.’
‘I am very pleased to hear it. We shall make a horseman of you yet.’
Half an hour later they were setting off, heading towards the coast and the high cliffs. As they neared their objective John could see the town of Exmouth below and the meeting of the mighty Exe with its mother ocean. He turned his head to the right and there, dark and stark in the autumn sunshine stood the ruin of Wildtor Grange, the house in which he had first set eyes on Elizabeth. He tapped on the carriage side with his riding crop and the Marchesa stuck her head out.
‘There’s the Grange.’
‘I know. Do you want to go and look?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ John answered.
But inside he felt somewhat apprehensive. It was true that he had first seen Elizabeth within those decaying walls, but at that time he had been on honeymoon with Emilia. So the mansion contained memories of both women and he was not sure that he wanted to revive such thoughts.
They were approaching the house from the top of the cliffs and from this angle the windows – or rather the one or two that had survived – were glittering in the sunlight. The illusion was extraordinary, as if the place were still lived in, as if the glow came from within, cast by crackling log fires. On Elizabeth’s instruction the coachman began to circle the mansion, looking for somewhere to draw up the carriage, while John followed slowly, gazing up at the formidable ruin with a kind of terrible fascination.
The coach eventually stopped in the stable block. John looked at the place with a shudder, remembering the Society of Angels who had once terrorized Exeter and who had hidden their carriage there. But they were all gone now and were scarce remembered by the younger generation. He dismounted at the block just in time to hand the Marchesa down from her carriage. She shivered as she looked round her.
‘I don’t know why I said to come to this accursed house.’
‘I take it you no longer keep up your rooms here?’
For Elizabeth had once upon a time kept a private apartment in the heart of the ruin where she had hidden out when it had been necessary.
‘I have not visited the place for about two years.’ She turned to the house with determination. ‘I think I shall go and look at them now.’
And she marched off towards the spot where they had long ago found entry through a low window without glass. John followed more slowly, his good mood of earlier now totally gone. He was riven with memories, some so sweet, some less so, and it seemed to him that Emilia was not very far away from him as he followed in the Marchesa’s wake.
The elements had done much to harm Wildtor Grange he thought as he stepped through the window. Leaves, long dead, had blown in and there were signs that wild animals had made the house their own. The sad and melancholy atmosphere had grown even more oppressive, the Apothecary considered, as he strode through the echoing reception hall. Ahead of him he could see the Marchesa’s indomitable figure heading up that huge and monstrous staircase which reared to the floors above. With reluctant footsteps, John followed in her wake.
She must have been moving very fast for she was out of sight by the time he reached the top, where the staircase branched into two, each fork leading in opposite directions. John was just about to proceed along the left-hand corridor when he paused. From downstairs, far below, he could hear the distant sound of voices.
His flesh crawled on his body as every thought of supernatural phenomenon set his nerves jarring. The concept that he might be listening to a long-dead conversation from the defunct Thornes – the family who once had lived in the Grange – filled him with horror. Yet somehow he steeled himself to creep back down that great gothic staircase to the huge hall below. Whoever or whatever it was that was speaking was in one of those ghastly side rooms, full of rotting furniture, that led off the reception hall, but which one it was John had no idea. Following the sound of that unearthly whispering, he crept along.
It was a man and a woman conversing, of that much he was sure. Edging into one of those empty, decaying suites he drew closer to the sound until eventually, after passing through cavernous and deserted rooms, he found himself in earshot. John crouched down beside a sofa that must once have been the height of elegance, and listened.
‘. . . but what of my father?’ the woman was saying.
‘He’s perfectly safe, my dear,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘But he is bound to be suspected.’
‘As will we all.’
There was a pause then the young woman – or at least John judged her to be so by her tone – said, ‘But the Constable is far from stupid I am told.’
The Apothecary strained his ears.
‘Remember that everyone is innocent until proved guilty.’
She gave a humourless laugh. ‘That is what worries me.’
John moved forward a fraction, afraid of missing a word, and then loud and clear from the floor above came Elizabeth’s voice, ‘Where are you, my dear? You must come and see this. John, where have you vanished to?’
There was a horrified silence from the next room and then the Apothecary heard two pairs of feet running for dear life as the speakers rushed from the room as fast as they could. He sprang up and sprinted into the now deserted salon in which they had been speaking. They were gone and by a different route from the one that he and Elizabeth had employed to gain entry. Nonetheless John chased after the sound of their departure until he came to a French window in a far drawing-room. All the glass had gone but the door hung open on creaking hinges. Peering out he saw two riders leaving the Grange and going hell for leather. He stared, wishing that he had his telescope, but they were already too far away to identify with the naked eye. He turned as he heard footsteps behind him. Elizabeth stood there.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
He faced her, fractionally annoyed. ‘There were two people in here. They were talking about something which I have a strong suspicion was connected with the murder case. When they heard your voice they ran for their lives. And who can blame them?’
Elizabeth looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I had no idea.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.
‘I should have guessed something was up when you disappeared so suddenly.’
‘Yes.’ John sighed. ‘Now what was it you wanted to show me?’
‘Oh, it was just a silly little thing. There’s a handkerchief of yours still in my drawing-room.’
John thought back to the last time he had been in Wildtor Grange and felt somewhat embarrassed. But he couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that for something so trivial Elizabeth had interrupted a most important conversation. His mood of youthful exuberance totally vanished, John now felt middle-aged and serious.
Elizabeth came closer to him. ‘Do you want to pursue them? I presume they have gone?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘They’ve gone all right and I would imagine that they are
halfway across Devon from the speed they were riding.’
‘Well, in that case you must set off at once. I shall follow in a more sedate fashion in the coach.’
John swiftly picked up her hand and kissed it, then, without saying a word, sped out through the tattered French window. Five minutes later he was mounted and thundering over the cobbles. As he left the Grange behind him, heading up towards the cliffs, he saw the two riders ahead of him, not going towards Exmouth as he had imagined but instead turning towards the fishing village of Sidmouth. He increased his pace but one of them – the woman – looked over her shoulder and must have said something to her companion. A moment later and the pair had plunged into the dense trees that grew on the lower ground above the village. John knew at that moment that he had lost them so he reined in and waited for Elizabeth to catch him up.
But who were the riders and where had they been heading? That was the question that puzzled him for the rest of that day.
That late afternoon brought a surprise visitor to Elizabeth’s house, none other than the Constable of Exeter himself. An hour before the time to dine John was sitting in the red salon, perusing the newspaper, when the head footman entered.
‘There is a personage here to see you, Sir. He says that he is Constable Tobias Miller. He also says that he is from Exeter.’
John looked up. ‘Send him in, Perkins. I can assure you that he is perfectly genuine.’
Toby came into the room walking solemnly behind the footman, his bright eyes darting round the room and all its magnificent furnishings.
‘Good evening Mr Rawlings,’ he said, and gave a bow of the head.
John stood up. ‘My dear Mr Miller, this is an unexpected surprise.’
‘Forgive me calling without an appointment, Sir, but I just wanted to inform you that I have now seen most of the people who travelled on the coach that night.’
John motioned the man to sit down and poured a dry sherry which he handed to him. Tobias sipped it like a connoisseur.
‘And how were they?’
‘All very charming, Sir. I must say I took to Mr Simms.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘I called at Lady Sidmouth’s this afternoon. Mr Simms had had a day off and had just come in from a ride.’
‘Really?’ said John thoughtfully.
‘Yes. We talked awhile. A very polite gentleman, he was.’ Tobias leant forward confidentially. ‘Now, about that business we were discussing the other day, Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Believe me, if I had the time and the resources I would investigate that. But here I am, a professional Constable, and as busy as a bee as a result.’
‘You really think the answer might lie there?’
‘God’s boddikins, Sir. We have nothing else to go on at all. I think Mr Gorringe’s past is the only hope we have.’
‘That’s something Sir John Fielding always says.’
‘Well, I never,’ said the Constable, and made a pleased mouth.
‘So you want me to look into it?’ John asked.
‘If you do, Sir, it would be greatly appreciated.’
‘Then I will. But not just yet.’
‘I don’t know how to express my thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ John said, taking Tobias’s glass and refilling it. ‘Changing the subject, did you by any chance manage to locate the German woman, Fraulein Schmitt?’
The Constable sighed and shook his head. ‘Now that is the one person I cannot find at all.’
‘Then tomorrow I’ll go and search for her,’ the Apothecary answered, and even as he said it felt that he had set himself some monumental tasks of which Elizabeth might not altogether approve.
That night the Apothecary slept by himself and dreamed that he was alone in Wildtor Grange, climbing that enormous staircase, terrified out of his mind. A figure stood motionless at the top and John approached it with a feeling of dread, a pounding of his heart and a feeling of sickness in his throat. The figure had its back to him and the Apothecary longed to turn and run but, in the way of dreams, his legs were powerless and refused to move.
‘Who are you?’ he called – and his voice came out as a mere whisper.
The figure stood there, silent and unmoving, and then it turned. John gazed in horror at the face of William Gorringe, hideously maimed by his appalling injuries. Behind him a voice said, ‘Can’t catch me,’ and the Apothecary woke drenched with sweat and wondering what meaning the dream could possibly have.
Ten
Proceeding into town early the next morning, John left Elizabeth’s carriage at the habit makers – where she was being fitted for several new gowns to see her through to the end of her pregnancy – before she went to dine with Lady Sedgewick and her family. Then he went on foot to the market place. For there he knew he would find a man selling caged birds who might just remember selling one to a German woman several days before.
The market thronged with life. Glove makers jostled fishermen, who had brought their latest catch in to be sold, including live lobsters and crabs. Stalls selling haberdashery stood beside those selling farming implements. A gypsy fortune-teller had erected a small tent and was giving bashful young maidens advice on their love lives. And next to her, with canaries and linnets chirruping in cages which John considered too small, was a dark, swarthy pedlar plying his trade. John went up to him and pretended to examine the birds.
‘May I interest you in a songbird, Sir? A pretty canary for your pretty lady?’
John looked pensive. ‘Alas my lady is a keeper of cats. I do not fancy the bird’s chances greatly. But perhaps you could furnish me with some information.’
The man’s eyes grew wary. ‘Oh, and what might that be, Sir?’
John produced a coin and held it beneath the pedlar’s nose. ‘I wondered if you could give me some tidings of a customer I believe you had recently.’
‘I have many customers, Sir. How would I know this particular one?’
‘I don’t think you would forget her. She was a German woman, large and loud-voiced. She would have come to your stall several days ago.’
‘Oh yes, I do recall someone. She argued with me over the price.’
John handed over the coin. ‘Yes, that would be her. Do you know where she comes from by any chance?’
The man scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Said she was buying the bird as a gift for her sister.’
John winced at the thought of there being two such women.
‘Have you any idea where her sister lives?’
‘Sorry to be unhelpful, Sir, but I don’t. It’s not the sort of thing I discuss with my customers. Why do you ask? Has she done something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure,’ John answered enigmatically, and gave the man another coin.
He walked away, thinking what a bore everything was. And then he had another idea. Fraulein Schmitt had taken a hackney coach from the stand opposite the apothecary’s shop. With quickening footsteps John made his way there.
As luck would have it the coach she had taken was just pulling in to the place reserved, John recognizing it by its faded woodwork. He immediately went up to it and the driver looked pleased.
‘Where to, Sir?’
John put on his authoritative face. ‘Tell me, my good man, do you remember a fare you took the other day? It was a large German woman who had mislaid her canary bird and got into your hackney to take her back to the market.’
‘Yes, I remember her, indeed I do.’
Yet again John produced a coin. ‘Did she ask you to drive her home once she had rescued the bird?’
‘Yes. And I took her. She’s staying with her sister in Porch House in Sidford, not far from the bridge.’
‘Take me there,’ said John, ‘and you’ll get double this.’ And he threw the coin to the driver as he leapt into the coach and rumbled out of Exeter’s cobbled streets.
On his honeymoon and during his earlier adventures in Sidmouth, John had never vi
sited Sidford. Now as he drove along its narrow – and only – street he found himself staring at it with a certain admiration for its rural aspect. Heavily lined with trees, the dust-covered way wound downwards, culminating in a rustic packhorse bridge which spanned the River Sid. A sheep and a cow, quite unattended, were making a slow way across it, the only living creatures in sight.
John called up to the driver. ‘Porch House, you said?’
‘Aye, Sir. That’s it there.’
The Apothecary followed the line of his pointing whip and saw a Tudor building, standing in its own well laid-out gardens. At that moment he wondered what on earth he was going to say to the German woman and to her sister, who, he imagined, would be equally formidable.
A maid, dressed in mob-cap and apron, answered the front door. ‘Yes, Sir?’ she asked anxiously.
John gave her a kindly smile. ‘Would it be possible to speak to Miss Schmitt?’ he said.
‘The ladies are in the garden, Sir. I don’t like to disturb them.’
‘You may tell them that an old friend wishes to have a brief word with them. I have come all the way from Exeter especially.’
He gave her the most winsome smile of which he was capable. She looked confused.
‘I’ll go and see, Sir. Would you like to step inside.’
John did so and was overwhelmed by the general comfort of the place. From where he stood a central flagstoned floor led straight through the house to the back door, down which the maid was running in a frantic sort of way. Off this led low-ceilinged pannelled rooms with a fire blazing in an inglenook despite the warmth of the day, and a cat dozing sleepily in front of it. A profusion of autumnal flowers stood in brightly polished copper jugs and from the kitchen area came a smell of good, plain, country fare. John almost wished they would invite him to dinner until he remembered the Marchesa and his promise to join her later.
The garden door, which the maid had closed behind her, opened again and there, entirely at odds with the genial atmosphere of the house, stood Fraulein Schmitt. She glared at John ferociously.