by Deryn Lake
“I was nearly caught,” he gasped.
“Did they see you?”
“A servant did but only in the half-light. I doubt he could identify me.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Come in…” she giggled, “…husband.” And she held the bedclothes open invitingly.
John jumped in beside her, stripping off his clothes in the same movement and they were lying in each other’s arms when they heard the sound of heavy footsteps patrolling up and down the cloisters.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Teresa whispered, close to his ear.
“I sincerely hope so,” John answered, and fell asleep.
At midnight they rose, all being quiet, and strolled, dressed negligently, in the grounds. It was moonlight and as John had suspected there were many couples up and about. The aphrodisiacs he had taken had entirely worn off and walking thus, hand in hand with his chosen friend, John felt a wave of revulsion that such a beautiful spot should have been turned over to an orgy of sexual activity. But then, as a man of medicine, he thought how frail humans were, indeed, how needy. He turned to look at Teresa.
“Do you enjoy your life?” he asked, then regretted the words, realising he must have sounded harsh and rude.
“When I meet someone like you,” she answered. “But can you imagine being stuck for these few days with a creature with bad breath and projecting teeth?”
“Only too vividly. I don’t know how you stand it.”
“We must all earn our living, however differently the ways,” she said simply, and smiled at him in the moonlight.
The next morning there were few at breakfast, only John and a handful of others, one of whom, surprisingly, was Charles Arundel. He looked even more ghastly than usual - almost an impossibility the Apothecary found himself thinking. Paler than white, his eyes lined with black, he peered at John blearily.
“Good morning, O’Hare. Did you sleep well?”
“Soundly,” lied John cheerfully.
“I have not been to bed at all. Apparently there was a prowler round last night.”
John put on his honest citizen face. “Good gracious. Did you catch the wretched fellow?”
“No. One of the servants found him near the chapel. But he escaped and despite a night of looking for him he got away.”
“How dreadful. Did you search personally?”
A rictus smile crossed his lordship’s features. “No, I had too fine a lady to pleasure. But the servants spent most of the night looking for the blackguard.”
“I expect it was a curious monk anxious to see the rituals,” said John, digging in to a slice of beef.
“Possibly.” Arundel took a sip of coffee and pulled a face. “This is disgusting.” He gestured to a footman. “Fetch me a brandy, would you.”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
“Starting early,” said John innocently.
“Why not?” Arundel answered, and shrugged his bony shoulders.
He was enormously thin, the Apothecary thought, looking at the fellow critically. Yet again the thought of what Coralie could have seen in the man came to plague him. One day he felt he would know the answer but at the moment he could not think of any reason other than the title and the money.
John tried another tack. “Your daughter is a handsome child, sir. One day she will be as beautiful as her mother, I feel.” Charles looked at him with an unreadable glance. “She reminds me of what Miss Clive was like when I first met her. Young and fresh, despite her apparent worldliness.”
John looked at him closely. Was there perhaps just a hint of wistfulness in the way his Lordship was speaking?
“And now?” he said quietly.
“Now my wife is a woman of the world, a lady of fashion.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Of course,” Arundel replied, but the twist of his lip and the curve of his nostril denoted a certain cynicism.
So at least Charles’s attitude to Coralie was clear but his obsession with his child remained as big a mystery. John decided to ask no more questions.
Later that morning, strolling in the gardens alone - Teresa having gone with some of her younger friends to gossip about the standards of the men present - John caught a glimpse of Samuel hiding amongst the trees by the riverside. Making his way towards him, the Apothecary noticed that his friend looked pale.
“My dear fellow, you look terrible. What is the matter?”
“Oh, John, I can hardly speak. I spent last night in an hostelry, as I told you. But this morning, making my way here, I was spotted and mistaken for a man who had come in to clean out the privies.”
The Apothecary felt a wild desire to laugh but the expression on Samuel’s face forbad any such thing.
“Oh, you poor soul. Was it ghastly?”
“Ghastly.” The Goldsmith clutched his guts. “And that, my dear, is an understatement. They were in an indescribably terrible condition.”
“I think I would rather not know.”
“Oh, but you must. I refuse to suffer this on my own.”
And Samuel went into colourful detail of the various things he had found and what he had been forced to do to them. In the end John silenced him.
“Enough! I have heard as much as I can stand. All I can say, Sam, is that the experience will make you a better person.” From pallid, Samuel flushed the colour of a poppy. “Why should it? Why should I have to endure such hell? I do it for the sake of our friendship, that’s why.”
“Come on, my good old comrade. Brace up. It’s a beautiful day and I need to talk to you. Let’s take a boat out.”
There was a small jetty close by with several craft moored to it. Between them the two friends managed to launch one and John, in charge of the oars, rowed away from Medmenham Abbey and over towards the opposite bank. There, hidden by the over-hanging branches of a willow tree, he told Samuel his experiences of the previous night.
“So what do you think goes on at those rituals?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Somebody had blocked off the keyhole.”
“Do you think it is devil worship?”
“My friend, it could easily be so. I could not see a thing. They may well have been sacrificing someone or drinking children’s blood for all I know.”
Despite the warmth of the day, Samuel shivered. “I hope to God you’re wrong.”
“So do I, my dear. So do I.”
And with that they had to be content.
The next day Samuel set off by horse for the village of West Wycombe, having done as much as he could in the way of spying and still angry over his grim experience in the privies.
And John, growing slightly bored with the decadent way of life, was glad to hear Sir Francis announce at dinner that tonight the monks must bid farewell to their wives. The Order was breaking up until the next meeting.
Teresa wept a little in private.
“I wish you weren’t going.”
“Nonsense. I’ve just been another client after all.”
“Will you come and see me in London?”
“Yes, if you’ll tell me where I can find you.”
She gave him the address of the brothel at which she worked and John committed it to memory, then they went for a final stroll in the grounds. But they had hardly taken more than a dozen steps when they encountered a female figure lying amongst the grasses, face downwards. All the Apothecary’s training came to the fore and he hurried to pick the woman up. Turning her over he found himself staring into the large blue eyes of the Countess of Orpington. Close to, she looked little more than a girl and John found himself calculating her age as sixteen or so.
“Oh, Sir Monk, I am sorry. I must have fainted. I cannot think why.”
A strawberry blush had crept into her cheeks and she sniffed like a child.
“Do I have the honour of addressing the Countess of Orpington?” John asked formally.
She struggled to sit up. “I am just a sister here, sir. I have no titl
e.”
“Forgive me, madam. I had no wish to intrude.”
But it was definitely her. The girl chosen by Charles Arundel to be his “wife” for the few days of his stay.
Helping her to her feet, the Apothecary bowed. “Allow me to escort you back to the Abbey.”
“No. No, thank you. I am waiting for someone. I shall just sit here quietly until they arrive.”
John bowed again. “As you wish, madam.”
As soon as they were out of earshot Teresa said, “Who does she think she is? She may be a countess but she’s as ready as the next one to do the feather-bed jig.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Anyway she’s been tied up neat with Lord Arundel so no doubt she’s caught the pox by now.”
John shook his head. “Poor little girl. I pity her.”
“Well I don’t,” Teresa answered defiantly. “She’s nothing but a troublesome miss, mark my words.”
“You’re not jealous of her?”
“No, I ain’t. She may be prettier than I am, she may have married a fancy old earl, she may have as many silk gowns as I have hot dinners, but she’ll end up in the powdering-tub and for that reason I would rather have my life.”
John shuddered at the thought, thinking of the sweat pit used in some hospitals to try to cure the pox. He put his hand on Teresa’s arm.
“Be very careful, my dear. I wouldn’t like to think of you in similar circumstances.”
“I’ll take great caution, sir, I promise you.”
And she smiled at him in the warmth of that summer’s evening. But for some reason John was not reassured, as that strange feeling that all was not well, a cold presentiment of something being wrong, clutched at his heart and made him shiver despite the fineness of the night.
Chapter Fourteen
Throughout the ride back to West Wycombe Place, John had the strangest feeling that they were being followed. Yet logic told him that he must be mistaken. Samuel had left early on the previous day and must be safely back by now. Despite this he kept glancing over his shoulder but never to see a sign of anyone in pursuit. Still the certainty persisted and he was almost relieved when Sir Francis trotted up beside him.
He looked as if he had not slept at all, his face red and heavily lined, his nose like a bonfire. Thoughts of the state of other parts of Milord’s anatomy put an unintentional grin on John’s features and he laughed to himself.
“What’s so amusing, young man?” asked Sir Francis. “Nothing, sir. It’s just such a beautiful day and I was thinking of all that happened,” John replied convincingly.
“Yes, indeed. And did you like your little doxy?”
“Very much. The whole concept of Medmenham Abbey is one of immense pleasure.”
It was Sir Francis’s turn to laugh robustly. “Entirely my creation, I assure you.” He suddenly looked angry. “My one regret is that we didn’t catch that blackguard who tried to spy on our ceremonies.”
“No, that was an unfortunate business.”
“I’ll say. The rituals practised by the inner wheel are strictly private, as you will have gathered.”
“Indeed, sir. I feel you have a traitor in your midst.”
And the Apothecary pulled a face that bore an almost saintly expression, Sir Francis gave him a surprised glance, clearly not at all convinced.
“Yes, quite so. Glad to have your opinion.” He trotted off again.
John caught up with Lord Arundel, who had his usual air of being fit for nothing.
“Good morning, sir,” he said loudly. “I hope I find you well on this excellent day.”
Arundel visibly shuddered. “Not so hearty, if you please. I had something of a time of it last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The Countess of Orpington protested at my leaving her. She has some girlish notion of running away with me to France. I had to dissuade her and left her weeping, alas.”
John thought of Teresa’s unhappy face and wondered whether many of the meetings of the Order ended so miserably.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Not a word to my wife, mind. Of course I see the wretched girl in London from time to time. Her husband is incredibly ancient, by the way. It was an arranged marriage.”
“You may trust me to be discreet, sir. But how old is the Earl?”
“Sixty to her sixteen. He has been married before and has children older than she is.”
“I see.”
“And now if you’ll forgive me, I’ll end our conversation. Good day to you, Mr O’Hare.”
Yet again that feeling of things being awry came over John. But he bowed politely enough to his Lordship and proceeded to ride on alone.
Lord Sandwich and Sir Henry Vansittart had left the party, having proceeded direct to London. Paul Whitehead had remained behind to oversee the shutting down of the Abbey. Thus it was just the three men who proceeded through the sunshine towards West Wycombe. John deliberately hung back so that he rode last and once more felt himself overwhelmed by the feeling that they were being followed. But, as before, nobody was visible and he supposed the idea was a product of his over-active imagination.
Overhead the sky began to darken and he wondered whether they were going to be subjected to a summer storm. And they had not proceeded very much further when there Was a distant rumble of thunder and the rain began to pour. The riders drew in beneath some sheltering trees.
“I say we make a dash for it,” Sir Francis said, looking about him. “We’re only about a mile away.”
“We’ll get soaked to the skin,” Arundel answered petulantly.
They both turned to John. “I agree with Sir Francis. Let’s make haste,” he said.
Pushing their horses hard they raced through the digging rain until eventually they saw the house from the top of the hill, lying below them.
“Back to respectability,” shouted Sir Francis, and led the rush downwards.
Ten minutes later they were dismounting from their dripping mounts, Arundel being practically lifted from the saddle by two grooms. As they swung him downwards he banged hard against the stirrup and let out a cry of pain. John instinctively went towards him.
“Are you all right?”
“No. I’ve hurt myself. I’ve an old wound, you know.”
“Would you like me to look at it for you?”
“The devil with it - no I wouldn’t. My wife can do that.” Remembering just in time that he was meant to be Fintan O’Hare from the bogs of Ireland John turned to go away, but Arundel’s voice cut across.
“Sorry, O’Hare, I was a bit short with you. It was just the shock that made me so.”
“Of course. I quite understand.”
“If you would be so kind as to help me into the house.” With one arm round Arundel’s waist, Charles was so close that the very essence of him filled John’s nostrils. It was a smell of decay, of rot, of things better not spoken of. For the hundredth time the Apothecary’s mind went to Coralie and he thought of her dressing the wound and wondered if she would vomit in disgust.
They reached the front door, Sir Francis striding on ahead and calling out, “I’m back, madam. Where are you?”
Lady Dashwood appeared from one of the inner rooms.
“I was just chatting to Mr Jean. He has been so useful to me and has mended practically everything in the house.”
“The man’s not a bloody carpenter,” said Sir Francis, throwing down his riding whip. “Here, help me off with my boots.”
Dominique appeared in the doorway. “Allow me, Sir Francis.” And before his Lordship could refuse had neatly pulled both of them off.
Meanwhile a great deal of moaning was coming from Charles Arundel, who was clutching his side. The Apothecary, aware that he must continue to role-play but for all that anxious about the man, noticed that a very faint bloodstain had appeared through the material of his breeches.
“Let me help you upstairs, sir,” he said. “I really think
you should lie down.”
“No, I’ll be perfectly all…” Arundel let out another groan and stumbled.
“I insist,” said John firmly, and taking the man in a firm grip propelled him upward.
“Where’s my wife?” Charles asked, his head lolling so that his wig slipped slightly and showed a close cut of chick-yellow hair beneath.
“I don’t know but I’ll find her for you,” the Apothecary answered shortly.
Below him in the hall he was aware of Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood, together with Dominique Jean, watching his slow progress upward, and it was at precisely that moment that there came a loud knocking at the door. John paused in his ascent and looked down as the footman went to answer it. Standing there, soaked to the bone, her violet eyes almost purple with fury, was the Countess of Orpington.
Everyone stared at her silently until she shouted at Sir Francis, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?”
He collected himself. “Of course, madam. Perkins, show the lady inside at once.” He stepped forward meanwhile and said with a certain irony, “I take it you lost your way, my Lady.”
Beside him John heard Charles give a groan of recognition.”Take me to my chamber, please. I have no wish to speak to the wretched girl.”
“I rather think she wants to speak to you.”
“Tell her I am not well. In fact you can tell her anything you like but just keep her away from me.”
But she had spied her quarry making his laborious way upstairs. “You bastard!” she yelled. “You downright rogue. How dare you play fast and loose with me.”
She flew up the stairs, her damp clothes leaving a trail of moisture behind her. But John was too quick for her. Pushing Arundel behind him he whirled round and barred her way, flinging both his arms out.
“Madam, I insist that you leave Lord Arundel alone. He has wounded himself and is bleeding. His wife…” he put particular emphasis on those two words “…awaits him upstairs. Be so kind as to restrain yourself.”
At this Dominique Jean, moving very swiftly, came up and seized Milady’s arm. “Come with me, madam,” he said, his charming French voice flowing over her like a gentle waterfall, “you are overtired and overwrought by your terrible journey.”