by Deryn Lake
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Deryn Lake From Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Recent Titles by Deryn Lake from Severn House
The Apothecary John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
DEATH ON THE ROCKS
DEATH AT THE BOSTON TEA PARTY
The Reverend Nick Lawrence Mysteries
THE MILLS OF GOD
DEAD ON CUE
THE MOONLIT DOOR
DEATH AT THE BOSTON TEA PARTY
A John Rawlings Mystery
Deryn Lake
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by Deryn Lake.
The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8617-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-718-0 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-779-0 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For my wonderful family and to Dan, Kevin, Paula and all my other great and good friends, with thanks.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Without Mark Dunton, archivist extraordinaire, who went with me to America on that memorable trip where we ate clam chowder and saw the beauty of Boston and its surroundings in all the colours of the Fall, very few of my books would have been written.
ONE
It was the smell that first struck John Rawlings. Standing on the deck of the Breath of the Sea, early in the morning, before the rest of the few passengers had stirred, he inhaled deeply and knew at once that the wind had changed, that there was a depth to it that he had not noticed before, that something indefinable had added itself to the salt and spume that usually blew in his face. Puzzled, he leant forward, tightening his eyes to peer through the waves of fog that enveloped the ocean. He could see nothing but grey mist. And then, just for a second, the veil broke and he glimpsed the sight he had been desperately longing for – a vague hint of coastline.
It had been a ghastly voyage from England to the American Colonies. In mid-Atlantic the ship had run into a violent storm which had blown them about as if they were made of leaves. The captain had informed his heaving passengers that they would be delayed in their arrival at the town of Boston and then announced that they had been blown off course to boot. As if all this had not been enough to chill the hearts of sturdy Englishmen, John’s nursery maid, Hannah, had been taken ill for the entire length of the journey and had spent her time moaning on her bed of pain. Thus, the care of his three children had fallen on the shoulders of the Apothecary and his former coachman, Irish Tom. Yet had it really? His eleven-year-old daughter, Rose, had taken over the management of her twin half-brothers with all the ease of a woman of style, which, her father thought, she was rapidly becoming.
A movement at the ship’s rail drew John’s attempts at peering through the mist back to life on board. Despite the earliness of the hour Rose was already up, her crimson hair dampened by the weather conditions, clinging round her head in a plethora of tight curls. She looked up at him.
‘We’re near land, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
Rose tossed her head back, laughing. ‘I just did.’
John put out his hand and tumbled her locks. ‘Miss Clever Cat.’
‘Miaow.’
‘How are your brothers?’
‘Still asleep. They look like Mrs Elizabeth.’
‘She is – was – their mother, so that is hardly surprising.’
‘They often stare into the sea to see if they can glimpse her.’
John sighed. ‘I suppose I should not have told them that she had gone swimming with the mermaids.’
Rose looked at him with her usual strange wisdom. ‘What else could you do? They were too young to comprehend death.’
John opened his mouth to reply but at that moment the ship hit something under the water and gave the most almighty judder. His daughter said in the calmest of voices, ‘I think she is going to sink, Papa.’
John stared at her as the whole vessel lurched to one side and saw by the look on her face that she meant every word she said.
‘We must wake the others,’ he answered, but before he could make a move the deck which had been abandoned suddenly sprang into life. The doors leading to the cabins below were flung open and a dozen or so people ranging from country women with their nightcaps askew and a couple of gentlemen of elegance, George Glynde and Tracey Tremayne, poured forth.
‘What’s happening?’ one drawled at John, as if he were the key to all knowledge.
‘I believe we are sinking,’ the Apothecary replied crisply.
An extremely fat woman screamed loudly and fainted at the feet of a wisp of a man who looked bewildered.
‘Leave her,’ John ordered. ‘I’ll deal with her. Trust me, I’m an apothecary.’
At that the boat lurched again and the sea poured over the deck. Pandemonium ensued as sc
antily clad people headed for their cabins to grab what they could. The two elegant gentlemen looked at one another.
‘Damme, George, I think the ship has foundered.’
‘Damme, Sir, I think so too. What say we swim for it?’
‘Is there anywhere to swim to?’
‘Odds fish, I saw it myself this morning through my spy glass. A coastline, clear as Lady Camden’s corset. I’ll wager a guinea I’m the first to land.’
‘Make it two and you’re on.’
They shook hands, grinning like apes, unaware that the sea must be bitterly cold. Or perhaps, John thought, they were aware and were just making as light of the situation as possible. He admired their bravado.
The fat woman groaned as he leaned over her and attempted to raise her top half from the deck.
‘Wake up, Madam. This is no time to lose one’s senses.’
She stared at him with very wide, harsh eyes then promptly slapped him on the nose. ‘Unhand me, you young devil. How dare you molest me so? I would cry out for my husband had he not been called to Jesus this last year.’
John’s lips twitched but he said, straight-faced, ‘I am sorry to hear that, Madam. But I suggest you rise and get some warm clothes on. I’m afraid the ship has foundered.’
She groaned and clutched at her enormous breast. ‘You are a bearer of ill tidings, Sir. I am undone.’
‘No, Madam, you are quite intact, I assure you. Now do rise up. This ship is sinking and we must all swim for the shore.’
‘But I can’t swim. Bevis would never allow me to do such an undignified thing.’
For a moment John remembered, his mind seeing Elizabeth with her scarred, lovely face, her eyes with their depths which he had never been able to read, her triumphant and tragic death in the sea which she had adored and which had finally taken her away for ever. He looked down at the large widow woman who was attempting to rise.
‘Never mind, Madam. I’ll find you something to hold on to.’
Having got her on her feet and seen her lumbering towards her cabin, he sped for his. The twins were awake and Rose was busily occupied trying to dress one of them; the other had struggled into his own clothes with certain strange results. Hannah, the nursery maid, was stepping into various flannel petticoats as John hurried on to wake Tom. But the big Irishman had already felt the dying struggles of the ship and was dressed and coming to find him.
‘How far’s the shore, Sir?’
‘About two miles away – that is, it was when I last saw it. Then the fog closed in.’
‘We’ve struck a rock somehow. I imagine we’ve been blown miles from Boston.’
‘Obviously. But come on, Tom, there’s not a moment to lose. Will you take one of the boys on your back? I’ll take the other.’
‘But what about Hannah and Rose?’
‘Well, my daughter can swim like a fish but I don’t know about the other one.’
‘The trouble is, Sir, what the devil will the sea be like?’
‘It’s calm. Dead flat.’
‘No, you don’t take my meaning. I’m thinking about the temperature, Sir.’
John gazed at his old companion, shocked. ‘It’s probably freezing. God help us, Tom, we’ll have to find something to float on.’
‘Leave that to me, Sir.’
Tom rushed up the wooden stairs to the deck while John hurried his family upward from the clammy atmosphere below the planking.
At sea level there was pandemonium. Several of the sailors had already taken to the water in a clapped-out rowing boat which looked fit to sink at any moment due to overcrowding.
The fat woman, complete with portmanteau, had either insisted or bribed her way on board and was occupying a place which could have been filled by three people of normal size. John gave her a cheerful grin – as cheerful as it could be in the circumstances – but she did not see and stared gloomily out into the dense fog which surrounded the fast-sinking vessel.
John hoisted Jasper on to his shoulders and Tom was just about to do the same with James when the ship listed a third time, the wooden doors leading to the hold burst open and pieces of furniture began to float into view. Wondering at Tom’s amazing agility, the Apothecary watched, flabbergasted, while his former coachman seized a table with one hand, wrenched from its moorings by the power of the sea, and simultaneously lifted the other twin on to his back. He turned his head to look at Rose but she was already in the water and doing her best to assist Hannah, who was sinking and flailing. Shouting ‘Hang on for dear life, Jasper!’ John swam towards them.
The water was very cold, though not quite as icy as the Apothecary had feared. He could feel little hands digging into his neck with fright but was proud of his son for not bursting into the weeps. He pushed Rose, quite hard, in the direction of Tom and tried to save Hannah as he best he could. But she was going down deep and John, more than conscious of the little life clinging to him, could not dive after her. A burly man, a nodding acquaintance who kept himself to himself, did so but came up spluttering and shaking his head. Spitting out water, he growled at John.
‘She’s drowned, Sir. Floating down below, her hair all loose round her. Ain’t no good looking. She’s done for.’
What a moment to have another vivid memory. Had Elizabeth died like that, with her black hair spread out like a shroud? John found that he was trembling and knew that this was no time to let dark thoughts invade his brain. Mentally he shook himself like a dog coming in from a long walk and turned to the task ahead, brought back to the current situation by a shout as a figure dived into the water wearing nothing but a pair of breeches and an undone shirt. He recognized Sir Julian Wychwood, who had clearly been asleep in his cabin after a night of drinking and playing cards. He watched as the young blade dragged himself up on a floating chair, then saw his face turn the colour of milk as some unseen current tugged at his legs and he was carried, screaming for help, out to the distant sea. Powerless to assist him, John turned his agonized gaze on the poor wretch until he was lost to view.
Irish Tom had one of the table’s upturned legs in his hand and was shouting at Rose to grasp another. She did so as John swam up to them and together they all kicked like frogs, clinging on to their makeshift raft. Then the mists parted almost dramatically and they saw an island appear.
‘Make for that,’ shouted John, because the sea around them was now alive with sound. Those who could not swim were drowning, and those who could keep afloat were clinging to bits of wreckage. With a final groan the ship split in half and plunged into the recesses of the murk below. A very pale girl with equally pale hair was struggling at John’s side. With a great effort he managed to haul her hands on to their floating furniture and, though temporarily beyond speech, she gave him a look of true gratitude.
It ran through John’s mind that if they could not reach the island soon they would die of cold and he paddled his legs hard, pushing through the chilly ocean as quickly as he was able. But his strength was going and even that great ox of a man, Irish Tom, was slowing down.
Jasper, clinging on to John’s back, whispered, ‘Is it much further, Papa?’
‘No. Be a brave boy. Don’t let go.’
‘I can see a person standing on the shore.’
John screwed up his eyes and looked at the island – and his heart sank. What the child had seen was what appeared to be an Indian man, standing still as a statue, watching the survivors of the shipwreck struggling towards the shore. The Apothecary had been amongst the crowd of Londoners who had made a point of going to see members of the Cherokee tribe when they had been on display in 1760. But he, in keeping with many of his contemporaries, had not known what to make of these proud people who had stared above the heads of the masses with a certain disdain and dignity. He only hoped that, if they managed to outlive the cold sea, instant death did not await them on the island.
He and Irish Tom were both swimming feebly now, and poor Rose had given up kicking and was just being carried alon
g by their wooden support. The fat woman sailed right past them, sailors rowing while she wallowed in a somewhat uncomfortable state, the boat sinking lower and lower in the water, overcome by her weight. Raising his eyes to glance at her, John saw that quite a crowd had now gathered on the far shore and that canoes had been launched, but as to the ethnic origins of the people within them he could not be certain. The distant squeals of the fat lady pierced his eardrums.
‘I won’t be manhandled, I so won’t. Hit them with your oar, sailor.’
‘Are you out yer mind? We can always fight ’em orff when we gets ashore.’
‘How very dare you speak to me so? I’ll have you know that my late husband was Sir Bevis Eawiss.’
This entire conversation was carried on the wind and was followed by an enormous plopping sound, as somebody who was clearly bored to sobs by the sound of the fat lady’s voice had tipped her into the ocean’s frigid waters.
They were floating nearer and now John could clearly make out the figures in the two canoes that were coming to either rescue or murder them. That they were Indian people there could be no doubt. Their black hair glistening about their heads, long but caught back on either side by bands, their noses straight and strong, their eyes bright and gleaming, narrowed now as they skimmed across the ocean, the rowers bending over their paddle with determination. The Apothecary was amazed to see an enormous white fellow sitting in their midst, his hair the same colour as the seeds of a sunflower, while crouching behind him was another European whose face could have been made from a post boy’s leather bag.
The canoes were of the dugout type and half empty so that passengers could be taken on board. John stared in amazement as an Indian, supple as a fox, dived overboard and pulled the struggling widow out of the water and into the canoe, which denoted considerable strength. Her rescuer’s only reward was an ear-splitting shriek and a cry of ‘Unhand me, you blackguard, you scoundrel.’