by Deryn Lake
There was no light in there but the beam from his lantern picked up the figure of a girl thrust against the wall, a soldier with his trousers unflapped lunging into her for all he was worth. It was clearly no rape for she was emitting sounds of mounting pleasure while the young lieutenant was shouting with gratification. John had no wish to disturb them and crept past, trying to keep his lantern glow low. He gained the street on the other side as the couple reached the climax and gave a simultaneous cry of delight. The Apothecary envied them the freedom of their youth and momentarily would have changed places with the young man rather than be on this desperate mission to save his daughter’s life.
Having emerged from the tunnel he turned to his left and made his way up a deserted track to where the water mill stood, its white building vivid against the blackness of the water behind it. It was a tidal mill, part of the Charles River having been cut off by the building of a wall in which had been constructed a sluice. When the tide came in it entered the Mill Cove through a one-way gate which closed automatically when the tide began to fall. Many such mills were being created by the settlers around the rocky coastland which John and his fellow passengers had traipsed in the company of Blue Wolf. Now the very look of the place sent the Apothecary into a paroxysm of fear.
Nothing in the note given to him by the urchin had indicated at which point of the Mill Creek he should be at midnight, yet the Mill House seemed the most likely spot. Somewhere from the town came the striking of a clock and as it did so a dark, heavily cloaked and masked figure stepped out of the shadows. Nobody spoke and the silence seemed to last for eternity. John finally asked a question in a voice that had turned into a croak. ‘What do you want from me?’
He shuddered as he felt the muzzle of a pistol against his neck. ‘That you stop meddling in things that do not concern you,’ said another voice, this one behind him.
So two of them had come out to deal with him, John thought. He spoke again. ‘What things have you in mind?’
The press of the muzzle grew harder. This time the shadowy figure answered, his companion’s breathing so loud in John’s ear that he could time his own intake of breath with it.
‘You are investigating matters that do not concern you, my friend. And you have grown rather close to knowing the truth. My advice would be to stop now.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘It’s quite simple. We kill your child.’
‘Do you mean that I am to stop my enquiries into the death of Moll Bowling?’
They knew exactly who he was talking about because neither of them questioned the fact of her actual name.
‘That’s right,’ said the first speaker in a thick Bostonian accent. ‘We guess that you’re working on someone’s behalf. Now, who is it?’
John considered briefly mentioning Lieutenant Dalrymple rather than her husband, but decided against it.
‘I am just a naturally curious soul and am investigating on behalf of poor Jake, who is too sunk in despair and misery to enquire himself.’
‘How much do you know already?’ asked the man who stood in the shadows, speaking in a light colonial accent, quite pleasant in comparison with the other’s Bostonian growl.
‘Nothing much,’ John answered. ‘I know from the lady herself that she was born in Boston but left at an early age. I also know she went on the stage in London and later married the young Lord Conway. That is about the sum total of it.’
The pistol at his neck relaxed very slightly. ‘And that is all?’
‘All,’ answered John in his most solemn voice.
‘Give me your word that you will no longer poke your nose into business that has nothing to do with you?’
‘You have it and gladly,’ the Apothecary answered, knowing, even as he said it, that only part of his promise was true. The pressure from the pistol regained sudden strength.
‘Wait a minute,’ said the Boston voice. ‘You don’t get off so lightly. What were you doing creeping into the coach house at Hancock’s place? Were you searching for something?’
‘Was it you I met on the stairs?’ John asked.
There was a noticeable silence, then a whispered discussion. John strained his ears but could make none of it out. Eventually the first man answered gruffly and the man in the shadows responded with a higher laugh than John would have associated with a ruffian.
‘I’d knock you down the stairs whenever you try to poke your nose into other people’s business.’
‘And so would I, you miserable little blood,’ the shadow man added.
‘I was seeking Jake,’ John said clearly. ‘Nobody knew where he was.’
A bell was ringing softly in his brain but at the moment he could not think where it came from so had to ignore it.
‘What shall we do with him?’ asked the Boston man. ‘Shall I shoot him?’
‘No,’ replied the other, ‘just lay him flat and we’ll be gone. Let it be hoped he has learned his lesson.’
The Apothecary half turned – but too late. A stick came crashing down on to his head and all was pitch-black darkness once more.
This time he woke slowly and in great pain. A plain-faced woman of some fifty years was washing the blood off him, assisted by another, equally devoid of looks but younger. She was applying cold cloths to his forehead. As soon as John had taken them in he looked beyond them to high, stark white walls and to hear the loud noise of a wheel creaking as it turned relentlessly.
‘What’s that sound?’ he mumbled.
The two women stared at one another. ‘Oh, the Lord be thanked,’ said the older one. ‘He’s going to live.’
The younger redoubled her efforts with the cold cloths. ‘Jesus is merciful,’ she replied.
‘Do you think he has anything to do with the girl we found this morning?’
‘More than likely.’
John made an effort to sit up. ‘You’ve found her? My daughter?’
‘Yes, a young girl with fiery hair. She was tied up by the grain sacks.’
John redoubled his attempts to straighten. ‘Was she hurt?’
‘No, bless her. Just hungry. The miller and I gave her a good breakfast.’
Despite everything John smiled, his mouth twisting up crookedly, more so than usual because of the pain in his head. ‘I thank you sincerely. She is my daughter.’
Later, after the miller had raised him in his arms and carried him to the mill cottage which stood nearby, the Apothecary fully recovered his senses, but Dr Warren had nonetheless been sent for. With a most delicate touch he put two stitches in the wound, after which Rose was finally reunited with her father.
‘Oh, Papa, did you know I was kidnapped? It was really rather thrilling,’ she said with a bit of a grin. ‘I felt a little scared when I realized what had happened but the two men treated me quite well – that was until they tied me up and left me alone in the Mill House, which is extremely frightening after dark.’
‘And you spent the night there by yourself?’ John asked, treating the matter in the same businesslike way that she had.
‘I wasn’t really alone because the two men were around for a while. I could hear them talking softly to one another.’
‘Have you any idea who they were? Did you recognize their voices in any way?’
‘No, they talked too quietly for that. But they were quite pleasantly spoken.’
‘Tell me about Miss Sopwith. Did you know her?’
‘No. I thought she had been sent by you, Papa. But she was not known to those two men either. It was dark by the time we left Madame Clive’s and I walked what seemed like miles with her until I saw a sheet of water and realized that we were at the Mill Creek. I became a tiny bit nervous when she started to look round as if she were expecting somebody. But then the two of them appeared out of the blackness and told her, quite menacingly, to be on her way or they would shoot her, and to say nothing about them to anyone or they would seek her out. She promised and went off in the direction of the North End. T
hen we went into the Water Mill house and they tied me up.’
‘My poor sweetheart. You were very courageous.’
‘Well, I didn’t let them see that I was afraid because I knew you would come to rescue me.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because I could picture it quite distinctly,’ Rose said, and refused to answer any more questions.
Eventually, after Dr Warren had returned and given his patient leave to go home, John hobbled back to the North End helped by Tristram and the miller’s son. And there in his house, awaiting him, looking somewhat gaunt but putting a gallant face on events, was Coralie Clive.
‘Well, now, I have come to invite you all to stay with me over Christmas. I hope you will accept my invitation,’ she said, looking at John with a great deal of anxiety but saying nothing further.
‘We should be delighted to do so,’ he answered. He turned to the children. ‘I know Rose would enjoy that but what about you, Jasper and James?’
They stood together, regarding Coralie with a deep and meaningful stare, their eyes blue as bluebells, then James did the most disconcerting thing. He winked at his father, his small eyelid quite definitely fluttering down, before he said, ‘That would be a pleasure, Madame Clive.’
On Christmas Day they walked to the Old South church, and as they passed the portals of Hancock’s mansion the gates swung open and a coach and horses pulled out. Jake was not driving the equipage, yet it was very unlikely that he would be given a day off, even at Christmas. Was he keeping the festivities in the servants’ hall with the rest of the Hancock employees? But why, when the coach was needed to convey the family to church? In fact, the driver had been someone entirely different: an older man with grizzled hair and a weather-beaten face. Wondering if Jake was in trouble again, John decided to visit him as soon as possible.
The organ of the Old South was thundering out and the congregation was singing some unknown carol. The Apothecary joined in as best he could but his mind was a million miles away, going over and over all the facts as he knew them.
First had been his discovery that Demelza Conway was working for a secret organization, probably American, and had set out for Boston to aid them. The fact that she was an old friend of Dr Warren more or less proved this. But someone had found out about it and had silenced her for ever by pushing her out of the rigging and into the sea below. Exactly why she was climbing up in the first place was a mystery yet to be unravelled. Blue Wolf probably knew the answer but he had disappeared back to his tribe.
Secondly, it was possible that any one of his set of cronies could have been responsible for the murder, including Demelza’s own husband. Because in that vast crowd, foregathered to watch the destroying of the tea chests, anyone could have slipped away, done the deed and made their way back within the space of about fifteen minutes. John thought he could remember speaking to them all, but had he, in actual fact?
Dimly, in the back of his consciousness, he realized that the rest of the congregation had sat down and he was the only man standing, so to speak. Someone tugged at his coat and he dropped into the pew, but his thoughts were still racing.
What had been the identity of his assailant on the wooden staircase? It could not have been Jake because he was below, so who was it? He knew for certain that it was neither of the kidnappers, though they had not denied it. But there had been that stunned silence after he had asked them the direct question, followed by their low-voiced consultation. So a fourth man was involved. But who was he? As to the kidnappers themselves, John thought he knew the answer, surprising though it was. And yet it was not really, not when one thought about it closely. But there was still one woman who could no doubt tell him more – the elusive Miss Sopwith who lived somewhere in Boston. John knew for sure that she was next on his list of people to track down. He would start enquiries the very next day.
Someone was whispering in his ear and the Apothecary returned to reality. Coralie was looking at him sharply. ‘You’ve been miles away.’ It was a statement, not an accusation.
‘Yes, I have. I’ll tell you later,’ he murmured as the congregation started on their final hymn.
TWENTY-THREE
It was not the merriest of Christmases. Though Coralie had made a great effort to make it enjoyable, the shadow of the fact that she had released Rose into the arms of a stranger clearly weighed heavily upon her. And after midnight, when she and John lay together in her comfortable bed, she wept heartbreakingly.
‘Don’t, my sweetheart. Please don’t cry. You thought the woman had been employed by me. You were not to know what would transpire.’
‘But I should have questioned her more closely. It was my duty to do so.’
‘How could you in the chaos all around you? Pupils shouting as their parents rejoined them, everyone running about excitedly. How could you have managed to do so? Believe me, Coralie, I am not blaming you. As for Rose, she is of unbeatable spirit. She says her gift helped her, that she knew I was coming to rescue her. The experience has left her undamaged.’
‘She is a remarkable young woman.’
‘I still think of her as a child.’
‘She is rising fifteen now, is she not?’
‘Yes,’ John answered quietly. ‘Yes. I suppose you are right to call her grown up. But where goes the time, can you answer me that? Why, I can vividly recall when I first saw her, presented to me on a cushion. It feels like yesterday. So what of the years between? What have I achieved? Precious little in the grand scheme of things.’
‘We can all say that,’ Coralie answered thoughtfully. ‘We all come into this world with nothing and we all go out with nothing, save what poor pickings one has left behind for one’s descendants. But in that period we must strive our very best to achieve what small amount we can within our given circumstances. And you have done that, John. You have indeed.’
In the darkness, he smiled wryly. ‘And what of you, my dear? You have been a great and beloved actress – and could be again if you so desired.’
‘But I am afraid to go back to England and face my demons. My daughter’s death – it was so terrible, John. Just hideous. The newspapers were full of the tale. I was glad to sail to the Colonies and start a new life.’
‘Come, sweetheart, you must not blame yourself for everything.’
‘I was her mother. It was my fault.’
‘I won’t have that. The girl had nothing of you within her. Now stop these feelings of guilt and sleep peacefully. You were not and never have been to blame.’
But Coralie just sighed, a sad sigh, even though John’s arms were wound tightly round her.
As soon as the festivities were over, John Rawlings decided to scour Boston for the woman who had stolen his daughter from her school – the mysterious Miss Sopwith. The first thing he did was to go to the Old Corner Book Store which, as its name implied, stood on the north corner of School Street. Here he bought a street directory and departed with it to the nearby White Horse tavern. Sitting there quietly, he read the list from cover to cover, then again, this time more slowly. There was no family living in Boston with the name Sopwith, so it had been a pseudonym. Now he had no chance of tracing the woman. Ordering himself another glass of ale, John considered his next move.
It was at that moment that the door opened and in came Lieutenant Harry Dalrymple, frowning and muttering slightly under his breath. At first he did not look up, but finally his eye took in the fact that the Apothecary was sitting alone at a table and he hurried over.
‘Ah, my dear Sir, it is very good to see you. Tell me, how go your enquiries? Have you come up with anything yet?’
‘Quite a lot.’ Motioning him to a seat, John poured out the entire story.
Harry listened in absolute silence, then said, ‘You are pretty sure you know the identity of your daughter’s kidnappers?’
‘Pretty sure, Sir. There was a certain turn of phrase that gave me the clue.’
Dalrymple nodded. ‘You’re a shar
p one, I’ll say that for you.’
‘Thank you. But there’s one thing that eludes me.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘There are no Sopwiths living in Boston. So where is she?’
‘You’re certain of this?’
John slapped the street directory with his hand. ‘None in here, at any rate. She obviously used a false name.’
‘Or was a camp follower,’ Dalrymple answered slowly.
John stared at him, aghast. That was one idea that simply hadn’t occurred to him. As he had seen for himself in the mortuary, there were a great number of women, both old and young, to say nothing of children, who camped on the Common with the militia.
‘You don’t by any chance have a list of them?’ he asked the lieutenant.
‘A basic one, yes,’ Harry answered, and his face broke into a boyish grin.
‘Can I have a look at it?’
‘When I have finished my drink the answer is yes.’
Shortly afterwards, they stepped out into the thick snow that seemed to be a speciality of the town and walked, with a certain amount of slipping and sliding, to where the Common stretched out before them, encrusted with white. Dalrymple made his way to a house behind Boston’s granary, which had been taken over by the army as its headquarters, and where there sat a miserable officer behind a desk piled with papers, slapping his arms back and forth in an attempt to keep warm. The lieutenant came through the door and saluted stylishly.
‘Good morning, Sir. May I introduce my friend, John Rawlings?’
The other soldier looked up and made an attempt at smiling. ‘Yes, by all means.’ He held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Mr …?’
‘Rawlings,’ Dalrymple and John chorused.
‘I take it you are here on army business, Sir.’
‘He is actually working with me, Captain McLynn. He is making certain confidential enquiries on my behalf.’