by Deryn Lake
“Seems you had little choice. Being clapped up in Newgate would be no laughing matter.”
“Joe said that even with garnish it would be hard.”
“What’s garnish?” asked Sir Clovelly, cutting a hunk of pie, presumably having some odd comer to fill somewhere.
“A fee for the gaoler. The greater the garnish the better the treatment. But I still don’t think it would have been an easy time.”
“It would have been bloody hard and there’s an end to it.”
“Still I believe I’ll have to go back.”
Sir Clovelly looked astonished. “Why? What for?”
“To find Emilia’s killer. I know Joe Jago is on the trail but it’s not going to be easy for him. I have this notion that perhaps I could work undercover.”
“How would that transpire?”
“I could remain in hiding, perhaps don a disguise. I could hide out at a friend’s house, then go in search of the bastard who murdered her.”
Sir Clovelly chortled, a merry sound. “And how would you disguise yourself, pray? You’ve a very recognisable face, young man.”
“I don’t know how. Maybe dress as a curate or something.”
At that Sir Clovelly laughed all the more and John sat, feeling infinitely depressed, while his friend guffawed away cheerfully.
Eventually the noise died down and the little fat man wiped his eyes with his napkin. “Sorry, dear boy,” he said. “It was just the thought of you posing as a curate.” He gave another subdued giggle. “But I really shouldn’t laugh in the circumstances. Proper respect and all that.”
John nodded. “No need, Sir Clovelly. I know you mourn Emilia. The thing is you haven’t seen her for four years. But I …”
His voice died away as, yet again, he saw that figure, dying as the sun died also.
Sir Clovelly’s deep eyes glistened.
“… I found her. I saw her recognise me before she … she . .
John drained his cup of tea deeply, unable to continue.
Sir Clovelly rose from the table and went to John’s side where he laid a hand on the Apothecary’s shoulder. “There, my boy. Be easy. Why don’t you cry it out?”
But as John gave in to tears he felt a strong current inside him which said that this must be the last time, that he must not indulge this torrent of weeping again, that it was not fair on those left alive for him to do so. With this idea uppermost in his mind he brought himself under control and looked up to see the big jolly face looking anxiously at him.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I promise you I won’t do it again.”
“I could do with a brandy,” said his host. “And I think you should certainly have one.”
John nodded. “Thank you for being so patient.”
Sir Clovelly crossed to the sideboard, a fine piece in polished walnut, and poured from the decanter. John was amazed by the size of his portion but sipped it none the less.
“That’ll do you good,” said the older man, deeply imbibing. “Drink it down like a fine fellow.”
The Apothecary decided to be reckless and swallowed a great gulp and, strangely, did feel his spirits lift slightly, Sir Clovelly brought the decanter to the table and refilled John’s glass.
“Saw a friend of yours t’other day,” he remarked conversationally.
“Oh? Who was that?”
“The Marchesa di Lorenzi. Elizabeth.”
Even at the mention of her name the Apothecary felt himself grow hot. How could you, he chastised himself. Yet even with Emilia so newly dead, with the fact that four years had passed since he had last seen the Marchesa, he had suffered that reaction and was ashamed of it, Sir Clovelly, however, clearly noticed nothing because he continued to speak.
“She still lives by herself in that great place of hers overlooking the Exe, Sir Randolph Howarth came courting her and we all thought it would end in marriage but she refused him apparently. He was mighty upset and took himself off abroad.”
Why, the Apothecary thought wretchedly, should I be glad that she is still single? What difference does it make to me? I am a married man … Then he stopped short, gasping with shock, realising that Emilia had gone and that he was on his own once more.
. . of course,” Sir Clovelly was saying, “she wears well, I’ll give her that. She’s forty-six or thereabouts now but could be ten years less. I suppose that’s what comes of being thin.”
He patted his own stomach and chortled happily. John’s voice sounded strained. “Do give her my best wishes if you should see her again.”
“Better idea,” said the little fat man. “We’ll call on her. After all, it is still the festive season, Christmas time and all that. I’ll order the coach to be prepared.” And before John could say another word he had rung the bell.
“But I have nothing to wear,” the Apothecary protested. “I only possess the suit I stand up in.”
“That’ll do,” said Sir Clovelly. “After all, it’s not as if you’re trying to impress her.”
But for all his words of reassurance John felt uneasy in his grey worsted as they drove out of Exeter, following the line of the Exe for a way until the carriage began to climb upwards, the horses straining, to the high ground that lay above. It was bone-chillingly cold but here in Devon the snow had started to melt and lay gathered like lumps of wool in the corners of the fields. Then the house came into view, not changed in the four years since John had seen it last.
They passed by the lodge house, the coachman saluting the keeper with his whip, and continued to climb up the drive. Then they heard the beat of distant hooves and a rider atop a great black horse came into view, clearly visible from the carriage windows. He was going at a hell of a lick, John thought. Then his heart pounded as he realised that he was looking at her. That she was out exercising her mount, dressed in men’s clothes, as lithe and as exciting as when he had last seen her.
His stomach knotted painfully and yet again he felt ashamed of himself. He had loved Emilia with all his heart, no question about it, but Elizabeth di Lorenzi had once excited him — and her power had not weakened. With a feeling that his guts were made of iron, John proceeded inexorably on to the house.
She saw that she had visitors because she wheeled her horse round and cantered for home, waving as she did so.
“Ah, there’s Elizabeth,” said Sir Clovelly. He leant out of the window and waved in return. Recognising him, the Marchesa gestured for him to enter and vanished into the stable block. A few minutes later they were being shown into the huge reception hall, still painted pink, still with Britannia waving her spear above their heads. John gazed around him, remembering every detail, his stomach wretched within, his determination to appear calm paramount.
There was a noise behind them and, turning, they saw that Elizabeth di Lorenzi was coming in through a side entrance. Both men bowed, John deeply, Sir Clovelly as low as he could over his portly stomach. The Apothecary heard her sharp intake of breath, followed by a low laugh. Hoping that the flush in his face could be ascribed to the depth of his bow, he straightened.
She was, if anything, even more attractive than when he had last seen her. She had been riding and her colour was up, and this, together with the lustrous black hair, combined to give a stunning effect. He was aware that her dark eyes were sweeping over him and hated his sensible suit bitterly. He cleared his throat but it was Sir Clovelly Lovell who spoke.
“Forgive our intrusion, Ma’am, but I thought as ’twas Christmas time I would call on my neighbours. Truth to tell, Mr. Rawlings has had a terrible experience recently and I thought it would do him good to see you.”
Her scar, running from beneath her eye to her cheekbone and until that moment not noticeable, stood out as she lost colour. John met her gaze and knew that she had guessed something of what had befallen him already.
“Pray come in,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Sir Clovelly. Mr. Rawlings, I am sorry to hear you are in troubled times. You can tell me as much or as
little as you like over refreshments.”
He bowed again formally. “Thank you, Madam.”
She led the way, the two men following at a respectful distance, into the Blue Drawing Room where she sat down on a small sofa, Sir Clovelly occupied another, while John sat in a chair opposite her seat.
Servants entered bringing wine and food, consisting of beef, ham, chicken, cheese and fruit.
“A cold collation,” she explained. “But do say you’ll dine with me. I would like that very much. I have some other guests but I think you will enjoy their company.”
Sir Clovelly caught John’s eye and silently asked a question. The Apothecary gave a slight nod.
“We’d be delighted, Ma’am. A great pleasure,” the fat man answered.
Elizabeth dismissed the servants, then rose and went to the claret jug. She poured out three glasses, passing one to Sir Clovelly, the other to John. Then she sat down again.
“Tell me your story, Mr. Rawlings.”
“My wife was contacted recently by an old school friend of hers, Priscilla Fleming. Priscilla invited Emilia to be in a theatrical production, the Masque of Christmas, which Miss Fleming had written. I should just explain that Priscilla is connected with the court of Princess Amelia in a minor capacity and it was for that court that the production was to be put on. Anyway, the Princess decided to spend her Christmas at Gunnersbury House outside London and Emilia duly made her way there.”
John paused, realising that the Marchesa was studying him intently. Then she said in that direct way of hers, “You look somewhat older than when I last saw you.”
He gave her a small smile. “That is because I am older. Pm thirty-two now.”
“And I am forty-seven.”
They were speaking as if Sir Clovelly was not present and John, realising this, hastily continued with his story.
“The performance took place on the twenty-second. During it Priscilla wore a bright red cloak. Later on I saw a woman I took to be Miss Fleming darting amongst the trees opposite the house. Anyway, the show was over but there was no sign of Emilia.”
He became conscious of the Marchesa’s breathing which had become somewhat shallow.
“So I went to look for her.”
“And you found her?”
“I found her, dressed in the red cloak. She was dying in the snow, alone and unaided. She had been stabbed in the stomach several times, then left.”
“How terrible!” gasped Elizabeth and one hand flew to her throat.
“She died in my arms, and I just sat with her; I don’t know for how long. Anyway a gang of people came from Gunnersbury House and accused me of killing her. They locked me up overnight but Priscilla let me escape. I went to Kensington where Joe Jago came to take me back to London. But he, too, told me to get out of town so I set off for the only place where I knew I had friends. That is how I come to be here.”
He had spoken calmly, even his voice under control, telling the story as clearly and coolly as was possible in the circumstances. Yet all the time he was aware of Elizabeth’s dark gaze on him, absorbing every detail of what he said, giving him every ounce of her attention.
There was a silence, into which she finally spoke quietly. “John, accept my sincere condolences. No man should have such a terrible thing happen to him. I never met Emilia but from all you said she was an honest and good person. I am so sorry.”
He looked directly at her, something he had been avoiding. “Thank you,” was all he said.
Sir Clovelly Lovell cleared his throat. “Well now, perhaps we should speak of jollier things.”
“That might be difficult,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet. “When we have finished our cold collation why don’t John and I go for a ride? You, my dear Sir Clovelly, may stay here and rest until the evening’s activities.” She turned to the Apothecary. “Please say yes.”
Suddenly the thought of being on a fast horse, racing over the sweeping hills, seemed the most desirable thing in the world.
“I would love to,” he answered. “Would you mind, Sir?”
“Not at all, dear boy. It would do you good. I shall sleep awhile. I enjoy that after a good repast.” He folded his hands comfortably over his stomach and closed his eyes.
“Are you sure that you would like nothing further to eat, Sir Clovelly?”
He opened them again. “Perhaps one more of those delicious patties.” Having secured one, he munched cheerfully.
Elizabeth caught John’s eye and winked very slightly. Normally he would have winked back but today he was beyond such frivolities and merely smiled, then realised that this was the first time he had done so since finding Emilia dying.
She poured herself another glass of wine. “John, would you like some more?”
Suddenly he felt like getting drunk, like losing memory in the warm embrace of the bottle. He nodded. “Yes. Yes I would.” Realising how abrupt this sounded he added the word, “Please.”
He drained the glass and held it out for a refill but Elizabeth shook her head. “Wait till we come back. I want you in full control of the horse this afternoon.” He nodded, put the glass down and stood up. “Then let’s go while it’s still daylight.”
“Yes.”
They both looked toward Sir Clovelly but he had fallen asleep, still chewing, so they left the room silently and after giving orders for the servants, headed for the stables. Once there, a groom lead out two horses, one sable black, almost identical to the one Elizabeth had ridden earlier, the other a rich chestnut.
“I thought Jet for you,” she said, and allowed herself to be helped into the saddle, which she rode like a man, still dressed in men’s clothes and blissfully unaware of how attractive she looked in them.
John gazed at the mount appreciatively. “Is he mettlesome?”
“As much as you are,” she answered, and was off. John gazed at her departing back, then swung into the saddle and clattered out over the cobbles, feeling that first exhilarating rush of air as his mount gathered speed and sprinted off into the afternoon.
Chapter Ten
It was one of the most exciting rides of John’s life. He crashed through the bracken in hot pursuit of the Marchesa who led him by a quarter of a mile, never once turning to see whether he was catching her up. She seemed to be part of her mount, clearly as at ease in the saddle as she was walking around her home. Yet though the Apothecary urged his horse to go faster, always she led by that tantalising, never changing, gap.
Just for a moment he forgot the terrible circumstances that had brought him to Devon and relished the vast expanse of sky and moorland. He had forgotten the drama of Devon skies. Today’s was clear blue, that brightness that indicates deep winter, with a golden sphere of sun just starting to descend the heavens. A picture of deep red on snow came into his mind which with a mighty effort of will he forced away. Ahead of him Elizabeth cantered on, regardless — or so it seemed — of his presence behind her.
“Marchesa,” he called and, at last, she glanced over her shoulder, gave a bewitching smile, then continued her reckless press forward.
Around him the world looked huge, the Exe a small snake far below, the green downs, undulating and curvaceous as a woman, a few houses — tiny at this distance — scattered about. He wanted to shout, then; shout at the cruelty of Emilia’s death when there was such a lot of life yet to be lived, such a lot of wonderful country to explore. Yet again tears stung his eyes but he forced them away. He had done with crying. He would not cry again until the ruthless murderer, the destroyer of all he had held close to his heart, was dead. Briefly the thought made him breathless and he reined in his horse just to take in some air.
It was four years since he had travelled this path but he could have sworn that they were coming to that scrubbish terrain in which Wildtor Grange was situated. How well he remembered his visits there. Emilia had been with him on every occasion — except one visit, by night, when he and Elizabeth had been alone together.
B
elow him he could see her as she swooped out of the trees, still not looking backward. He careered down the hill after her, anxious to catch her up, afraid of losing his way now that he was deep in a wood But he emerged on the other side quite safely, his mount seeming to know its pathway through. There beneath him, diminished by the distance, lay the crumbling remains of the Grange, its spines bleak and raw against the fading winter sunshine. Of Elizabeth there was no sign.
How strange it was, almost like a slip in time, to tether his horse to a nearby tree and make his way on foot to that stark and crumbling ruin. Weather and time had undone it even further since his last visit, and he gazed upward to a mouldering east wing where, so legend had it. Lady Thorne had once been held prisoner. Stepping through a glassless window at ground level, John entered that dim house of memories.
Yet time had blurred his recollection of that huge entrance hall with its ghostly suites of rooms leading off it. Looking straight ahead John ran his eyes over that bleak, overpowering staircase rising like some monster to the upper floors. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on it he steadfastly made his way forward and put his foot on the bottom step.
Memories came of happier times. Of Emilia walking beside him, clinging to him in fright, of hiding in the clothes cupboard in Elizabeth’s private apartments, of him being forced into the role of voyeur, watching the Marchesa undress and despite all the outside influences, admiring her muscular body. Now, his footsteps faltering despite himself, John made his way, in the listening silence, towards the place where she dwelt.
As he went he marshalled his thoughts about her. Despite the fact that she had attracted him to the point where he had almost betrayed Emilia, that had been then. Now he wanted none of it. Yet, despite this, he still found her utterly charming, needed her friendship desperately. In fact, he considered Elizabeth di Lorenzi was very special to him in an utterly inexplicable way.
His feet echoed along the bare boards of the East Wing, past the dreary suites of rooms with their white-draped furniture. The atmosphere was stifling, horrid, almost tangible in its oppressiveness. Yet again he asked himself how anyone could bear to live here until, reaching the door at the end, he threw it open and stepped into opulent comfort, warmth and splendour, and knew that the Marchesa had been right to choose this extraordinary ruin for her secret habitat.