by Deryn Lake
There was a short silence, then she said, “You must forgive me, Colonel Melville. I am so deeply saddened.”
“But surely your path is now clear,” the Apothecary answered firmly.
She looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said surely your path is now clear to marry Michael O’Callaghan.”
Georgiana looked at him coldly. “How dare you say that? As I told you the other night, I no longer trust him.”
“As you know, Ma’am, I’m Richard Melville of His Majesty’s army. However, I undertake special duties on behalf of the government.” John adopted a mysterious look from his range of facial expressions. “So now I am going to speak to you very frankly, if I may.”
She made to get up and walk away but the Apothecary said, “It would be advisable that you remain, Lady Georgiana.”
She sat down again and shot him a furious glance. “Well?”
“The fact is that your affair with Mr. O’Callaghan is known and spoken of. Therefore it is my sad duty to ask you why you returned to the Grotto on the morning of your husband’s death, after your conversation with the actor. And do not pretend that Lord Hope was not within because I have a witness who will say to the contrary.”
She looked at him and her eyes were icy. “Who is this witness?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose that information. Suffice it to say that they are reliable.”
Lady Georgiana gazed down again, her hands in her lap, apparently wrestling with her innermost thoughts. Finally she gave him another cold stare.
“I went into the Grotto to meet my husband. I was going to ask him for a divorce.”
John’s mind boggled, knowing the enormous difficulties of achieving such an enterprise.
“Yes?” he said.
“He refused to give me one. Said I was his wife and so I would remain until his death. We quarrelled — did your witness tell you that?”
The Apothecary shook his head.
“Well, we did. Anyway, I flounced out and left him there, staring into the bathing pool. That was the last time I ever saw him alive.” She moved impatiently. “I never loved him, you know. My father arranged my marriage. I never cared for anyone until I met Michael. And now I’m not sure I even like him.”
“He’s a feckless devil but for all that he thinks the world of you.”
“Yes.” She gave a humourless laugh. “I’m sure he does. But that does not stop him being a murderer.” The Apothecary became businesslike. “So you are telling me that you quarrelled with your husband but that he was alive when you left him?”
“I’m telling you the truth. It may look black against me but that is what happened.”
John merely nodded, placing the ends of his fingers together. “Tell me, what did you do when you left the Grotto?”
“I went back to the house and then went for a walk.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, quite. I wanted to think about the future, about what we were going to do.” She looked John straight in the eye. “Tell me, Colonel, do you think Michael is guilty of murder?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
“And me?”
“I don’t know that either.”
She nodded. “At least you tell the truth.”
“I wish that everybody did the same.” John reached in his pocket. “By the way, is this yours?”
She took the earring from him, holding it in her long pale fingers. “No. Where did you find it?”
“In the grounds,” he lied, thinking how easy it was for someone who was meant to be honest. “It was lying in the grass.”
Georgiana looked thoughtful. “It could be the Princess’s, though I’m not certain. She has so much jewellery that it’s difficult to know one piece from another.”
John stood up, indicating that their interview was at an end. Then he kissed her hand.
“You have been most helpful, Milady. I wish you good day.”
“Good day,” she answered, and watched him, shading her eyes with her hand, s he went back towards the house.
Chapter Twenty-Four
An atmosphere of intense gloom had settled over Gunnersbury House. Despite the fact that the walking party had returned it was nevertheless so quiet one could have heard a needle drop. The footmen, complete with black armbands, were talking in whispers, while the guests, about to go into luncheon, had an air of enormous restraint. Only the Honourable Gerald Naill, who had apparently stayed behind and knocked back most of a decanter of sherry, was oozing cheerfulness to all and sundry.
“How do, Melville,” he called in jolly fashion.
“Very well, thank you.”
“Care to join me in a drink?”
“No, not just at present. I must freshen up before luncheon.” And the Apothecary made his escape upstairs to the room which he had been allotted.
On the landing the silence was profound and the atmosphere terrifying. John, even though it was bright daylight, felt quite nervous as he made his way to his chamber past the place where the body of Lady Theydon lay, waiting the arrival of Sir John Fielding’s Fellows. Yet even as he drew level with the door his footsteps slowed and for some reason he found himself
298 listening intently. In fact he even went so far as to stop outside for a moment or two.
Within, the candles that had been lit must have gone out, for there was no light coming from beneath. But there was a faint sound, a rustling as if somebody were turning over items, looking for something. John’s scalp seethed and he had a mental picture of Lady Theydon, complete with bloody wounds, risen from the dead and searching the room for an article she had once treasured. He steadied himself and gently opened the door.
The corpse lay where it had been placed on the bed, the sheet covering it starkly revealing the shape of Lady Theydon who lay beneath. There had clearly been no resurrection. But for all that, John could not help but draw back the cover and peer beneath. He saw to his horror that one of the corpse’s eyes had opened and was staring at him with a baleful glance. He hurriedly drew the sheet back again, leaving the dead woman to wink in peace.
But opening drawers and searching light-fingeredly within, her back turned to the Apothecary who had entered noiselessly, was Lady Hampshire. John stood watching her in amazement, seeing the dexterity with which she riffled amongst the clothes, until eventually she made a little sound of triumph and withdrew a ring box. Opening it, still with her back turned, she took out a ring and placed it on her finger, which she twisted hither and thither in the light, lost in admiration. From where he stood the Apothecary let out a deliberate cough and the woman spun round, clutching her heart.
She gazed at him, a look of terror on her face. “Oh, Colonel Melville,” she managed to gasp. “I thought…”
“That the dead had risen? No, Madam, it is only me. May I ask what you were doing just now?”
She clutched her throat. “Oh, I’m going to faint, I feel certain of it. Help, Sir. I’m falling.”
John caught her as she went down, thinking to himself that she was a truly exceptional actress. However, he went through the motions of bringing her round, holding his salts so close to her nostrils that she coughed violently, her eyes opening wide.
“Oh, my dear Sir,” she said feebly, “be so good as to see me back to my chamber.”
John suddenly felt irritated beyond belief, sick of being ordered around by foolish women. The need to find the killer was of paramount importance. Seizing Lady Hampshire by the upper arm he thrust her into a chair.
“First,” he said, a definite edge to his voice, “you will tell me what you were doing in here.”
She made a moue. “As a matter of fact I came to recover a ring I had loaned …” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “… Lady Theydon.”
“Why now? Why with the dead woman still in the room? I think the truth is that you had taken a fancy to something of hers and were determined to have it, paying scant respect to the recently d
eparted.”
Her once-beautiful eyes narrowed. “If you accuse me of theft then I shall accuse you of murder.”
“Accuse away. I was the only one who didn’t leave the room when Lady Theydon was killed. I stayed where I was and was visible all the time to the footmen.”
“A likely tale,” she sneered.
John took a chance. “I think you got the habit of stealing before you became an actress and that it has stayed with you ever since. I also believe that you have been pilfering from Lady Theydon for some time and the ring was one thing you were determined to have.” Her face took on a look of malice. “So what if I did? Lady Theydon would have left me the ring if she had lived to make a will.”
“How do you know that she hasn’t? No doubt her lawyers in London would be able to enlighten you.”
She changed from spiteful creature to supplicant in the wink of an eye. “Oh, Colonel, I beg you not to reveal my shame. It is true that I longed for that ring — see, there it is on my finger. Don’t you think it looks fine? But I would never have killed for it, I assure you. Indeed, Lady Theydon promised it to me, I swear it.” Until that moment it had never occurred to John that Lady Hampshire would go so far as to murder to obtain something bright and sparkling, but now the idea came with full force. Staring at her he could see a wild gleam in her eye when she spoke about the jewel. The wild gleam of someone who could not help themselves and who would go to any lengths to obtain their desire.
“Very well, I won’t tell anybody about what you have just done. Now, put the ring back and we’ll forget it.”
She took it off, reluctantly, but he could see by the slightly crazy expression in her eye that she would be back for it.
Having escorted Milady to her room, John went to his own. There he washed his face and hands in cold water and was just about to go down to luncheon when his door opened. The Apothecary turned in surprise from the basin to see Elizabeth framed in the doorway. “My dear girl,” he said, “what are you doing here?” She pulled a face. “I’m emptying the slops.”
“Well, I haven’t got any.”
“I’ll take your washing water.”
“Of course.” And he carried the basin and emptied it into the unpleasant bucket she was carrying. “Oh God, Elizabeth,” he went on, “you shouldn’t be doing this.” She raised an expressive shoulder. “My dear John, I could hardly get a post as a parlourmaid, now could I? But I’m afraid I’ve been of no great help to you, other than for finding out about Benedict.”
John was agog. “I know that he has a passion for you. But what did you discover?”
“That he spies for Princess Amelia. Oh yes, I know she looks harmless but she hates anything — anything at all — to slip past her. So she employs Benedict to find out everything that is going on.”
“And does he?”
“Mostly. He is very puzzled by you, incidentally, though he hasn’t realised who you really are. Nonetheless he is certain you are not what you seem.”
“Whatever gave him that idea?”
“He says you are too light-hearted to be an army man.”
“The gall of the fellow. I’d be obliged if he took his notions elsewhere.”
Elizabeth turned away. “But actually I’ve been of little practical help, have I?”
John stood studying her back, noticing yet again how straight and strong she was, how, other than for her firm high bosom, he was looking at a fairly masculine physique. And then he noticed the hollow where her neck met her shoulders and the most extraordinary sensation swept over him. It was a mixture of emotions: grief at losing Emilia, the age-old longing common to all red-blooded males, the desperate need for physical comfort. Coming up behind Elizabeth, he put his arms round her and kissed her neck again and again with a kind of frantic despair. She turned to face him and at that moment he desired her more than anything else in the world. He put his lips on hers and kissed her deeply, for a long time. Then he couldn’t help himself. He started to press close to her and raise her skirts. Elizabeth frowned. “John?” she said.
“I want you,” he answered.
Her expression changed. “No, John, not until you want me for myself alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Emilia you are missing, it’s her that you need.”
“No, that isn’t true.”
“I’m afraid, my dearest, that it is.”
“Elizabeth, I swear …”
“Say no more,” she answered, putting her finger to his lips. “Just ask me when your sadness has gone.”
“And will you agree?”
She smiled a witch’s smile. “Wait and see,” she said, and picking up the sordid bucket she left the room.
John stood, gazing at where she had been, trying to control himself, hoping against hope that she would reconsider and return. But after a few minutes during which his breathing returned to normal, he knew that she would not. Looking in the mirror he saw that his eyes were full of lust and longing, as was the rest of his body. Straightening his clothes and adjusting his eye-patch, then sighing deeply, John Rawlings slowly descended the staircase.
He thought about Elizabeth all through the light meal, picturing her as she had stared up at him, her ugly beauty so close, the scar which she hated one of the most attractive things about her. In fact he was so rapt in contemplation that he said and ate little and sat deep in thought, picking at his food and leaving half of it on his plate.
Not everyone was present, the Princess having taken herself off, Lady Hampshire deciding to remain in her room, and those that did foregather were in no mood for conversation. Sitting silently in this way, it suddenly occurred to the Apothecary that the Beak Runners — Sir John’s mobile unit — would probably be due to arrive that very afternoon. If so it was imperative that he absent himself quickly. Much as he had a good relationship with Runners Ham and Raven, he knew that their patience with him must now be wearing thin. They were bound to make an arrest. Consequently, as soon as it was polite to do so, John excused himself from the table, put on the Prince of Mecklenburg’s sturdy cape and walked out into the winter sunshine.
It was a fine afternoon and John made his way to The Temple, determined to look round once more. But as he approached the door he heard two whispering voices and, flattening himself behind a pillar, listened carefully to what they had to say, determined that if it was nothing to do with the murders he would absent himself.
“My dear,” said Lady Kemp, “do you think I should tell those court officials, the Runners?”
“Well, it really is up to you and your conscience,” answered Lady Featherstonehaugh.
“What do you mean by that, pray?”
“Simply that in so doing you might be implicating yourself.”
“I see.”
There was a silence, then Lady Featherstonehaugh said, “You must agree that our actions are decidedly odd.”
“Yes, but so interesting. Anyway you’ve made my mind up for me. I shall say nothing to Sir John Fielding’s Fellows.”
“Well, I’ve made up my mind. I think you should.”
“Oh la, my dear, now you’ve sent me into a regular pother. I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell them.”
“I’ll think about it. That’s the most I can say.”
“Oh zoonters!” retorted Lady Featherstonehaugh crossly.
John moved away wondering what in heaven’s name that extraordinary bit of conversation had been about. At the moment it meant nothing but perhaps something would reveal itself in due course. In any event, it was time he visited Bellow’s Farm and quizzed Michael O’Callaghan. He set off at a brisk pace through the estate, not risking going by road. But as he proceeded into the trees he was aware of a coach turning into the carriage sweep and saw that the Runners had arrived and had brought with them the cart they used for transporting the dead. The grim thought that Lady Theydon had also been placed under the coroner’s jurisdiction struck him most forcibly.
> At this point in his perambulation Bellow Brook divided the grounds from the farmlands and, slithering down the bank, John crossed on the stepping stones and climbed up the embankment the other side. Then, shaking the water from his shoes, he removed his eye-patch and made his way to the farm.
To his astonishment he saw that Hugh Bellow was up, leaning heavily on his homemade crutches. Jake, meanwhile, looking amazingly good-tempered, was milking. Of Michael O’Callaghan there was no sign.
“Good afternoon, Sir,” called John. “It’s nice to see you up and about.”
Hugh pulled a face. “I’m more of a supervisor than a worker. But at least I’ve said goodbye to my bed.”
“May I look at your leg?”
“By all means. Shall we step inside?”
“Gladly.”
As he went into the farmhouse Jacob looked up from the milking shed and gave the Apothecary a black glare. John responded with a cheery wave and a bow.
They stepped into the warmth of the kitchen and Hugh hobbled to the dresser and poured two pints of beer from a stone vessel.
“Well, my friend,” he said heartily, “it’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Hugh. Tell me, how is the new hand getting on?”
“Well, he’s a good worker, I’ll say that much.”
“But … ?”
“But he mysteriously vanishes from time to time. Jake can’t be everywhere and I can only hobble round the farmyard so he has a pretty free rein, of which he takes full advantage. Mind you, he’s always back for his dinner. Never misses. And he has an appetite like a horse.”
“Where is he now?”
“Heaven knows.”
“Well, I’ll have a look at your leg then I’ll go and search for him. I want to ask him a few questions.”
Hugh looked grim. “I hear the big house has become a place of death. Two more gone. Who can possibly be the culprit?”
The Apothecary shook his head. “I have no idea, I’m afraid. Yet the need to solve the crimes is imperative. The Princess will stay in the house for only a couple more days, three at the most. Then she will shut the place down and that will be that.”