by Deryn Lake
He went down the corridor as far as he could, then struck a tinder and tried to ignite the thing. All the time he was praying that it would work and eventually, after what seemed like hours of struggling, a measly flame caught and lit the way. John marched on to the left, knowing that he had little light left to him. And then he heard it. Very faintly, somewhere a dog was barking.
He started to follow the sound, though he had no choice but to do so, praying that he would reach the end of the corridor before the flame went out. Meanwhile, the barking was getting louder and louder until, at last, he reached the top of some rough hewn steps. As carefully as he could, John made his way down, listening for the sound of the dog. It was only a fraction away from him he could tell, yet where was the damnable thing? Then as suddenly as if it had been there all along, which, of course, it had except that he had been unaware of it, light flooded in. The candle blew out as with one last heave John pushed at the door which swung back with a groan. He had reached civilisation once more.
* * *
Twenty minutes later he was seated in the grandeur of the big salon, imbibing brandy with his tea to help him recover from the shock. Poor Millicent had fainted clean away at his disappearance, and though now conscious was only able to take a little boiled water to clear her head. Samuel, who had been on the point of departing, had stayed on to help with the search.
“The extraordinary thing is, John, that none of us could find the wretched mechanism, try as we would. Nor could we hear you. It had apparently gone dead as the tomb.”
Warmed by the brandy, cheered by their genuine relief that he had got out safely, John asked a question.
“Do you mean to say that that is the first you have known about the concealed place in the Long Gallery?”
Jocasta spoke. “Oh yes. Completely and utterly. The passage I wanted to show you runs off the Great Hall. It is a series of corridors, two of which lead out, the others are dead ends. It was used at one time to hide the priests during religious persecution. We call it the Valley of Shadows. I don’t know why, really.”
“Then there is more than one secret passage in this house?”
“There are probably half a dozen if we could but find them all. Anyway, when you have gathered your strength, we’ll go and look for that other one. See if we can discover it.”
John nodded, turning over in his mind the fact that someone had lit a fire in that hidden grate. “Millicent was telling me a story about the woman under whose picture I vanished. Something about her disappearing with her lover there.”
Jocasta gave another smile of sadness. “Poor Millicent, if she can get anything confused she will. Lucinda Tewkesbury died, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did. But what happened to her in the years between?”
“She ran off with Roger de Courtenay but her husband gave chase and killed him. Then he took her back, meek as you please. Nine months later she presented him with a son.”
“I see. And which one was the child’s father?”
“Nobody knows for sure. In fact I don’t suppose Lucinda was certain either.” Jocasta laughed and looked at Samuel, who coloured and stared rapidly away. “Well, if you’re ready, Mr. Rawlings. Shall we go and see what Lucinda has to say to us now?”
“Certainly. Your turn to be locked in, Sam.”
But he wasn’t feeling in any mood for laughing as he entered the Long Gallery for the second time that afternoon and once again stood beneath the portrait.
“I was just here when it happened,” he said.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing really. Just staring at your ancestor, wishing she could speak and tell me her secrets.”
This said, John pressed the place where he had been leaning, or rather where he thought the place to be. But this time there was no click, nor did the panel swing away. In fact nothing happened at all. Faintly embarrassed, John tried again. Once more, nothing happened.
“Here, let me try,” said Samuel, and came over and stood where the Apothecary had just done. He leant forward and pressed but nothing happened. He turned to John. “Are you sure you were here?”
“Of course I was there. Ask Millicent.”
“Oh no,” said Jocasta rapidly. “She really is too poorly. Let her rest, do.”
John vaguely wondered if the sad little woman was heading for the beginning of the end of her courses, but did not allow himself to dwell on the matter. Far more pressing was the discovery of the button that would release the panel. Yet try as he would the mechanism remained concealed and eventually he and Samuel were forced to turn away, defeated.
“Well,” said Jocasta, “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s perfectly true,” replied John. “How else could I have got outside?”
“Well, I believe you,” answered Samuel stoutly, instantly restoring himself in his friend’s affections.
“Good chap.”
And there was a moment’s heavy silence before Jocasta said brightly, “Would you like to see the Valley of Shadows?”
“Yes, very much,” answered John, but his brain was heavy with the mystery of the Long Gallery and what it was that was precluding him from finding the mechanism.
Yet, despite this, he was still overwhelmed by the Valley of Shadows. It was so much bigger than he had thought, almost as if another house existed beside the big one. Entranced, John watched as Jocasta pressed the middle of a piece of Tudor panelling and saw the lower panel creak back, then was forced to bend double in order to gain entry. This time, in order to be on the safe side, he allowed Jocasta the privilege of going first.
A maze of corridors, lit by her candletree, stretched before him on either side. Though all quite narrow he saw that they included a staircase which, no doubt, went down to the cellar.
“Amazing,” said Samuel.
“Very useful,” Jocasta answered pointedly, “for those having to hide in a hurry. Or for gentlemen serving tea and baccy, if you know what I mean.” She turned to John. “Do you wish to see more or shall we save it for another day?”
“I think, if you don’t mind, that I’ll call an end to it. I’ve a mind to have one more go at the upstairs cipher before I take my leave.”
“Certainly. I feel I can hardly refuse you.”
Laughing they trooped out of the cavern and back into the Great Hall, though all the time John had the uneasy feeling that they were being observed. However, despite various covert attempts at looking round, he could see nothing.
The portrait stood, as enigmatic as ever, its message as strong and as powerful as when he had first seen it. But again the panel resisted any attempt at being opened, so much so that John began to believe that he had not experienced what he knew perfectly well had happened. This time, though, he made light of it.
“Oh well, the lady is definitely annoyed with me. So, if you will forgive, Madam, I really think I must take my leave.”
He turned to Samuel, fully expecting him to comply, and was astonished to see that his friend was frowning.
“Samuel?”
“I believe old chap, if it’s all the same to you, that I’ll follow on later. Mrs. Rayner has promised to show me some miniatures which I would rather like to see.”
Very surprised, the Apothecary found himself bowing and making his way out on his own. But he was glad that there was still sufficient daylight to give him a clear run through the woods before the shadows grew even longer.
Back at Scottlea Park there was such an air of tranquillity that John immediately became suspicious. It seemed to him that everything was perfection. His daughter had just been fed and was now ready to play with him; his wife, whose hair was being dressed by a maid, blew him kisses; Louis winked his eye and offered him a glass of claret. And over all triumphed Serafina, gliding round the house, as tall and elegant as ever. Everything was set for a perfect evening and so it turned out to be.
Not one word was spoken in complaint; the food was divine; and afterwards
the others lay back against cushions and listened to Serafina effortlessly play Scarlatti at his most demanding.
“Superb,” said John, when she had finally finished, and applauded with the others.
But the efforts of the day and memories of the strange affair in the Long Gallery had not been far away, and soon he had started to yawn with genuine fatigue. At this, Serafina had risen from the harpsichord and suggested that they have one final drink before retiring.
“For surely you are off tomorrow,” she had said.
The truth had hit John hard. While he had been away entertaining himself in secret and getting thoroughly lost, Emilia had been packing. He turned to his wife and she nodded.
“Oh darling, and I left all the arranging to you,” he said remorsefully.
She smiled. “Not for the first time.”
“And not for the last. Oh these men, these men!” said Serafina, but she was smiling as well and John felt more at ease than he had for a long time.
Yet the minute he got into bed all his old tension returned. He only had to close his eyes and he relived those times he had endured when he had been locked behind the portrait. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide open.
“Why the devil did I say locked?” he asked the room aloud.
“Um? What?” said Emilia, already deep down in sleep.
“Nothing, darling.”
But he knew then what had been at the back of his consciousness ever since he had stepped through the hidden door and out into the glade. He had been locked in that terrible room, he was certain of it.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning was too confused for any clear thoughts to emerge and it wasn’t until later, after Irish Tom had drawn the equipage away from the delightful villa in which dwelt Serafina and her family, and had his party well on the road to London, that they began to crystallise in John’s mind. The first thing was that he had been locked into that mysterious room by a person unknown. The second thing was - and here John paused in order to get his thoughts in order - the openness with which Jocasta Rayner had displayed her lack of grief. Because, though she had wept openly at the loss of a father, she had done little more than shed a tear at the departure of her sister.
And this brought him, much against his will, to Samuel. Had his friend intervened in the matter? Had he offered a shoulder to lean against? John sat grimly, chewing over the facts and making something of a face as he did so.
“John, whatever are you thinking about? What is it that gives you such a horrid mouth? Why, you look as if you’ve swallowed a packet of pins.”
The Apothecary returned to earth with a crash, his thoughts flying in all directions. “What? Oh, sorry. I was miles away.”
He was looking directly into Emilia’s eyes which at this precise moment were very far from angelic.
“Boo!” John added, and smiled.
She did not smile back, and he felt his heart sink. In fact he was just preparing an elaborate excuse when Emilia suddenly snatched his hand and gazed into it. Worried, John said nothing. Eventually, his wife came out with, “I wonder what she could really see, that old woman.”
Suddenly, it was all clear to him. “Oh, you mean Serafina. When she dressed up.”
Emilia gave him a deep look. “I don’t think so. I thought she was genuine. An old beggar woman who haunted their kitchens.”
A thread of that evening’s strangeness came back to pluck at John’s heartstrings but he pushed it away angrily.
“No, it was Serafina. Why, she was laughing when she came back in.”
“That was more than likely about something else. I’m telling you John, that old woman was genuine.”
Remembering the oddness of the entire event the Apothecary saw off his desire to convince Emilia that it was Serafina all along and, instead, remained silent. After a while Emilia dropped his hand and herself sat saying nothing. John decided that the best way he could regain his thoughts was by feigning sleep. So, pulling his hat well down over his eyes, he closed them. Instantly he was back in that room, picking his way round that huge grate, surprise and bewilderment coming with the thought that somebody had recently lit a fire there. But who had it been? Surely Millicent was too cautious a person to have thought of doing such a thing. And yet… Slowly and carefully the Apothecary forced the image of her face into his mind. He remembered her look of astonishment, followed by something else. Her eyes had seemed so nervous temporarily, just as he vanished from view. Had Miss Millicent been guilty? Or was she as astonished as he was by the whole incredible scene?
John let his thoughts rove on, returning briefly to the problem of Jocasta. Had her lack of guilt been entirely because she was happy with Samuel or had there been another, darker, purpose? Had…
He opened his eyes suddenly as the coach dropped speed and realised that he was in London, or what passed for London, driving through the leafy lanes of St. George’s Fields, prior to turning off for Westminster Bridge. Guiltily, John turned to his wife and Dorcas but saw that they and the baby were all three fast asleep. Leaving them where they were, he stared out of the window, once more immersed in deep thought.
An hour later they were within doors, the women waking in a flap, only Rose Rawlings regarding them all with a discerning eye.
“Oh my dear,” said Emilia, “what a to-do.”
“Nonsense,” replied her husband forthrightly. “I’ll take Rose for a little walk and when I get back you and Dorcas will have organised everything.”
So saying, he had Rose in her bassinette and out of the house almost before a voice could be raised in objection. Anyway he was longing to get out and about having been stuck in the coach for nearly a day. Thus, father and daughter, leaving the house quite quickly, turned into Gerrard Street, then into Macclesfield Street, to get to St. Ann’s, Soho, where he thought to show her the place in which he had been married. But just as the church was coming into view so, too, came a figure. A figure which as it drew closer revealed itself as Lieutenant Mendoza.
“I see we meet again,” said the Apothecary, stepping directly into the Lieutenant’s path and giving the curtest of bows.
“Sir, I owe you an apology,” came the reply.
“You do indeed.”
“I thought you were one of the common herd and put my hands about you. I was mistaken and I humbly ask forgiveness.”
“What has brought this about if I might ask?”
“I saw the error of my ways,” the Lieutenant answered humbly.
And something else beside, the Apothecary thought. Someone has spoken to him. But who? Aloud he said nothing, waiting for the Lieutenant to come to the point.
“And whose is this delightful child?” Mendoza continued, holding out a hand to Rose, who grabbed a finger and held on tight.
“Mine,” said John, and surprised himself at the terrific surge of pleasure that saying such a thing could bring about.
“I should have guessed. She will be a great person,” the Lieutenant continued. He straightened up. “Shall we sit in the church for a while?”
“Why not?” answered John, but within he was almost bursting, certain that the military man had been coming to see him with the express intention of unburdening himself.
They made their way inside and sat down in a deserted pew near to the front. Looking round, John saw that several people were busy about the place but nobody had taken any particular notice of them and they were going to be left alone. “You’d best tell me why you wanted to see me,” he said.
The Lieutenant gazed at him. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Everyone says that. So why not start at the real beginning.”
Mendoza looked blank. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow.”
“Oh, you follow well enough. Tell me about the woman you’re in love with.”
“Louisa? Oh, she’s adorable, she’s an…”
“No. I mean the other woman in your life.”
The angry look was beginning to come
back in the Lieutenant’s face. “What other woman?”
“Mrs. Trewellan,” John said quietly.
“Ah, therein lies a big confession.”
“I guessed as much. Tell me everything.”
“Well, what does one say? How does one put it?”
“I’m hoping you’ll show me.”
The Lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “You know, of course, that she has kept our relationship entirely hidden from the world.”
The Apothecary looked wise.
“Which, of course, has given rise to certain questions,” Mendoza continued.
“Has it?” asked John, more than a little surprised. He frowned, not seeing at all where any of this was leading.
“I was born just a fortnight before her eighteenth birthday.”
“To whom?” asked John, totally perplexed.
“Well, to her, of course,” said Lieutenant Mendoza. “Mrs. Trewellan is my mother.”
There was a profound silence into which Rose farted loudly.
“Good God!” exclaimed the Apothecary. “And there was me thinking … Are you telling me that…?” But his voice died away and John Rawlings hung down his head. “I feel my mental powers are on a parallel with that noise my daughter has just made.”
After a second’s silence, the military man suddenly put his head back and gave a laugh, though with rather a bitter undertone.
“I must never tell my poor mama,” he said, “and neither must you.”
The Apothecary couldn’t raise a smile. He sat, head bowed, taking in what should have been obvious from the start. That Mrs. Trewellan and the Lieutenant were mother and son was so glaringly clear that now he knew the fact he couldn’t think how he had missed it. But still it remained that he had and, worse, had been caught in the act. John could not remember a more embarrassing moment in his entire life.