A Cornish Betrothal

by Nicola Pryce

  ‘Undoubtedly. They lay their eggs deep beneath your skin – and we don’t want them crawling out’ He sounded slightly more abrupt, glancing back at the door. ‘Dear lady, I’ve other patients asking for my help and I can’t stay much longer. Is it two vials you want? That’s just four pence. That’s two pence each – now that’s nothing, is it, for a total cure of the worms?’

  He knew she was delaying him, and she must have thought so too. She pulled up her stocking and reached for her bag. ‘That’s very kind. I’ll start the drops as soon as I’ve paid. How many drops shall I give my son, and how many for myself?’

  He was packing up his chest, his long thin fingers in their woollen gloves, smoothing down the remaining bottles, covering them with a velvet cloth. There was no sign of Major Trelawney or James Polcarrow. He was getting ready to leave. The door to the shop was still locked but I could see a new swiftness to his movements, no sign of stiffness, but a young, fit man looking round as if he knew he might need to run. I glanced at the back door. Should I lock it, or should I wait for Luke to come?

  ‘Ten drops three times a day should suffice but keep taking the medicine until you finish the two vials. That’s absolutely vital. Don’t stop the treatment halfway, or it won’t work.’

  People were passing the window, a man riding by on a horse. A ship was leaving the quayside, men were shouting, coiling in the ropes. The sails were rising, a line of women waving. On the polished counter behind him, pieces of neatly cut leather lay ready to be sewn into a pair of gloves.

  ‘It’s been such a pleasure, Doctor, but before you go, my mother-in-law stitches gloves and she gets terrible sores on her fingers. Some get quite large and they have puss in them. Show him your fingers, Margaret – not that you’ve got the puss now – but perhaps the good doctor has something for when you do? Have you come across puss fingers before, Doctor?’

  He looked angry now and I turned at the faint sound of shuffling. Luke and James were in the kitchen, behind them Major Trelawney, and I pointed to the curtain, standing back so they could get a glimpse of the man selling poison. He was examining Margaret Oakley’s fingers.

  ‘Och, they look fine to me. A few pinpricks and some certain reddening, but I have something for you that will ease this inflammation. It’s best to get this sorted before the puss comes back. I’ve a tincture, but I think my lozenges will do better. Suck two or three a day, and that redness will go.’ He opened the case, thrusting a bottle towards her. He shut the case and walked quickly across the shop. ‘I’ll not charge you for that, because I’m in a hurry now . . . I’ve got a list of patients to get through.’

  He reached the door, expecting to open it. He searched the keyhole for the key. ‘Open this door! I’ll not be held like this.’ There was panic is his voice, his Scottish accent slipping. ‘Give me the key.’ He rushed back, his huge frame pushing Sofia to the floor. He flung open the curtain.

  ‘We’ll take that.’ James wrenched the bag from his hand, holding tight to both wrists as the black-coated arms lashed out. The man twisted free, punching James in the face, making for the back door. ‘No you don’t.’ James was on to him again, his arms reaching out as he flung himself across the floor to grab him round the thighs. He pulled him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his writhing back. Major Trelawney was ready with his handcuffs and clamped the clenched fists tight, followed by the frantically kicking ankles.

  ‘Francis Bainbridge, I am arresting you for the murder of Lady Charlotte Melville and Mrs Annie Alston. For the attempted murder of Captain Pierre de la Croix and for the brutal murder of your half-brother Edmund Melville.’ Henry Trelawney grabbed the white wig, pulling it from him, ripping off the long white beard and glasses, and I stared into the murderous eyes of Francis Bainbridge.

  Sofia Oakley was in the doorway, rubbing her injured elbow. She gasped, staring in horror at the man with short dark hair and a scar above his upper lip. ‘But it’s Mr Daniel!’ she cried. ‘It’s Philip Daniel. Why on earth do you want to poison us?’

  Chapter Fifty

  Town House, Truro

  Saturday 24th February 1798, 11 a.m.

  Papa threw another log on the fire and resumed his seat. Major Trelawney and Sir James had just left.

  ‘So Francis Bainbridge denies everything, does he? Well, he can’t deny that the bottles he peddled contained laurel water – Luke and Dr Nankivell can both swear to that. He’ll be found guilty, no question about it.’

  ‘He needed to kill Sofia and Joe because they knew him as Philip Daniel. They were the only ones who could recognize him under that name.’

  Mother was wearing her silk turquoise gown, copied from an exotic print of a Turkish lady. The skirt was divided into pantaloons but she had stopped short of the gold armlets and long veil, opting instead for a shorter one that fell to her shoulders.

  ‘Indeed, my love. Captain Banyan was dead but Sofia and Joe could identify him as being on the ship from Sumatra. Another blow to his story – and when he read that Elizabeth was looking for a Mr Philip Daniel, it threw him into a panic. He had to find out who had recognized him.’

  ‘But first, he needed to silence Pierre. He knew Pierre would know there was no prison hulk. That night – that rage we saw – was fear as well as anger. He couldn’t hide it. He must have visited Mrs Hambley’s just moments before we got there.’

  Mother shook her head. ‘It could have been a very different story. I shudder to think of it. And he hurried back in the stagecoach dressed in his doctor’s disguise which is why no one saw him return. Thank goodness Pierre was busy and didn’t take the medicine straight away. And then he went straight to find Sofia and young Joe. Do you know what chills me most?’

  ‘That he could kill a mother and her child?’

  ‘That apart. His deviousness – his ability to cover his tracks . . . like telling the innkeeper Philip Daniel was looking for him. That’s so calculating.’

  ‘He didn’t see Pierre only because Mrs Hambley didn’t want to disturb him. She bought the medicine because he persuaded her it would cure his rheumatism and only gave it to Pierre as we left. If we hadn’t stopped him from taking it, he would have died.’

  Mother shook her head. ‘He’s devious, and very clever. He must have arrived in England not long after Sofia and Joe – in November, not December. He had time to collect his disguise and gather up his poisons . . . I believe he probably wanted to poison his aunt back in December but something stopped him. Maybe you didn’t leave the house, Connie? Either way, he must have hidden the disguise and potions and came back for them later.’

  Constance was wearing a soft grey gown and Mother’s burgundy shawl, her black hair falling around her shoulders, looped on both sides with a pair of Mother’s pearl hairpins. She put down her book, Marshall’s Rural Economy of the West of England.

  ‘And he can’t have been in London when he said he was. He might have written to Sir Alex from London, but then he must have hurried down to Bodmin . . . and hidden, watching the house, waiting until I’d gone to the village before he risked selling his poison to Annie.’

  Papa swirled the globe again, his fingers trailing across the vast blue ocean. ‘He was here in Cornwall . . . in November, but he had to wait for the right ship in Ireland. He hid the poisons, sailed to Ireland where he had to wait for an appropriate Portuguese trader. It might have taken him weeks . . . then he struck lucky. A storm brought the ship in . . . he got talking to the crew, learned everything he needed to know – where they’d traded, what they’d been carrying – and everything slotted into place.’

  I knelt at his feet by the globe. ‘James reckoned he probably went straight to Jamaica, then sailed for Sumatra . . . yes, that makes sense. He had over three years to get there and back – time enough to search out the merchant who’d swindled his father. He must have been planning to go there all the time.’

  A wave of sorrow flooded my heart. Sir Richard had loved Edmund, yet for so long, Edmund believed otherwise
. ‘Sir Richard and Edmund were both at Francis’s mercy,’ I whispered. ‘Do you think it was Francis who suggested to Sir Richard that they should go to Sumatra in the first place? And Sir Richard didn’t trust him with Edmund so he changed his mind?’

  Papa traced the outline of Africa, stopping at the port of Mombasa. ‘I think that very likely, under the circumstances. Do you think Francis poisoned the merchant, too?’

  Mother shrugged. ‘Who knows? I think he most likely coerced them into honouring the shipment. I imagine he intended to continue trading with them so he left them alive but in no doubt about what would happen if they cheated him again.’

  Sunlight filtered through the windows, the room bright, the fire roaring. Not half an hour ago, Major Trelawney had stood by the fire and shocked us all with his thoughts – his absolute belief that Francis had swapped his uniform with one of his fallen comrades. He believed the bag Francis had taken from the ship was not full of explosives but clothes – clothes he said had been stolen from his trunk. How else had an officer been recorded as one of the fallen men?

  A shiver ran down my spine: the thought of him holding me, almost forcing me to kiss him. I had felt such revulsion. Recoiling at the touch of a murderer, a man who would strip a comrade of his clothes and replace them with his own.

  Connie was looking at me. ‘Francis asked me if I had the key to Father’s desk. He wasn’t sure about how much I knew . . . or what I had access to. He had to know, because I would have seen the letter he claimed he found. He put that letter in Father’s desk – the one about the spices. He had it all organized – he was going to claim the insurance and pay off the debts.’

  Mother joined us at the globe. ‘But what I can’t understand is why he got off the ship in Lisbon. Why not wait for an escort? He posted Amelia’s letter from there . . . he must have got someone to write it in Portuguese . . . but why didn’t he get back on the ship? You don’t think he saw someone he recognized on the quayside, do you? He couldn’t risk a navy escort because he might be recognized?’

  Papa’s finger was on Lisbon now. ‘Maybe the officer who came on board was from his old ship?’

  My heart thumped. ‘What if it was Frederick? HMS Circe is on escort duty in the Mediterranean. What if he saw Frederick?’

  Constance looked almost at peace. Her cheeks had lost their gauntness, her frown and tight lips no longer there. Her eyes seemed softer, her smile quicker, reaching her eyes. ‘I’m going to order a beautiful new tomb for Edmund. I’m going to place it where he used to love to sit. The view from there stretches right across the moor . . . you can see the sea in one direction and the peaks of the moors in the other. It’s not among the other tombs . . . it’s just by the orchard. I know he’ll love it. He’s at peace now.’

  Mother glanced out of the window, her eyes following someone across the square. ‘Amelia, my love. Fetch me some more paper from your father’s study, would you? Only I’m running rather short.’

  She must have seen the tears welling in my eyes and I was glad to seek some solace. I could not help it. Connie’s talk of Edmund’s new tomb had moved me to tears. He’s at peace now. Papa’s study was warm, the fire blazing, and I picked up some paper for Mother. I had to put it down again and leaned onto the desk as another wave of sorrow swept through me. His death was so brutal and it felt so raw again. Only this time it was worse because I knew the truth. He had never deserted me, never stopped loving me. He even addressed me in his last letter as wife.

  I reached into my pocket, his miniature trembling in my hands and I stared back into his haunted eyes. The door opened and Luke strode purposely into the room.

  ‘Oh, forgive me . . . I didn’t see you there . . . it’s just . . . your mother sent me in for some writing paper.’ He saw my tears and came slowly to my side, cupping his hand gently beneath mine as I held the miniature. I made to put it away, but he kept his hand firm.

  ‘Don’t ever feel you must put Edmund’s portrait away in front of me. Never think I don’t want to see it, nor see you grieve for him. Remember what I said – that I never sought to take his place but only sought to lodge beside him in your heart? There’s room for both of us, Amelia. Don’t hide him from me.’

  His arm slipped round my shoulders, the other still holding my hand. Edmund was looking back at us and tears splashed my cheeks. ‘I would have loved him as a friend, Amelia. Had I known him, I would have wanted his good opinion. And had you already been married, I would have admired you as his wife. Don’t ever hide your grief from me. You must never forget him. We must never forget him.’

  ‘I planted my herb garden because I needed somewhere to be alone with him. He’s in every herb, every single drawing. I did it all to honour him.’

  ‘Which is why you must dedicate your herbal to him – In honour of Sir Edmund Melville, my beloved friend.’

  I glanced up. His blue eyes were searching mine, full of tenderness and understanding. Deep furrows etched his forehead, his eight long years of study and his patients’ suffering taking their toll. His hair was freshly washed, worn short, receding at his temples, the auburn hints in his sideburns catching the firelight.

  ‘Amelia, I vowed to Edmund a long time ago – to the departed soul of a man I had never met but who had loved you so very dearly – that I would look after you for him. That I would love you, honour you and cherish you, and that vow will stand for the rest of my life. I will do everything in my power to bring you the happiness he would have brought you.’

  A sound of scuffling, followed by a breathless shout. ‘Aunt Amelia . . . Aunt Amelia . . . Oh, there you are – we’ve been looking all over for you.’

  Luke’s arm dropped. ‘Oh dear . . . here we go again!’

  ‘Hello, Dr Bohenna. It’s good you’re here because Uncle Emerson is with us and you can talk your doctors’ talk.’ The two boys beamed adoringly up at me. ‘Did you know Uncle Emerson has never, ever slid down the banisters in his whole life?’

  ‘What, never in his whole life? Are you certain about that?’

  ‘Never, ever, ever.’ They shook their heads. ‘And he’s never, ever climbed a tree!’

  I shook my head back at them. ‘That’s terrible. Poor Uncle Emerson.’

  William and Henry rushed to the window. ‘Oh, here’s Grandmother. She said she’d follow us here.’

  I looked at Luke but turned quickly as Papa rushed into the room. ‘Hurry, it’s The Galleon, and she’s in full sail,’ he said, flinging himself behind his huge leather armchair. ‘Quick, take cover. Pilchards, everyone.’ He scrambled out again and ran back to the hall, shouting into the drawing room. ‘PILCHARDS, Clarissa, Connie. Quick. PILCHARDS.’ He came tumbling back into the room.

  Luke grabbed my elbow and pulled me behind the red damask curtain.

  ‘But that’s where we usually hide,’ insisted Henry.

  Luke was adamant. ‘Not today, boys – William take the other curtain; Henry, pop into that cupboard. Lord Carew, you’re safe behind the chair. Ah, good day, Dr Polgas – I suggest you hide behind the door.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ came the shocked reply.

  ‘Pilchards, old boy,’ came a voice from behind the heavy armchair.

  ‘Don’t tell us you’ve never played Pilchards either?’ came a shocked voice from behind the other curtain. ‘Just hide behind the door, Uncle Em, and we’ll teach you properly later.’

  Luke’s arms closed round me and we stood behind the heavy curtain, trying not to laugh. ‘Poor boys. They usually hide here.’

  He laughed softly, as I knew he would. ‘You honestly think I’d give up this chance? Never, ever . . . not in my whole life.’

  He held me to him, his strong arms folding round me. He bent to kiss my hair and I leaned against his crisp white necktie, his physician’s jacket and his simple white shirt. He smelled of soap, of all that was wholesome, of everything I loved.

  Through the thick damask brocade we heard Lady Polgas striding from room to room. ‘Of course they’r
e here. They were just ahead of me, for goodness’ sake. I stopped for five minutes, ten at the most. Where are they?’ She must have been peering into the study as her voice got louder. ‘They can’t just disappear? Where are they?’

  ‘I’m not sure, m’lady. I think they’ve been here but they’re not here now . . . Shall I check the kitchens, m’lady?’

  ‘The kitchens? Good God, man. Are you saying my grandsons might be in the kitchens? Go and fetch them at once.’

  I pressed my finger against Luke’s lips. ‘Shhhh, she’ll hear you. Don’t laugh. Don’t give us away.’

  I heard a throat clear and I recognized Bethany’s politest tone. ‘They’re not in the kitchens, Lady Polgas. I think maybe they arrived and found no one was at home, and so they didn’t stay. Perhaps they’ve gone back to look for you? I shouldn’t wonder that you’ll find them back at your house. Shall I call for some refreshments . . . for while you wait? . . . Oh, you’re going.’

  The front door closed and the boys peeped out. ‘Well done, Uncle Em. Well done, Grampa. Well done, Dr Bohenna. That was brilliant fun. Are you coming, Aunt Amelia?’

  Papa eased himself out from behind his heavy leather armchair. ‘Your aunt has just left – she and Dr Bohenna . . . Didn’t you hear them go out?’

  Mother must have been at the door. ‘How about we make some more biscotti di Saronno for Uncle Emerson, boys?’ she said quickly.

  ‘Oh yes, please let’s. Uncle Em loved them – he said they were just like ship’s biscuits. Didn’t you, Uncle Emerson?’

  We heard an uncomfortable cough, the beginning of a terrible excuse. ‘Umm, yes, what I meant was they’re very like the very best ship’s biscuits we used to . . . have sent to us . . . from . . . very expensive shops . . .’