by Deryn Lake
Tobias looked up and asked, “Am I on a charge?”
“Not yet. But there are witnesses enough to your brawling habits. Mr. Jago has not informed the constable but no doubt the quay master will.”
“That filthy old bastard!”
“Tobias, please,” said John impatiently, “just stop making accusations. You’re under suspicion of murder, you know, and the more you go on hurling insults the more the net closes round you. Now, just answer the questions I am going to put to you and shut your mouth on every other subject.”
The other man had gone very white. “I didn’t kill Juliana. I swear to God I didn’t.”
“Save your denials for another time. Now, you say you met her when you were a child. Tell me about that.”
A story emerged; rather a pathetic one. Of little sweethearts growing up — and growing apart.
“I truly loved her and we were destined to be married. But then rumours reached my ears; that Juliana had lost her virginity to Thomas Northmore, that she was going to Exeter and meeting other men, that she had fallen in love with Gerald Fitz. The day that I met you in the tavern, the day that you were looking for Richard, I had gone to have it out with her. For an even worse rumour had reached my ears; that she was carrying another man’s child. I was going to ask her and if she did not deny it, I was going to break our betrothal and call her the slut that she was.”
Tobias let out a terrible sob and put a hand to his aching head.
“You were seen to have a skinful last night. Now, get this down you.” And John produced a bottle from his pocket.
“What is it?”
“Carduus Benedictus. That will shift your headache, as well as cure deafness, melancholy and strengthen the memory. It’s also reputed to relieve the French of Grand Pox. I can assure you that it is very popular amongst the London beaux who take it on an almost daily basis.”
Tobias looked askance but swallowed the potion in one draft. “It tastes revolting.”
“Things that are good for you always do. Now, listen to me, young man. Hearing what was whispered about Juliana, how did you manage to remain in love with her?”
Tobias looked thoroughly gloomy. “I was besotted with her if truth be known. It was like a fever in me. Do you know despite all I said about calling her whore, I would even have taken on another man’s child and brought it up as my own, I loved her so much.”
“And did this love suddenly turn to hate one day? Did something inside you snap so that you could no longer bear her cruel treatment of you?”
“If you’re saying did I kill her, the answer is no. I swear it.”
“Then who did?”
“Thomas Northmore,” Tobias said emphatically.
“Why him?”
“He never finished with her, revolting lecher that he is. She no longer wanted him but he was as besotted with her as I was. I believe he still saw her from time to time.”
John sat in silence, remembering what Runner Raven had discovered; that the quay master had been seen in Milk Street close to where Juliana and the negro had vanished into the alleyways.
“The negro,” the Apothecary said aloud.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just someone else that I have to track down and talk to.”
“Oh.” Tobias shuffled his feet and looked lost. “Am I free to go now?”
“Yes. The constable may take a statement from you but on the other hand he may be too lazy and ask one of the Runners to do it. And I’m sure Mr. Jago will try and persuade the quay master not to press charges against you. So go, now, while the going’s good.”
Tobias started towards the door, then turned a flushed and anxious face in John’s direction.
“I didn’t kill Juliana, Mr. Rawlings. I loved her like a fool, that’s true enough, but not like a cruel fool, that’s true also.”
“Go,” said John commandingly, to hide the fact that he completely believed him.
11
During the night a mist had rolled in off the sea, obscuring the Devon landscape beneath a cloud of vapour. The hills had vanished, as had the great expanse of river, while nothing could be seen of the sky, veiled as it was by a dense grey shroud behind which the sun was attempting to rise. Riding over that wild heathland where so many strange things had happened recently, John Rawlings knew that he was hopelessly and rather alarmingly lost. In front of him, hidden somewhere in the swirls of fog, lay Wildtor Grange, to his right the town of Topsham, struggling to wakefulness when he had clattered out of it atop a hired horse from the livery stables. To the Apothecary’s left was the hamlet of Sid- mouth, from which the fishermen had presumably sailed into the mist-wreathed water. Yet to find his way to any of these places would have been an impossibility, in fact John was beginning to think that his only course of action was to dismount and wait until the mist had cleared before proceeding a step further. But the thought of Emilia kept him going slowly forward.
He had left her asleep with a note on the pillow beside her saying that he would be back by mid-morning and would then go with her to Exeter, and he had no wish to break his word. With every day that passed John realised that he was falling more and more in love with his wife, though the glimpse he had had of Coralie Clive had unsettled him, he couldn’t deny that. She still had a strange effect on him, an effect of which he was deeply ashamed, for it made his heart speed up and his breath shorten, just as if he were an adolescent apprentice staring at a girl for the first time. Further, he had bitterly resented the fact that she had accepted Gerald Fitz’s invitation to supper even though John no longer had any claim on her.
“I’m a fool,” he said into the fog, and his horse, a reliable old plodder with an easy-going temperament, moved its ears backwards to listen to him.
It was about seven o’clock in the morning, the journey having taken far longer than it should have done because of the vaporous conditions. Yet much as he wanted to stop and wait for the sun tc burn the mist off, John continued to trudge onwards in the somewhat folorn hope that he would find Wildtor Grange by some lucky chance. Yet nothing loomed out of the mist, no great shape reared on a fogbound hill. Indeed it almost seemed as if he were going in the wrong direction entirely and might, for all he knew, be heading towards the cliffs and the sea.
When he had hired the horse, the Apothecary had been informed that its name was Hicks, a strange title to say the least. Now, John spoke to it again.
“Hicks, you’re a local. For Heaven’s sake get me out of here. I don’t mind whether we even find the Grange. I think the best thing you can do is head for home.”
The horse whinnied encouragingly and continued to plod onwards.
“I said home to Topsham,” John repeated, but he never got any further. A movement close at hand from something that neither horse nor rider could see, gave the animal a sudden shock, so much so that it broke into a somewhat laboured canter.
It was very alarming, speeding through the wall of fog towards the unknown. But what was even more alarming was the moment when a dark form suddenly appeared before them and the horse, by now totally frightened, took off at a tangent as fast as it could go, only for muffled hooves to follow in its wake. John peered over his shoulder but could see nothing, yet the sound of those pursuing fog-drenched hooves continued at the same relentless pace. There was only one thing for it and that was to take evasive action. Seeing a clump of trees loom up on his left, the Apothecary forced Hicks into them. Then they stood in silence, horse and rider both panting, waiting to see what would happen next.
Their pursuer had also drawn to a halt and John peered into the gloom to see if he could catch a glimpse of him. But there was nothing. Then, without warning, a hand from nowhere clapped down on his boot and started to pull him out of the stirrup. Taken so unawares that he was totally helpless, the Apothecary felt himself being dragged towards the ground. Hicks meanwhile was rearing in terror, and the combination of being yanked from the saddle and the movement of the bucking horse sent Joh
n hurtling earthwards, flat on his back. His assailant promptly flung himself down on top of him and put his hands to the Apothecary’s throat.
They fought wildly, John going for the oldest defence in the world and stretching downwards for the man’s testicles. Yet though he reached the crotch of the fellow’s breeches, it was empty. It was a woman’s anatomy he was feeling. This was no time for delicacy, however. Giving her an almighty pinch which made her catch breath, the Apothecary seized the advantage and threw her away from him and onto the ground. Then he scrambled to his feet.
“Forgive me, Madam. It is not my custom to handle strangers in such a rude manner but I am afraid you left me little choice.”
The struggle had knocked her hat from her head and the net which held the thick dark hair in place had become dislodged, so that as she also rose the lustrous locks came tumbling to her shoulders. She took a step towards the Apothecary and at last he was able to see her distinctly, study the strong angular features and the scar that ran from just below her eye downwards to her classically defined cheekbone. She smiled at him through the mist.
“Excuse me, I thought you were someone else.”
“Then I don’t envy him, whoever he is,” John answered, fingering his throat.
She put out a hand. “Have I hurt you?”
“Not so greatly that I won’t recover.”
“I apologise. Allow me to invite you to my home so that I can tend your wound.”
“I would be honoured,” he replied, bowing, thinking to himself that he had actually achieved what he had set out for that early morning and been invited to speak with the vigilante.
“You’d best follow me,” she said, walking into the mist then reappearing a minute later astride a black horse.
“I’d be glad to. I am totally lost.”
“It was not the best morning to set out, particularly if you are not familiar with the terrain.”
She clearly hadn’t guessed that he had been looking for her which was a great relief. John, taking advantage of her ignorance, merely answered, “Yes, it was very foolish.”
“Well, stay close beside me. We don’t want you getting lost again.”
With some difficulty, John remounted the sweating Hicks and they set off in a direction that the Apothecary could have sworn led towards Exeter and not Wildtor Grange as he had presumed. Yet the mist was deceiving and it was not until they had been riding for several miles that John became convinced they were heading inland and finally asked, “Where are we going?”
“To my house near Exeter. It is outside the city and overlooks the Exe in rather a fine position.”
A few minutes later the Apothecary realised that this was an understatement as, having passed through a pair of imposing gates with a lodge to one side, they began to climb uphill along a drive delimitated by mighty elm trees. So the vigilante, whoever she might be, was clearly a woman of wealth. John’s curiosity was at fever pitch as they came to a half-moon carriage sweep, at which the drive came to its end, and hostlers came sprinting round to take the horses. Immensely surprised, he stood stock still and surveyed his surroundings.
An imposing six pillared portico, reached by either of two flights of steps which ran to the right and left of it, formed the central block of the house’s grey stone facade. At least fifteen enormous windows wide, these windows and their counterparts above gave light to the four pavilions adjoining the central block. A balustrade with small pillars ran round the beautifully sloping roof, making a perfect setting for the eight large and two small chimneys, while a similar balustrade at first floor level gave outdoor access to every room. In a way it was austere and yet it had such beauty of symmetry and style that John thought it one of the finest houses he had ever seen.
His companion, laughing slightly at his reaction, ran up the right hand steps and, as if by magic, the front door was opened by a bowing footman.
“Ah, Lady Elizabeth, you are back.”
“Yes, and I have brought someone with me. This young man was attacked in the fog and has some severe bruising to the throat. Send Jenks in the carriage to fetch the physician and meanwhile order a soothing caudle to be made for the poor fellow.”
“Very good, my Lady.” And the footman hurried away.
They were standing in an enormous Great Hall, the proportions of which were quite breathtaking. Seventy feet long and about forty feet wide, paired white Corinthian pilasters soared upwards from the floor to a series of shallow arched niches. These, in turn, swept up to a ceiling with an immense centrepiece depicting Britannia with raised spear. The entire gigantic structure had been decorated in an audacious shade of pink.
The mysterious lady chuckled at the Apothecary’s amazed expression. “Do you think the colour too much?”
“On the contrary. I think it succeeds.”
“Then come to the Blue Drawing Room, you may as well be comfortable while you await medical attention.”
“Which I don’t agree I need, Madam, I am John Rawlings, an apothecary, quite capable of treating myself. I shall suffer nothing worse than a sore throat I assure you. An examination by a physician will only give rise to a lot of questions which, I believe, neither of us really want to answer.”
She looked thoughtful. “Are you certain of this?”
“Yes. Is it too late to stop the doctor coming?”
“It is. But I can always send him away again.”
“Won’t he think that rather churlish?”
“Yes, but as I am considered a great eccentric, he will accept it.”
“And are you? A great eccentric that is?” She stood up, the shape of her muscular body clearly defined beneath the man’s riding clothes she wore, her lustrous black hair tumbling to her shoulders, her scar wickedly revealed by the grey light coming in through the enormous window.
“What would you say?”
“I’d say that you were one of the most outrageous yet one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”
Her hand flew to her disfigurement. “Beautiful? With this?”
John nodded. “Yes, even with that.”
She smiled, throwing open the doors of a large salon, its deep blue walls hung with family portraits. Closing the doors again she turned to the Apothecary.
“I long to kiss you.”
He should have felt embarrassed, threatened, guilty, trapped, but none of those emotions came. Instead, knowing that she desired it so much, he folded the woman into his arms and gave her a kiss that electrified them both. In fact so powerful was the feeling as their bodies pressed together that John realised danger lay down that path and gently took a step away.
“Don’t you want more?” It was perfectly clear what she meant.
“Had this happened a few months ago nothing would have prevented me from saying yes. But I am recently married. In fact, I am in Devon on my honeymoon,” John answered.
She smiled, sphinx-like, and said, “We shall see,” then went to sit down in one of the elegantly upholstered chairs.
Collecting his wits with difficulty, John examined the portraits, one in particular of a darkly handsome dashing man, very swarthy of complexion and brilliant of eye, clad in a superb red satin coat and breeches, drawing his attention.
“Who’s this?”
“My husband. I eloped with him. We fell wildly in love and I shamed my family and went off to Venice as his bride.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was the Marchese di Lorenzi, a Venetian nobleman who owned a fleet of ships. In my youth all the countries of the world were trading with Exeter, his amongst them. It was so exciting to go to the harbour and see vessels from Spain and Portugal bringing in fruit, olive oil, indigo and wines. While from the American Colonies came tobacco and skins, and sugar and molasses from the West Indies. Venice exported fine glass, made on the island of Murano, and it was while my husband was here, showing his wares to prospective buyers, for he had no false pride, that I met him. I was seventeen, he twenty-five, and
we fell passionately in love. Anyway, my father, who was Earl of Exmoor and full of good breeding, or so he considered himself, thought all foreigners, titled or no, to be less than the dust. He forbade me to wed Luciano but I eloped and was married at sea.”
John, still standing before the portrait of the handsome Venetian, said, “So that’s why they call you Lady Elizabeth. You’re an Earl’s daughter.”
“Yes, that is so. Anyway, do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Please.”
“In typical Shakespearean style, my husband lost his entire fleet, partly due to storms, partly to piracy. We were so in debt after that that we were forced to sell up everything and make our way as best we could. We opened a school, my husband teaching fencing and dancing, I needlework and painting to the daughters of former friends.”
John laughed. “I can’t see you as the needlework type, somehow.”
She came to stand beside him. “I wasn’t. I was far better at swordplay than sewing.”
“Is that how … ?”
“I got my scar? Yes, in a way.”
She took his hands and led him to sit beside her on a small, rather comfortless, settee. “A very foolish young man fell in love with me and when I refused him, haunted me night and day. He would be outside in the street when I drew the curtains in the morning, he would be beneath my window late into the night. In the end the situation got so bad that my husband challenged him to a duel. I was twenty and pregnant with my first child.”
“What happened?”
“He killed Luciano, ran him through his proud heart and watched him bleed to death.”
“How terrible for you. What did you do?”
“I took Luciano’s sword and went after my shadow. And then, pregnant or no, I killed the bastard like the mad dog he was.”
John could not speak, overwhelmed by what he had just heard.
