by Deryn Lake
‘Indeed. Together with the loss of your child…’
He hadn’t anticipated the lashing sting as her hand came out and slapped him hard on the face.
He gingerly fingered his chin. ‘I suppose I deserved that for being so blunt. But the fact is that I am an apothecary and therefore am more observant of these things than are most men. I humbly beg your pardon if I offended you.’
She stood silently, clearly weighing him up, then suddenly a voice called from beneath them. ‘Imogen, I’m here.’
They both turned, equally surprised, to see a robust countryman with a handsome ruddy face and big square shoulders, dressed like a keeper with gaiters on his legs and the inevitable dog walking at his heels, coming towards them from the lower path which led down to the sea. He spoke before either of them could say a word.
‘Oh my little love, what terrible thing has happened to thee?’
The Apothecary could have clapped his hands. For all her snobbish attitude and high-and-mighty manners, Lady Imogen was clearly having an affair of the heart with a man who could not have been more simple and homespun if he had tried. No wonder she had wept at the loss of her child. It had been her lover’s and nothing to do with her horrible grandfather after all.
The man turned his honest face towards Milady. ‘I am so sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Imogen,’ he said, giving an over-formal bow. ‘I had no idea you were going to meet anyone. I shall be on my way.’
‘No, Jessamy. I have much to say to you. Please stay.’
‘Well, ain’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’
‘I don’t really know the man.’
‘Then I’ll do so myself,’ Jessamy answered with an air of slight reproof. He held out a hand, hard with years of outdoor living. ‘How do you do, Sir. I’m Jessamy Gill.’
John bowed again. ‘John Rawlings, Apothecary, of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’
Suddenly, in the face of this honest and artless man, Imogen’s possibilities as a suspect seemed lessened. She turned to the Apothecary, her expression stricken.
‘Please, Mr Rawlings, I beg you to tell no one at Lady Sidmouth’s home of my liaison with Jessamy. Nor mention it to anyone on the St Austell estate. My brothers would make my life intolerable if they knew.’
‘I realize I am aiming above my station, Sir, but I plan to give Imogen a good, clean life away from all the filth that her family engendered.’
‘I am sure of that. But tell me, how did you two meet?’
‘’Twas here at Lady Sidmouth’s place. I work for her. I’m the estate keeper. Lady Imogen was out walking one day… but I am speaking out of turn. She’ll tell you the tale if she wants to.’
John was amazed at the man’s frankness, his lack of inhibition, his total fearlessness in the face of someone who could be classified as the enemy. The keeper saw his look and interpreted it correctly.
‘Provided you keep quiet about what you’ve just seen, Sir, I plan to marry Imogen just as soon as she has recovered her strength. Then let her brothers come looking for us. I’m man enough to deal with them.’
And the Apothecary suddenly felt tremendously glad that the Earl’s granddaughter who — if rumour be true — had been brought up in degradation by a disgusting old man, had found this remarkable countryman with whom to share the rest of her days. Looking at them, he was suddenly seized by a warning premonition.
‘I think you should go now before they find out. I realize that you have only just risen from your sickbed, Lady Imogen, but if I were in your shoes I would lie very low at Jessamy’s cottage for a day or two before moving on.’
She spoke. ‘But Lady Sidmouth is caring for me. What will she say?’
‘She is a woman of the world and will accept it. Society might be shocked but surely you made that choice long ago when you decided to go away with your lover.’
‘He’s right, Imogen. I wouldn’t put it past your brothers to kidnap you and take you back to Cornwall with them. I think you have a simple decision to make, my dear.’
‘Can you leave Devon and get another position?’ John asked him.
‘Aye. There’s a big estate in Dorset that is looking for a gamekeeper. I know ’cos my cousin wrote me about it. We could make our way there, Imogen.’
She hesitated, on the brink of changing her entire way of life. Then made her choice by laying one of her hands in Jessamy’s.
‘I’ll go with you, if I may.’
‘Well done,’ said John. ‘Now leave before something bad happens.’
Having said their farewells they set off down the cliff path and the Apothecary watched their departing backs. Then an idea occurred to him.
‘Do you two ever walk on that tiny beach below late at night?’ he called.
Jessamy turned. ‘Never, Sir. It be far too dangerous. There are very tricky tides down there and you could easily get cut off and drown.’
John gave them a parting salute and they both waved, then disappeared from his view as they went round a bend in the cliffs.
So who was behind the murders, he thought, as he walked slowly back to where his horse was tethered and climbed, with some difficulty, into the saddle.
He rode, reasonably fast for him, straight to Exeter, heading for the house of Tobias Miller. But the Constable was out. Very thirsty by now and extremely saddle sore, John made his way to the nearest tavern and ran into that rather strange boy, Herman Cushen, who had evidently made some money gambling for he was buying drinks for everyone present which, admittedly, were fairly few.
‘Ah ha, Mr Rawlings,’ he said loudly. ‘So we meet again. Have a drink, do.’
‘Well, thank you very much. I’ll have a pint of ale.’
It was duly poured and John sat down at a table opposite the unlovely youth.
‘I saw your mother in the cathedral the other day. She seemed very upset by the recent slaughter at the wedding feast. I felt quite sorry for her.’
Hermann waved an airy hand. ‘Oh, she takes things very hard, does my mother. I think she suffers from what you might call a nervous disposition.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. An infusion of the leaves of the lime tree might be very helpful. Go to any apothecary and ask him to make you some up. It really should help her.’
Herman looked vague. ‘I’ll tell her,’ he answered with singular lack of interest. ‘Anyway, how have you been keeping? You were at the Earl of St Austell’s wedding, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was. The only way I escaped was by playing dead.’
The young man grinned, showing his gappy teeth. ‘That was very smart. How did the old women react to that?’
It occurred to John that the gossip must have spread throughout the length and breadth of the county.
‘They weren’t old women,’ he said. ‘They were in fact men dressed up.’
Herman looked thoroughly startled. ‘How do you know that?’
‘It was obvious. Besides, a friend of mine heard one of them speak. It was a man’s voice he heard.’
Herman went slightly green about the gills, a highly unbecoming look with his carrot-coloured hair. ‘Well, I am surprised. I truly am.’ He sank his ale down in one draught and then looked at the Apothecary appealingly.
‘Would you like another drink?’
‘Yes, I would rather. Your news has come as something of a shock. I was led to believe that two old women carried out the raid.’
‘No, they were definitely men, believe me.’
Herman relapsed into silence and John was left to consider how sore his behind was and how he was dreading the ride home.
‘So will you be staying in Exeter for a while?’ he asked the brooding young man sitting opposite him.
‘I really don’t know. It is all very much in the air at the moment. I might go back to London ahead of my parents. See something of the town.’
‘Of course. It must get boring, particularly if you don’t have many friends round here.’
‘Oh I have friends,
’ Hermann said with a sly grin.
John, assuming that the boy frequented brothels, merely nodded and smiled.
Quarter of an hour later he took his leave, suddenly weary and tired, and he and his horse plodded back to Elizabeth’s great house just as dusk was falling and the brilliant sun was lowering itself against the darkening landscape. Yet all the way there something nagged at the back of his mind, some indefinable something that he could not bring to the surface. Try as he would he could not grasp the unseen thread nor make any sense of his jumbled thoughts. But when he finally entered the house, having walked round from the stables, he realized that Elizabeth had company and had to put any such meanderings out of his head.
Twenty-Four
John rushed upstairs to change into night clothes, and put on something rather dark and fetching before going into the salon to see who had arrived. And there, draped decorously on a chaise with Freddy Warwick sitting as close to her as was decent, was Miss Cordelia Clarke. Of the redoubtable Lady Bournemouth there was no sign. Crossing over to Miss Clarke, John kissed her hand and gave a formal bow to Freddy, who had risen to his feet and returned the compliment.
‘My dear,’ he said, going to Elizabeth and kissing her on the cheek.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, not crossly but curiously. ‘You’ve been out since first light. What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing much,’ John answered, not wishing to discuss the love life of Lady Imogen in front of anyone else. ‘I went into Exeter and bumped into someone I met on a coach. I just felt like riding,’ he added apologetically.
‘How unlike you,’ Elizabeth answered with just a hint of acidity. ‘Well, now that you’re here, Cordelia has something to tell you.’
‘Yes indeed,’ echoed Freddy, gazing at her adoringly.
Cordelia gave a little shiver as she embarked on her tale. ‘It happened on that terrible night of the wedding feast. Fortunately I was sitting next to Freddy…’ They exchanged tender glances. ‘… and he pulled me to the floor when he saw what was happening. We lay very still but kept our eyes open and thus I had a fine view of everything that happened at that level. I was terrified when a pair of feet came and stood right in front of me. I thought I was going to be killed.’
‘I would have protected you,’ said Freddy nobly.
‘Anyway, as I was watching, the crone’s garter came undone and slipped right off. When he had moved away I stretched my arm out and found it, then I hid it underneath me. And here it is.’
And with a triumphant move of her hand she reached into her reticule and produced the garter.
‘May I see it?’ asked John.
Cordelia handed him a decorative ribbon, definitely past its best and decidedly grubby but quite clearly a man’s. It had woven into it a slogan, namely ‘A toast to King George’. John passed it to Elizabeth.
‘Would you wear this?’
‘No, I would not. It is male attire.’
John took it back and stared at it. Whoever had owned the shabby thing had murdered — or assisted therein — three people. If it could help him hunt the killer down… But John knew that was impossible. It would be preposterous for him to even imagine going about such a task. Nonetheless, he turned to Cordelia and said, ‘May I keep this?’
‘Of course. It was meant for you and the Constable.’
‘I know he will be delighted to see it.’
‘He called here while you were out,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I think he is rather anxious to see you.’
‘If you have nothing planned for tomorrow, sweetheart, I shall ride into Exeter and catch up with him.’
Elizabeth’s vivid gaze caught his and he saw humour flicker in the depths of her eyes. ‘I have several females coming to admire the twins. I think it would be as well if you were elsewhere, my dear. But do please borrow the small coach. I could not bear to think of the pain to your posterior if you continue to ride.’
Everybody laughed, including John, though inwardly he felt somewhat slighted. He felt he had ridden well and as a town dweller had acted more like a countryman, directing his mount with a firm hand. But he suffered in silence and was glad when Freddy changed the subject.
‘I have asked Cordelia to marry me, and she has been kind enough to accept my proposal.’
‘Whenever did you ask?’ said Elizabeth. ‘I thought Lady Bournemouth had Cordelia under night-and-day protection.’
‘She was somewhat hors de combat after the shootings and I stole a moment whilst in Lady Sidmouth’s garden.’
John thought to himself that Lady Sidmouth’s house seemed to be a magnet for all kinds of emotions, whether they be for good or ill. And his mind went off at a tangent, grasping at straws, trying to form some sort of pattern yet still unable to see one.
Elizabeth rose and kissed the betrothed pair and asked all kinds of questions about where and when the wedding would be but he could barely move, so caught up in his thoughts and angry with himself that he had so many threads which refused obstinately to weave into a pattern. Vaguely he heard Freddy’s voice.
‘I have decided to study medicine, Madam. I am going to follow in my father’s footsteps.’
John came back to earth. ‘Very good. And where are you going to do this?’
‘At St Bartholomew’s Hospital. As you know it is one of the oldest, and my father studied there.’
‘We are going to live in London and be very poor but very happy,’ said Cordelia in a jolly voice.
John shook the young man’s hand. ‘Well done, both of you. My warmest congratulations, Sir.’ He turned to Cordelia. ‘And for you, young lady, a kiss on the cheek if I may be so forward.’
‘You certainly may.’
Elizabeth signalled a footman and champagne was brought in and consumed with much gaiety but John could not join in wholeheartedly. Something was niggling in his mind. Something indefinable yet which he knew had already been said to him.
Later, when the guests had gone and Elizabeth had retired for the night, he sat up late and thought the whole thing through. At the wedding of Miranda Tremayne to the old rake the Earl of St Austell, two hired assassins, dressed as women, had made their way into the wedding feast and deliberately shot three people, all of whom had strong connections with the Earl. Mrs Lettice James had been his mistress but an indiscreet one. A born gossip, a woman who could keep nothing to herself but must talk about it through the town. Then there had been Mr Alan Meakin, a country solicitor who had worked closely with St Austell and had drawn up his recent will — duly signed and perfectly legal — leaving a considerable fortune to his bride.
Felicity had been wounded and John had had a bullet fly right past him. Other people had suffered minor injuries — but Sir Clovelly Lovell had heard the assassins say ‘Not him’, or words to that effect, which suggested some local knowledge.
So who stood to gain? Possibly the Earl’s three grandchildren: Viscount Falmouth, Lord George and Lady Imogen. Mr James, if he had loved his spouse sufficiently, might have wiped out her lover. The Meakins? John could only discount them when he thought of the heavily pregnant wife. Perhaps Felicity, who might have willingly received a wound in order to cover some enormous secret. And lastly Miranda, the weeping widow, still confined to her room and refusing to eat.
A fine list of suspects indeed. But of them all the biggest question mark hung over Lady Imogen herself. Just supposing that the child she had carried had been fathered incestuously by her grandfather and that she was using Jessamy Gill as a means of escaping from her sordid past? What then?
For once the Apothecary felt quite ill-at-ease thinking about the whole sorry affair. He had instinctively believed Mr James and Imogen — but supposing the reaction of his gut had been incorrect? And what about Mrs Cushen, who had been nervously praying in Exeter Cathedral? Why had she been at the wedding? What connection did she have with the Earl of St Austell?
John stepped outside to get a breath of night air, wandering into the garden and gazi
ng up at the full moon, feeling oppressed by his wretched thoughts. Yet as he did so he felt rather than heard another presence. Somebody was watching him, he felt certain of it.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
Nobody answered and nothing stirred but still he felt that pair of unseen eyes observing him. He was in no mood to investigate. Turning on his heel John sprinted back into the house and locked the doors behind him.
The next day he took the small coach to Exeter, leaving at an ungodly hour and for once forgoing his breakfast. He knew that the Constable rose early to start his investigations and was determined to catch him before he began his official duties. Consequently he knocked on the door of the small house close to The Blackamore’s Head at eight o’clock in the morning. A girl with a mop and pail answered and showed him into a small parlour where Toby was just finishing his breakfast. He looked up in some surprise.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Rawlings. I have a great deal to tell you.’
‘And I you. Furthermore an important piece of evidence was handed to me last night and I wanted to give it into your safekeeping.’
So saying, John removed the garter from where it lay in tissue paper and handed it to Toby, who examined it and gave it back.
‘And where did this come from, Sir?’
‘Could I have a slice of your toast and then I’ll tell you?’
‘By all means, Sir. Would you like some tea?’
John nodded, his mouth already full and the girl trudged in and took the teapot away.
‘Mrs Miller not here?’ John asked.
‘Alas, no. She died of an infection last winter. I am a widower, I fear.’
‘I am very sorry to hear that. You must miss her terribly. Now, if you’ve no objection, I would like to tell you about that garter.’
And John proceeded to fill Toby in with absolutely everything that had taken place since they had last been together. It was a long tale and during it John managed several cups of beverage and consumed a fairly hearty breakfast. He wound up by presenting his list of suspects and his reasons for being doubtful about Geoffrey James and Lady Imogen.
