by Deryn Lake
Eventually, though, all was done and pulling up their hoods, the coven processed out of the church and away, leaving Mrs Anstey, who appeared to be in some form of cataleptic trance, still lying naked on the altar.
John, who had loitered behind, hurried to Tim Painters side to find him sitting on the floor with an expression of horror on his face.
“By God’s life, I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“That was the Black Mass.”
“And her.” He pointed to the inert body. “Zounds, we’ve all been naughty in our time but that was utterly flagrant.”
“I think she was having some kind of seizure.”
Tim giggled loudly. “She had a seizure all right.”
It was a blessed relief to laugh and John did, enjoying the normality of it. “What shall we do with her?” he asked.
“Leave her, of course. Presumably one of her friends will return for her. I can’t see you and I lugging that mass of flesh back in such a little boat.”
The mental picture was so vivid that John had to suppress another fit of laughing.
“Come on. Let’s go while the coast is clear.”
Tim struggled to his feet, glancing as he did so in the direction of the altar. From it came the noise of low moaning.
“Oh rot the old bitch,” he said with contempt.
But John was already making for the arched entrance, moving quietly but with determination. Painter followed and they reached the landing stage without meeting anyone. But there a shock awaited them. Two cowled figures stood in readiness, guarding the boat, waiting for whoever it was who had rowed across in the moonlight.
“I’ll take the one on the right,” John whispered, and without further ado leapt on the man and wrestled him to the ground. Meanwhile Tim swung a mighty blow to the other man’s chin, rendering the fellow insensible, then he turned to assist his companion, jumping on his assailant’s back and pummelling him with his fists. In the end they overpowered him, though he was built like an ox and was equally as strong. Gasping, John Rawlings tied the man’s hands behind him with his monk’s girdle, then mopped his bloody mouth.
“I was utterly wrecked by falling from my horse — and now this.”
“A gallant endeavour, my friend,” Tim answered as they got into the boat and pushed off. He took the oars. “What do you think about what we have just witnessed?”
“Well, Lord Lyle is deeply involved, as are Anne Anstey and the brothers Colquite.”
“But what about the rest of that cosy nest of cousins?”
All of them I should imagine,” John answered gloomily.
A thought occurred which he did not speak aloud. Could Isobel’s disappearance be linked to the fact that a coven of witches had been in Helstone to see the Furry Dance? Surely they had not been into human sacrifice? But remembering the final scenes of the Black Mass he had just witnessed, when Anne Anstey and Geoffrey Colquite had lain shrieking on the altar, almost anything was possible.
As if he had read the Apothecary’s thoughts, Tim said, “You don’t think they captured Isobel do you?”
John looked at him out of an eye that was swelling up rapidly. “I believe it’s possible.”
“Then she’s dead,” Tim answered flatly.
“I’m afraid she is,” came the bleak reply.
They reached The Lion safely and despite their truly dishevelled appearance made at once for the tap room where they restored themselves with cognac, a particularly good French one John noticed, wondering how far the smuggling trade extended.
“That,” said Tim, after his third, “is something I never want to witness again.”
“Nor I. But they knew we were there, you know.”
“But not till afterwards surely.”
The Apothecary made a face. “I’m not certain about that. But the presence of the boat was all they needed. Then they were positive.”
“We’ve been seen, of course.”
John nodded. “I know. That’s why I think it wise if we get out of town early tomorrow morning.”
“My thoughts entirely.”
“Then I suggest we get some sleep,” the Apothecary answered.
But even though he was utterly exhausted he could not lose consciousness, his mind full of the events of the evening, his brain so powerfully charged that it worked on regardless of the fact that he was longing for rest. Thus he was awake when he heard the sound of the lightest of footfalls in the passageway outside his bedroom. In an instant John was out of bed and reaching for his pistol when the door, which he had omitted to lock, was flung open and two men appeared in the entrance.
“Don’t move,” said a gruff voice. “And put your arms high.”
John instantly complied, thinking it far better to obey at this stage of the proceedings.
“What’s all this about?” he asked with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Lord Lyle wants to see you. Now,” came the reply.
And without further ado they had seized him by either shoulder and hustled him downstairs, still only wearing his nightshirt. A coach was waiting outside and before John could as much as protest he found himself bundled in, one guard mounting the box, the other sitting opposite him with a loaded pistol pointing at his ribs.
The Apothecary thought frantically. Nobody who knew him, even by sight, had witnessed him being present at this evenings terrible ceremony. It must be description alone, probably from the men guarding the boat, that his lordship was acting on. His best way was to bluff it out and hope that he sounded convincing.
At Tryon House he received the same treatment, being roughly handled into a drawing room, where he was pushed into a chair and told to keep quiet.
“I wouldn’t dream of speaking to you,” he stated. “I shall deal with Antony Lyle and nobody else.”
The guards exchanged a look but said nothing, and a voice behind him responded icily, “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr Rawlings?” and Lord Lyle strolled into view.
He was dissolute, that much was certain, and tonight his lordship was pale. Yet he had covered this paleness — or rather accentuated it - by a smearing of face paint, complete with carmined lips and pencilled eyes. In short he looked frightful, a travesty of the man who had rescued John from his plunge off the horse.
The Apothecary went straight in on the attack. “May I ask the meaning of this, Sir?”
Milord looked at him languidly. “I think you know.” He gestured with his hand and the two guards withdrew immediately. “I think you were present this evening.”
John assumed a haughty expression. “Would you be kind enough to explain that remark.”
“There’s no need for all that bravado. You were there all right.”
“Where?” John demanded, determined to pin the man down.
“You know damned well,” came the snarled reply.
“If I knew what you were talking about I might be able to respond. But if you want the facts, I spent the entire evening in company with my friend Mr Painter. We dined together, we played chess and then we retired. So what is the meaning of this outrage?”
For the first time a look of uncertainty crossed Lord Lyle’s face. “Are you telling me that you did not go to the Abbey?”
John’s expression of righteous indignation was masterly. “The Abbey? Why should I want to return there? I’ve seen the place.”
His lordship poured himself a drink and the Apothecary saw that his hand was shaking. “Then who was it?” John heard him mutter.
He stood up. “I’ve a mind, Sir, were it not for the fact that you rescued me when my horse had thrown me, to lay a charge against you.”
Lord Lyle made one last attempt to win the day. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Don’t tempt me,” John answered, and thrust his face close to that of his captor.
His lordship backed away. “Is it possible that I owe you an apology?” he said, his voice full of disbelief.
“Sir, you do. I have been seized fr
om my bed by two blackguards and brought before you to answer some ridiculous accusation of visiting that God-forsaken Abbey. Merciful heavens, Sir, can you not see that I am in my night attire?”
Lord Lyle downed his drink in a single swallow. “Mr Rawlings, what can I say? You have been mistaken for some trespasser upon my property. Please accept my sincerest regrets. I would not have had you treated so.”
Be magnanimous in victory, John thought. Aloud he said, “If I may have a drink before I return to bed. Mr Painter and I are off early in the morning.”
“Oh really? And where are you heading to?” asked Lord Lyle as he poured a goodly measure into a glass.
“We are returning to Helstone,” said John.
“Ah,” said his lordship, his face quite ghastly in the candlelight, “I have a little property there. I visit it from time to time. In fact you have decided me. I shall follow you some time tomorrow.”
“Really,” said John, sipping his drink. “And may I ask where your house is situated?”
“Of course,” answered Lord Lyle. “It overlooks Loe Pool.”
Chapter 24
To say that Mrs Pill looked drained of vitality would have been to half-state the case. Indeed she seemed to have lost the will to live. Tim, who had slipped once more into the role of feckless lover, stood about looking helpless while John returned to the room he had ordered be kept for him to fetch his medical bag. Administering salts, he said, “I presume that your search was in vain?”
“She has vanished off the face of the earth,” came the heartbroken reply.
And John, remembering Lord Lyle’s face as he had described his house overlooking the Pool, thought perhaps he ought to tell her what he suspected. But somehow, probably the piteous sight that the poor woman represented, stopped himself. Instead he asked the whereabouts of her brother.
“He is around somewhere, I believe with the servants. He wants us to depart tomorrow but I can’t bear to go.” Her voice broke in a sob.
“Madam,” John said quietly, “I think perhaps you should.”
“But it would mean leaving…”
Tim Painter spoke up. “Kathryn, it’s time you faced reality. You’re not going to find Isobel.”
“Do you mean that she is dead?”
“Yes,” her lover answered bluntly.
He could have spared her the pain somehow, though how John could not at that moment guess. In response to his words Mrs Pill crumpled up, her face contorted into an almost simian cast of features.
“Oh God,” she cried.
John put his arms round the wretched woman, holding her tightly against him. “Come now,” he said soothingly.
It was utterly inane but he could think of nothing else to say, certain as he was that Tim was right.
At that moment Jasper joined them, casting a look of immense dislike in Painter’s direction. “I thought something smelt bad,” he said.
Tim lost his temper quite suddenly. “Take that back or I’ll floor you,” he shouted.
“Why, you rotten little upstart…”
It was enough. With a flying leap Tim crossed the distance between them and grappled with Kathryn’s brother. At this she let out a dismal wail, beating her fists on John’s chest.
“Oh no, oh no,” she howled. “This on top of everything else I have to bear. Jasper for the love of heaven stop fighting.”
But it was no use. They were whacking one another like a couple of schoolboys. Extricating himself gently, the Apothecary attempted to part them, feeling far from up to doing so. As well as the bruises he had obtained from falling from his horse, he had been involved in a fight the night before which had damaged both his eye and his lip. In fact he looked a sorry spectacle as he strained to part the warring couple, not very successfully. Indeed it was the landlord of The Angel who, just stepping out into the street as he was, finally parted them. John, defeated, turned his attention back to Mrs Pill.
“Why don’t you go tomorrow, my dear?”
“And with whom should I travel? You’ve seen those two for yourself.”
“Travel with Tim and let Jasper go with the servants.” Kathryn’s miserable little face came close to John’s own. “I don’t know that I want him any more. I think he is a liability rather than an asset.”
Seeing sense at last, thought the Apothecary.
“But then,” she added brokenly, “where else would I find such a man to be with? I am no beauty when all’s said and done, and Tim is handsome, is he not?”
“Very,” John answered dryly.
“Then there we are. You have hit on my dilemma.”
I have said nothing, John thought. Aloud he remarked, “You must weigh the situation carefully, Mrs Pill. After all the whole of the rest of your life depends on it.”
At this point Tim came over, his beautiful face somewhat beaten round the edges. “Your brother has extremely hard fists, Kathryn. As far as I am concerned I never want to see the oaf again.”
“Why make my life even more difficult?” she asked, rounding on him.
“I? I have made it difficult? I think you exaggerate, Madam. Surely it is your brother who is the founder of your problems.” Mrs Pill’s trembling chin stuck out. “Jasper is merely trying to protect me.”
“Then let him,” said Tim suddenly. “I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’m off to The Blue Anchor. Coming, Rawlings?”
“I’ll follow you,” John answered. He turned back to Kathryn. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” came the miserable reply. “I’ll have to think about it. I shall come to my decision in the morning.”
Yet something in her tone of voice told the Apothecary all he needed to know. Mrs Pill would rather suffer all kinds of indignities than be without a man, particularly one so very good looking as Tim Painter. Come what may she was going to remain with him.
The journey back to Helstone had been uneventful. Tim had ridden the grey horse while John had travelled on his mount, a more successful arrangement. Also they had taken their time about getting back and had stopped at a wayside inn for refreshment.
Thus, though very different people, they had shared a great deal and John could honestly say that he liked the fellow, for all he was shiftless and idle and no doubt represented a nightmare to any woman.
“You know I spent the night with Mrs Anstey,” Tim had said after his fourth jug of ale.
“So I gathered.”
“And to think the next night she was thrashing about on the altar with horrible old Colquite. It’s enough to make me ashamed.” He had grinned. “Almost.”
Now, a day later, in the confines of the Blue Anchor, he said,
“Helstone is very quiet without that witchy bunch of people. Shall we move on?”
John shook his head. “You may do as you please, Tim, but I have still to see Lord Godolphin and have another chat with Nicholas Kitto.”
Tim had given him a dark look. “You don’t think that I killed Diana Warwick, do you?”
“Not really. According to the witness she was alive when his lordship visited her.”
“What time was that?”
“About midnight. But he was gone by two in the morning when the blind fiddler went in and, if we are to believe him, found her dead.”
“She must have been a great slut,” said Tim, and chuckled, long and deep.
“What time did you leave her?”
“At about half past eleven. Funnily enough she seemed very insistent that I went.”
“Hardly surprising if she had another admirer coming at midnight.”
“No, but it was more than that. It was as if she were nervous.”
“Do you think she was frightened of Lord Godolphin?”
“She could have been.” Tim struggled with a memory. “No, I think it was from the time she heard a noise.”
“What sort of noise?” asked John, suddenly intensely interested.
“I don’t know for sure. I’ll spare you the d
etails but my attentions were otherwise engaged. But she heard something and - yes, I remember now - she looked towards the door.”
“Was it locked?”
“No, I don’t think it was. I think we went in in rather a hurry and we forgot.”
“What happened then?”
“I asked her what had disturbed her but she said I was imagining it. So I just got on with things.” Tim grinned, unabashed.
“But looking back you think that the door opened and somebody stood there?”
“I’m not certain. As I said, I saw nothing.”
“Urn.” The Apothecary was deeply thoughtful. “If that happened - and I repeat if - then that person might well have been her murderer.”
For the first time Tim looked serious. “Zounds, you may well be right. What a ghastly notion.”
“Not very pleasant I admit.”
“Poor Diana,” said Tim, and fell to musing over his ale.
John was silent, thinking hard. If the door had opened while Tim and Diana had been in flagrente delicto and a jealous man had stood there, then look no further for the murderer. But who, that was the question? What pair of eyes had observed them and decided to act later that night?
Full of uncertainty, the Apothecary decided that he must see the two remaining witnesses, namely Lord Godolphin and Nicholas Kitto - probably father and son in his opinion - as soon as possible.
Nick was obviously going to be the easier subject to find so, without ado, John Rawlings set out from The Blue Anchor and made his way up Coinage Hall Street, past the building that had given the place its name, then along Church Street until he came to the house at the top. Here he rang the bell which was answered by the usual servant.
“Is Mr Kitto in?” the Apothecary asked, adding crisply, “I do not have an appointment.”
“I will see if he is at home, Sir.”
And the maid, who was elderly, disappeared into the depths of the house. A few minutes later Nick himself, looking older and dressed entirely in black, came to the front door.
“Oh it’s you, Rawlings. Come in, come in.”
He led the way into the drawing room and said without preamble, “It’s Diana’s funeral tomorrow. The Coroner has agreed on it. The delay has been caused by an abortive attempt to find her relatives. But none have come forward and no further waiting can be brooked.”
