by Deryn Lake
For some unknown reason John felt in the mood to hurry and washed and dressed himself rapidly before descending to breakfast. But even sitting before the meal he loved best the restlessness persisted and his eyes kept wandering to the window and the landscape outside. The golden weather continued, despite the fact that it was nearly October. The hills were shot with rose, but where the shadows fell they were purple, dark and mysterious, while the river far below wound like a curling blue ribbon, twisting in the autumn sunshine.
John got to his feet, itching to do something to break the deadlock that this investigation had reached. Indeed he had got as far as leaving the room and going out into the huge entrance hall when he heard feet upon the stairs and, turning, saw that it was Elizabeth, up and dressed and ready for the day. He crossed to the bottom step and watched her descend, loving the way she moved, her body growing larger but still elegant and supple for all that.
‘Good morning, my darling. Joe Jago has already gone I fear. He has left you a note – quite formally written – thanking you for your hospitality. I have read it because it was addressed to me as well.’
Elizabeth looked at him seriously. ‘John, why are you so uneasy?’
He put his arm round her waist as she arrived at his level. ‘Because I think this case is virtually dead. There have been several remarkable coincidences but none of them makes any sense to me. I cannot find the common thread that is running through the whole thing.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘I could go to Padstow and ask Fraulein Scmitt to whom she was referring the other night.’
‘You mean her mention of Helen and Richard?’
‘Yes. But Elizabeth, Joe has advised me not to go. To wait until the poor old dear gets back from her holiday.’
She was silent a moment, her black hair swept up in a pinner, her scar distinctly visible in the morning light, her head slightly bent in concentration. Then she looked at him.
‘Do you agree with him?’
‘Yes and no. But I feel that if I don’t do something I shall go mad.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? Last time you and I paid a visit to Cornwall I came back with this.’ She laid a hand on her rounding. ‘So let us see what I come back with this time.’
‘You mean you would journey with me?’
‘Of course. Padstow is not that big a place. Someone is bound to know where they are staying.’
‘Very well. When shall we leave?’
‘Now. Straightaway. I shall write to Lady Sidmouth and tell her I shall be gone for a few days. And you must write to Joe at his inn. Come along. There is no time to lose. We leave within the hour.’
And she was right. As ten o’clock chimed the last pieces of luggage were being loaded onto the coach and John was helping her into her seat beside him. He turned to her. ‘You are quite sure about this?’
‘Absolutely positive.’ She took his hand and he felt her excitement like a tangible force running into his fingers. ‘It will be a mighty adventure. It is time I got out and about and saw something of the world again.’
‘And the child?’
She looked at him serenely. ‘The child will be well, never fear.’
They travelled up through Crediton, heading over the edge of Dartmoor until by mid afternoon they had reached the town of Bude. Here Elizabeth insisted that they stop for the night as she had no wish to exhaust the horses. They found an inn which was simple but adequate and Elizabeth clapped her hands as she saw the downstairs parlour with its beams, its inglenook in which burned a fire of both coal and logs, and its big oak refectory table on which gleamed various copper pots.
They dined on lentil soup, a capon and a neat’s tongue and afterwards they strolled out along the quaintly cobbled streets and smelt the salt of the sea. Then they went to bed and slept like two children, side by side, hardly moving. John, happy to be doing something, anything, to get nearer the solution; Elizabeth content to see him so.
The next morning they set off and arrived at Padstow in the afternoon. But first they drove along the coast track and at John’s insistence stopped the coach that he might see the vastness of the ocean. He and the Marchesa stood on the cliff top and said nothing, awestruck by the majesty of the sight before them.
Below, far below, wave upon wave rolled in to shore in a ceaseless flow of tumbling water, each white peak breaking relentlessly upon the yellow sand. The ocean was alive with movement, swelling in great blue humps, rising in cream-topped ripples, glinting aquamarine as it crashed down onto the strand. It was a sight that impinged itself onto the Apothecary’s pupils so that in the weeks after he could recall it as if it were before him still.
Slowly he turned to look at Elizabeth but she was gazing out to sea, her eyes clear, her features strong, her shoulders carried proudly, a strand of her hair whipping out on the gusting wind. At that moment he felt immensely grateful that she was carrying his child and he took her hand and held it as if they were the only two humans left alive in all that vast and thundering landscape.
They walked back to the coach in silence, subdued by the mighty splendour they had just witnessed and they exchanged few words until they reached the town of Padstow where they booked themselves in at The White Hart, a coaching inn misted with time.
John turned to Elizabeth. ‘The hunt is on for Fraulein Schmitt. Will you come with me or would you rather rest?’
She gave him an amused smile. ‘My darling, you go out before it gets dark. I shall wait for you here. I am not as young as I used to be and I find I get tired more quickly.’
He seized the wayward lock of hair. ‘You will always be young to me.’
‘That is because we are soul mates.’
‘Then why don’t you marry me? Give the child my name?’
‘Because it would not be fair on you,’ she replied simply, and after that would say no more, so that John was forced to kiss her and set out alone into the cobbled streets of that ancient Cornish town.
An enquiry at the haberdashers – from where he bought for Elizabeth a beautiful lace cap trimmed with violet ribbons – brought him the information he needed. A Miss Davenport had visitors, both of whom had been brought into the shop and greatly admired the goods, and neither of the ladies was English.
‘Did one of them have rather a loud voice?’ asked John, fishing in his pocket for some money.
‘Oh very much so, Sir. Why, do you know her?’
‘Indeed I do. I shall call on them forthwith. Now can you tell me where Miss Davenport’s house is situated?’
‘Yes, Sir. It is on the incline above the harbour. It stands alone and looks out towards the estuary. You can’t miss it. It has a balcony on the first floor.’
It was a pleasant walk down to the estuary, with the smell of salt in his nostrils and the high, mad cry of gulls, wheeling in the sky over his head.
A knock at Miss Davenport’s door brought no reply at all, not even from a servant, and John, somewhat disappointed, walked down to the harbour and sat on the wall, where he stared out to the estuary of the mighty river Camel conjoining with the sea. Yet despite the tranquility of the scene, the calmness of the afternoon, John had a feeling he had had many times before. That something, somewhere was wrong. That events were about to take an amazing – and possibly alarming – turn.
Nineteen
How long John sat there, absorbing the sights and smells of the busy harbour, he never afterwards knew. But eventually he noticed that the shadows were lengthening and a chill was coming into the evening, consequently he got up and started to walk back to The White Hart. As he passed the small incline on which Miss Davenport’s house had been built, he glanced up towards it, then stopped dead in his tracks. A procession was making its way towards the place: a procession consisting of two weeping women, followed by a couple of burly fishermen carrying a stretcher between them, and a raggle-taggle horde of onlookers, mostly children. Not knowing quite what to make o
f it, John simply stared.
It was with a shock that he recognized one of the women. It was the little round lady, Matilda Mitchell. Shaking with tears, she had a handkerchief held to her eyes and was being supported by a taller, thinner woman, who had clutched her firmly by the arm. Without hesitation John ran up the path towards them. And then he caught sight of who was being carried on the stretcher and exclaimed aloud. So bruised and battered that it was barely recognizable lay the body of Augusta Schmitt, though whether alive or dead was impossible to tell. Her clothes were shredded to ribbons, her face was pulped, her skull a mass of blood. If John had not known who she was he would not have been able to discern her features.
‘God’s holy wounds!’ he muttered under his breath. Then clearly to Mrs Mitchell, ‘My very dear lady, what has happened?’
She lowered the handkerchief and looked at him with eyes puffy as oysters. ‘Mr Rawlings, it is you, isn’t it?’
He gave the briefest of bows. ‘I am on holiday in Padstow, Ma’am. I was sitting on the harbour wall and I noticed your sad procession. What has occurred?’
‘My sister, Augusta, she . . . she fell . . . off the cliffs.’
‘Off the cliffs?’
‘Yes. We took Miss Davenport’s trap out some way, then we walked . . .’ She could not go on, her voice choking on sobs.
But already into John’s mind had come a picture of a lone figure, gazing out at the very vista that he and Elizabeth had looked at earlier in the day, then tumbling off the top of those treacherous cliffs, a dark figure etched black as it fell to its death below.
‘Is she . . .?’ He could not bring himself to say the word.
Matilda Mitchell shook her head. ‘She clings to life but only just. Some fishermen picked her up and made a crude stretcher. They brought her back in the trap. Miss Davenport and I . . .’
But again she could not go on. John put a comforting arm round her shoulders. ‘If you would let me examine her, Madam. I am an apothecary.’
She did not answer for they had reached the front door. With trembling fingers Miss Davenport unlocked it and the fishermen carried their burden within.
‘Put her on the floor, lads,’ said one, and they gingerly laid Augusta down. John crouched beside her, doing his best to relieve her suffering but with nothing further to help him than his smelling salts, which would have been cruelty itself to put to her nose. Instead, with the aid of one of the fisherfolk he gently lifted the suffering woman onto the sofa and arranged cushions beneath her shattered neck.
Matilda came into the room and collapsed in a small spherical heap at the sofa’s side. She looked up at John from streaming eyes.
‘Is there any hope for her?’ she asked quietly.
He slowly shook his head. ‘The injuries are too severe. It’s a miracle that she is still alive.’
He leaned forward as the dying woman let out a groan of pain and slowly opened her eyes. She had lost one in the fall so all he could see was a huge black bruise with a bleeding hole in it, the other was protruding from its socket in quite the most bizarre fashion. John realized as she turned her head slowly that Augusta Schmitt had totally lost her sight. She began to speak in an unrecognizable voice.
‘It voz a game, all of it, Matilda. We vere very good at it, you know.’
‘Hush, my dear. Save your strength.’
‘Ve deceived zem all, ve did.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Now, try to rest.’
‘Is Mr Rawlings zere?’
John spoke. ‘Yes, I’m here, Madam.’
‘It voz all make believe, Sir.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ was all he could think of saying, though he had no idea what she was talking about. Then a different thought came to him. ‘Were you standing alone on the cliff tops, Miss Schmitt?’
‘The sea called me,’ she answered him, and her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I heard its song.’
‘Yes, but were you alone?’ he asked, more urgently.
‘Vere is Matilda?’ the governess said, her voice suddenly changed.
‘My darling, I am here,’ her sister answered, perching on the sofa beside her, attempting to pick her up in her arms, though John cautioned otherwise.
There was a momentary silence, then Augusta Schmitt said, ‘Helen, my dear,’ let out a sigh, and became dead weight in Matilda’s grasp.
‘Oh, God’s holy life,’ said the little woman, her sobbing hushed in horror. She gazed down at her sister. ‘Is she . . .? Is she . . .?’
John knelt down and felt for the pulse but there was nothing, all stilled and quiet. He looked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He stood, leant over the corpse and closed that terrible eye. Matilda fell against his legs, her storm of weeping returned.
‘My dear Mrs Mitchell, her death has been a mercy. She could not have gone on living in the state she was in. I am sorry but it was inevitable.’
‘But she was my sister,’ sobbed the little woman. ‘I know she may have been loud and terribly overbearing but I have known her all my life and I assure you it will be quite empty without her.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ said John, gently drawing her to her feet and leading her out of the death room and into the small room next door where stood the figure of the tall Miss Davenport. She looked at him with an enquiring face and the Apothecary nodded. Miss Davenport made the sign of the cross.
‘Would it be possible for Mrs Mitchell to have a brandy?’ he asked.
‘We could all do with one,’ she answered, and having finished crossing herself made for a cabinet from which she produced a bottle and glasses.
Having motioned Matilda into a comfortable chair she thrust a brimming receptacle into her hand. ‘There you are, my dear, drain that and you’ll feel better.’ She turned to John. ‘I didn’t catch your name, Sir.’
He gave a short bow. ‘These are hardly the circumstances in which formal introductions can be made alas. But my name is John Rawlings and I am an apothecary of Shug Lane, London. I already know you as Miss Davenport.’
She gave a bob. ‘Sibyl Davenport, Sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘What tragic circumstances and what a completely shocking thing to happen.’
John motioned to a chair. ‘May I?’ She nodded and he sat down. ‘Tell me, were you near Miss Schmitt when it happened?’
‘No, truth to tell, Mrs Mitchell and I are not particularly keen on standing on the edge. We were sitting down on a rug and Miss Schmitt wandered off on her own.’
‘But within your sight surely?’
‘Barely.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We could see her out of the corner of our eye, as it were, but we were busy chatting to one another and were not actually looking at her.’
‘I see.’ John stared at her very straightly. ‘There is no possibility, I suppose, that she was not alone up there?’
Sibyl returned his stare. ‘What are you saying?’
He came straight to the point. ‘That Miss Schmitt might have been pushed over the edge.’
She went very pale. ‘No, absolutely not . . . and yet . . .’
‘And yet what?’
‘As I said, we were not regarding her all the time. In fact neither of us saw the fall. We only started up when we heard her terrible cry.’
‘I see,’ said John thoughtfully.
‘But what you are saying is ridiculous, Sir. Who would do such a thing? A wandering lunatic? And why should he pick on poor Augusta? No, it is quite out of the question.’
‘Unless, of course, she had an enemy,’ John answered into the stillness.
‘And what did she say to that?’ asked Elizabeth, her face animated in the glow of the candles which were lighting herself and John as they ate a rather late dinner.
‘She couldn’t reply of course. But at that moment poor Matilda started moaning and wailing and my full attention had to be turned to her. She had been listening to our conversation and the very thought of her sister having bee
n pushed to her death had upset her terribly.’
‘I am hardly surprised. But do you think it is possible?’
‘Yes,’ John answered thoughtfully. ‘I do think that is what might have happened.’
He had stayed with Mrs Mitchell until the Constable had come, this one a fisherman who had been loath to do his duty. Eventually the body had been taken off to the mortuary to await the findings of the Coroner and as John had watched the last of Augusta Schmitt being driven away in a small, sad cart – decently covered he was glad to observe – he had felt more than a pang of sorrow for the formidable German woman. He thought of their first meeting when she had regarded her fellow travellers with a fishy eye and uttered a string of complaints. Strangely, he had almost grown to like her.
His mind ran over her last words. What had been a game that they all played? Could she possibly have been referring to something long ago? Had she played some game with Helen and Richard before the girl’s sad demise? The Apothecary shook his head, realizing that the questions he had planned to ask Augusta about the origins of the brother and sister would now remain unasked.
‘You are sighing,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes, I am indeed. Sweethheart, do you realize that with the death of Augusta Schmitt the trail goes cold once more? I really thought I had a lead with her reference to Helen and Richard but now I shall never find out.’
‘Why not ask Matilda?’ Elizabeth said practically. ‘She is bound to know where her sister worked.’
The Apothecary put his hand over hers where it rested on the table.
‘That is an extremely good idea. But I daren’t say anything yet. The poor creature is too overwrought.’
‘Why don’t you call on her tomorrow and take some things from the apothecary’s shop with you? After all it would be a kindness if you did.’
‘Actually I had planned to do just that.’
‘If she would not think it an imposition I would like to come with you. If the poor wretched woman does not wish to see me I shall understand perfectly. On the other hand she might enjoy the company of a stranger.’
