by Deryn Lake
‘My spleen has never been better,’ commented one old fellow.
‘Nonsense,’ replied the other. ‘I believe it is all in the imagination. I cannot credit that a glass of disgusting liquid like this could be of any benefit at all.’
‘Well, the Romans thought so. They came here and bathed and no doubt drank the water, and they were an advanced civilisation.’
‘Rome fell, didn’t it,’ responded his companion, chuckling.
‘You are very cynical, Thomas. I personally find it fascinating to know that another culture sported here before us. Which reminds me, have you seen the head of Minerva?’
‘No, I haven’t. Where is it?’
‘It’s on display at the baths themselves.’
John froze, a black hole in his mind where there should have been a memory. Who had spoken to him about the head of Minerva, and recently at that? Who had told him it was lucky to touch it? Without waiting for the answers to come, the Apothecary turned on his heel and literally ran back to the King’s Bath. As luck would have it, Dick Chandler, a bundle of towels over his arm, was standing in the doorway.
‘The head of Minerva,’ gasped John. ‘Where is it?’
‘There,’ Chandler answered, and pointed upwards.
John followed his finger and looked to where the gilded bronze head of a statue stood in a small niche in the wall. Underneath was a handwritten notice.
‘Head of a Roman statue,’ it read, ‘found by a workman in Stall Street, 1727. Believed to be the goddess Minerva.’
The Apothecary thumped his forehead with his fist. ‘Who was it?’ he said aloud. And as Dick stared at him, obviously thinking he had gone completely mad, it came to him. Once again, John saw those terrible tortured eyes and heard the mad girl’s dying voice. She said she would take me to see Minerva’s head. It was lucky to touch it.
‘Petronelle,’ he said aloud.
A ghastly expression crossed Chandler’s face. ‘Did you say Petronelle, Sir?’
‘Yes, I did. Why? You didn’t know her, did you?’
‘In a way I did, for it was Lucy’s second name. Lucy Petronelle Allbury was the girl I went looking for all those years ago.’
John turned on him a ravaged face. ‘Then, my friend, it grieves me to tell you that your search for her is finally over.’
Chapter Twenty
It had been no use. Instead of seeking company, John had deliberately avoided it. When he should have made strenuous efforts to find Orlando and ask him exactly what was happening, instead the Apothecary walked through Bath alone, ignoring the passing parade and concentrating solely on his thoughts.
The revelation that poor tragic Petronelle and the missing child of ten years earlier were the same person had come as a great shock, yet in a way it had not been unexpected. Petronelle’s fear of Hannah Rankin, Forbes, the warder’s, belief that the poor lunatic had met the woman before, both served to confirm John’s certainty that a child abduction ring had at one time flourished in Welham House and that Lucy Allbury had been snatched by that very circle. And now, aware that the Dysarts had lived only twenty miles from Bath, his conviction that Meredith’s disappearance must somehow be linked grew even stronger. The boy had been over two years old when he had left the country to live in Paris, not too young to have attracted the attention of an English kidnapping gang. Despite flaws in the argument, John’s conviction remained. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the address given him by Ambrosine Dysart. ‘Westerfield Place, Westerfield Abbas, Somerset,’ she had written. Filled with an absolute certainty as to what he should do next, the Apothecary walked back to The Bear to enquire about transport.
It had not been an easy journey. Study of a map had revealed that the only towns of any size reasonably close to Westerfield Abbas were Wells and Glastonbury, and enquiries at The Bear had resulted in John catching the stagecoach to Glastonbury. From there, the Apothecary was advised to hire a man with a trap to take him the rest of the way.
It was some while since John had travelled by stage, preferring the faster post chaise or flying coach, therefore he was much amused to find himself boarding the Bath Magnet, an antiquated, lumbering affair that went as far as Taunton and back. The design of it was not of the latest, to say the least, yet it could accommodate an unbelievable fifteen passengers. The coachman’s box hung forward, secured to the main bodywork by a series of leather straps. Dangling their feet into the space thus provided were three travellers, two men and a woman, all sitting on the roof, while beside the driver was squeezed one more. Similarly, at the back perched two other people alongside the guard, while in the basket behind squatted a couple of passengers, sitting on their luggage and a pile of parcels. With a heave, John went in with them, and he, together with the six travellers within, made up the full complement. Dreading to think what would happen if the conveyance shed a wheel in mid-career, the Apothecary gritted his teeth as, with a blast of the coachman’s horn, the four-horse team strove to pull the loaded vehicle over the cobbles and away.
Getting his bearings, John saw that two other young men shared the basket with him.
‘James Jinks,’ said one, bowing his head and holding out his hand. ‘Thomas Hasker,’ added the other, doing likewise.
The Apothecary returned the compliment. ‘John Rawlings, at your service, gentlemen.’
‘Travelling far?’ asked Jinks.
‘To Westerfield Abbas. I’m getting off at Glastonbury and hope to hire a trap.’
‘Then allow me to offer you a ride, Sir. My conveyance will be waiting for me and as I am travelling in that direction I can drop you where you wish.’
‘How very kind. I’m actually going to Westerfield Place.’
Jinks and Hasker, who were clearly acquainted, looked at one another.
‘The Dysart house, eh?’
Instantly sensing something of interest, John said, ‘Yes. Why?’
Jinks grinned. ‘I come from close by, a small place called Meare. My papa used to play cards with Lord Anthony. Knew the family quite well before they left for France.’
‘Then you would have been acquainted with their daughter?’ John asked casually.
‘Not really. I was just a child at the time. But my elder brother was much smitten with her. She was known as the Beauty of the County, you know.’
‘Wasn’t she involved in some sort of scandal?’ the Apothecary said, his face ingenuous.
‘Ran off with a footman and pregnant into the bargain. Just about as scandalous as you can get,’ Jinks answered cheerfully.
Hasker looked at him reprovingly. ‘Steady, James. Mr Rawlings is probably a friend of the family.’
John instantly became bland. ‘No, no, not at all. I am merely going to the house to deliver something. I hardly know the Dysarts, though I must confess something I heard about them recently intrigued me.’
‘Oh? What was that?’
‘Did a child of theirs vanish in Paris, or have I got it all wrong?’
Jinks shook his head. ‘No, you’re right. It was Lord Anthony’s grandson. The progeny of the Beauty and her runaway husband who, sadly, were both killed in a coaching accident.’
As he said the words, the stagecoach bumped over a large stone in the road and the three occupants of the basket flew aloft, laughing despite the seriousness of the topic.
‘Anyway,’ Jinks continued, ramming his hat back on his head, ‘they left behind a baby, aged about two years or so. After they died the child was brought to Westerfield by Gregg the steward …’
He and Hasker exchanged another look and Hasker shook his head slightly.
‘… who looked after him until Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart arrived from France to fetch him. Anthony was the British Ambassador, you know. Anyway, they took the boy back with them, then one day he vanished from their garden in Paris, never to be seen again.’
‘What a terrible tale.’
‘Terrible and rum, don’t you think?’
‘Very rum,’ John answered, watching Hasker
while he and Jinks conversed, wondering why he had indicated ‘no’ when Gregg’s name came into the conversation. He decided to find out.
‘I’ve been told to make my delivery to Lord Anthony’s steward. Would that be the same man you mentioned?’
Jinks, who was clearly the greater gossip of the two, answered, ‘Oh yes, old Gregg is still there. I reckon he’ll keep the post until the day he dies.’
‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? I thought old servants were pensioned off.’
Jinks opened his mouth but Hasker spoke up firmly. ‘Gregg is more of a friend to the Dysarts, Mr Rawlings. He was a child working round the place when Lord Anthony was a boy. Though they will relieve him of duties in the years to come, he will always retain the honour of being steward.’
He spoke with an air of finality, giving John the impression that there was a lot more to the story which would not come out until Jinks was left on his own. Quite deliberately, the Apothecary changed the subject.
‘Do you live in Meare also, Mr Hasker?’
‘No, I reside in Wells, just outside the town to be precise. However, James and I have known each other since schooldays, and whenever we have the time we go into Bath for the balls and theatre.’
‘How delightful! I envy you that. I think it a charming spot. I only have one friend living there, though, Orlando Sweeting. You don’t know him, by any chance?’
Jinks and Hasker shook their heads. ‘Can’t say we do.’
‘He’s the nephew of Sir Vivian Sweeting.’
Still they looked blank, and John felt a vague sense of disappointment. He had somehow hoped that a connection, however tenuous, between Sir Vivian and the Dysarts could be established.
The conversation, conducted between bursts of laughter and fierce drawings in of breath as the track became ever more perilous, now changed to general topics. Those sitting on the roof beside the guard joined in, and the Apothecary had to come to terms with the fact that Jinks would say no more until after his friend had left the coach. Indeed, pleasant though young Hasker was, it was quite a relief when The Magnet rumbled into the courtyard of The Swan with Two Necks in Wells and he got off.
His place was taken by an enormously fat, belligerent woman, determined to get a seat within the coach itself. Furious that nobody would give up their place for her, she finally flopped into the basket like an angry flounder and glared at John and James as if it were all their fault.
‘No manners,’ she said loudly, crushing baggage and parcels as she heaved her weight from one side to the other.
‘Perhaps you’ll acquire some soon,’ the Apothecary answered, just loud enough for his companion to hear.
‘Eh?’ the woman asked suspiciously.
‘I said, “Perhaps you’ll expire at noon”, to my friend.’
She glared all the more. ‘Why should you say a thing like that?’
‘Because he’s a very bad traveller, Ma’am. Prone to sickness and all sorts of terrible things. He’s been known to go into a faint and be taken for dead. That’s why I said it.’
The woman, as best she could, moved to the far side of the basket. ‘If you feel vomitous you’re to lean over the side, young man. D’ye hear?’
Jinks made a terrible retching sound and rolled his eyes.
‘It might be too late,’ said John sorrowfully.
‘Oh Gawd!’ she responded, and turned her back.
Hardly able to control themselves, the Apothecary and his new companion indulged in an entirely silly conversation until the short haul to Glastonbury was complete and the passengers got off to dine. Tempted to have a meal, John saw that this would be out of the question. A smart coach, complete with coachman and postillion, awaited James Jinks, who, John guessed, must be an extremely well-breeched young man, despite the fact that he liked travelling on the common stage.
‘Sorry that we haven’t got time to eat, but I’ll drop you off at the Place,’ Jinks said as they climbed aboard his equipage. ‘I’m sure old Gregg will look after you.’
‘Do you know the man well?’
‘Only from seeing him round the house when I used to visit. As I said, my elder brother was mad for Alice, and I used to be taken along when he went to pay his respects. But then, of course, Gregg’s role in the establishment became somewhat different after the scandal.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jinks stared at him. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. As I said, I am the merest acquaintance of the Dysarts.’
James adopted a gossipy look. ‘Then you wouldn’t be aware that Gregg was the father of the fornicating footman, the one who ran off with the Beauty of the County.’
‘Do you mean …?’
‘Yes, I do. He and Lord Anthony were both grandfathers to the same child. Meredith Gregg, the boy who vanished.’
‘Then the steward didn’t lose his position despite his sinning son?’
‘He came close to it, I believe, but he and his master went back a long way. In fact I’ve heard tell that Gregg saved Lord Anthony’s life when they were both boys and the Duke’s son went skating on thin ice, quite literally.’
‘By the Duke’s son you mean Lord Anthony, I presume?’
‘Yes. He’s the late Duke of Bristol’s middle boy, brother to the present Duke.’
‘So old ties saved Gregg from dismissal?’
‘That, together with Lord Anthony’s natural sense of fairness. After all, a father can’t be held responsible for his son’s follies, can he, now?’
Thinking of wise Sir Gabriel and his recent advice to John regarding Coralie, the Apothecary could only smile and say no.
‘Strange affair, ain’t it, though,’ James Jinks offered.
‘I think,’ John replied thoughtfully, ‘it’s going to get a great deal stranger before all the answers come out.’
To approach Westerfield Place from the village of Westerfield Abbas was a breathtaking experience indeed. The village itself was in truth little more than a spread of houses, though it did have a church at its centre, and even an ale-house, called The Star. But leaving it and heading out on the road towards Meare, travellers soon became aware of a great wall, running for miles alongside the track.
‘The estate?’ asked John.
‘The estate indeed,’ Jinks confirmed. ‘It’s huge, as you’ve probably gathered. The Dysarts are the biggest landowners in the county, though my papa ain’t too far off ’em.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ the Apothecary responded, then widened his eyes at the sight of the great gates, a lodge house built on either side of them, that gave access to all the splendour that was the Dysart acreage.
‘To see Mr Gregg,’ John called to the lodge-keeper, and the gates were swung open to allow Jinks’s coach to pass through.
As they trotted down the elm-lined drive, the house, a magnificently proportioned edifice that had obviously been rebuilt at the time of James I. could be seen in the distance. John had discovered from his conversation with Jinks in the stagecoach’s basket that King John had had a hunting lodge on the site, and there had been people residing at Westerfield for five hundred years. Something of this showed in the very antiquity of the house’s surroundings. For here was land well trodden, well hunted upon, well used and loved by the many generations who had dwelled and continued their heritage on the venerable spot.
The house had a sheen to it, a patina created by scores of people living out their lives there, rejoicing or sorrowing within its solid, comforting walls. Yet at the same time there was an air of sadness about the place, as if being empty were an anathema to it. Saddened yet excited by what he was seeing, John descended from Jinks’s coach and rang the bell. It echoed through empty rooms and desolate corridors, and his heart bled for Westerfield Place that it had no heir to fill it once more with laughing children.
James Jinks’s cheerful face appeared in the carriage window, accompanied by a waving arm.
‘Is anybody in? Will you
be all right?’
But already great locks were turning and a fresh-faced footman was appearing in the doorway.
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘I have come to see Mr Gregg. My name is John Rawlings and I do not have an appointment, but Lady Dysart has written to him asking that he should expect me.’
‘Very good, Sir. Would you step within? I shall find out if Mr Gregg is available.’
‘He’s at home?’
‘He’s round and about the estate, Sir,’ the servant answered warily.
John turned to Jinks. ‘Gregg is here. I think all should be well. Thank you for your help.’
‘A pleasure. If you get into difficulties come to Meare Manor. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t,’ said John, and waved his new friend a thankful farewell, thinking that travelling companions of his ilk were worth their weight in gold.
‘If you would follow me, Sir,’ said the footman, leading the way into an overpowering hall, so large and so full of treasures that the Apothecary quite literally stopped in his tracks and stared round, gazing at everything open-mouthed.
The servant allowed himself a small snigger. ‘The hall of Westerfield Place is one of the most glorious in England, so they say. Would you care to sit in one of the window embrasures that you may continue to observe it, Sir? Or do you wish me to conduct you to an anteroom?’
‘I’ll stay here,’ John answered, unashamedly impressed and not caring who knew it.
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘If you could take Mr Gregg my card and remind him that I am here with the blessing of Lady Dysart.’
‘Indeed, Sir.’
The man went, leaving John to study the immense splendour in which he found himself, and at which he must have stared for at least five minutes before a voice spoke at his elbow.
‘Mr Rawlings, I believe we met in London.’
Not having heard the steward approach, John leapt to his feet, his heart pounding.
‘Ah, Gregg,’ he said rather breathlessly. ‘I’m sorry to foist myself upon you like this, but Lady Dysart told me to call when I was in the area.’
‘Of course, Sir. How may I help you?’
