And she marched off towards the spot where they had long ago found entry through a low window without glass. John followed more slowly, his good mood of earlier now totally gone. He was riven with memories, some so sweet, some less so, and it seemed to him that Emilia was not very far away from him as he followed in the Marchesa’s wake.
The elements had done much to harm Wildtor Grange he thought as he stepped through the window. Leaves, long dead, had blown in and there were signs that wild animals had made the house their own. The sad and melancholy atmosphere had grown even more oppressive, the Apothecary considered, as he strode through the echoing reception hall. Ahead of him he could see the Marchesa’s indomitable figure heading up that huge and monstrous staircase which reared to the floors above. With reluctant footsteps, John followed in her wake.
She must have been moving very fast for she was out of sight by the time he reached the top, where the staircase branched into two, each fork leading in opposite directions. John was just about to proceed along the left-hand corridor when he paused. From downstairs, far below, he could hear the distant sound of voices.
His flesh crawled on his body as every thought of supernatural phenomenon set his nerves jarring. The concept that he might be listening to a long-dead conversation from the defunct Thornes — the family who once had lived in the Grange — filled him with horror. Yet somehow he steeled himself to creep back down that great gothic staircase to the huge hall below. Whoever or whatever it was that was speaking was in one of those ghastly side rooms, full of rotting furniture, that led off the reception hall, but which one it was John had no idea. Following the sound of that unearthly whispering, he crept along.
It was a man and a woman conversing, of that much he was sure. Edging into one of those empty, decaying suites he drew closer to the sound until eventually, after passing through cavernous and deserted rooms, he found himself in earshot. John crouched down beside a sofa that must once have been the height of elegance, and listened.
‘… but what of my father?’ the woman was saying.
‘He’s perfectly safe, my dear,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘But he is bound to be suspected.’
‘As will we all.’
There was a pause then the young woman — or at least John judged her to be so by her tone — said, ‘But the Constable is far from stupid I am told.’
The Apothecary strained his ears.
‘Remember that everyone is innocent until proved guilty.’
She gave a humourless laugh. ‘That is what worries me.’
John moved forward a fraction, afraid of missing a word, and then loud and clear from the floor above came Elizabeth’s voice, ‘Where are you, my dear? You must come and see this. John, where have you vanished to?’
There was a horrified silence from the next room and then the Apothecary heard two pairs of feet running for dear life as the speakers rushed from the room as fast as they could. He sprang up and sprinted into the now deserted salon in which they had been speaking. They were gone and by a different route from the one that he and Elizabeth had employed to gain entry. Nonetheless John chased after the sound of their departure until he came to a French window in a far drawing-room. All the glass had gone but the door hung open on creaking hinges. Peering out he saw two riders leaving the Grange and going hell for leather. He stared, wishing that he had his telescope, but they were already too far away to identify with the naked eye. He turned as he heard footsteps behind him. Elizabeth stood there.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
He faced her, fractionally annoyed. ‘There were two people in here. They were talking about something which I have a strong suspicion was connected with the murder case. When they heard your voice they ran for their lives. And who can blame them?’
Elizabeth looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I had no idea.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.
‘I should have guessed something was up when you disappeared so suddenly.’
‘Yes.’ John sighed. ‘Now what was it you wanted to show me?’
‘Oh, it was just a silly little thing. There’s a handkerchief of yours still in my drawing-room.’
John thought back to the last time he had been in Wildtor Grange and felt somewhat embarrassed. But he couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that for something so trivial Elizabeth had interrupted a most important conversation. His mood of youthful exuberance totally vanished, John now felt middle-aged and serious.
Elizabeth came closer to him. ‘Do you want to pursue them? I presume they have gone?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘They’ve gone all right and I would imagine that they are halfway across Devon from the speed they were riding.’
‘Well, in that case you must set off at once. I shall follow in a more sedate fashion in the coach.’
John swiftly picked up her hand and kissed it, then, without saying a word, sped out through the tattered French window. Five minutes later he was mounted and thundering over the cobbles. As he left the Grange behind him, heading up towards the cliffs, he saw the two riders ahead of him, not going towards Exmouth as he had imagined but instead turning towards the fishing village of Sidmouth. He increased his pace but one of them — the woman — looked over her shoulder and must have said something to her companion. A moment later and the pair had plunged into the dense trees that grew on the lower ground above the village. John knew at that moment that he had lost them so he reined in and waited for Elizabeth to catch him up.
But who were the riders and where had they been heading? That was the question that puzzled him for the rest of that day.
That late afternoon brought a surprise visitor to Elizabeth’s house, none other than the Constable of Exeter himself. An hour before the time to dine John was sitting in the red salon, perusing the newspaper, when the head footman entered.
‘There is a personage here to see you, Sir. He says that he is Constable Tobias Miller. He also says that he is from Exeter.’
John looked up. ‘Send him in, Perkins. I can assure you that he is perfectly genuine.’
Toby came into the room walking solemnly behind the footman, his bright eyes darting round the room and all its magnificent furnishings.
‘Good evening Mr Rawlings,’ he said, and gave a bow of the head.
John stood up. ‘My dear Mr Miller, this is an unexpected surprise.’
‘Forgive me calling without an appointment, Sir, but I just wanted to inform you that I have now seen most of the people who travelled on the coach that night.’
John motioned the man to sit down and poured a dry sherry which he handed to him. Tobias sipped it like a connoisseur.
‘And how were they?’
‘All very charming, Sir. I must say I took to Mr Simms.’
‘When did you see him?’
‘I called at Lady Sidmouth’s this afternoon. Mr Simms had had a day off and had just come in from a ride.’
‘Really?’ said John thoughtfully.
‘Yes. We talked awhile. A very polite gentleman, he was.’ Tobias leant forward confidentially. ‘Now, about that business we were discussing the other day, Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Believe me, if I had the time and the resources I would investigate that. But here I am, a professional Constable, and as busy as a bee as a result.’
‘You really think the answer might lie there?’
‘God’s boddikins, Sir. We have nothing else to go on at all. I think Mr Gorringe’s past is the only hope we have.’
‘That’s something Sir John Fielding always says.’
‘Well, I never,’ said the Constable, and made a pleased mouth.
‘So you want me to look into it?’ John asked.
‘If you do, Sir, it would be greatly appreciated.’
‘Then I will. But not just yet.’
‘I don’t know how to express my thanks.’