‘Zat is as may be but I can assure you zat I had nussink to do vith his death.’
For some reason that he could not pinpoint John had the peculiar sensation that Augusta was declaring her case too loudly, too emphatically. He almost felt as if he had stepped outside himself and was listening with a stranger’s ears.
She was muttering on. ‘I alvays say zat nobody can break down ze barrier of truth. In fact I used to teach zat to my pupils ven I was their German governess.’
John looked polite. ‘Oh yes? And how long ago was that?’
‘A good while. Almost twenty years. I vas vith a family, you see.’
‘How interesting,’ the Apothecary answered, his thoughts miles away.
‘Of course I had become a companion more than anyzing. I mean my pupils had grown up. I had long since ceased to give zem formal lessons. In fact I voz an intimate friend of my employer’s daughter.’
‘Why did you leave?’ asked John.
‘Alas, poor Helen died in tragic circumstances. Zere vas no job left for me. I had to throw myself on ze mercies of fortune.’
‘How very unfortunate.’
‘It voz indeed. I miss Helen even to zis day.’
John looked at her and saw that the big fishy eyes had filled with tears and for the first time since he had met Miss Schmitt felt pity for the woman.
‘I’m so sorry,’ was all he could think of saying.
‘Zank you, zank you. She meant a great deal to me as, indeed, did her brother.’
The Apothecary was filled with the idea that the German governess had been in love with her pupil when he had grown to manhood.
‘It must have been terribly sad for you when you left.’
‘It voz. Of course I got ozzer employment in ozzer homes but zey were nothing like the life I had enjoyed vith Helen and Richard.’
Not really knowing why he did so John took hold of Augusta’s large hand and squeezed it.
‘But you are quite happy now, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am content. Zat is all I can say.’
Afterwards, going home in the coach through the moonlight of that autumn night, he started to tell Elizabeth the story. But her head had descended on to his shoulder and he realized that she was dozing. He sat in silence, smelling the rich Devon earth giving up its autumn smell. Soon it would be Christmas and he must ask the Marchesa if he and his family could visit her again. But tonight his mind was too busy to deal with thoughts of the festive season. They ran over and over the events of the evening: of Cuthbert Simms’s strange fluctuations of colour, of Augusta Schmitt’s sad story of a life lived in genteel poverty. Until she had met and fallen in love with Richard — for the Apothecary was sure that that was how it had been.
He closed his eyes but visions of the long-dead Helen flashed before them. He saw a lovely young girl dying of consumption, but somehow his mind could not agree with the picture. He started to wonder then precisely how she had died and determined that he would go and see the German governess and ask her exactly what happened. As he too dropped off to sleep, the Apothecary’s thoughts were in turmoil.
Sixteen
It was at exactly three o’clock in the morning that John Rawlings sat bolt upright in bed. Beside him the face of his little clock in its leather case was bathed in a shaft of moonlight that had stolen in between the closed curtains. But it was not to this that the Apothecary’s attention was drawn. In fact his brain, still somewhat dulled by recent sleep, was trying to remember something of vital importance which he had recalled as he was waking but had now forgotten again. Struggling to bring the thought back, the Apothecary looked round the room.
He was alone in one of the many guest beds, hung with drapery and exceedingly fine in proportion. Elizabeth had gone to sleep in her own suite, overtired as she was after the exertions of Lady Sidmouth’s ball. Angry with himself that his memory had failed him, John got out of bed and walked slowly to the window, his feet cold upon the wooden floor. He paused a minute before throwing back the curtains to reveal a landscape bathed in the cold unearthly light of the full moon. Not a creature moved, not a leaf stirred. It was just as if he were gazing on a painted theatrical set.
He had a sudden desire to be out there, to be a part of that mysterious and strangely-lit whole. With this mood upon him John removed his nightshirt, put on a pair of drawers, fastening them with a string around the waist, and pulled on a pair of breeches. Rapidly finding a shirt and leaving the neck open, he put on a cloak and silently made his way downstairs. Creeping through the sleeping house like a shadow he made his way to the kitchens and out by the door at the back, afraid to swing open the huge front door because of the noise.
Once outside John started to walk briskly, the autumn air striking him with a sharp chill that penetrated his thick cloak and made him shiver. Yet he relished the exercise, hoping that it would stimulate his brain into remembering the vital information that had come to him in his sleep. He tried to recall the conversations of the night before. He had spoken to Lady Sidmouth, of course, and to Elizabeth, naturally. He had had a conversation with Cuthbert Simms, had passed the time of day with several other people, including Grevil and Dorinda Sedgewick, who had giggled more wildly than ever at the sight of him. Then had come the time he had spent with the evil-tongued Miranda Tremayne, the glacial Paulina Gower, and finally the large and fishy-eyed Fraulein Schmitt. One of those people must have said something that had triggered off the nocturnal thought processes. But what was it?
Far below him the River Exe glinted like a silver mirage in the unrelenting moonlight. John stared down at it feeling as if he were the only human being alive, that he had been transported into a strange fairy land where he was the only creature breathing.
Mentally he ran through the various conversations he had had. All pretty ordinary except for the nasty Miranda who had inferred that Elizabeth was old enough to be his mother. He changed his thought patterns abruptly, still shocked by the girl’s innuendo. And then his mind turned to that last chat he had had with the formidable German woman. He recalled feeling sorry for her because of some incident in her past. He strained to recall exactly what it was she had said. And then it came to him. Surely she had told him of a Helen and Richard? Surely she had told him that Helen had died in tragic circumstances?
Where else had he heard this story? But the Apothecary knew the answer almost before he had asked himself the question. The girl who had been shot by her father had been called Helen and her brother, who had shut Vinehall Place up and moved to London after the terrible circumstance that had befallen them, was called Richard.
With a grim smile on his lips the Apothecary ceased walking and headed once more for the great house in which Elizabeth and her unborn child slumbered in peace.
‘You are quite positive, Sir, that the names were the same?’ asked Joe Jago, pensively sipping his ale.
‘Completely and utterly,’ answered John.
‘I see,’ said Sir John Fielding’s clerk, and relapsed into thoughtful silence.
They were sitting in The Blackamore’s Head in Exeter, having arranged to meet there at Lady Sidmouth’s rout, where Joe had distinguished himself in the dances and whirled about with a great deal of elan. Now, though, the clerk looked grim-faced as he considered the import of the Apothecary’s words.
‘They are not uncommon names, Sir. It could be a mere coincidence.’
‘It could indeed. But there is one sure way to find out.’
‘Question the German lady further.’
‘Not a task to which I look forward with relish,’ John answered with a sigh.
‘Would you care for me to do it?’ Jago enquired.
‘I would adore it but my belief is that she will take fright and start shouting at you.’
‘She cannot go on shouting forever,’ Joe commented reasonably.