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 of 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…?’