‘Then I shall get him to drop us off and ask him to return to Lewes,’ the Apothecary said, also concealing a grin.
‘That will be most satisfactory,’ answered Sir Gabriel and, very subtly indeed winked a sparkling eye.
Later that evening after Rose had retired to bed, ably assisted by a still-excited Emily, John permabulated through the town with his father, noticing that Lewes was indeed turning itself into a place of interest. Small wonder, he thought, that the Earls of Arundel had decided to convert a part of the castle into a summer residence. John briefly let his mind wander to Coralie Clive, the widow of the late Lord Arundel, and he wondered how she was faring. At one time he had loved her so deeply, would have laid down his life for her, but now his thoughts and commitment lay elsewhere, with the mother of his unborn child. He presumed that the Earl of Arundel must be related to Coralie by marriage and wondered if she would ever be invited to the summerhouse in the castle.
Sir Gabriel interrupted his train of thought. ‘There is the poster for the prize fight I told you of.’
John stared, hardly able to believe his eyes, feeling at that moment that he and the Black Pyramid must have some strange spiritual link. For the bare-knuckle fighter was coming to Lewes in two days’ time, almost as if he had known that the Apothecary would be there.
‘Damme,’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s coming here. The black fighter who is involved in the case I am trying so hard to solve.’
‘A strange coincidence,’ Sir Gabriel answered.
‘It is indeed. Well, if we are still here I shall take you to see him.’
‘Now that would indeed give me pleasure. There is nothing I like better than seeing a good and well-fought mill.’
‘Then go we shall,’ answered John, but his thoughts were a million miles away.
The next morning he got up early and knocked at Rose’s door. Emily answered, very pink in the cheeks and full of excitement. She dropped him a curtsy.
‘Good morning, Sir. Miss Rose is just getting dressed. I will bring her down to breakfast in ten minutes.’
‘Very good. I’ll go ahead and have a quick look at the papers.’
But in the few moments before his daughter joined him John had a strange feeling of disquiet. She was still a little girl for all her adult manner and he felt that to expose her to any kind of danger would be wrong. Yet what danger was there in going to look at that most beautiful of houses, that scene of rural tranquility? Though he had to admit that he himself had felt a touch of ice when that solitary, unmoving figure had come out and so silently stared at him. Thinking about it brought the scene back quite clearly and the Apothecary had just decided that he would go to Vinehurst Place alone when Rose rushed to join him in a flurry of sweet-smelling soap and over-strong tooth cleanser. She looked at him knowingly.
‘We are going to visit that house you told me of today, are we not Papa?’
‘Well, I…’ he began.
Rose cut across him. ‘Please, Papa. You promised me an adventure and I shall be so disappointed if I can’t have one.’
‘But sweetheart, isn’t coming to Lewes and seeing the town enough excitement for you?’
‘Oh it is, Papa. But I truly want to walk with you today. Just the two of us together.’
She was playing the scene for all she was worth, John realized that, but as with her mother, Emilia, he felt hopelessly outmanoeuvred by such a barrage of charm.
‘Very well,’ he said, somewhat reluctantly. ‘We shall go for a little while. But if you feel tired you must tell me at once and we will return to the inn.’
Rose nodded her head, said, ‘Of course, Papa,’ very sweetly, and addressed herself to her breakfast.
An hour later, both father and daughter having eaten heartily, they were clambering into the coach which Irish Tom had brought round from the stables.
‘Now where are we going, Sorrh?’ asked the Irishman, whose rubicund features had changed not a whit with the passing of the years.
‘Outside Lewes, on the road to Brighthelmstone. We turn left at the first crossroads. If you drop us there we shall walk the rest of the way.’
‘And what do you wish me to do, Mr Rawlings?’
‘Come back to Lewes and see if Sir Gabriel needs you. But even if he does be sure to come back for us in an hour.’
Rose looked at him. ‘Can’t we stay longer, Papa? An hour is very little time for an adventure.’
John gave her a firm glance. ‘An hour, Miss, and that is all. And I’ll hear no argument.’
‘An hour it is, Sorrh,’ answered Irish Tom, and with a crack of his whip the team of horses started off.
What had seemed like a long walk was now traversed in a short space of time and it seemed to John that no sooner had they got into the coach than they were getting out again. Before him lay the narrow lane which led to the gates of Vinehurst Place. With a slight tightening in his stomach, John took Rose’s hand and started to walk down it.
‘Is this the way to the house, Papa?’
‘Yes, my girl. But remember that we will be trespassing once we are through the gates. In other words we will be there without an invitation from the owner.’
‘But does he live there?’
‘No, he resides in London apparently.’
‘Then he can’t be cross with us for having a look,’ Rose answered happily.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ John answered.
They walked on until the land opened out and there before them were the gates with that long green driveway bearing the faint marks of carriages that had passed that way years ago. Nature had now reclaimed it but John could picture the house in its heyday, with horses clip-clopping on their way to a great assembly within its graceful walls. But now the place stood empty and somehow folorn, as if it were remembering the fatal shooting that had occurred there one terrible night.
As they drew nearer that elegant and beautiful building John felt Rose quicken her pace.
‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘Somebody might see us.’
‘Somebody already has,’ she answered. And breaking free from his hand started to run towards a distant figure that had just plodded into view, coming round the building.
‘Hello,’ she was shouting, and John, terrified of the consequences, began to hurry after her.
The figure stood stock still, very similar to the one that had greeted John on his first visit, except that this one belonged to a child. A somewhat startled child judging by the way he gazed at the newcomer.
John sped on but Rose was too fast for him and hurried up to the figure, which, on closer inspection, revealed itself as a boy. Her voice echoed back to her father.
‘Hello, Sir. I’m Rose Rawlings. Who are you?’
The boy continued to gawp but after a moment or two gave an awkward bow.
‘I be Michael, Miss.’
‘Do you live here?’ Rose continued in her brightest manner.
‘I lives in the gamekeeper’s cottage. My father be keeper, see.’
His accent was deepest Sussex and John started to relax. At least this was no sprig of nobility who might order them off the premises with some authority. He caught them up.
‘Hello, Michael. I am Rose’s father. Do you mind if we have a look at the house?’
‘No, Sir,’ said Michael, giving another stubby bow. ‘Are you a relation or something?’
John put on his honest face — though feeling rather badly about lying to the child — and said, ‘We’re remote cousins of the Bassetts.’
Rose turned to him, genuinely surprised, and said, ‘Are we?’
‘Yes,’ John replied firmly. ‘We are.’
The boy looked at his boots, then said, ‘I think perhaps I ought to ask my da’ about you seeing round the house.’
‘Oh that will be perfectly all right,’ Rose answered promptly, giving John the vaguest notions of smacking her. ‘Shall we wait here, Papa, while Michael goes to find him?’
He heaved a sigh. ‘Whatever you say, my dearest.’
She looked at him then and saw that he was upset. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and put her hand in his. Instantly his irritation flew away and he smiled at her.