Suddenly tired and with his eyes still stinging, the Apothecary plodded his way to the top and went straight to the small coach that Elizabeth had lent him for the day. And it wasn’t until he was ten minutes into the journey that his vision recovered and he was able to look at the piece of netting that had caused all the problems.
It was much finer that he had thought, made of a delicate lace, and though rendered somewhat the worse for being exposed to the elements for some time, it could still be seen as ebony in shade. John’s mind immediately leapt to the couple that Felicity had seen, walking on the beach in the moonlight, the woman’s scarf blowing up and up. He felt that if he knew who they were he would somehow come closer to finding the murderers and the ruthless mind lying behind them.
‘Where are we going, Sir?’ asked the coachman, on seeing John recover himself somewhat.
‘To Lady Elizabeth’s house, please, Samuel. I have something to discuss with her.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
And they trotted off in the direction of Withycombe House.
But a quiet chat with the Marchesa was not to be his fate that day. He arrived home to find that not only had she gone out but that she had taken the twins and nursery maids with her. Other than for the servants the house was empty. John wandered restlessly from room to room, his mind buzzing with thought, unable to settle. And then, almost like an answer to a prayer, the knocker on the front door banged impatiently. The Apothecary immediately settled himself in the Blue Drawing Room, crossed one negligent leg over the other, and picked up a copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine. A footman came in importantly.
‘The Earl of St Austell and Lord George Beauvoir have called, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Then show them in. And Harper, bring in some sherry if you would be so good.’
For once Lord George was completely sober and walked in looking immaculate, his clothes, though black, fitting him like a glove, showing off his broad shoulders and small waist, his trousers tight and quite the latest fashion. His dark hair was tied in a queue, his eyes audacious and bright. The new Earl, by contrast, was dressed in sombre hues and looked slightly vacant behind his spectacles, reminding John vividly of how he had appeared when he had walked into his shop all that time ago.
The Apothecary stood up and made a bow. ‘Gentlemen, how may I help you?’
They bowed back, the Earl’s quite courteous, George’s as if he couldn’t care a fig.
‘We wondered if you had any idea as to the whereabouts of our sister. Seems she walked out of Lady Sidmouth’s house and hasn’t been seen since.’
If there was one thing in which the Apothecary excelled, it was lying. He immediately assumed his concerned face. ‘Good heavens! When was this?’
‘Yesterday, apparently. We wondered if she had come here to talk to Lady Elizabeth.’
‘Not that I know of. We spent a quiet night at home last evening and nobody called. Unless she came this morning but, if so, she would have found everybody out.’
At that moment the sherry arrived and John asked the servant to send in the head footman, who came hurrying in a short while later.
‘You wished to see me, Sir?’
‘Yes, Miller, has the Lady Imogen Beauvoir called at the house in the last twenty-four hours?’
‘No, Sir. I have not seen sight nor sound of her.’
‘Thank you.’
John turned to the two men and spread his hands helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
‘Fact is,’ said George, downing his sherry in one and holding out his glass for a refill, ‘that she’s in an odd state of mind. Apparently she miscarried after that ghastly shooting debacle. If I could find the father I’d string the bastard up,’ he added under his breath. ‘And now she’s wandered off with a wound in her leg. Frankly we’re afraid she might do something silly.’
‘I see,’ said John, fingering his chin. ‘Have you informed the Constable?’
‘God’s wounds,’ answered George, flinging himself to his feet. ‘Do you think we’d advertise the fact that our sister has been behaving like some common slut?’
What an arrant hypocrite, the Apothecary thought. George had sired more bastards than there were ships in the navy — well, almost — and if they had known that their grandfather was abusing the poor wretched girl they should both have been shot. Which set him to wonder why they hadn’t been.
He looked helpless, an expression which he had virtually mastered. ‘I would suggest that in my professional opinion she has had a complete mental collapse and gone back to the only home she knows, your estate in Cornwall. In fact, the more I think about it the more certain I become. That is where you will find Lady Imogen, gentlemen.’
The two young noblemen looked at one another.
‘What do you think, Maurice?’ George asked.
‘It’s a reasonable conclusion.’
‘Do you want me to go down ahead and have a look?’
‘May as well. I’ve got to accompany Father’s coffin back for the funeral.’
‘So have I. But I’m sure that I can get to Cornwall and back by the day after tomorrow.’
John adopted a long face. ‘Is that when the obsequies are being held?’
‘Yes. You and Lady Elizabeth are both invited to attend, of course.’
‘Thank you,’ he answered with much solemnity.
After they had left the room John collapsed back in a comfortable chair and thought about what a fantastic liar he had become. He had kept up his performance in front of the brothers with not even a flicker in the eyes to tell them that he sincerely hoped that Imogen and Jessamy had left the county and were safely in Dorset and starting a new life together.
The sound of the carriage wheels starting up lifted him out of his thoughts and he crossed to the window to watch them go. The coach was just turning in the sweep and he noticed that it had the coat of arms of the St Austells emblazoned on the door. He studied the design with interest, noticing the spread black eagle, its red tongue protruding from its beak, its glaring eye staring fiercely, the words Loyal A Mort written above. He thought about the brothers who had just left him and wondered whether either of them could live up to the family motto. He very much doubted it.
Going upstairs to change, John carefully laid the piece of black lace he had found on the bed for Elizabeth to see. Then fishing deeper in his pocket he found the handkerchief he had used to wipe his eyes after a piece of the red cliff had fallen. It was absolutely sodden and had gone a rusty colour, so badly in fact that John threw it in a bowl of water which he had used to wash himself before he changed. Then he set about putting on night clothes, this time a rich damson shade. From the window he heard a carriage coming up the drive and saw Elizabeth’s dark head, a little bundle seated on each knee, her arms tightly round them, protecting and loving them. He knew in that moment that he could never separate the Marchesa from her sons. That she would fight like a tigress to keep them by her side and that he would have to settle for that. A thought that made him sad and melancholy. But he put those feelings away as he descended the stairs to greet her.
After the twins had been bathed and put to bed — a ritual which John enjoyed very much — he and Elizabeth dined informally at a small table in the parlour. Over the meal he proceeded to tell her of the day’s events. She listened attentively and eventually said, ‘There is something there of interest but I can’t for the life of me tell you what. I shall sleep on it and hope it comes to me.’
‘I can’t tell you how frightening it was when the cliff began to crumble.’
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. ‘Some of the red cliffs round here can be very dangerous indeed.’
But John could tell by the way that she spoke that her mind was on something else. He knew to question her would not be productive. That she must think whatever it was through and tell him when she had assimilated her ideas. He put his hand over hers.