‘The Constable sounds good.’
‘He is a very useful man. Sir John could do with him as a Runner.’
‘Can’t you make an appointment to see him when you are in Exeter tomorrow?’
‘Now that is a very sound idea. I shall go to his house and do so.’
‘Clever Mr Rawlings,’ said Elizabeth, and patted his hand.
It seemed a pity, thought John, to be in Exeter and not call on Sir Clovelly Lovell. So on arriving in the city for the third day running, he made his way to The Close determined to waylay the little fat man in his den. But to his disappointment he was informed that Sir Clovelly was out. Turning away determinedly John headed for High Street and for the home of Toby Miller, that most efficient officer of the law. Surprisingly enough the man was at home and John found himself ushered into a very small study where Toby sat behind a mound of papers. On the end of his nose a pair of spectacles without sides was perched, relying entirely on their grip on the human proboscis to stay upright. He took them off with a slight sigh of relief as John came into the room.
‘Greetings, Mr Rawlings,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I just wondered how you were getting on with the case.’
‘I take it you mean the enquiry into the death of William Gorringe?’
‘Yes I do. I hope that perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing information with me — as I am Attached to the office of Sir John Fielding. Quite unofficially, of course.’
‘There is little to report, Sir. Mr Martin Meadows came to see me and told me that the dead man had also mentioned one Cuthbert Simms as someone who was familiar to him. But I have yet to see that gentleman. He is giving dancing lessons at Lady Sidmouth’s, I believe.’
‘Yes, but not for much longer. Her ball is next week and then his employment will be over.’
‘I’ll be sure to catch him before he leaves.’
John put his elbows on the table that separated the two men and said in a low voice, though there was nobody else to overhear a word, ‘But I have something which might be important to tell you.’ And he proceeded to recount the conversation he had had with the driver and the guard of the London coach.
Tobias listened in silence then replaced his spectacles on his nose. ‘How very interesting, Sir. Indeed what an extraordinary tale. I feel that one of us should follow it up.’
And he looked at John Rawlings in a very pointed manner indeed.
The Apothecary spent the next hour at the shop of the tailor that Elizabeth had recommended, glorying in the latest fabrics from France and falling in love with one, of the finest satin, in a vivid shade of crimson, decorated all over with a million little silver butterflies. Having been measured and explained that he needed the suit within a week, John retired to The Green Dragon and found Sir Clovelly Lovell, sitting in a corner imbibing a bottle of claret and partaking of a small snack to keep him going.
‘Sir Clovelly!’ exclaimed John and seeing the little man’s jolly eyes light up went to sit opposite him.
‘Damn trouble is,’ stated Sir Clovelly without further ado, ‘that I couldn’t stand my wife when she was alive but I miss her nagging now that she has gone. The house is so dashed quiet, don’t you know.’
‘Perhaps you need to remarry, Sir,’ said John, jesting. But Sir Clovelly took him seriously.
‘I don’t think so, dear boy. I mean who would have me for a start? And then if I found some eager young virgin I don’t think I would have the energy to cope. As for a widow woman I reckon she’d have a thousand screaming children and I would be driven to distraction. No, I think I’ll stay as I am and bore all my friends with my troubles.’
‘You could never do that, Sir,’ John answered gallantly. And leaning across the table he gave his fat friend a hug of pure affection.
Nine
The following morning was a truly golden one. The late September sunshine awakened the Apothecary and as he got out of bed Elizabeth woke as well and they fell to kissing and laughing before he went to his own room to dress. He was longing to get out of doors, to get the last burst of summer into his lungs before the grip of autumn took hold. So — Elizabeth taking her time about getting herself prepared — he strolled outside as soon as he had consumed his usual breakfast.
It was a glorious day. As far as the eye could see everything was sparkling and fresh, washed by a shower which had occurred during the night. The colours of the season were everywhere; trees lifted their heads proudly, displaying shimmerings of gold and flame and occasionally dropping a leaf which crunched beneath the feet of horses and passers-by. The pastures were green, cattle and sheep grazed placidly; the sky above was a deep blue, the colour of sloes. The Exe reflected its light and wound through the valley like a swathe of flax flowers. A wildness ran through John, a sensation that he had experienced from time to time over the years. He knew that the changing seasons were being echoed by something within himself, something that spoke of eternal youth and immortality. Yet that was only a part of it, the rest of the emotion was inexplicable.
Without him hearing Elizabeth came out onto the terrace and spoke his name. He turned and looked at her as if he were observing her for the first time. In that bright autumn light in which you could see a bird fly at a great distance, he realized that she had changed. There were silver hairs amongst the raven black and the great dark eyes had more tiny lines around them. The disfiguring scar which was so ugly yet at the same time made her brilliantly attractive, stood out in the pitiless light. But she stood tall and straight, the four month rounding just beginning to make itself known beneath the folds of her dress. And then she put her hand to her abdomen and drew a breath.
‘It’s moving, John. The child has quickened.’
He ran to her side and placed his hand beside hers, but she laughed and shook her head.
‘A butterfly opened its wings, that is all. You will not be able to feel it yet.’
He laughed, realizing as he did so that he sounded like a youth, not a mature man. ‘I think this is one of the most exciting moments of my life.’
‘But you have experienced it before. With Emilia.’
At the mention of the past the Apothecary felt some of his earlier mood dissipate. He looked at Elizabeth solemnly
‘Yes, indeed I have. But you and Emilia are very different people. I feel that I have been fortunate, and honoured too, to have had the pleasure of loving you both.’
She must have sensed the sudden seriousness in him for she put out her hand and took his. ‘Just as I am honoured to be carrying your child. Come on, sweetheart. Let us enjoy the beauty of the day. Shall we go for a carriage ride?’
‘I would like to travel beside you on horseback if that is all right.’
‘I am very pleased to hear it. We shall make a horseman of you yet.’
Half an hour later they were setting off, heading towards the coast and the high cliffs. As they neared their objective John could see the town of Exmouth below and the meeting of the mighty Exe with its mother ocean. He turned his head to the right and there, dark and stark in the autumn sunshine stood the ruin of Wildtor Grange, the house in which he had first set eyes on Elizabeth. He tapped on the carriage side with his riding crop and the Marchesa stuck her head out.
‘There’s the Grange.’
‘I know. Do you want to go and look?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ John answered.
But inside he felt somewhat apprehensive. It was true that he had first seen Elizabeth within those decaying walls, but at that time he had been on honeymoon with Emilia. So the mansion contained memories of both women and he was not sure that he wanted to revive such thoughts.
They were approaching the house from the top of the cliffs and from this angle the windows — or rather the one or two that had survived — were glittering in the sunlight. The illusion was extraordinary, as if the place were still lived in, as if the glow came from within, cast by crackling log fires. On Elizabeth’s instruction the coachman began to circle the mansion, looking for somewhere to draw up the carriage, while John followed slowly, gazing up at the formidable ruin with a kind of terrible fascination.
