‘Clearly indeed,’ John answered, bowed, and left the poor man.
The evening progressed well. Elizabeth danced twice more and then, somewhat to John’s relief, sat and chatted to the other ladies. However, she encouraged him to join in and he found himself in a line of dancers opposite the delectable Miranda Tremayne, who gave him an incredibly naughty look as they joined gloved hands and passed one another. Fortunately the dance was rather too vigorous to encourage a great deal of conversation but as it ended Miranda curtsied and said, ‘May I walk with you a little, Sir?’
‘By all means but I am joining the Lady Elizabeth you know.’
‘And which is she?’ asked the minx, feigning ignorance.
‘The dark-haired woman sitting next to Lady Sidmouth.’
‘Oh,’ said the reply, the very sound expressing surprise.
John raised a dark eyebrow. ‘You know her?’ he asked.
‘No, Sir, we have never been introduced. I take it she is a friend of your mother’s.’
He felt furious. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she looks a little — mature.’
‘She is also very beautiful and clever. Perhaps you will attain her standards when you reach her age.’
‘Oh la,’ said Miranda, with a wicked smile, ‘I can’t think about that now. That time is positively years away.’
‘Then be sure to use the hours carefully,’ the Apothecary answered, bowed, and walked off.
He was still seething when he joined the Marchesa and she, knowing him so well, detected a change in his manner.
‘My dear, has somebody said something to annoy you? You look positively evil.’
‘No, it was nothing. Somebody trod heavily on my foot, that’s all.’
‘Who was it? Surely not that very pretty girl you were dancing with?’
‘It was some horrid old man. I’m not certain which.’
‘Well, it is to be hoped that he falls over in the next set.’
Elizabeth laughed, tickled him under the chin with her feather fan and turned to talk to her neighbour. John stole a surreptitious glance at her. He now knew Miranda Tremayne to be a vicious little beast but still her remarks had stung him. For to him the Marchesa was the most beautiful and the most powerful woman he had ever met. Yet, if facts were faced, she was old indeed to bring a baby into the world. And suddenly John feared for her, feared that the child which he had given her might prove too much for her and end her glorious and vivid life. He stood up abruptly, bowed to the ladies, and made his way to the refreshment table.
Frau Schmitt bore down on him.
‘Ach, mein friend. Have you got any nearer to solving this murder case?’
‘No, no nearer I am afraid, Madam.’
‘I vent to the Constable zat morning. Naturally he exonerated me of all guilt.’
By no stretch of the imagination could John envision the man doing such a thing but he merely smiled.
‘That must have been a great relief to you.’
‘Vye you say such a thing? I am completely innocent.’
‘Madam, this affair is one of many strange depths. A man who called himself William Gorringe was murdered on the night we all stayed at The Half Moon. There was no robbery so clearly he was murdered by somebody he knew — unless it was the work of a total lunatic. Therefore it is perfectly reasonable for the Constable to assume that it was someone with whom Gorringe travelled. Until that person is brought to justice everyone — including myself — is under suspicion.’
‘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
