John got to his feet, itching to do something to break the deadlock that this investigation had reached. Indeed he had got as far as leaving the room and going out into the huge entrance hall when he heard feet upon the stairs and, turning, saw that it was Elizabeth, up and dressed and ready for the day. He crossed to the bottom step and watched her descend, loving the way she moved, her body growing larger but still elegant and supple for all that.
‘Good morning, my darling. Joe Jago has already gone I fear. He has left you a note — quite formally written — thanking you for your hospitality. I have read it because it was addressed to me as well.’
Elizabeth looked at him seriously. ‘John, why are you so uneasy?’
He put his arm round her waist as she arrived at his level. ‘Because I think this case is virtually dead. There have been several remarkable coincidences but none of them makes any sense to me. I cannot find the common thread that is running through the whole thing.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘I could go to Padstow and ask Fraulein Scmitt to whom she was referring the other night.’
‘You mean her mention of Helen and Richard?’
‘Yes. But Elizabeth, Joe has advised me not to go. To wait until the poor old dear gets back from her holiday.’
She was silent a moment, her black hair swept up in a pinner, her scar distinctly visible in the morning light, her head slightly bent in concentration. Then she looked at him.
‘Do you agree with him?’
‘Yes and no. But I feel that if I don’t do something I shall go mad.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? Last time you and I paid a visit to Cornwall I came back with this.’ She laid a hand on her rounding. ‘So let us see what I come back with this time.’
‘You mean you would journey with me?’
‘Of course. Padstow is not that big a place. Someone is bound to know where they are staying.’
‘Very well. When shall we leave?’
‘Now. Straightaway. I shall write to Lady Sidmouth and tell her I shall be gone for a few days. And you must write to Joe at his inn. Come along. There is no time to lose. We leave within the hour.’
And she was right. As ten o’clock chimed the last pieces of luggage were being loaded onto the coach and John was helping her into her seat beside him. He turned to her. ‘You are quite sure about this?’
‘Absolutely positive.’ She took his hand and he felt her excitement like a tangible force running into his fingers. ‘It will be a mighty adventure. It is time I got out and about and saw something of the world again.’
‘And the child?’
She looked at him serenely. ‘The child will be well, never fear.’
They travelled up through Crediton, heading over the edge of Dartmoor until by mid afternoon they had reached the town of Bude. Here Elizabeth insisted that they stop for the night as she had no wish to exhaust the horses. They found an inn which was simple but adequate and Elizabeth clapped her hands as she saw the downstairs parlour with its beams, its inglenook in which burned a fire of both coal and logs, and its big oak refectory table on which gleamed various copper pots.
They dined on lentil soup, a capon and a neat’s tongue and afterwards they strolled out along the quaintly cobbled streets and smelt the salt of the sea. Then they went to bed and slept like two children, side by side, hardly moving. John, happy to be doing something, anything, to get nearer the solution; Elizabeth content to see him so.
The next morning they set off and arrived at Padstow in the afternoon. But first they drove along the coast track and at John’s insistence stopped the coach that he might see the vastness of the ocean. He and the Marchesa stood on the cliff top and said nothing, awestruck by the majesty of the sight before them.
Below, far below, wave upon wave rolled in to shore in a ceaseless flow of tumbling water, each white peak breaking relentlessly upon the yellow sand. The ocean was alive with movement, swelling in great blue humps, rising in cream-topped ripples, glinting aquamarine as it crashed down onto the strand. It was a sight that impinged itself onto the Apothecary’s pupils so that in the weeks after he could recall it as if it were before him still.
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
