would not have been able to discern her features.
‘God’s holy wounds!’ he muttered under his breath. Then clearly to Mrs Mitchell, ‘My very dear lady, what has happened?’
She lowered the handkerchief and looked at him with eyes puffy as oysters. ‘Mr Rawlings, it is you, isn’t it?’
He gave the briefest of bows. ‘I am on holiday in Padstow, Ma’am. I was sitting on the harbour wall and I noticed your sad procession. What has occurred?’
‘My sister, Augusta, she… she fell… off the cliffs.’
‘Off the cliffs?’
‘Yes. We took Miss Davenport’s trap out some way, then we walked…’ She could not go on, her voice choking on sobs.
But already into John’s mind had come a picture of a lone figure, gazing out at the very vista that he and Elizabeth had looked at earlier in the day, then tumbling off the top of those treacherous cliffs, a dark figure etched black as it fell to its death below.
‘Is she…?’ He could not bring himself to say the word.
Matilda Mitchell shook her head. ‘She clings to life but only just. Some fishermen picked her up and made a crude stretcher. They brought her back in the trap. Miss Davenport and I…’
But again she could not go on. John put a comforting arm round her shoulders. ‘If you would let me examine her, Madam. I am an apothecary.’
She did not answer for they had reached the front door. With trembling fingers Miss Davenport unlocked it and the fishermen carried their burden within.
‘Put her on the floor, lads,’ said one, and they gingerly laid Augusta down. John crouched beside her, doing his best to relieve her suffering but with nothing further to help him than his smelling salts, which would have been cruelty itself to put to her nose. Instead, with the aid of one of the fisherfolk he gently lifted the suffering woman onto the sofa and arranged cushions beneath her shattered neck.
Matilda came into the room and collapsed in a small spherical heap at the sofa’s side. She looked up at John from streaming eyes.
‘Is there any hope for her?’ she asked quietly.
He slowly shook his head. ‘The injuries are too severe. It’s a miracle that she is still alive.’
He leaned forward as the dying woman let out a groan of pain and slowly opened her eyes. She had lost one in the fall so all he could see was a huge black bruise with a bleeding hole in it, the other was protruding from its socket in quite the most bizarre fashion. John realized as she turned her head slowly that Augusta Schmitt had totally lost her sight. She began to speak in an unrecognizable voice.
‘It voz a game, all of it, Matilda. We vere very good at it, you know.’
‘Hush, my dear. Save your strength.’
‘Ve deceived zem all, ve did.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Now, try to rest.’
‘Is Mr Rawlings zere?’
John spoke. ‘Yes, I’m here, Madam.’
‘It voz all make believe, Sir.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ was all he could think of saying, though he had no idea what she was talking about. Then a different thought came to him. ‘Were you standing alone on the cliff tops, Miss Schmitt?’
‘The sea called me,’ she answered him, and her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I heard its song.’
‘Yes, but were you alone?’ he asked, more urgently.
‘Vere is Matilda?’ the governess said, her voice suddenly changed.
‘My darling, I am here,’ her sister answered, perching on the sofa beside her, attempting to pick her up in her arms, though John cautioned otherwise.
There was a momentary silence, then Augusta Schmitt said, ‘Helen, my dear,’ let out a sigh, and became dead weight in Matilda’s grasp.
‘Oh, God’s holy life,’ said the little woman, her sobbing hushed in horror. She gazed down at her sister. ‘Is she…? Is she…?’
John knelt down and felt for the pulse but there was nothing, all stilled and quiet. He looked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He stood, leant over the corpse and closed that terrible eye. Matilda fell against his legs, her storm of weeping returned.
‘My dear Mrs Mitchell, her death has been a mercy. She could not have gone on living in the state she was in. I am sorry but it was inevitable.’
‘But she was my sister,’ sobbed the little woman. ‘I know she may have been loud and terribly overbearing but I have known her all my life and I assure you it will be quite empty without her.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ said John, gently drawing her to her feet and leading her out of the death room and into the small room next door where stood the figure of the tall Miss Davenport. She looked at him with an enquiring face and the Apothecary nodded. Miss Davenport made the sign of the cross.
‘Would it be possible for Mrs Mitchell to have a brandy?’ he asked.
‘We could all do with one,’ she answered, and having finished crossing herself made for a cabinet from which she produced a bottle and glasses.
Having motioned Matilda into a comfortable chair she thrust a brimming receptacle into her hand. ‘There you are, my dear, drain that and you’ll feel better.’ She turned to John. ‘I didn’t catch your name, Sir.’
He gave a short bow. ‘These are hardly the circumstances in which formal introductions can be made alas. But my name is John Rawlings and I am an apothecary of Shug Lane, London. I already know you as Miss Davenport.’
She gave a bob. ‘Sibyl Davenport, Sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘What tragic circumstances and what a completely shocking thing to happen.’
John motioned to a chair. ‘May I?’ She nodded and he sat down. ‘Tell me, were you near Miss Schmitt when it happened?’
‘No, truth to tell, Mrs Mitchell and I are not particularly keen on standing on the edge. We were sitting down on a rug and Miss Schmitt wandered off on her own.’
‘But within your sight surely?’
‘Barely.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘We could see her out of the corner of our eye, as it were, but we were busy chatting to one another and were not actually looking at her.’
‘I see.’ John stared at her very straightly. ‘There is no possibility, I suppose, that she was not alone up there?’
Sibyl returned his stare. ‘What are you saying?’
He came straight to the point. ‘That Miss Schmitt might have been pushed over the edge.’
She went very pale. ‘No, absolutely not… and yet…’
‘And yet what?’
‘As I said, we were not regarding her all the time. In fact neither of us saw the fall. We only started up when we heard her terrible cry.’
‘I see,’ said John thoughtfully.
‘But what you are saying is ridiculous, Sir. Who would do such a thing? A wandering lunatic? And why should he pick on poor Augusta? No, it is quite out of the question.’
‘Unless, of course, she had an enemy,’ John answered into the stillness.
‘And what did she say to that?’ asked Elizabeth, her face animated in the glow of the candles which were lighting herself and John as they ate a rather late dinner.
‘She couldn’t reply of course. But at that moment poor Matilda started moaning and wailing and my full attention had to be turned to her. She had been listening to our conversation and the very thought of her sister having been pushed to her death had upset her terribly.’
‘I am hardly surprised. But do you think it is possible?’
‘Yes,’ John answered thoughtfully. ‘I do think that is what might have happened.’
