there would be little he could do about it. With a feeling of dread the Apothecary sat back against the coach’s cushioned seat.
It was only a few minutes’ drive to the lane that led to the entrance to Vinehurst Place yet it felt like an eternity to John. As soon as the carriage came to a halt he leapt out but then he remembered himself and turned to Sir Gabriel.
‘Father, you’ll be safer staying here. I would rather do this on my own.’
‘My child, what makes you think that Rose is within?’
‘I don’t know. But she was fascinated by the house. Besides I have a feeling about it. I can’t explain.’
‘You’ll take Irish Tom with you?’
‘Yes. That is if you don’t mind being left alone.’
‘Don’t worry I am armed. But I shall only shoot to kill if it is strictly necessary.’
Despite everything, despite his worry for his beloved child’s safety, John could not help but give a crooked grin. His father — age being no hindrance to him — was speaking in total earnest.
‘That’s excellent news, Sir,’ he said, straight-faced. He called up to the box, ‘Tom, come down. I want you to go with me.’
‘Should I bring my shillelagh, Sorrh?’
‘Bring anything that can inflict damage.’
And at that John fingered the pistol in his own pocket and felt a little more secure.
It was dusk as he and Tom set out, the dying autumn sun casting strange shadows and making the Apothecary’s heart beat faster. Indeed he had rarely felt more nervous as he worried about Rose and where she could possibly be. He cleared his mind and tried sending her a message, just as he had done in Cornwall when she had vanished before. But unfortunately this time it did not work. Concentrate as he would no answer came.
He and the coachman reached the end of the lane and then stopped short. The gates, never used and seemingly permanently closed, stood wide open, and even while they stood gaping at them there was the sound of wheels behind and a dark carriage thundered past them. It hurtled up the overgrown drive and round the sweep to draw up at the front door and simultaneously every candle in the house was lit. It must have taken an army of servants to achieve this effect but Vinehurst Place blazed with light.
‘God’s teeth, Sorrh, what the deuce is happening?’
‘I have no idea, Tom, but I’m going to find out.’
‘Well, I’m right beside you, Mr R.’
They proceeded up the drive, this time keeping to the shadow of the trees for the lights of the house blazed out over the lawns. And as they drew nearer they could hear sounds — a harpsichord played a welcoming air, together with muted laughter and somebody whistling a merry tune.
Tom looked at John. ‘How do we go about this, Sorrh? Do we just knock at the front door?’
John silently shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘let’s creep round the back and see if we can get in that way.’
‘Do you think Miss Rose is in there?’
Once again the Apothecary shook his head. ‘I have no idea but I am prepared to try anything to find her.’
As they drew nearer the house the noise grew louder and they were able to identify it as coming from the grand saloon at the rear of the hall. Moving in complete silence they circumnavigated the side of the building and at last reached the large French doors of the room, hung with floor-length curtains as it was and opening on to the gardens behind. And then John stood aghast, motioning Tom to be still. For the curtains were not drawn and the interior was as brilliantly lit as a stage set.
They were all there, every last one of them, with the exception, of course, of Augusta Schmitt. There was a stranger in their midst, however, a man that John had not seen before, a man of about fifty, tall and well made. He had a glass in his hand and as the Apothecary looked round, wide eyed, he saw that so did the others. The man raised his glass.
‘To just deserts,’ he said.
Nobody answered but they all downed the contents of their glass with extreme solemnity. John stared in ever-growing amazement as he let his eyes wander over the assembled company. For though this had been the very thing that he had whispered to Sir Gabriel it still took his breath away to learn that he was right. Lucinda Silverwood stood with Jemima Lovell and Paulina Gower, her arm casually draped round Jemima’s shoulders. Nathaniel Broome was in earnest conversation with Cuthbert Simms, the dancing master’s little face quite flushed with drink and excitement. Everyone who had ridden in the coach that fateful evening was present, other than for the Black Pyramid and the German woman. John thought grimly that the only two people not connected with them had been himself and Martin Meadows.
He took a step forward, anxious to hear what was being said and the movement must have caught Cuthbert’s eye. He gave a little scream and said, ‘Oh my goodness, there’s somebody out there.’
John and Irish Tom turned to run but at that moment a vast shadow loomed up in front of them and grabbed John by the collar of his coat.
‘So we meet again, my friend,’ it said.
John was just able to gasp out, ‘Run, Tom, run. Find Rose for God’s sake,’ before he was lifted in the air and carried unceremoniously into Vinehurst Place.
Twenty-Nine
John had never made an entrance like it. Thrown onto the Black Pyramid’s shoulder like a doll, he was carried into the grand saloon and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
‘Look what I have found,’ said the black man. ‘The nosy creature who has been snooping round us all has just committed his final act of spying and followed us here.’
There was a snicker of laughter but generally the faces that regarded him were tight with suspicion.
‘Mr Rawlings,’ said Lucinda Silverwood, ‘I would have thought better of you. What on earth brings you to Vinehurst Place?’
John swallowed and made a gallant attempt at regaining his equilibrium. ‘I have come in search of my daughter,’ he said, his voice sounding somewhat hoarse to his ears. ‘She has gone missing and I had a feeling she might have come here.’
‘And why should she do that, pray?’ asked Cuthbert Simms.
‘Because she is fascinated by the house as apparently are all of you.’
‘Aye, as well we might be,’ answered Nathaniel Broome in a tone so bitter that the Apothecary scarcely recognized it.
The man standing in the midst of them all, the only person that John did not know, gave him a peremptory bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. I am Richard Bassett.’
‘The brother of Helen, the one who was…’
‘Shot? Yes, I am he. Pray take a seat.’
And suddenly the whole situation became as strange and weird as anything the Apothecary had ever seen upon the stage or read in a novel. Here were almost the whole contingent of that coach ride from London to Devon, the ride that had ended in a man being bludgeoned to death, all knowing one another as John had suspected and now gathered together as guests of Helen Bassett’s brother.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Richard asked.
‘Yes, I would. Anything. This has come as something of a shock.’
Yet it hadn’t really. It was just that the whole situation was utterly bizarre. Beyond anything that the Apothecary had ever had to deal with or had experienced. Far from knowing how to handle himself, he decided that the best policy was to keep quiet and let them question him. Yet they seemed strangely silent, almost nonplussed by his presence. It was the Black Pyramid who was the most vocal.
‘Well, I must say, Mr Rawlings, that you did a clever job in tracking us here. What put you onto it?’
John sighed. ‘Actually it was a chance remark of the coachman who drove us to Devon. He recognized
