scream. This was followed by the sound of shots, two at a time, several of them. And then there was an unnatural quiet.
Very slowly, the Apothecary peered over the edge of the tablecloth. He took in several things at once. First of all there were two old women, both of their faces hidden by those hideous bonnets. They were firing double- barrelled pistols and as one reloaded the other fired. The guests were falling slowly, like leaves, and he could only guess at the number of dead and wounded. Sensing a movement at his end of the table, one of the crones turned and fired straight at him. Momentarily the bonnet tipped back and John had the impression of a face, a face that gave him the feeling he had seen it somewhere before. But like a dream the memory was gone as quickly as it had come. John feigned death as the bullet whistled straight past his ear and into the floor. He felt Elizabeth do the same and they both lay still as corpses until eventually the firing stopped.
‘Happy wedding day, my Lord,’ one of them shrieked in eldritch tones, then there was the sound of the French doors being thrown open and running feet.
Nobody stirred. There was absolute stillness. It was just as if the two old women had murdered everyone in the room. And then there came a little sound from the doorway. John cautiously opened one eye and without turning his head peered in the direction from which the noise came. All he could see was a pair of men’s shoes, extremely high heeled. So Robin Sidmouth had at least escaped.
Very gingerly John eased himself upwards and was relieved to see that other people were doing so as well. At least half of the gathered guests had escaped unscathed, it would seem. From the doorway came a series of high-pitched shrieks and the sound of a heavy weight crashing to the floor. It would appear that the Earl of Sidmouth had been quite overcome.
But it was not to him that John’s attention was drawn, for a far more dramatic sight met his gaze as he heaved himself upright. The Earl of St Austell lay slumped forward on the table, his turban half shielding his face, his scarlet robe darker in the middle where a mass of crimson dyed it a deeper red. Someone — the Apothecary did not know who — gingerly approached him and tapped him on the shoulder. The body fell forward a fraction but other than that did not stir. But the movement dislodged the turban which slipped even further to one side. If John had not been a trained apothecary he could easily have vomited. Because the Earl’s face had been shot away and what lay in its place was a dripping red mass of brains and eyeballs. For the first and only time John pitied him.
Elizabeth, who by now was also standing upright, followed John’s gaze. ‘Oh God’s mercy,’ she said softly.
John turned to her and seated her back in her chair, pouring a brandy from a nearby decanter.
‘Here, drink this,’ he said, and handed her the glass. She took it and sipped and John thought he had never seen her so pale in all the years he had known her. ‘Now you must excuse me,’ he said. Raising his voice he shouted, ‘Is there a physician present?’
‘Yes, Sir, I’m a surgeon,’ called a man of no more than thirty, a man with carrot-coloured hair whom John had noticed amongst the dancers and who was just rising to his feet. ‘Are you similar?’
‘I am an apothecary. For God’s sake let us assess the damage.’
They both crossed to the most obvious victim of the shooting. Mr Perkins, as he briefly introduced himself, with more courage than had the Apothecary, put out a hand and removed the turban entirely. The ooze underneath, that had minutes earlier been the head of a man, trickled into the tablecloth.
‘God almighty,’ said the surgeon, ‘whoever did this certainly had no respect for the Earl of St Austell.’
‘Clearly not,’ John answered, as a thought occurred to him.
‘He’s been shot at least four times.’
And it was true enough. Their brief examination of the body revealed four different wounds. Two in the back, one in the knees — which meant his assailant must have bent down to attack him — and the face once, close-up and with both barrels.
‘There’s nothing we can do for him,’ said Perkins, shaking his head. ‘It is the wounded who should be our primary concern.’
Strangely there were not as many of these as the noise and confusion had first suggested. Lord George Beauvoir had a shoulder injury, Lady Imogen had been shot in the leg — and from the whimpering she was making John presumed that she was shortly going to miscarry the child she bore. A whisper to Elizabeth had her being escorted upstairs to one of the many spare bedrooms. Poor little Cuthbert Simms had received a graze from a passing bullet and was bearing it manfully, despite the fact that he was trembling like a blancmange. The only other tragedies were Lettice James, who had been shot dead, a wound straight to her heart, and a young man whom John did not know, had been killed.
In the doorway Lady Sidmouth could be heard remonstrating with her son.
‘Oh do get up Robin, do. You’re like a girl, so you are, fainting at the sight of blood. Go to poor Maud. She looks fit to die.’
Maud was indeed very ashen-faced but only because she had been sitting near the Earl of St Austell and some of his blood had spattered on her. To make matters worse it was starting to dry and it wasn’t until Mr Perkins set to with a damp cloth that she showed any signs of revival. Meanwhile Viscount Falmouth rushed in from outside and quite literally screamed when he saw his grandfather’s body, still in its chair but sprawled out on the tablecloth before it. He approached it running, but when he saw what was left of his kinsman’s head he turned away, clutching his guts.
But at that moment there came a voice from the doorway, calling out merrily. People picking themselves up, the wounded being tended to, the dead being covered by fresh white tablecloths brought in by the ever-sensible Lady Sidmouth, all but the eternally silenced turned their heads.
Miranda stood in the entrance, dressed in a gorgeous nightgown and nothing else. Barefoot and without any kind of robe on the top, John felt she represented some old Norse goddess come to earth to bring summer. She stood immobile, staring from one to the other. Then she saw what lay there, cried out, ‘Montague,’ and rushed towards the heap that Lady Sidmouth was just covering.
She stopped short. ‘Is the naughty man in his cups?’
Lady Sidmouth gazed at her gently. ‘No, my dear, it is a little worse than that.’
Miranda looked roguish. ‘He has lost consciousness. Oh la, that is a fine way to spend a wedding night.’
She began to tug at the corner of the tablecloth. ‘Oh Monty, you are a bad boy. I think it is time you came to bed.’
Viscount Falmouth straightened himself up and crossed rapidly in her direction. ‘Don’t do that, Miranda. It is better that you don’t see.’
‘You’ll address me as Your Grace, in future, Maurice. Remember that I am now the Countess of St Austell.’
‘Whoever you are,’ he snapped at her, ‘don’t look under that tablecloth.’
‘Oh pooh,’ she answered and gave it one final tug.
The mortal remains of her husband lay before her like a piece of butchered meat and there were cries from around the room as people saw him.
Miranda clapped her hands over her mouth and her eyes widened in a most fearful manner, then with a great groan she fell unconscious to the floor.
John leapt forward but did not reach her before the Viscount, who scooped her up into his arms, then stood staring helplessly about him.
‘Odds my life!’ said Robin Sidmouth. ‘I do believe the lady faints.’
There followed a profound silence and just for a second John closed his eyes, thinking of all the duties that lay before him. The acrid smell of blood was suddenly everywhere and mixed with it the scent of hyacinths, sweet and beautiful. It was like the two extremes of life. The cruelty of people, the beauty of spring flowers forever mixed in one overpowering perfume. The Apothecary sighed, opened his eyes, and set about the tasks that must be done.
Eighteen
