Death in Hellfire (13 page)

“What’s that?” he asked the servant.

There was a low laugh. “That’s old Bubb Doddington, Baron of Melcombe Regis. He left the money to have the place built. It’s his ghost wanders up there.”

“Oh, good heavens! What nonsense.”

“No, sir, that it ain’t. They say he still wants to go to the Hellfire Club like he used to when he was alive.”

“My goodness, such determination.”

At that moment the lanthorn dimmed in the mausoleum, then suddenly went out. Filled with sudden curiosity, John felt an overwhelming urge to search the place.

“I’m going up there,” he said.

“Oh, sir, I beg you don’t. There’s some things best left alone.”

“Nonsense, man. It’s probably a poacher. You can stay here if you like.”

“No, sir. If I do that Sir Francis will give me notice. Oh, my God!”

They left the path and started the steep, almost perpendicular, climb up through the trees and coarse scrubby bushes that decked the hillside. Looking upwards John saw that the mausoleum was now in total darkness and began to wonder whether he were on a fool’s errand, whether the quarry had flown. Beside him he could hear the groom’s teeth chattering.

Eventually they reached the top, the church looming like a dark shadow, the golden ball on its spire pale and almost luminescent in the moonlight. With a certain amount of trepidation John dismounted and entered the confines of that strangely shaped place of the dead.

“Is there anybody there?” he called out, his voice reverberating oddly in the emptiness.

There was total silence. And then the moon came out fully and he saw that something white was nestling in the far corner. Seizing his courage, the Apothecary walked towards it and then his heart nearly stopped as he drew close. Pale as a ghost indeed, her head drooping downwards, her arms woven tightly round her knees, was the figure of Georgiana Arundel. The daughter of Coralie Clive had left West Wycombe House and was hiding alone in the darkness.

Chapter Eleven

J
ohn bent down till his face was on a level with Georgiana’s, then he spoke very softly.

“Georgiana, what are you doing here?”

She kept her head averted and would not look at him. Very gently John put his fingers under her chin and raised it so that she could not avoid his gaze. She immediately closed her eyes.

“Hawkes,” he called over his shoulder to the groom. “Bring the lanthorn here. There’s no ghost - it’s Lady Georgiana.” The servant approached cautiously, swinging the light high, and at that moment the moon appeared from behind a lacy black cloud so that John had a good view of the little figure before him. Her shoes and stockings were green with grass stains and wringing wet from the dew. She was also trembling violently in the chill night air. He immediately removed his scarlet coat and placed it round her thin and somehow anxious shoulders.

“Georgiana,” he said coaxingly, “won’t you speak to me?” She shook her head and remained silent. John stood up and addressed the servant. *

“We’ll have to take her back, Hawkes. We can’t leave the child sitting out here all night.”

“No, sir. She should be tucked up in bed. Whatever caused her to run away and hide herself amongst the dead folk?”

“I’ve no idea,” John lied expediently. He crouched down to Georgiana once more. “Come along, my dear,” he said, “it’s getting very cold. Won’t you let me take you home?”

Once again she shook her head mutely and before his eyes r seemed to shrink, drawing her arms and legs close to her body in a gesture of despair.

“Come now,” he whispered. “I promise to put you into the care of your mother and let no one else at all go near you. How does that sound?”

She started to weep, very quietly, almost silently, the tears rolling down from beneath her closed lids like a sudden summer shower. John felt every paternal instinct in him rise.

“Don’t cry, little girl,” he said gently, “I assure you that I will take care of you.”

It was as if she fainted, suddenly going limp and allowing him to lift her from the ground and carry her out of the mausoleum to where the horses waited.

“Whatever ails the child, sir?” Hawkes asked.

“I must speak to her mother,” John answered slowly as he carefully lifted Georgiana up into the saddle then swiftly mounted behind her.

“I think you should indeed, sir,” Hawkes answered as he, too, got onto his horse.

John’s mind raced as he set off in the direction of the house. He must see Coralie and have a private conversation with her, hand the little girl into her care and make sure that she was warned about her husband. Yet what proof had he that Arundel was doing anything wrong? Something seen by Dominique Jean; his own observations? Could they just not have been the expressions of an over-zealous parent’s love?

The more he thought about the problem he had to face, the more difficult it became to know how to solve it. Every instinct in him longed to protect Coralie’s daughter, of whom, if fate’s cards had been dealt differently, he could have been the father. Very conscious of the seriousness of what lay ahead of him, John and Hawkes approached the house from the back and while the Apothecary lifted Georgiana down, Hawkes went into the servant’s quarters. After a few minutes he returned with a very flustered looking nursery maid.

“Lady Georgiana…” she started to remonstrate, but John stepped in.

“Please be silent, I beg you. The child ran away for a prank. The last thing you should do is be angry with her. Now, be good enough to fetch Lady Arundel to the door. At once.”

She shot him a furious glance but disappeared into the depths of the house. John, alone with Coralie’s daughter, stroked her hair, rather as he would that of a cat. But some instinct together with his professional judgement told him not to hold the child close, as he would have done Rose, but just to let her rest quietly, leaning against him.

Coralie appeared about five minutes later and John stood looking at her, vividly reminded of how lovely she was and how much he once had loved her. She caught sight of Georgiana and ran to the child, gathering her into her arms. Over the top of her head, she gazed at the Apothecary.

“John, what’s this? What has happened? Why is Georgiana out here and not in bed?”

For answer he said, “Cap you trust that nursemaid not to leave her? Not even for a second?”

“Yes, of course I can. Stokes has been with me for some years.”

“Well, tell her to stay with the child and refuse to take anyone else’s orders but yours.”

Coralie turned to the servant. “You heard what Mr O’Hare said, Stokes. You are to stay with Georgiana until I come.”

“Very good, my Lady. Come, my dear.”

They watched in silence as the pathetic little creature was led away into the house. As soon as she was out of earshot Coralie turned to John.

“For God’s sake, what is going on? Where did you find her?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, Coralie. Can we go anywhere where we can be private?”

She shook her head. “Only the stables.”

“Well, let’s go there then.”

They entered the dimly lit building and immediately were consumed by the sweet smell of straw. Making their way to the harness room, full of brushes and polishing clothes and scented saddle soap, they sat down side-by-side on a wooden bench.

“John, what is happening? Why did Georgiana run away?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “but I have my strong suspicions.”

“What do you mean? What are you trying to say?”

He paused, then said, “That your husband might well be perverted and that your daughter is possibly the object of his longing.”

She gave a hiss like a snake and turned on him furiously. “That is a terrible thing to say about the man I married. How dare you?”

John sighed deeply. “I am only telling you for the sake of the child. Believe me, I hate having to do so.”

She rose to her feet, her skirt rustling as she did so. “Damn you, John Rawlings. I will not listen to another word. For all his faults Arundel is a good father.”

John stood up. “Coralie, I beg you to watch out. That is all I ask.”

She did not reply but turned her back on him and walked rapidly away, leaving John standing - as she had so often in the past - wretched and helpless. With a hopeless gesture he walked out to where his horse was waiting, only to see Dominique Jean emerging from one of the outhouses.

“Dominique, what are you doing here? I thought you had finished long since.”

“No, my friend, I decided to work on until my eyes gave up on me. They just have.” He pulled a wry grin and rubbed his hands over them.

“Are you leaving now?”

“Certainly. Can I give you a lift?”

“No, but I’ll follow your coach if I may. It’s a dark, lonely road else.”

“Of course. You look as if you have a great deal to tell me.”

“I most certainly have,” John answered as he put his foot in the stirrup.

An hour later, in the warm confines of a private snug, he sat with Dominique and Samuel, relating the stories of the night to them, all three relaxed by alcohol and a feeling of camaraderie. A fire had been lit in the grate but had recently gone out and now the scents of the night air stole in whenever anyone from the taproom went in or out. It was a drowsy sensation, the smell of roses combined with the pungent stink of urine of both horses and men, blending somehow into a soporific odour. The Apothecary leant back in his chair.

“So that was it. She did not heed my words. She turned her back on me and walked out into the night.”

“Then “eaven “elp the child,” said Dominique, his French accent growing more pronounced when he was tired.

“Yes, indeed,” answered Samuel heavily.

“I simply can’t understand why Coralie married that terrible rake in the first place. What was she after? Was it money or the title? Or both?”

“Perhaps,” said Samuel, “she genuinely loved him. The human race is hardly responsible for its actions when you regard the people we fall in love with.”

“You’re right,” John answered quietly, “she probably did love him. God help her.”

“Why are you using the word “did”?” asked Dominique. “Does it not occur to you that she loves him still and that your words, John, upset her deeply? Perhaps, even now, she is sitting in her bedroom with her whole life in ruins.”

The Apothecary’s eyes brimmed with tears, he could not help himself. In his anxiety to help the child he had ridden roughshod over the mother’s feelings. He turned his head away to hide the fact that he was weeping.

Samuel, as ever attuned to his friend’s emotions, said, “It’s late. I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”

John looked at him gratefully. “Yes, I’m very tired. Besides I have a long and interesting day ahead tomorrow.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course,” said Dominique. “By the way, I find that I have a day’s work at West Wycombe left. His Lordship has found several other items for me to repair.”

“Not made by your father-in-law surely?” asked Samuel, surprised.

“Alas, no,” answered the Frenchman, and pulled a face.

All night long John was haunted by the haggard and hunted expression on Coralie’s face as the meaning of his words had sunk into her mind. Then he had thought of Dominique’s question: Why are you saying
did
love him? Perhaps she still does. Eventually he had fallen asleep as dawn began to break and had woken three hours later, feeling less than ready for the day ahead. Despite this he had risen, washed well in hot water, shaved, then dressed himself carefully.

He came downstairs to find Dominique had already left and Samuel kicking the cobbles.

“Can’t I come with you, John? I feel so utterly useless here. I’ve nothing to do all day but wonder what time you will be returning. I am really finding it a total bore.”

John, still jaded after his bad night, immediately relented. “Of course you can. Get yourself a horse and come with me. I leave in ten minutes.”

“Right. I’ll go to the stables immediately.”

“Good. I could do with your expert eye taking a look round.”

Poor Samuel hurried off busily and when John went down the yard to collect his mount found him in earnest conversation with an hostler.

“This’ll be the mount for “ee, gaffer.”

“It’s rather a fat brute.”

“Ah well, sir, the bigger the rider the bigger the horse, if you take my meaning.”

“I take it very well indeed,” Samuel answered huffily, and clinked a coin into the hostler’s outstretched fingers. “Damnable cheek,” he added as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Never mind, Sam. The man’s just a bucolic,” John said, humouring his old friend who clearly did not like any reference to his ever-spreading waistline.

“Urn,” came the reply, and after that Samuel relapsed into silence until they had proceeded halfway up the east drive and the sight of the lake, complete with ship, and the stunning facade of the house came into view.

“Hare and hounds!” he exclaimed. “What a palace.”