Death in Hellfire (7 page)

“You were travelling on the roof, I take it?”

“You are correct.” And Samuel gingerly put a hand to his buttocks.

“I wonder where she was going?” said John thoughtfully. “That,” answered Samuel, “we shall probably never know.” He dined alone that evening, Samuel having been dismissed to another parlour in which the servants” food was served. His thoughts roamed wildly as he ate. First he wondered how Octavia was getting on with Rose. Then he thought of Coralie Clive and he pondered again the fact that she had been travelling on the same road as Sam and her possible destination. He remembered how much in love with her he had been all those years ago when he was just a young man and she even younger, determined to make a success of her acting career. Then he thought about her husband, the heir to a dukedom, and a cynical smile crossed his features. She had aimed high and she had achieved her objective. A mere apothecary would not have been sufficient to support the lifestyle she wished to enjoy. John’s mind turned to what might have been and he felt himself growing depressed. He deliberately determined to walk as soon as dinner was over to try and shake off such disheartening ideas.

Slipping out of the George and Dragon, John made his way down the street, away from the great house, walking in the direction of High Wycombe. And then he heard the sound of wheels and drew back to let the coach pass. It was a great beast of a thing, painted black and as large and fiercesome as anything he had ever seen. There was a crest on the door but one which the Apothecary did not recognise. Standing by the cottage he shrank back as it passed and was rewarded by a brief glimpse of a white face staring out of the window before the blinds were pulled abruptly down. It was the face of a child, a thin, sad face that seemed to quiver as he watched it pass. Then the coach was gone, thundering off in the direction of West Wycombe Park, leaving John standing alone, full of strange conjecture, as it disappeared from view.

Chapter Six

I
t was an uneasy night. John slept fitfully, waking several times and turning over again and again when he did manage to drop off. He dreamt that the little girl he had seen in the coach was standing in his room, gazing at him with sorrowful eyes and never saying a word. Indeed on one occasion he could have sworn he actually saw her as he awoke, only for her to fade from view as he returned to full consciousness. John was relieved when it was morning and he was able to rise and eat a hearty breakfast to restore himself.

Samuel, who was buzzing around but not actually doing much work, joined him as he left the guests” dining parlour.

“Well, sir,” he said cheerily, “and what are your plans for today?”

“Where have you been, Samuel?” John asked in a slightly irritable voice. “I had to dress myself this morning and not a sign of you anywhere.”

Samuel looked contrite; an expression that John always found immensely touching.

“Oh, sir, forgive me please. I must have overslept.”

“I see. Well, don’t let it happen again. Now let us go to my chamber. I intend to call at West Wycombe today and I must attire myself suitably.”

Once inside Sam said, “Oh John, I’ll swear this wretched place is haunted. I hardly got a wink all night.”

“I agree. I had a terrible time as well. I dreamt of a child I saw last evening in a coach. She looked so sickly and she was going in the direction of the Dashwood house. I wonder who she could have been.”

But Sam was too full of his own stories to pay much attention. “Honest to God, John, I heard nothing but banging and rattling all night long. It was the most frightening experience of my life.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No, not exactly.” Samuel admitted this with a certain reluctance.

“Well, it was very windy. Probably all you heard was the building shaking. Old places do that you know.”

“This inn isn’t
that
old.”

“But it is possibly built on the site of something much older.” John warmed to his theme, watching Sam’s face. “Perhaps a monastery. The ghost is probably a phantom monk with a cowl and no face.”

“Thank you for that. I shall stay awake and watch for him.”

“That I find somewhat hard to imagine. Anyway, I’m going to call on the Dashwoods this morning. What shall I wear?” They decided on a suit of dark green with a velvet coat, doeskin breeches and an extremely elaborate cravat. John also wore a rather uninhibited ring which he had bought in the market in Cheapside and which his father would have declared as being not fit for a gentleman. However, it had certain merits as far as the Apothecary was concerned and he put it on with great elan and much shooting of his cuffs.

Samuel surveyed the ring with a professional eye. “A nice piece of workmanship that.”

“My father hates it but I think it rather charming.”

It was a design of a mermaid coiled round an aquamarine into which she appeared to be gazing as if the stone were a mirror.

“Perhaps more suitable for a lady.”

“Nonsense, it is far too big. You are not going to put me off it, Samuel. Anyway, it is just the sort of thing that a roguish younger son would wear. Now, which hat?”

They chose a French cocked style, slightly out of fashion, which, they decided, would again point to someone who shopped in Dublin as opposed to London. Then, satisfied that he looked the part, John set out on horseback leaving a somewhat reluctant Samuel behind.

He had his cover story ready, indeed was rehearsing it under his breath as he went along. But thoughts of it were driven from his mind as he entered the parkland by the eastern drive, passing between two lodges as he did so. At the inhabited lodge - the other being got up as some kind of temple - he dismounted and spoke directly to the keeper, asking him if Sir Francis Dashwood were at home. The man confirmed that Sir Francis was in London but that Lady Dashwood was in residence.

“Would it be possible to see her?” John asked, an Irish burr in his voice. “I am the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, fourth son of the Earl of Cavan. I do not have an appointment, however.”

“By all means go up to the house, sir. The servants there will be able to tell you more.”

The gates were opened and John and his horse went within. He found himself in an impressive avenue approaching the mansion from the east, the roadway lined with tall and majestic trees. The Apothecary, staring round him, felt a sense of awe as the trees stopped and he found himself skirting a large and magnificent lake on which was moored a frigate. Narrowing his eyes, he observed a figure sitting on the deck taking its ease in the sunshine. Shaking his head at the sheer impudence of having a manned ship moored on one’s own private waterway, John guided his horse on.

To the side of the lake was a delightful grotto or cascade. It was built in the form of a huge jagged arch of colossal stones which enshrined a statue of a river god, lying on his back but propped up by one arm. Water trickled round him and on either side of this statue were two little waterfalls formed by the centre of two smaller arches. All these drained into a lower lake which, John observed, had been created by damming the River Wye. Beyond this impressive tract of water a large Broad Walk, very green and attractive looking, could be seen. John reined in his horse to gaze down into the waters.

The colours were brilliant, each droplet reflecting the sunshine of that summer day, and raising his head the Apothecary saw that the lake almost looked real, rather than man-made. It had a wooded island in the middle, within which some building work had been started and John, observing it closely, thought he saw a figure moving about inside.

He moved his horse onward and suddenly the house came into view, standing proudly on an incline. Once again John reined Rufus in to get a better look at the home of Sir Francis Dashwood.

West Wycombe was built in the style of Palladio and was in truth not enormously big. Indeed it was a villa, decorated with porticoes and colonnades, that would not have looked out of place in Italy. Facing John was an entrance with four Doric columns giving the overall impression of a temple. It had a rise of several wide steps leading up to it and a centrally placed door between two large windows. Above the church-like top stood three ornate stone ornaments.

John hesitated, wondering whether to dismount and knock at the door. Yet something told him that this was not the entrance generally used. Instead he walked Rufus round to the south side of the house and there slid down to the ground. Manners dictated that he should take the horse to the stables before he called but a very real fear of being shown away made him hang on to the reins.

“Can I help you?” demanded a woman’s voice behind him.

The Apothecary spun round and found himself confronting a vision in grey. For not only was she dressed in that most boring of colours but had eyes, skin and hair to match.

Fie gave a deep bow. “Madam, I do apologise for appearing like this. I was hoping to see Sir Francis Dashwood and discuss the possible introduction of the Penny Post in Dublin with him. But, alas, I was informed at the lodgehouse that he is in London. Therefore it was my intention to see his wife and ask her if I might have the honour of being granted an appointment with the Postmaster General at some time in the future.”

The ugly face stared back at him, not moving a muscle by way of changing its expression. Eventually it opened its mouth. “Who did you say you were?”

John gave an even deeper bow. “I didn’t, ma’am. Allow me to present you with my card.”

He produced one from an inner pocket and handed it to her with a flourish.

She became slightly human. “I cannot read it without my spectacles. Be kind enough to do so out loud.”

The Apothecary cleared his throat. “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, Ballyconnell Castle, Cavan, Eire. And may I ask, madam, to whom I have the honour of speaking.”

“I am Lady Dashwood,” she said coldly.

John gave the deepest bow of all. “Madam, I am overwhelmed. Truly.”

He said this last with a definite Irish accent and looked up with a twinkle in his eye. The lady did not respond but continued to regard him with a grim visage.

“Why do you wish to discuss the Penny Post with Sir Francis?” she asked.

“Well, madam, as the fourth son of the Earl of Cavan it has befallen on me to make a living for myself and I am trying my hand at writing a little in Dublin newspapers and journals. I thought that an interview with the Postmaster General would be a grand thing, so it would.”

He was trying the Irish charm to the best of his ability with a stunning lack of success.

Lady Dashwood gave him an icy stare. “I cannot speak for my husband. You’d best come back when he is in residence.”

“Of course I will. Thank you so much. When are you expecting him?”

She hesitated, wondering whether to answer him, then reluctantly said, “He is returning from town tonight.”

“Then I shall call tomorrow if I may.”

“As you wish. I cannot guarantee that he will see you, mark you.”

“No, naturally not. I shall just have to rely on fate.”

All the time he was talking John’s eyes were taking in the beauty of the landscape and of the delightful villa, wishing that she would take pity on him and invite him inside. And then as luck would have it the central door in the colonnaded entrance facing him opened. A very sickly looking man of about thirty-five appeared in the doorway, shielding his gaze against the high sun, then strolled out onto the terrace, sinking down into a chair.

“Sarah,” he called in a feeble voice, “Sarah.”

“I must go to my cousin,” Lady Dashwood said abruptly. “He is rather poorly. I bid you good day, sir.”

“Can I help at all?” John asked, momentarily forgetting his pose.

She shot him a poisonous look. “Most certainly not…”

But at that moment the man on the terrace let out a terrible scream, tore at his cravat and fell with a loud thump onto the stone floor. John did not hesitate but ran forward, followed by Lady Dashwood, panting a little as she ran. Reaching the invalid first, the Apothecary picked him up and was rewarded by the creature being violently sick all over him.

“God’s wounds,” said John, side-stepping as the man retched profoundly once more.

Fortunately this avalanche missed him and hit the floor of the terrace, spattering as it landed. The Apothecary spared a thought for the wretched servant who was going to have to clean it up.

Lady Dashwood came puffing up. “My dear Charles, what ails you? Is it the heat? You’d best go back indoors.”

For answer Charles heaved for a third time, all over himself and the base of the chair. John deduced that the entire thing had been brought on by the fellow having imbibed too well the night before.

“He’s in a terrible state,” he announced to Lady Dashwood, who had stepped back adroitly and thus missed being hit. “Can you call a servant and I’ll help him indoors.”

“There’s no need,” she answered stiffly.

“I think, madam, that there is. The Earl of Cavan insisted that all his sons be trained in the art of caring for the sick. We all had to study for one year.”

She was shaken out of her usual forbidding manner. “Really? How unusual.”

“The Earl of Cavan is a very unusual man,” John replied solemnly. He hoisted Charles up by one arm which the Apothecary placed round his shoulders. Then he started half dragging the man towards the house. Sarah Dashwood in the meantime had frantically started ringing a hand bell which was placed on one of the many tables scattered about. A footman appeared.