Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

‘She won’t see you, John. She allows no one near her.’

‘Then what does she do with herself all day?’

‘She lies on her bed of grief and weeps.’

‘Well that’s not going to do her a lot of good. I mean she’ll have to come out for the funeral.’

‘And she’ll have to journey to Cornwall for it. I mean sooner or later she will have to take up residence in her new home. Perhaps you will be able to persuade her.’

‘I can only try.’

But a gentle knocking on the door of Miranda’s bedroom only elicited a shout of, ‘Go away. Have you no pity?’

John disguised his voice, speaking falsetto and trying desperately to sound like a maid. ‘The apothecary has called with various medicines for you, Milady. They will strengthen you for your journey to Cornwall.’

There was an audible sigh and then Miranda said, ‘Oh very well.’

A second or two later a key turned in the lock and there she stood.

To say that she looked ghastly was an understatement; in fact she looked fit to die herself. Her skin had the fearful pallor of death, her eyes were like black stones set shockingly in a casing of marble, her blonde hair stuck on end and was unbrushed and uncared for. She wore a soiled and grubby nightdress. Beneath her eyes were streaks where tears had poured down her unwashed cheeks. They widened now as she took in who was standing before her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in an indignant tone.

‘I am an apothecary and I have brought you some of my simples,’ he said, his face ingenuous, his manner sweet.

‘Oh, very well, come in. Shall I call a maid for chaperone?’

He affected a slightly offended air. ‘There will be no need for that. I merely wish to administer my potions.’

‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend you. My grief is so great that I do not always know what I am saying.’

She turned away from him and disconsolately walked towards the bed on which she threw herself and indulged in a fresh bout of weeping. John hastily gave her his handkerchief, removing the other — completely sodden.

‘I would like a little light if you have no objection,’ he said, and before she could say a word crossed to the two large windows and pulled back the curtains.

The glare of daylight fell on Miranda’s ravaged features and John swiftly unpacked the parcel that the apothecary in High Street, Exeter, had prepared for him. There was autumn Gentian for debility, together with white Dittany for hysteria. To restore Miranda’s ailing appetite the apothecary had also added an infusion of Polypody sweetened with honey.

‘Well, here we are then,’ said John in a jolly tone.

Miranda looked up from the pillow and a deep sob raked her body. ‘What are they?’

‘Physicks to make you better. Try some, there’s a good girl. Remember that you will have to get up soon and journey to your new home. You won’t want the servants to see you looking worn out with weeping, will you?’

‘No,’ she said a little reluctantly.

‘Then drink these down please, Countess St Austell. I promise they will restore you to full health.’

Miranda perked up at that, saying in a wistful voice, ‘Yes, I am the Countess. Not even dear Montague’s terrible death can take that away from me.’

‘It most certainly can’t,’ John answered.

He looked at her, assuming his honest citizen face. ‘Tell me, Miranda, did you truly love your husband?’

A beatific smile lit her saddened features. ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, I loved him with all my heart.’

Unable to visit Felicity who was out in the garden with Mr Perkins, the surgeon who had removed the bullet from her arm, John decided to go for a solitary stroll and see if he could sort out his thoughts. Almost without knowing it his feet were leading him away from the formal gardens and downhill to the bottom of the cliff where he could just see a small strip of sand appearing. He waited, perched on rather an uncomfortable rock until slowly the beach became visible, then he ventured downwards.

Removing his shoes and stockings and putting them into his pocket, he walked on the strand barefoot, feeling the sand rising between his toes and squirming his feet in the dampness beneath him. The beach was no more than a quarter of a mile long but was quite endearing, being a pretty shape, lying beneath one of those marvellous red cliffs that abound in Devon but which, John believed, could fall at any time giving no more notice than a distant rumble. With its rapidly running tides leaving interesting rock pools, and its white wavelets beating on the shore, John thought it delightful, suitable indeed for lovers to walk upon — until he recalled Jessamy’s warning that it wasn’t safe and one could easily get cut off.

Remembering this he turned to go, but as he did so his eye was caught by some netting high up on the cliff face, snagged on a promontory that was sticking out. Reaching up, he pulled it down and immediately a lump of the cliff fell at his feet and sent a cloud of powdery dust straight into his eyes. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out an extremely moist handkerchief and rubbed it over his face. But it did little good and the Apothecary, choking and with very poor vision, struggled along to the man-made path that led away and climbed a small distance up. Then he turned and looked down.

A floating cloud of red dust was still making its way along the shoreline and he could see that some more rocks had fallen. He thought then that it was just not the swift tides that made the beach a potential death trap. It was the red rock above. So attractive to look at, but a potential killer if it were to fall in any great amount.

Suddenly tired and with his eyes still stinging, the Apothecary plodded his way to the top and went straight to the small coach that Elizabeth had lent him for the day. And it wasn’t until he was ten minutes into the journey that his vision recovered and he was able to look at the piece of netting that had caused all the problems.

It was much finer that he had thought, made of a delicate lace, and though rendered somewhat the worse for being exposed to the elements for some time, it could still be seen as ebony in shade. John’s mind immediately leapt to the couple that Felicity had seen, walking on the beach in the moonlight, the woman’s scarf blowing up and up. He felt that if he knew who they were he would somehow come closer to finding the murderers and the ruthless mind lying behind them.

‘Where are we going, Sir?’ asked the coachman, on seeing John recover himself somewhat.

‘To Lady Elizabeth’s house, please, Samuel. I have something to discuss with her.’

‘Very good, Sir.’

And they trotted off in the direction of Withycombe House.

But a quiet chat with the Marchesa was not to be his fate that day. He arrived home to find that not only had she gone out but that she had taken the twins and nursery maids with her. Other than for the servants the house was empty. John wandered restlessly from room to room, his mind buzzing with thought, unable to settle. And then, almost like an answer to a prayer, the knocker on the front door banged impatiently. The Apothecary immediately settled himself in the Blue Drawing Room, crossed one negligent leg over the other, and picked up a copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine. A footman came in importantly.

‘The Earl of St Austell and Lord George Beauvoir have called, Mr Rawlings.’

‘Then show them in. And Harper, bring in some sherry if you would be so good.’

For once Lord George was completely sober and walked in looking immaculate, his clothes, though black, fitting him like a glove, showing off his broad shoulders and small waist, his trousers tight and quite the latest fashion. His dark hair was tied in a queue, his eyes audacious and bright. The new Earl, by contrast, was dressed in sombre hues and looked slightly vacant behind his spectacles, reminding John vividly of how he had appeared when he had walked into his shop all that time ago.