Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

‘What was that?’ said the woman, looking up towards the cliff.

‘I don’t know,’ the man answered. ‘We’d better be going. We must look suitably pious for the journey to Cornwall.’

‘I am dreading it. I shall hate people staring at me and then acting as I shall have to do.’

They had walked forward as they spoke and John could now see their faces distinctly. He decided that the element of surprise would be best and reared up from behind his rock in an alarming manner. So much so that the woman gave an hysterical scream.

‘You bastard…’ said the man.

But he never got any further. From somewhere above all their heads a person unseen fired what sounded like a blunderbuss straight into the cliff wall. There was a great stirring as if the whole mighty cliff was going to come down, and as John scrambled for the path a vast chunk of it fell. The Apothecary stood frozen to the spot, staring at the place where a moment before the lovers had walked. Now all was still except for the choking cloud of dust that was spreading over the beach and being carried ever onwards by the west wind.

For a moment he literally could not move, his muscles seized by a type of catalepsy. Then he sprinted up the path as fast as was possible, aware all the time that there was someone running ahead of him, scurrying for all they were worth. But catching them was not his objective. Instead he wanted to raise men from the Big House. He ran on, aware that the sound in front of him had ceased, that whoever it was had gone off by some other route.

It was the time of day when all the candles were being lit and John stopped for a moment, panting like a dog, and thought yet again what a truly beautiful house it was. Enchanting, indeed. Even the fact that there had been a terrible murder within its walls could do nothing to defile its loveliness.

Knocking on the front door he explained breathlessly that there had been an accident on the beach below and that he needed men to help him shift the rockfall. Lady Sidmouth had retired for the night with a bad megrim so was not on hand to organize anything — but still they came. Footmen without their jackets and wigs, kitchen boys, gardeners, even the young lad whose sole duty was to clean the boots and shoes. But when they reached the top of the cliff and gazed downwards they saw to their horror that there was no beach. That most capricious of tides had suddenly changed and covered every bit of sand. The red cliff loomed silently, a scar on its face the only sign that there had been a rockfall at all.

The Apothecary looked downwards and knew that justice had been done by that oldest and most unpredictable element of all — the relentless ocean.

They retrieved the bodies from the sea, brought in by the fishermen and landed on the beach at the small fishing village of Sidmouth. They lay side-by-side on the sand, the Countess of St Austell and her grandstepson Maurice, the Earl, before they were pitched on to a cart and driven off for identification. That was before they began to swell up and were almost impossible to identify by even their nearest and dearest. It was Lord George who was finally called in and, to his shame, he was forced to rush outside and lean against a wall gasping in great mouthfuls of air to stop himself from being sick. It was said, afterwards, that at that moment he grew up for the first time. For he was now the Earl of St Austell, and with the title went the responsibility of a great estate in Cornwall and the care of all the people who worked on and for it. Strangely, he became a responsible citizen and a much-respected man. But the last grim act he performed was to lay his grandfather and brother in the family crypt alone. For Miranda Tremayne, the new Countess, was placed in a solitary grave at the very edge of the churchyard and was never visited, being left desolate and friendless for time immemorial.

The principal players in the drama that had taken place at the wedding feast had foregathered in the home of Tobias Miller, by his express invitation. Nearly all of them were present: John and Elizabeth, Freddy Warwick, Felicity, accompanied by the large and amiable Mr Perkins, Geoffrey James and rather surprisingly the small and perky Miss Melissa Meakin who had stopped crying and was smiling a greeting at all the new company. To round off the people present — in every sense of the word — was dear old Sir Clovelly Lovell.

The Constable was in high humour, having started on the liquid refreshment some time before his guests arrived. And once the entire assemblage had foregathered and were standing somewhat tightly in his small reception room, glasses in hand, a definitely festive atmosphere could be sensed. Eventually, though, he called for them to be seated and pointed out that some of the gentlemen would have to sit on the floor as there were insufficient chairs to go round. Sir Clovelly, however, was offered a spacious chair to himself which he took with much joviality.

Tobias Miller cleared his throat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, good evening to you all and I thank you for coming to hear the resolution of the mystery. First let me say that the two killers, one Herman Cushen and his assistant — an unknown thug alas — have escaped custody and are still free. Reward posters have been printed and circulated but so far with little response. But the minds behind the hiring of the assassins have been identified.’

‘Well who, jolly well, was it?’ demanded Sir Clovelly, nibbling a savoury with much relish.

‘It was a heinous crime because it was the Earl of St Austell’s elder grandson and heir, Viscount Falmouth.’

John interrupted. ‘I think I must say in the poor creature’s defence that he was probably put up to the idea by a scheming woman.’

‘That’s as may be, but it is still a terrible thing to commit patricide,’ answered Felicity, while affable Mr Perkins said, ‘Hear, hear.’

‘Whatever your views, with which I heartily concur, I would like to ask Mr Rawlings to tell us how he got on to it. How he solved the crime.’

John stood up, wishing he had something less ephemeral to say to them.

‘It was a combination of things really. First of all Felicity told me the strange story of the couple she had seen from the cliff top. They were walking on the beach, a man and a woman, and the woman’s scarf was blowing up in the wind. Some time later I went down to the beach and found a piece of black veiling snagged on a rock. It had obviously been torn from the garment that the woman had worn. I felt fairly certain that it belonged to Miranda. It set me thinking,’ John continued. ‘In the first instance I felt she was marrying the elderly Earl for the money and position. But quite honestly it never occurred to me that she wanted it all. That she wanted a young and attractive lover into the bargain.’

‘I suppose,’ said Miss Meakin reflectively, ‘that she and the Viscount must have met and fallen in love and the plot must have grown out of their relationship. But why kill my poor brother? What had he done wrong?’

Tobias Miller spoke up. ‘I have thought and thought about the murder of him and Mrs James, and do you know I think that their deaths were accidental.’

There was a stunned silence. ‘What do you mean?’ somebody asked.

‘That to cover up the fact that they had one target and one target alone, the assassins shot a few people at random.’

‘I concur with that,’ said Sir Clovelly from the depths of his chair. ‘I heard one of the killers mutter to the other not to shoot me. I suppose they must have known me from somewhere.’

‘I agree they were firing at random,’ put in John. ‘They aimed at me all right, but I played dead and the bullet whistled past my ear.’