Death in Hellfire (8 page)

“Help Mr…?”

“O’Hare.”

“O’Hare…to assist Lord Arundel to his room if you please. And send someone to clear up the vomit.”

“If I might beg a change of clothes, madam,” said John as he pulled the stumbling figure within. “Anything will do.”

For the second time since they had met Lady Dashwood appeared almost human.

“Of course. Gollins will see to it.”

“Then I’ll just put the patient to bed. I cannot forgo my early training. Father would be very angry if I did.”

“There’s really no need.”

“There’s every need,” John replied firmly, and took the lolling figure indoors.

He found himself in a beautiful entrance hall which, for all its charms, seemed somewhat in need of decoration. But John’s eye was drawn to the magnificent staircase which rose up to his left. Made of mahogany, it had balusters of walnut and treads inlaid with marquetry in satinwood and ebony. Yet it was to the frescoes decorating it that the Apothecary found himself attracted. Depicting biblical and mythological scenes, they were vibrant and alive, arresting full attention. But as he lugged the unconscious figure of Lord Arundel upward, the footman straining on the other side, John saw that as one ascended to bedroom level the paintings became more and more erotic, while on the half-landing a portrait of Angerona, the goddess of silence, raised her finger to her lips enjoining discretion. It became perfectly obvious at that moment that Sir Francis Dashwood was certainly very interested in matters pertaining to the boudoir.

“Second bedroom on the left, sir,” the footman grunted.

“Very good. Let’s get him down and best leave a bucket beside him, that is if he’s got the wit to use it.”

“Yes, sir.”

They reached the bedroom and laid the figure on the bed, John removing Lord Arundel’s stained and unpleasant clothes. For good measure he took off his own coat and shirt and threw them on top of his lordship’s. The footman scooped them up and holding them at arm’s length disappeared from the room.

The Apothecary turned to the window which overlooked the lake. It was rarely that he had seen a more beautiful vista. The waterway, the sun gleaming upon it, stood calm and motionless in the summer day, its three little islands adding an air of mystery to the landscape. In the distance he could see the cascade, pouring water into the lower lake, while the frigate which he had passed earlier bobbed happily on its surface. In the distance John could spy the church with its great golden orb atop its spire and the grim mausoleum, the substance of nightmares, standing nearby. But this one blot on the landscape was totally obliterated by the rest of the warm and happy vista stretching before him. With a contented sigh, the Apothecary rested his hands on the window sill and gazed out.

At that moment the door opened behind him and John turned to see who had entered the room. Suddenly aware that he was stripped to the waist, he saw that it was a woman. His eyes, dazzled by the sunshine outside, believed that she was surrounded by an aureole of gold, that she was a creature of legend, and then the optical illusion wore away. His heart leapt, then plummeted to his stomach. He was, after all that had passed between them, looking once more on the face of Coralie Clive.

Chapter Seven

T
hey stood gazing at one another, she peering somewhat short-sightedly John thought. Eventually she spoke.

“John? Is it you?” she asked huskily.

“Yes,” he answered, suddenly finding that that was the only word he could manage to utter.

“But what are you doing here?”

“Coralie, I can’t tell you that. Not now at any rate. Just believe that it is for a good purpose.”

At this point the creature on the bed moaned loudly and Coralie slowly made her way towards him. Sitting down, she looked at him, shaking her head.

“Oh, Charles, Charles. What in God’s name has happened to you?”

Suddenly everything became crystal-clear to the Apothecary, who felt a consequent pang of unreasonable pain.

“I take it that he is your husband?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twelve years. I have a daughter of ten.”

“I see.”

But see was one thing he didn’t do. The close relationship between him and the actress had ended because she refused to marry him, choosing instead to follow her career upon the stage. So he had wedded Emilia, a kind and good girl whom he had adored, only to have her snatched from him by a cold- hearted murderer. But it was to Coralie that he had given his youthful heart. She had known his hopes and fears, his dreams, his obsessions. He had loved her long and well only to have that love thrown back in his face.

The actress looked up at him. “Do you?”

“What?”

“See. I’d wager a guinea that you are very far from that emotion, John.”

“Coralie,” he said, with a definite edge in his voice, “I would like to discuss this with you but this is neither the time nor the place. So we must save that conversation for the future. I have a far more pressing favour that I have to ask you.”

She turned her head in his direction. “Which is?”

“I am here under false pretences. I’ll tell you briefly that I am acting on behalf of Sir John Fielding…”

“What a surprise!” she said sarcastically.

“…and I am posing as the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, a son of the Earl of Cavan. I beg you not to give me away. A great deal depends on my masquerade.”

Coralie got up and came towards him. “And does the Honourable Fintan make a habit of receiving lady visitors stripped to the waist?”

“Always,” he replied, and just for a second saw a glint of her old humour.

There was a knock on the door and John hastily stepped away. “Come in,” Coralie called.

It was Gollins the footman bearing some clean clothes for

John. He looked quite shocked at seeing him in a state of disarray in front of a woman.

“Oh, beg pardon, my Lady. I didn’t know you were in here.” She turned on him the serene gaze that only a consummate actress could have achieved.

“That’s perfectly all right, Gollins. The Honourable Fintan and I are old friends. Now, I see you have brought him some fresh apparel so if you would be kind enough to show him the dressing room he can complete his toilette.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” said John, and made a deep bow, half naked as he was.

He followed the servant along the corridor and was shown into a room in which was placed the very latest in toilet tables, namely a wash-stand in a corner, the top a quadrant with an upstand to take a large basin. Someone had also thoughtfully brought a jug of hot water. John explored the room and found a water closet set in a niche, the door so close to the seat as to hide it only when not in use. Despite this disadvantage he made full use of it, then washed himself thoroughly, sponging his doeskin breeches where blobs of vomit had adhered. He then put on the shirt and jacket - both thoroughly unfashionable - and made his way downstairs.

Coralie had gone down before him and he could hear her voice as he descended the staircase.

“My dear Lady Dashwood, I have known the Earl of Cavan for some time. I met him when I acted in Dublin. He is a grand old gentleman and I believe it is a stroke of fortune that one of his sons should have presented himself here and given aid to poor Charles.”

“Oh,” answered the other in her usual flat monotone, “I am glad you are able to vouch for him. Do you think

I should invite the young man to dine?”

“Most certainly, yes. It would be a pity…”

Coralie’s voice broke off as she saw John approaching.

“My dear Lady Dashwood,” he said, making a deep bow to the senior woman. “It is time I took my leave of you. Thank you for your hospitality.”

She gave a little snort. “It has hardly been that. I am grateful to you for caring for my cousin. Lady Arundel has just been telling me how she met your father in Dublin, by the way.”

“I thank Lady Arundel for her kind words,” said John, regarding Coralie with the merest hint of a twinkle in his eye.

“Perhaps you would care to come and dine tomorrow night. Then you may quiz Sir Francis about the Penny Post.”

“I should be delighted to do so, ma’am. At what time do you sit down?”

“At four o’clock. We are in the country here.”

“I shall be here at ten to, if that would be convenient.”

“It will suit well enough. Good day to you.”

“Good day, madam. Good day, Lady Arundel. I hope your husband soon recovers.”

“Thank you. Farewell Mr O’Hare.”

He left through the main front door and went round to the stables in search of his horse, his mind in turmoil. To see the woman who had once been the love of his life so unexpectedly was bad enough. But to find her married to a drunken roue, a feckless wastrel of a husband who could not hold his liquor, was beyond the pale. And then John was forced to the conclusion that the fact that Charles Arundel was heir to the Duke of Sussex had been the factor that had decided Coralie into making such an alliance. Feeling thoroughly depressed, he entered the stable yard.

A child on a white pony was there before him. A pale, wan girl who was lifted from the saddle and placed on the ground by the groom who had ridden with her. She turned on hearing John’s footsteps and he looked into the face of Coralie Clive as she must have been years ago. The only difference was that this particular girl had pale blonde hair and blue eyes. Other than for that the likeness was stunning.

John made a bow. “How do you do, miss? A beautiful day, is it not?”

“It is, sir,” she replied listlessly.

“And do I have the honour of addressing the daughter of Lord and Lady Arundel?”

“You do.”

The groom had moved closer in a protective manner, eyeing John somewhat suspiciously.

“Allow me to present myself,” the Apothecary said, more for the servant’s benefit than the girl’s. “I am the Honourable Fintan O’Hare and I have just been calling on Lady Dashwood.”

The child made no response but the groom immediately saluted. “You’ve come for your horse, sir?”

“Yes. It is a chestnut stallion. I take it it is here?”

“I’ll go and find it, sir, and bring it round.”

He disappeared leaving John alone with Coralie’s daughter. He gazed at her, fascinated by her likeness to her mother. Yet, for all their physical resemblance, the girl was but a poor shadow in contrast to the actress, for she had inherited much of her father’s pallor and general lassitude.

“Tell me, young lady, what is your name?”

“Georgiana Arundel.”

“I have a daughter,” said John unguardedly, then realised that he had spoken out of turn.

“Oh,” answered Georgiana, disinterested. She gave a little cough.

“Have you suffered from that for long?” the Apothecary asked.

“Yes, for some time now.”

“I must try and find a cure for it.”

“Do you know about things like that?”

“I have a certain knowledge.”

“Oh,” the child answered once more, in that same disinterested tone.

At that moment a nursemaid bustled from the direction of the house and swooped down on Georgiana.

“Oh, there you are, miss. I’ve been worried about you. Come on in and have a cold drink. Did you enjoy your ride?”

“Yes, fairly,” the little girl answered and would have left without saying farewell to John had he not made her a sweeping bow and said, “Goodbye, Miss Arundel. No doubt we shall meet again.”

She dropped him a very small curtsey. “Goodbye, Mr O’Hare. I hope we do.”

John stared after her and was still doing so when the groom brought Rufus round, saddled up and ready to ride. The Apothecary slipped him a coin and set off down the east drive. At the lake, however, he had to draw into the side to make way for a rather vivid man also riding a horse and talking to himself.

“
Merde
,” the fellow was muttering under his breath. “
Merde, merde.
How could they be so damnable careless? That is what I want to know.”

He had a pronounced French accent and was riding quite recklessly so that he did not see John until the last minute.

“Watch out!” John called.

The Frenchman pulled his horse to the side with a sudden jolt. “A thousand pardons,
monsieur.
The truth is I did not see you. You are not “urt, I trust?”

“Too busy chattering away to yourself,” John answered without malice.

The Frenchman grinned. “It is a “abit I have. I tell my wife it is because I am such a good conversationalist. Forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it,” the Apothecary answered, and regarded him.

He was a cheery-looking little man, with dark hair and bright eyes very reminiscent of a cock robin. He wore a hat which was slightly too small for him which he had crammed down over a wig that had seen better days. His suit, too, was workaday and in a sensible shade of brown. But the hands which held the reins belied his somewhat pedestrian appearance. For they were the hands of an artist, of someone immensely creative. Short and square they might be but the fingers were sensitive, beautiful almost. John was fascinated.