Death in Hellfire (19 page)

“How true.”

And now John was eating his apple and thinking about returning to London himself. He had seen the sexual activities of the Hellfire Club and could report back to Sir John Fielding that there was nothing of political danger, nothing that could harm the state at least. His task was done. Besides he was longing to see Rose, to find out whether she and Miss Octavia da Costa had become as close as he had hoped.

With a sigh John rose swiftly and cleaned his teeth, then blew out the candle. He was vaguely aware of several sets of footsteps going past his door but eventually the whole house grew quiet and he fell asleep, wondering whether the Earl and Countess of Orpington had finally been reunited.

Chapter Sixteen

J
ohn slept fitfully, dreaming that people were walking past his room all night. He finally woke completely just as dawn was breaking and got out of bed, crossing to the window. Pulling back the curtains he saw that it had indeed rained itself out during the night and the morning lay crisp and fine before him. Not stopping to wash or shave, John pulled on a pair of riding breeches and a shirt and crept out of the house, glimpsing only a handful of servants as he did so.

The morning was as green and fresh as any he had ever seen. The lake, refreshed and revitalised by the heavy rain of the day and night before, glittered and dazzled, while the boat on it stood tranquil, its perfect reflection in the water below. John left the house by the door in the east entrance and stood at the top of the steps, looking about him.

As far as the eye could see there was beauty and harmony everywhere. Velvet lawns swept down to the water’s edge and up to the hill beyond; the church, its golden dome glimmering in the early dawn light, and that frightening mausoleum standing menacingly by. Shrubs and trees were prolific, planted to give the best advantage to the line of sight, peacocks swept past to present an added flash of splendour.

The Apothecary fell to thinking about the character of Sir Francis Dashwood. A truly indecent old man who had difficulty in restraining himself sexually, who could hardly keep his cock in his breeches, yet who had dreamt up this vision of loveliness and who had dammed the River Wye to make the lake and the lower lake, joined together by the cascade. He seemed to John at that moment to be two different people inhabiting one body. And then it occurred to him that Sir Francis worshipped beauty in all its forms and he could not help a half-smile crossing his face. Quickening his pace, John headed down to the lake.

This morning it looked alive, gleaming in the dawning, the waters temporarily taking on the colour of a rose. John set off to walk round it, determined to have a good look at the grounds without interruption. It was soothing, surveying the great waterway from close to, and he found himself enjoying the exercise enormously. His glance went to the frigate, on which a lazy figure had appeared, yawning and stretching, still wearing a nightshirt, but for all that appreciating the morning. John waved at him and the figure waved back.

He had reached the point where the waterway narrowed, prior to going downward through the cascade. Here there was a grass walkway and John set out to look at the statue close to. And then something caught his attention. Bobbing in the water below the cascade was a light blue object, its identity obscured by the distance. Suddenly he knew that familiar feeling of danger, of all being not well. Running round from the walkway he scrambled down the drop until he had gained the riverbank.

The thing was floating midstream and John still could not see what it was. But a small wave from somewhere moved the object slightly inshore. John stared and saw that it was a blue nightshirt partially covering a man floating face down in the water. Without hesitation he kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket to the ground, then he dived in.

It was not pleasant bringing a corpse to the shore. He had heard the expression dead weight and now the true meaning of the words was borne in on him as he floundered to the water’s edge. John stood shivering in the early sunshine as he turned the body over and looked into the dead face of the heir to the Duke of Sussex, Charles, Marquess of Arundel.

He did the only thing possible. Leaving the body where it was he sprinted round the side of the lake to where the little frigate lay moored.

“Help,” he called, cupping his hands round his mouth. “Help. There’s a man dead here.”

The figure reappeared on deck, emptying a pail of slops into the water. “What?” it shouted.

“Somebody has been drowned. Can you help me?”

“Drowned, you say?”

John nodded.

“Right ho, sir. Coming.”

The man climbed down a short ladder into a little rowing boat and set out for the shore at a swift pace. As he drew alongside John was able to get a close look at him. Typical of his type, he was dark, swarthy and fully bearded. He was also still in his nightshirt with nothing on beneath.

“You did say someone had drowned, sir?”

“Well, he’s dead certainly. But whether he was drowned or fell in after death is anybody’s guess at the moment.”

“Well, let’s take a look at him.”

They proceeded on, slithering down the slope once more, to where Lord Arundel lay inertly on the ground, a large swan stretching its neck curiously towards him.

“Shoo!” said John, and was hissed at for his effort.

He knelt down by the body and raised it up, looking down into the face. In death Charles seemed younger, the lines of dissipation and illness smoothed out. His eyes, John noticed, were shut.

“Poor bugger,” said the Captain. “Who is he? Do you know?”

“He’s the Marquess of Arundel, heir to the Duke of Sussex.”

“Well, the Duke’ll have to find another heir now, won’t he?”

“He certainly will. Listen, Captain…?”

“Hughes, sir.”

“…Captain Hughes, I wonder if I can leave you to guard the body while I rush back to the house and break the news to Sir Francis.”

“You certainly can, sir. It’s not the first body I’ve seen and I doubt it’ll be the last.”

“Well said. I’ll go.”

John ran fast, feeling as if his heart would burst by the time he arrived back at the house. Clattering in past the servants, he demanded to know where everyone was.

“Sir Francis is still asleep, sir. Lady Dashwood is up, however. She is in the saloon having a cup of chocolate but I don’t know that she would wish to be disturbed.”

“Why not?”

“She is not yet dressed.”

John made an impatient gesture. “And what about the rest? Has anybody risen?”

“I believe Lady Arundel is stirring, sir.”

The Apothecary mounted the stairs and hurried to the room in which he had last seen the dead man. Giving a peremptory knock he entered, then stopped short. Someone who had been missing from dinner last night, Lady Juliana Bravo, stood by the window, gazing out. She was fully dressed but so far her maid had not done her hair and she had not a scrap of paint on her face. She turned and stared at John with those cold blue eyes of hers.

He bowed. “Forgive me, madam, I was hoping to find Lady Arundel.”

“She is in the room next to this one. She is sharing it with her daughter.”

“I see.” He hesitated, then said, “Lady Juliana, I am afraid that I have some very bad news for you.”

“And what might that be?” she asked, totally composed.

“I’m sorry to tell you that your brother is dead,” he said.

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Lord Arundel is dead; drowned apparently. I found him below the cascade while on an early morning walk. The captain of the frigate is guarding the body and I have come back in order to raise the alarm.”

Her hands flew to her throat. “Oh God’s wounds, I must go to him.”

“Wait a moment, madam, I beg of you. I must inform Lady Arundel and Sir Francis Dashwood before you do so.” He looked at her kindly. “Believe me, there is nothing you can do for him.”

She gave him a glassy-eyed stare. “How dare you order me about? I shall go to my brother now.” And with that she ran from the room, her hair flying round her head.

A door opened and Coralie stood there, clad in her sleeping gown. John was suddenly filled with memories of how many times he had seen her like that, how charming he had thought she looked.

“What is it?” she said. “What’s all the noise about?”

He went up to her. “Coralie, my dear…”

She turned on him a whimsical smile. “You have not called me that for a long time.”

“Have I not?”

“No.” She suddenly sensed the tension in him. “John, what’s happened.” Her glance went to the bed. “Where is Charles? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. Sweetheart, be brave. I’m sorry to have to inform you that your husband is dead.”

She sat down on the bed. “Dead? How? What are you saying?”

He sat down beside her. “He appears to have drowned.”

“What does that mean - appears?”

“I found him earlier this morning when I was out walking. He was in the River Wye, just below the cascade. But how he got there is a mystery.”

“Poor Charles,” she said, her face full of sudden pity. “As I said to you recently, he was such a sweet and vulnerable youth.”

“Tell me again how he caught the Great Pox?”

“From some little doxy or other.”

“And there is no chance that you…?”

“Quite definitely not. As I told you I stopped sleeping with him as soon as he began having affairs. Our married life in that sense of the word was over.”

“Why did you not leave him?”

“To go where? Admittedly I could have returned to the stage but the truth is that I am getting older, John. There are many aspiring actresses more than willing to step into my shoes. Besides, I have my child to consider.”

“How are you going to tell her?”

“I don’t know yet. At the moment she is asleep and I don’t intend to wake her.”

John stood up. “I shall leave you to dress. I must go and rouse Sir Francis.”

“Yes, you must.” She turned to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry I was rude to you the other evening.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Sir Francis Dashwood slept in a vast bedroom on the ground floor of the house and it was to this that John now hurried. Fortunately his host, magnificently arrayed in a satin turban and a long flowing robe, appeared in the doorway just as the Apothecary was going to risk knocking.

“O’Hare,” Sir Francis exclaimed in some surprise. “Whatever gets you up and about so early?”

“Sir, I am sorry to have to inform you that there has been a tragic accident. Lord Arundel is dead and it looks as though he may have drowned.”

“Good God! Drowned, you say?”

“Yes. I went for an early stroll, just as dawn was breaking. I saw something in the water below the cascade. I dived in and brought it to the bank and saw that it was poor wretched Arundel.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still there. Captain Hughes is guarding him. Unfortunately Lady Juliana has gone down to see for herself. I just hope she won’t interfere with him too much.”

“I’d better go at once. Come with me, my boy.”

What a motley crew they must have looked, John thought.

He dressed like a countryman, Sir Francis arrayed as would befit some Eastern potentate. Behind them, running along as best they could, came a host of servants, grooms and stable boys, carrying between them a large plank of wood. Behind
them,
presumably woken by the noise was the figure of Dominique, scantily clad. Had the circumstances been any different John would have guffawed but as it was he was debating whether to reveal himself to Sir Francis as being an associate of Sir John Fielding or whether to continue his pose as Fintan O’Hare. In the end he decided to remain anonymous.

They reached the riverbank to discover Lady Juliana, pale and weeping and wringing her hands, seated on the ground beside the body of her brother. John noticed that she had pulled his nightgown round him respectably. Captain Hughes had disappeared, presumably to get dressed.

Sir Francis approached, pulling her to her feet. “There, there, Juliana. What a sad business to be sure. Poor Charles. He must have gone for a walk and accidentally fallen in. Tragic affair. Tragic!”

John knelt down beside the body and did something he should have done earlier. He raised the nightshirt and quickly examined the chancre. The dressing was no longer on there, having clearly floated away in the water. Of the paste he had placed on it during the previous evening there was no sign.

Seeing him, Juliana called out, “What are you doing, you Irish rogue? Give my poor brother some decency if you please.” The Apothecary rose and said, “I am an apothecary, madam. I was merely examining a wound your brother had.”

“What’s all this?” asked Sir Francis. “Are you a medical man, O’Hare?”

“I am indeed, sir. My father insisted on all his younger sons getting a training.”

“Remarkable. And they say the Irish are a lazy lot of bastards.”