Death in Hellfire (9 page)

“You’re going to see the Dashwoods?” he asked, stating the obvious.

A cloud crossed the Frenchman’s face. “Careless lot,” he muttered. He raised his voice and said, “
Oui, monsieur.
I am going to repair one of the Langlois commodes. Some idiot has bumped into it and damaged it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Allow me to present myself. I am Pierre Dominique Jean, son-in-law of Pierre Langlois, the cabinet maker. I am known as Dominique.”

John knew the name. “How do you do, sir? I am Jo…” He caught himself just in time. “Fintan O’Hare,” he continued. “You are a cabinet maker also?”

Dominique shook his head. “No, I am a water gilder. In other words I design and make ormolu mounts for furniture, amongst other things.”

“So what’s gone wrong in West Wycombe House?”

“Some idiot knocked over one of the commodes, indeed must have given it a hearty shove, and has displaced two of the feet, Sir Francis wants me to repair it as soon as possible.”

“I see.”

“I’m going to assess the damage and see if I can mend it on the spot or whether I must take the commode back to the workshop.”

“How are you going to manage that?” asked John, staring at the horse.

“My dear
monsieur
, I have a coach which has lost a wheel and is awaiting repair in Maidenhead. I usually call on Sir Francis in my best clothes but, alas, they are in my trunk. So he must take me as I am.”

“He’s not there,” John answered. “He’s coming back tomorrow.”

The Frenchman looked relieved. “That’s as well. Lady Dashwood does not deign to notice what I am wearing.”

“Where are you staying?” the Apothecary asked.

“In the George and Dragon. The coachman will bring my equipage to the inn when the repair is done.”

“Well, sir, it would be an honour for me to buy you a drink there this evening.”

“And I would be honoured to accept it. And now I must be on my way.”

The Frenchman swept his hat from his head, dislodging the well-used wig slightly,
“Au revoir, monsieur.”

“Until tonight.”

“Indeed.”

The last sight John had of him was going hell for leather up the drive towards West Wycombe House.

Samuel was waiting for him outside the gates of the east drive, sitting on the ground and reading a book. He looked up as John approached.

“Success, my friend?”

“More than I could have bargained for.” And John dismounted and walked back to the inn recounting to Samuel all the extraordinary events that had happened that day. Samuel’s face took on the strange expression which meant that he was thinking deep thoughts.

“And how did you feel seeing Coralie again after all this time?”

“To be honest, Samuel, I felt somewhat frozen. As if I were in a dream. In fact, even now, I can’t really believe that I saw her.”

“Well you did.” Samuel’s eyes glinted. “How would you feel if…”

“If what, my friend?”

“Oh, never mind,” the Goldsmith replied hastily.

“I think you were going to say how would I feel if she had still been single?”

Samuel gave a sheepish grin.

“I don’t know is the answer. Our love affair was a long time ago and a great deal has happened to both of us in the interim. Her husband, by the way, is a complete wastrel. He was sick all over me - hence these extraordinary garments - and looks wrecked into the bargain. As a matter of fact I don’t think he has long for this world.”

“Then there’s hope!”

“Samuel, really,” John said impatiently. “I cannot cut out the past as if it never happened and neither can Coralie. We are two entirely different people. And that is truly all I have to say on the matter. Please let it rest.”

“I was only conjecturing,” said Sam, somewhat hurt.

“I’m sure you were. Anyway, here’s the inn. I’m going to have a drink. I feel as if I’ve earned one.”

They were joined an hour later by Dominique Jean, grinning all over his face at the sight of them.

“This is my manservant,” said John hastily. “His name is Samuel O’Swann. He and I often share a jug of ale together.” Dominique raised his eyebrows but made no comment and sat down happily enough, raising his glass of claret to John.

“To you,
monsieur. Merci
.”

“How did you get on up at the big house?”

Dominique frowned. “Let me explain to you about the two commodes that my late father-in-law made. They are not to be confused with those smelly close stools which were used in the past for lavatorial purposes. No, they are small cabinets for storage made by a master craftsman. You have not yet seen them,
monsieur
, but when you do please note the
bombe
form of the pieces and the exquisite use of marquetry. Furthermore, the great Pierre Langlois crowned their tops with specimen marbles imported from Florence.” The little bird-like man kissed his fingers.

“Pierre Langlois, eh?” said Samuel, forgetting his Irish accent. “He was a well known craftsman. Did you say he was your father-in-law, sir?”

“Indeed he was. As you know, gentlemen, he died recently, which was a great loss to us all.”

“May I address you as Dominique?” said John.

“Please do so,
monsieur.””

“Tell me, how was Lord Arundel when you left?”

“I did not see him,” Dominique answered, sipping his wine. “His wife came and spoke to me when I examined the commode.”

John felt a thrill of interest. “Oh really?”

“Yes. She seemed very guilty about the whole affair. I imagined it was either her husband or her daughter who fell over it in the first place.”

“How bad is the damage?”

“Reasonable. I can do the repair on site, though it will probably take a day or two.”

“What about your tools?”

“They are in my coach which, with luck, should be here this evening.”

“I have been invited to dine there tomorrow, you know.”

“Then no doubt I may well see you.”

“Tell me, my friend,” John asked, liking this Frenchman and feeling that his opinion would be worth consideration, “what is Sir Francis really like?”

Dominique barked a laugh. “He is one of the most colourful characters of the age. He is utterly ruled by his prick, if you’ll forgive my being so forthright. He loves women and drinking above everything else. Do you know what Bubb Doddington said about him?”

“No,” answered Samuel, leaning forward.

“I heard this from my father-in-law who overheard the conversation in another room. He - that’s Doddington - said that Dashwood was like a public reservoir, laying his cock in every private family that has any place fit to receive it.”

John laughed but Samuel guffawed joyously.

“Oh, John,” he said, “you’re going to be hard put to it tomorrow.”

“Indeed I am,” the Apothecary answered.

Dominique looked surprised. “You obviously get on very well with your servant,
monsieur.””

“Yes,” said John, calming down, “I most certainly do.”

Chapter Eight

T
he following night, John Rawlings dressed very finely in a creation of succulent damson taffeta with a silver waistcoat embroidered with a million little stars in a shade of ripe plum. He set forth at exactly three-forty in the coach belonging to Pierre Langlois, currently in the ownership of his son-in-law. It had arrived on the previous evening - much to the delight of Dominique - and had gone round to the stableyard of the inn. But early the following morning the water gilder had set off in it carrying a long apron together with the tools of his trade. On his face he had had the most determined expression. He had returned, looking somewhat sour, at exactly half past three.

“What’s the matter?” John had asked as he had met him in the downstairs lobby.

“That bastard Arundel, he is a
salaud
.”

“Why? What has he done?”

“He owes me £700 for work I have carried out on his behalf. I have sent him bill after bill but all I get is vague promises and when I press him he becomes the noble aristocrat, too high and mighty to settle up. Furthermore he terrifies that child of his. She is scared out of her wits by him.”

“Really? What gives you that impression?”

“Something I overheard today. I’ll tell you of it another time. Now you must make haste.”

John stepped into the coach gratefully, glad that Dominique had offered to lend it to him, delighted that he was not going to have to ride in his most elegant night clothes.

He was set down at the front door in the colonnaded entrance, already lit with flaming torches set in sconces along the wall; all this despite the brightness of the day. He pealed the bell which was answered immediately by a footman.

“Sir Francis is expecting you, sir. If you would follow me.” The servant led the way across the hall to a room directly opposite. Throwing it open he said, “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, my Lord,” in an extremely adenoidal voice.

John stepped inside and hardly knew where to look first, so fine and splendid was everything about him. Immediately opposite where he was standing were three mighty arched windows giving splendid views of the lake and its little wooded islands. Above his head the ceiling was painted with a fresco depicting a meeting of the gods, the males with pieces of flowing cloak or discreetly raised knees hiding their genitalia, the women with arms draped decorously over their breasts. He was still gazing at it when a voice from a deep and comfortable chair said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

The Apothecary dragged his attention back and gave a florid bow before saying, “Good afternoon, my Lord.”

“You may call me Sir Francis,” replied the other with a growl of a laugh. “Everybody does.”

John focused his eyes and found himself looking down into an extraordinary face the colour of a rich royal ruby, adorned by a long and large shining nose that spoke volumes of its owner’s addiction to fleshly pleasures. Above the nose were two deep-set eyes, dark as chestnuts and equally fierce in their aspect. But the lips were those of a worldly libertine, the bottom one being full and demanding, the upper scarcely visible. In his hand Sir Francis held a glass of red wine and while he scrutinised John from top to toe he sipped at it continuously.

“You’re very finely arrayed if I may say so, sir. Who’s your tailor?”

The Apothecary was on the point of telling him and then remembered his pose. “Oh, I don’t suppose you’ll have heard of him, sir. “Tis a wee fellow from Dublin. My father swears by him.”

Sir Francis got to his feet, moving athletically for a man of his build. “Let’s have a good look at you.” He studied John’s face in the light streaming through the three windows. “Oh, it’s quite a handsome lad that the Earl of Cavan produced. It was the Earl of Cavan you said, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

John prayed silently that if such a man existed then Sir Francis would have no particular knowledge of him.

“I don’t know much about the Irish peerage,” the other man said reassuringly. “In fact all I know about that country is that I am thinking of introducing some sort of postal system at some time in the future. A good plan, don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes, Sir Francis,” John replied enthusiastically. “It is high time that we were organised in that regard.”

“Um, well I’ll remember your words if ever the time comes. Now, my boy, to more serious matters. What would you like to drink?”

“A glass of claret would go down well, thank you.”

Sir Francis crossed to a sideboard, poured out a glass of deep-red wine from a sparkling crystal decanter, then motioned John to a seat, and returned to his own chair opposite.

“My wife tells me that you want to interview me with regard to writing something or other in an Irish journal.”

“That’s correct, Sir Francis. Any views you have about the postal system or anything else for that matter would be greatly appreciated.”

“I see. Well, now is not the time. Perhaps later in the week.”

John was just starting his torrent of effusive thanks when there were footsteps in the hall outside and then the door was flung open. Arundel stood in the entrance, swaying very slightly.

“Ah come in, Charles. I was wondering where you had got to. Allow me to present to you the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, son of the Earl of Cavan.”

“How dee do?” said Lord Arundel, extending a long white hand before making a perfunctory bow.

“How do you do, my Lord?”

John echoed his bow but made his a little deeper. It was perfectly clear from the expression on Charles Arundel’s face that he had no recollection whatsoever of their previous meeting.

“A glass of wine, Charles? You just have time before we sit down to dine.”

“That would be splendid, Lrancis. I slept this afternoon so I’ve recovered from this morning.”

John shot him a glance from under his lashes. Lord Arundel was thin, indeed almost gaunt, and wore a brilliant white wig which accentuated his
beau monde macquillage.
He looked to the Apothecary as if he suffered from anaemia and was covering it up by wearing a white foundation and powder. His lips, which he had not carmined however, appeared bloodless and drawn, and John thought him a most unattractive specimen. He wondered what could possibly have possessed Coralie Clive to marry such a creature and could only conjecture that he must have been handsome in the days when she first knew him.