Death in the West Wind (11 page)

“I had noticed,” said John, turning the key in the bedroom door.

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To return to Topsham they were obliged to traverse that same wild heath on which they had seen the phantom coach and its headless driver. Even though in daylight it seemed slightly less eerie, for all that it was a bleak and unwelcoming place, the sort of terrain in which a ghostly visitation would not be in the least unexpected.

John turned to Emilia, who was snuggled up close to him with a contented smile on her face. “Shall we try to find the ruins of Wildtor Grange?”

She looked at him blankly, then remembered. “You mean the place where the wicked Thornes used to live?”

“The very same. If the ghosts ride out from there I would like to have a closer look at it.”

“You don’t believe they do, do you?”

“I don’t know. What I saw the other night truly frightened me but still something tells me there has to be a rational explanation.” He knocked on the carriage roof with his great stick. “Tom, we’re trying to find a ruined house. Can you see anything resembling one?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, keep looking and shout as soon as you do.”

“Very good, Mr. Rawlings.”

Five minutes later, the coachman called out and John stuck his head from the window, seeing a bleak desolate sight, though impressive in its gaunt loneliness. The house, or what was left of it, for it was roofless and the windows were gone, stood on a hill, the rough outcrops of rock surrounding it presumably giving rise to its name, Wildtor. In the distance could be glimpsed the sea and the town of Exmouth, where the Exe and the ocean conjoined. Indeed, in its day the Grange must have commanded magnificent views over the water at both sunset and sunrise, for empty windows were everywhere, gazing at the Apothecary and his wife like blinded eyes. The ruin was at once both mysterious and spectacular and John felt an almost compulsive urge to leave the coach and walk there, in fact, as if reading his master’s mind, Irish Tom was already slowing the horses down. The Apothecary looked at his bride. “Emilia, I’m going to walk up. Will you come with me?”

“It looks very frightening. Promise not to wander off if I do come.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“Very well then.”

They left the coach and started up the drive, which climbed steeply uphill through an avenue of old gnarled trees. The higher they went, the better the views, which really were unbelievably beautiful. Yet the isolation of the place, the only living things for miles being the sheep circling the house, staring as the couple approached, gave rise to an oppressive feeling, as if indeed some terrible acts had taken place within those walls.

The great door at the top of a flight of steps was tightly closed but a window nearby, or rather the stone embrasure in which a window had once stood, looked invitingly low to the ground.

Emilia turned a stricken face to her husband. “You’re not going in, are you?”

“Not without you.”

“But I’d be terrified.”

“I was rather hoping you’d protect me.”

She laughed, despite herself. “John Rawlings, you are impossible. Why, oh why, did I agree to marry you? I wanted a calm and comfortable life and here I am about to enter a haunted house with a mischievous husband. I must be mad.”

“All interesting people are,” answered the Apothecary, and lifted her through the glassless window, stepping inside himself immediately afterwards.

They were in a huge reception hall, still with faded tapestries hanging upon the walls, off which led several doors, all open. A great and truly overpowering staircase reared to the upper floors, defying anyone to climb it. Looking round, the Apothecary found difficulty in putting a date to the place, for it was most certainly not Tudor, yet lacked the delicacy of anything built in the reign of Queen Anne. Eventually he decided that it must be early Georgian but designed to the specifications of someone wildly eccentric, for who else could have created such a monstrously gothic dwelling.

With enormous courage but for all that scuttling like a nervous mouse, Emilia had started to peer into the various rooms. “They’re furnished, John,” she called over her shoulder. He went to look and found himself staring into drawing rooms and salons where rotting chairs and couches still stood as if awaiting spectral guests. These chambers in their turn led on to others and John realised that the whole of the ground floor consisted of endless suites of huge rooms, echoing with silence.

They came back into the main hall, daunted by what they had just seen, and the Apothecary found his gaze being drawn to the stairs. “Shall we go up?”

“It looks terrible.”

“It can’t be worse than downstairs.”

But it was, much. For on the first floor the suites of desolate chambers continued endlessly, like some terrible maze, with no furnishings to give them any air of decayed habitation.

“Where was Lady Thorne kept prisoner?” Emilia asked in a whisper.

But John did not answer, instead sniffing the air as if trying to pick up a scent.

“What are you doing?” his wife continued. “Someone’s been in here and not long ago at that.”

“How do you know?”

“I can smell woodsmoke. There’s been a log fire lit recently.”

“You’re sure it’s not just the aroma of fires long ago?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Come with me. I’m certain it’s up on this floor.”

And taking her by the hand, the Apothecary led his wife in the direction of the East wing. Half way there, she remembered.

“The East wing was where Lady Thorne was kept, I recall it now.”

“Perhaps her ghost likes to keep itself warm,” John answered with a chuckle.

“It’s not funny, Husband. This is one of the eeriest experiences I have ever had to endure.”

“Well, you’re dealing with it very well, Wife.” This time he laughed, and the sound echoed round and round the deserted house and seemed to go on for ever. Much like the other suites, the rooms of the East wing were dreary and bleak and endless, the only difference being that there were bars at the windows, presumably to prevent the deranged woman from jumping out to her death. These had the effect of turning something depressing into something sinister. So much so thatEmilia suddenly stopped short and said, “Do let’s go. I can’t bear this stifling atmosphere one second longer.”

“Let me look in this last room,” John answered. “I’m sure this is where the fire was.” He threw open the door and they both drew breath. A fully furnished salon lay beyond, not only that but tricked out in the most sumptuous and modern style with heavy brocade curtains and elegant appointments. Beyond that again and visible through a partly opened door was the last room in the suite — a bedroom of unsurpassed luxury and elegance. Sure enough a fire had been recently lit in the drawing room grate and, to judge from the warmth of the two rooms, in that of the far chamber as well.

“Zounds,” said John, “so there’s somebody living here after all.”

Emilia, her courage much restored, walked through and into the bedroom.

“It’s a woman,” she called, “some of her clothes are in the press.”

But her husband did not answer, temporarily absorbed in a study of the living quarters, trying to discover whether one or two people occupied these extraordinary premises.

A duchesse en bateau
very similar to that owned by his great friend Serafina de Vignolles stood before the fire, a very feminine piece of furniture if ever there was one. And though a chair had been drawn up on the other side of the hearth there was no sign of anyone having sat in it recently. Further, on a low table close to the couch, stood a decanter of wine, a small plate of fruit, some consumed, and one glass.

“I think she lives here alone,” John called, and walked into the bedroom to find his wife. She was standing by the window, a miniature in her hand, staring at it enraptured. “Look at this,” she said admiringly. “Is he not the most handsome creature you ever set eyes on?” Very slightly offended, John took it from her and moved into the light. The likeness of a young man, probably aged about eighteen, stared back at him from gorgeous eyes, a most stunning colour, almost mauve, according to the artist. It was a truly lovely face, somewhat feminine in its beauty, but for all that, if the miniaturist had been true to his subject, in a class of its own.

“I wonder who he is,” said Emilia, taking another look.

“Surely not one of the brutal young Thornes.”

“Oh no, there’s no cruelty in this face.”

“Well, whoever, you’d best put it back where you found it. I wouldn’t want the mysterious tenant to know she’s had visitors.”

“You’re sure it’s a woman?”

“Certain. And there’s no sign of a man living with her.”

“But who would choose … “ started Emilia, and then froze as the distant sound of footsteps walking with a hard confident tread over the bare boards of the decaying East wing broke the profound silence of Wildtor Grange.

She looked at John, her face frantic. “What shall we do?”

For no good reason, he lost his nerve. The combination of the frightful house and the legend that went with it, together with the discovery of some unknown person residing within the crumbling edifice, proving too much for him. Grabbing his wife by the arm, John hissed, “We hide.”

Eyes darting, they looked round and saw that a small dressing room led off the bedroom. As one they fled into it and into the clothes cupboard that stood inside. With the door open the merest crack, just enough to give them space to see out, the Apothecary and his wife waited in fearful silence.

With a bang the door to the living room flew wide and those confident feet, booted to judge by the noise they made, strode inside. Then came the sound of wine being poured into a glass and someone hurling themselves onto the couch in order to drink it.

John peered wildly but could see nothing, the woman — or whoever it was — being totally out of his line of vision. There was a long silence, then the feet descended to the floor once more and marched into the bedroom. At last their owner came into sight as she sat on the bed to remove her boots. John got the vivid impression of a tall, muscular frame; of a cloud of black hair tumbling to her shoulders as her riding hat went flying; of a terrible scar, long healed, that ran from the corner of the woman’s right eye to well below her well defined cheek bone. Then, probably because he was now married and decorum had been thrust upon him, like it or no, the Apothecary turned away his gaze as the supple creature he was regarding slowly began to strip herself naked.

7

I
t was all Emilia’s fault, or so the Apothecary kept telling himself. Feeling him turn away and remove his eye from the crack, she tugged at his elbow and silently mouthed the words,

“What is she doing now?”

In the tight fit of the clothes cupboard, John shrugged and mimed, “I don’t know.” Without saying a word, his bride motioned him back to his observation post and so, not totally reluctantly, the Apothecary was once more forced into the role of voyeur.

It was an extraordinary body he was looking at. Well above average height for a woman and so muscular that its owner must have spent many years walking, riding and swimming, it was almost masculine in some ways. Lean hips and a flat stomach, totally devoid of spare flesh, long legs and strong arms, would have made the woman he watched totally mannish if it had not been for her bosom. For this, though small, was very beautiful, high and round and, like the rest of her, firm and unsagging. Yet she was not young, probably in her early forties. The Apothecary watched in amazement as this Amazon of a creature put on men’s breeches, a man’s frilly shirt, a cloak and tricorne, into which she pushed up her netted hair, and a pair of dark riding boots, not the ones she had worn when she had come in. Then, once dressed, she walked back into the salon and was lost to view.

There was a pause while the woman poured herself another glass of wine, John distinctly heard her do so. Then after a few minutes that confident tread left the room and was eventually lost to earshot.

“Has she gone?” murmured Emilia.

“I think so.”

“Can we come out?”

“Give it a while just in case she returns for some reason.”

They waited in silence but there was no further sound and the Apothecary, cautiously opening the cupboard door, popped out his head. All was quiet and he stepped out, then lifted out Emilia who was caught up in a flowing gown and having some difficulty in moving.

“Who in heaven’s name was she?” asked his bride, flushed in the cheeks and definitely looking somewhat the worse for her experience.

“I have no idea.”

“And what can she be doing living in a place like this?” John shook his head. “I get the feeling that this is a bolt-hole, somewhere she comes when she needs to escape.”

“Escape what? The law?”

“Sweetheart, all the time we stand here in discussion we are in risk of discovery. Let us get out as quickly as we can and ask Tom what he saw. He’s been waiting round the coach all this time. Perhaps he saw her ride past. At least he might be able to tell us in which direction she was heading.”