Death in the Peerless Pool (33 page)

‘Where to now?' John asked his travelling companion.

‘To Welham House.'

‘Is that safe?'

Jack pulled a long face. ‘Probably not, but I will not abandon Orlando to his fate. I've always been there to dress his wounds and dry his eyes. We are brothers, remember.'

‘Then for the love of God try to get him out of there. He told me he has nowhere to go and no trade to ply, but surely, between you, you could make a living. For pity's sake take him away from that house of corruption.'

‘I know Orlando of old. Once he has made up his mind nothing will sway him. He has been in the thrall of Sir Vivian too long for him to change now.'

John shook his head. ‘Then what can I say except farewell.'

Jack made a polite bow. ‘Farewell, Mr Rawlings. I doubt that we shall meet again.'

‘Now that,' said the Apothecary, returning the salute, ‘is where you are very much mistaken.'

Later that day, tired out with travelling but for all that content, John stood before the Dysart family portrait and knew some of the answers to some of the questions, though admittedly there were still several things to discover before the last pieces of the puzzle slotted into place.

He had hired a man with a carriage and, within half an hour of his arrival in Bath, the Apothecary had left again, hastening towards Westerfield Abbas and the great house just outside the village. Gaining entry had been easy enough. The same footman who had answered the door on the previous occasion had, as luck would have it, been on duty again. Making an excuse that he was running an errand for Mr Gregg, John had found himself once more in that empty, haunted house. Dwarfed by the vast staircase, he had made his way to the room where the portrait hung, and now he studied it again.

There were the Dysarts: Anthony, Ambrosine and Alice, the two females with their beautiful eyes, the man with his handsome, strong features. There was Gregg, young and vigorous, a proud father. There was his son, the future parent of Meredith, one of the cross-legged boys seated upon the ground. And there was that other face, instantly recognisable now that John had finally made the connection.

‘Well, well,' he said, and shook his head in amazement.

‘Will you be staying for dinner, Sir?' asked the footman, coming into the room and standing behind him.

The Apothecary smiled. ‘No, though I thank you for the invitation. I must return to Bath. There is much to be done there.'

‘Have you seen all you wanted to see?'

‘Yes,' answered John, then added, almost to himself, ‘I have indeed seen enough to leave no further room for doubt.'

Despite the fact that he was dropping with fatigue, the Apothecary found it impossible to sleep when he lay down on his bed in The Plume of Feathers. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and since arriving in Bath he had journeyed to Westerfield Place and back, and this, after a night when he had merely catnapped, now made him feel utterly exhausted. Yet every time he closed his eyes he saw Orlando's ravaged face jumbled up with that of Jack; the two tragic small boys who had adopted one another as brothers and who had stayed together throughout all the years of humiliation and despair. A sense of unease filled the Apothecary, and he had the odd sensation that he was wont to describe to others as the pricking of his thumbs. Deep within himself he had the inescapable feeling that something, somewhere was desperately wrong.

Eventually he could stand it no longer. He rose from his bed, poured a ewer of cold water into a basin, and dipped his head into it. Then, changing into fresh clothes of the practical travelling variety, the Apothecary slipped a pistol into a deep inner pocket and left the inn, heading in the direction of the Avon ferry. While he crossed the water, he tried to rationalise his behaviour, but was unable to do so. He was acting on pure instinct, and was probably just about to walk into a hornet's nest of trouble as a result. However, not quite all good sense had abandoned him, and he decided that a discreet method of entry into Welham House would be far preferable to going to the front door only to find himself refused admittance.

At the time of his uncomfortable confinement in a cupboard he had made his escape through an open window, situated conveniently close to the ground. Now he wondered if he might be lucky and manage to do likewise, this time going in. Yet there were still the main gates to contend with, and as John drew close he wondered what he ought to say. However, a tug at the bell of the gatekeeper's lodge solved his problem, for the man recognised him as the person for whom Orlando had sent a carriage.

‘Calling on the young master, Sir?'

‘Yes,' John answered smoothly, ‘I have been asked to dine.'

This was a mistake, for the gatekeeper looked surprised. ‘Have you, Sir? Sir Vivian usually leaves a list with me of those who have been invited.'

‘Perhaps he forgot on this occasion.'

‘Not like him at all.' And the man shook his head, simultaneously clicking his tongue.

The only course of action appeared to be a bold one. ‘Do you wish me to leave, in that case? I can explain to Master Orlando by letter why I failed to keep our appointment.'

The gatekeeper became flustered. ‘No, Sir, that wouldn't do at all.' He opened the wicket in the wall. ‘Please go through.'

Yet there was something a little grudging in his manner, and John felt the man's eyes boring into his back as he set off down the long, straight drive. In fact the Apothecary had got almost as far as the front door before he dared veer off into the shadow of the trees.

It was about six o'clock, not yet dusk but for all that an overcast evening. Keeping his head low and removing his hat, John cautiously dodged from sheltering tree to sheltering bush, keeping his gaze on the house all the time, hoping to find some means of entry. Eventually, after skirting round most of the building and almost giving up hope, he saw a sash window which had been opened just a fraction, enough to enable him to push it up further and get inside.

Stepping out had been easy; climbing in was rather a different matter. Eventually, John was forced to scramble up a drainpipe and cling on to it with his knees while he shoved the window higher, a hazardous process to say the least. Then he was obliged to heave himself up by resting his forearms on the sill, hoping to heaven meanwhile that there was nobody sitting quietly on the other side waiting for him to appear. Finally, though, with a mighty hoist, the Apothecary manoeuvred one leg on to the sill and from that position was able to wriggle through into the room beyond. Looking around cautiously, he saw that he was alone.

Entering in this strange manner and into this unknown room, he found the house suddenly transformed into a maze, a dusky, candlelit rabbit-warren full of shadows and empty corridors. With his heart pounding, the Apothecary crept along, cautiously looking for some sign of the mansion's occupants. Then, hearing the sound of footsteps, he slunk back into the darkness of a doorway, only to see a footman carrying food up a back staircase. So that was it. In company with many a grand family, Sir Vivian had his dining room on the first floor in order to command a view over the grounds. As stealthily as he could, John followed the footman up the servants' staircase, which was wooden and creaking and lethally spiralled.

Reaching the first-floor landing, he stopped, attempting to get his bearings. The corridor stretched in either direction, doors leading off it at regular intervals. To his right and in the far remoteness, the Apothecary could glimpse the imposing central staircase, fluting up giddily to the floors above. Beyond it, and only just visible in the vastness of the house, a great deal of light shone from beneath one particular door. He could also hear the distant drone of voices coming from the same direction. Aware that he had located the dining room, the Apothecary crept forward. But as he did so, the footman he had seen earlier appeared again, this time with an empty tray. Once more, John shrank into a doorway and saw the man walk past him. close enough to' touch.

Sir Vivian Sweeting's voice rang out. ‘You are all dismissed. My nephew and I wish to converse privately.'

There was a general stamp of feet, then four servants came through the door. ‘We all know what that means,' said one to the others. There was a muffled snigger and they passed on their way.

Wildly nervous, John crept forward. ‘I'm telling you, my dear, that your bad behaviour has to stop,' said Sir Vivian.

In the darkness, the Apothecary shivered, for somehow the older man's tone was not sinister enough; indeed it was almost caressing, as if this were the prelude to sex and the arousing beatings that he regularly inflicted on the object of his affections.

From the candlelit room, Orlando's voice could be heard. ‘Precisely what do you mean, Sir?'

‘Do you dare to question me?'

There was no doubt about it; this was an oft-enacted ritual.

Orlando spoke again. ‘Yes, by God, I do.'

Sir Vivian Sweeting chuckled, low and deep. ‘Then, young man, you deserve a lesson. And a lesson you shall have. Step outside with me to the sanctum sanctorum. Nobody will disturb us there.'

Listening in the dusk-filled passageway, John felt himself grow tense, ready to rush in and defend Orlando by whatever means were necessary. Then the beau whispered a reply, his voice so low that the Apothecary had to strain to hear it.

‘I'll see you in hell first, you bastard. God give me strength, but you've struck me for the very last time.'

There was a sharp intake of breath, quite audible. This was not part of the rite so often and so vilely enacted.

‘What do you mean?' asked Sir Vivian, his voice suddenly harsh.

‘I mean that you have done enough evil in this world, and now I fully intend to send you to the next.'

‘Christ's mercy!' screamed the older man, clearly frightened.

A chair scraped back and somebody stood up. ‘Say your prayers,' said Orlando, his voice strong and true. ‘Ask your ruler Satan to help you, you wretched devil, because nobody else will.'

John's hand was on the knob and he pushed the door just the merest fraction, not wanting to startle Orlando or give Sir Vivian the chance to rush the younger man. The sight he saw then was one that he would never forget, coming to him as it did through a small crack of light.

The huge dining table, at least eight feet in length, had been formally laid at both head and foot, so that the two diners had no option but to converse down the extent of it. There were candles everywhere, filling the room with glittering light which sparkled on fine china, gleaming cutlery and crystalline glass. Beyond the table, and occupying almost the whole of one wall, were floor-length French doors leading on to a stone balcony overlooking the gracious parkland, misty in the gloaming. The heavy drapes that covered them had not yet been pulled and remained ruched back in tasselled cords. At the foot of the table, Orlando, dressed from head to toe in scarlet satin, stood, a pistol in his hand pointing straight at Sir Vivian's head. With eyes dull and opaque, hard as pebbles, the older man stared back at him, his tongue, like that of a serpent, occasionally flicking over his lips. Not daring to move, John remained motionless, watching.

‘You filthy corrupting sodomite,' said Orlando, still in that same firm voice. ‘You do not merit the quick and painless death that I am about to deliver you. Oh no, you deserve the agony and persecution that you have inflicted on your victims all these years. By rights I should drag you off to your torture chamber and pay you back in your own kind. But I can no longer wait. My blood is up.'

And there was a click as the beau cocked his pistol. John stood, frozen in time, and observed soundlessly as Orlando took aim, fired, then watched, quite unable to move, as Sir Vivian's wig split open and the top of his head came off and hit the wall behind, before he crumpled like a straw man and fell to the floor, Slowly, in an almost leisurely fashion, the beau strolled to where the body lay, emptied the rest of the pistol's balls into it, then kicked the corpse repeatedly before he sauntered on to the balcony to take the evening air.

At last John was released from his catalepsy. Throwing the door fully open, he rushed into the room, glancing at the body, fleeting images of the scores of innocent children who had passed through Sir Vivian's hands and emerged as corrupt and vile as he, filling his mind.

‘Orlando,' he shouted, his tone shrill. ‘I saw what happened.'

The enamelled face, heavy with beauty spots, turned towards him. ‘John, my dear fellow, what a habit you have of arriving at quite the strangest moments. So what are you going to do about it? Report me to the constable?'

A ghastly parody of the Apothecary's crooked smile twisted his features, and when John spoke his voice sounded so strange that he hardly recognised it, even though the words he said were conversational enough.

‘By an odd coincidence I met Jack on the stagecoach. He's come here looking for you. I think he must be downstairs somewhere.'

The beau laughed and ruffled John's hair with languid fingers. ‘Then I'd better go and join him, my dear.' And so saying he leant one hand on the elegant stone balustrade with which the balcony was made safe, and jumped up on to it.

A cry came from the dimness below. ‘Orlando, in God's name what are you doing?'

‘What I should have done many years ago,' the beau answered, staring down into the shadows of the garden to where Jack stood, before turning his head to look at the Apothecary.

John saw again the terrible expression of despair which he had glimpsed on Orlando's face on two other occasions, and realised instantly what the beau intended. ‘Don't, Orlando,' he shouted. ‘Nothing's worth that.'

‘Oh my friend,' came the tragic reply, ‘you simply don't know. He taught me his sins and worse. It became my lot to corrupt and deprave young creatures when he no longer chose to do so. I cannot stand for another instant the horror of what I have become.' A dreadful laugh rang out.