Death in the Peerless Pool (29 page)

Jinks made a terrible retching sound and rolled his eyes.

‘It might be too late,' said John sorrowfully.

‘Oh Gawd!' she responded, and turned her back.

Hardly able to control themselves, the Apothecary and his new companion indulged in an entirely silly conversation until the short haul to Glastonbury was complete and the passengers got off to dine. Tempted to have a meal, John saw that this would be out of the question. A smart coach, complete with coachman and postillion, awaited James Jinks, who, John guessed, must be an extremely well-breeched young man, despite the fact that he liked travelling on the common stage.

‘Sorry that we haven't got time to eat, but I'll drop you off at the Place,' Jinks said as they climbed aboard his equipage. ‘I'm sure old Gregg will look after you.'

‘Do you know the man well?'

‘Only from seeing him round the house when I used to visit. As I said, my elder brother was mad for Alice, and I used to be taken along when he went to pay his respects. But then, of course, Gregg's role in the establishment became somewhat different after the scandal.'

‘What do you mean?'

Jinks stared at him. ‘You don't know?'

‘No, I'm afraid I don't. As I said, I am the merest acquaintance of the Dysarts.'

James adopted a gossipy look. ‘Then you wouldn't be aware that Gregg was the father of the fornicating footman, the one who ran off with the Beauty of the County.'

‘Do you mean …?'

‘Yes, I do. He and Lord Anthony were both grandfathers to the same child. Meredith Gregg, the boy who vanished.'

‘Then the steward didn't lose his position despite his sinning son?'

‘He came close to it, I believe, but he and his master went back a long way. In fact I've heard tell that Gregg saved Lord Anthony's life when they were both boys and the Duke's son went skating on thin ice, quite literally.'

‘By the Duke's son you mean Lord Anthony, I presume?'

‘Yes. He's the late Duke of Bristol's middle boy, brother to the present Duke.'

‘So old ties saved Gregg from dismissal?'

‘That, together with Lord Anthony's natural sense of fairness. After all, a father can't be held responsible for his son's follies, can he, now?'

Thinking of wise Sir Gabriel and his recent advice to John regarding Coralie, the Apothecary could only smile and say no.

‘Strange affair, ain't it, though,' James Jinks offered.

‘I think,' John replied thoughtfully, ‘it's going to get a great deal stranger before all the answers come out.'

To approach Westerfield Place from the village of Westerfield Abbas was a breathtaking experience indeed. The village itself was in truth little more than a spread of houses, though it did have a church at its centre, and even an ale-house, called The Star. But leaving it and heading out on the road towards Meare, travellers soon became aware of a great wall, running for miles alongside the track.

‘The estate?' asked John.

‘The estate indeed,' Jinks confirmed. ‘It's huge, as you've probably gathered. The Dysarts are the biggest landowners in the county, though my papa ain't too far off 'em.'

‘I'm pleased to hear it,' the Apothecary responded, then widened his eyes at the sight of the great gates, a lodge house built on either side of them, that gave access to all the splendour that was the Dysart acreage.

‘To see Mr Gregg,' John called to the lodge-keeper, and the gates were swung open to allow Jinks's coach to pass through.

As they trotted down the elm-lined drive, the house, a magnificently proportioned edifice that had obviously been rebuilt at the time of James I. could be seen in the distance. John had discovered from his conversation with Jinks in the stagecoach's basket that King John had had a hunting lodge on the site, and there had been people residing at Westerfield for five hundred years. Something of this showed in the very antiquity of the house's surroundings. For here was land well trodden, well hunted upon, well used and loved by the many generations who had dwelled and continued their heritage on the venerable spot.

The house had a sheen to it, a patina created by scores of people living out their lives there, rejoicing or sorrowing within its solid, comforting walls. Yet at the same time there was an air of sadness about the place, as if being empty were an anathema to it. Saddened yet excited by what he was seeing, John descended from Jinks's coach and rang the bell. It echoed through empty rooms and desolate corridors, and his heart bled for Westerfield Place that it had no heir to fill it once more with laughing children.

James Jinks's cheerful face appeared in the carriage window, accompanied by a waving arm.

‘Is anybody in? Will you be all right?'

But already great locks were turning and a fresh-faced footman was appearing in the doorway.

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘I have come to see Mr Gregg. My name is John Rawlings and I do not have an appointment, but Lady Dysart has written to him asking that he should expect me.'

‘Very good, Sir. Would you step within? I shall find out if Mr Gregg is available.'

‘He's at home?'

‘He's round and about the estate, Sir,' the servant answered warily.

John turned to Jinks. ‘Gregg is here. I think all should be well. Thank you for your help.'

‘A pleasure. If you get into difficulties come to Meare Manor. Don't forget.'

‘I won't,' said John, and waved his new friend a thankful farewell, thinking that travelling companions of his ilk were worth their weight in gold.

‘If you would follow me, Sir,' said the footman, leading the way into an overpowering hall, so large and so full of treasures that the Apothecary quite literally stopped in his tracks and stared round, gazing at everything open-mouthed.

The servant allowed himself a small snigger. ‘The hall of Westerfield Place is one of the most glorious in England, so they say. Would you care to sit in one of the window embrasures that you may continue to observe it, Sir? Or do you wish me to conduct you to an anteroom?'

‘I'll stay here,' John answered, unashamedly impressed and not caring who knew it.

‘Very good, Sir.'

‘If you could take Mr Gregg my card and remind him that I am here with the blessing of Lady Dysart.'

‘Indeed, Sir.'

The man went, leaving John to study the immense splendour in which he found himself, and at which he must have stared for at least five minutes before a voice spoke at his elbow.

‘Mr Rawlings, I believe we met in London.'

Not having heard the steward approach, John leapt to his feet, his heart pounding.

‘Ah, Gregg,' he said rather breathlessly. ‘I'm sorry to foist myself upon you like this, but Lady Dysart told me to call when I was in the area.'

‘Of course, Sir. How may I help you?'

It was a strange experience, knowing that this man was Meredith's other grandfather, aware that his blood had flowed in the missing child just as much as had that of the Dukes of Bristol. John decided to be perfectly honest.

‘Gregg, I have come here because I believe there may be a link between the disappearance of Lord Anthony's grandson in Paris and the kidnapping of a child from Bath a few years later. The two cases are so similar in the way the children vanished that I cannot get it out of my mind that they are connected. Where can we go that we may talk privately?'

‘Have you eaten, Sir?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Then may I suggest that you follow me to my quarters where we may dine and discuss the situation.'

He was even more bear-like than John remembered; a powerful being who breathed calm and reassurance and strength. Small wonder that Lord Anthony had kept the man in his service despite the transgressions of Gregg's son.

In a somewhat daunted silence, John mounted a staircase of vast proportions and, having traversed a long and silent corridor, entered a suite of rooms that were friendly and lived-in. A sputtering fire burned in the main parlour and a maidservant hovered anxiously, ensuring that all was well.

‘Are you ready to be served dinner, Mr Gregg?'

‘There will be two of us tonight, Millie. So we'll wait a quarter of an hour or so.'

‘Very good, Sir. I'll make the necessary arrangements.'

John held out his hands to the blaze, feeling that the first fingers of autumn were in the early evening air,

‘Gregg, I'm afraid that I am going to rake over old ground. I hope that this will not distress you.'

‘What do you hope to achieve by it, Sir?'

The Apothecary looked solemn. ‘Nothing, really. Nothing I can do or say will ever bring Meredith back.'

‘Then why …?'

‘To satisfy my own curiosity. To reassure myself that the cases of Lucy Allbury and Meredith Dysart are not related at all and that the similarities are nothing more than mere coincidence.'

A slow, sad sigh came from Gregg's hulking frame. ‘Meredith Gregg, Sir, for that's who the poor child was. For all his father brought shame to the family, Lord Anthony's grandson still bore my son's name.'

‘So it is true. I had heard a rumour that you were Meredith's other grandfather but wondered whether it was just gossip.'

‘No, it's a fact. My son Richard seduced Alice.' Gregg poured John a glass of claret, and the Apothecary could see that the older man's hand was shaking. ‘But it wasn't like a seduction, Sir. They were brought up together, just as I was with Lord Anthony. Look, let me show you something.'

He stood up, beckoning John to follow him, and by the light of candles, for the evening was beginning to draw in, they retraced their steps to the towering staircase, then made their way down another corridor. Throwing open a door, Gregg led the way into a large and beautiful salon, whose long windows overlooked the dusk-drenched park.

‘Here,' he said, and, lighting a silver candelabra, held it up to a painting.

As was the fashion, it showed Lord Anthony and Ambrosine with their only surviving child, Alice, together with several of their servants. The picture had been painted in the grounds and Westerfield Place appeared in the background, large and impressive yet delicate as a fairy castle. Lord Anthony and Lady Dysart were seated, while Alice stood by her mother. Grouped round them were several of their servants, including a turbaned black slave. Unusually, at their feet sat four boys, aged roughly between ten and fourteen years old. The portrait was signed James Thornhill, whose name John recognised as that of William Hogarth's father-in-law, and was dated 1722.

‘Look at Alice,' said Gregg, his voice suspiciously hoarse.

John followed the line of the steward's finger, peering closely, and could easily see how as a young woman the child would have earned the nickname of Beauty of the County, for she was an exquisite little thing, with Ambrosine's gorgeous lilac eyes and a great mop of tumbling fair ringlets.

‘There's Richard,' said Gregg, not without a note of pride, and John looked to the smallest boy, probably about ten or eleven years old, dressed simply as a kitchen lad, but for all that an extremely handsome child. ‘And that's me,' Gregg continued, pointing to the figure of a man of thirty or so, standing behind his master and easily recognisable as a younger version of the steward.

‘Remarkable,' said John, and taking the candle tree from the other man's hand, he held it close.

For no reason his eye was drawn to the line of boys, and he wondered what it was about one of them that was attracting his attention. For there was something about that particular lad's face that was faintly familiar. Yet try as he might, the Apothecary could not put a name to it, and he shook his head, dismissing the impression as an optical illusion caused by the light.

Gregg interrupted his train of thought. ‘They were always friends, Richard and Alice. Then they became lovers. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to them. But they had flown in the face of social convention and they had to pay the penalty.'

‘What happened?'

‘When they discovered that she was pregnant, they eloped and were secretly married. But Lord Anthony would not recognise the match and they were forced to go and live in the direst poverty in a cottage that I would have described as a hovel. When Meredith was born, Lady Dysart relented and made Alice an allowance, but up till then she had had to take employment as washerwoman to a big house, while Richard became a footman.'

Almost absently, John asked, ‘Where did they live?'

‘Across the river from Bath in a place called Bathwick.'

A million clarion calls sounded in the Apothecary's brain. ‘And what was the name of the man who employed them? Gregg, it is vital that you answer me correctly.'

The older man frowned deeply. ‘I really can't recall, Sir. We are talking about something that happened many years ago.'

‘Then where did Richard and Alice work? What was the name of the place?'

‘Ah, that I do remember. It was Welham House, Sir. For some reason that has always stuck in my mind.'

‘Welham House,' repeated John, and sat down rapidly because of the sudden excitement that bubbled through him like champagne.

It was a strange experience, spending the night in the vast echoing emptiness of Westerfield Place. Shown into a bedroom in the completely deserted East Wing, John, not prone to fancies, found himself unable to sleep, certain that deep in that huge deserted house a dead girl sobbed for her missing baby. Once, when he had drifted off into an uneasy slumber, he woke suddenly, convinced that someone was whispering outside his bedroom door. But lighting a candle and going to investigate he found no one there, though he could have sworn that the figure of a woman was just drifting out of sight as he stepped into the corridor.

Over breakfast, Gregg had stared at the Apothecary's somewhat haggard appearance. ‘Did she bother you?'