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Painter, on the point of sitting down, saw the dazzling woman in the corner and was frankly making a banquet of her with his eyes. Kathryn Pill’s momentary look of annoyance was rapidly overtaken by a somewhat phoney smile. She gave a small curtsey in Miss Warwick’s direction, then sat down and took to ordering her breakfast in a business-like manner. Tim, after bowing fulsomely once more, also took his seat.
    “It would appear that the lady has made an impression,” murmured John.
    Elizabeth gave a cat-like smile. “Mrs Pill covers her anger well,” she whispered back.
    The Apothecary dropped his voice even lower. “How old do you think Miss Warwick is?”
    The Marchesa ran her eye over the woman who was by now glancing at a newspaper as she sipped her tea. “Same as me. In her late forties.”
    John stared at her. “I never think of you as that age. To me you will always be young and alluring.”
    Elizabeth laughed aloud. “Maybe, but how does the rest of the world see me, that is the question?”
    “Well, if our Mr Painter is anything to go by I would imagine very much as I do.”
    She did not reply but instead stretched out her hand and laid it on John’s arm. For a moment there was silence, then Rose spoke.
    “That horrible Isobel is looking at me.”
    “Well stare at her, do. You’ve nothing to be afraid of Rose. She can’t hurt you.”
    His daughter looked up at him. “I’m not so sure of that, Papa.”
    Breakfast over, John went to tackle Mrs Pill. Crossing to her table he gave a formal bow and said, “I wonder if I might have a word, Madam?”
    Kathryn regarded him icily. “Pray do.”
    “I would rather it was in private.”
    Tim Painter looked up, the expression in his eyes one of amused laziness. “I’ll leave you then.”
    “I feel you should be present, Sir. But I really meant could we speak somewhere else, not in so public a place.”
    Isobel spoke in a whining tone. “What does he want, Mama?”
    Mrs Pill looked at her lovingly. “Nothing, my sweetheart. But I think it best if you go for a walk with Mr Painter.”
    “I don’t want to.”
    “Neither do I,” added Tim.
    Mrs Pill pursed her plain lips together but instantly gave in. “Then in that case you must both remain. Shall we step into the other parlour?”
    “Certainly,” said John.
    Once inside the other room, deserted except for an elderly gentleman scanning a paper, he came directly to the point.
    “Mrs Pill, your daughter is terrorising mine. She came into Rose’s room, waking her up, and stood there silently staring at her.”
    The unprepossessing features worked, then she said, “That is not possible, Sir. I think your child is fabricating the whole story. Isobel sleeps in my room and was with me the entire night.”
    “But I saw her with my own eyes. After Rose told me what had happened I waited in her room and heard the intruder for myself. I rushed to the door and witnessed your daughter disappearing up the corridor.”
    Mrs Pill’s mouth tightened to a trap. “I cannot credit what you are saying, Sir. You must have seen someone else. Isobel did not leave my side.”
    It was hopeless and John knew it. In the face of such a staunch denial he had no option other than to make a stiff bow, bid the trio an abrupt good morning, and angrily withdraw.

Chapter 5

    T o say that John was angry was understating the case. He fumed his way back to the breakfast room, banging the parlour door loudly behind him. Starting to speak to Elizabeth before he could even see her, he discovered to his chagrin that the room was empty. Standing for a moment or two, feeling utterly foolish, shuffling from one foot to the other, he eventually made his way out of The Angel and into the street.
    To the right of the inn stood an open courtyard beyond which were the stables and coach house. In the distance the Apothecary could see the Marchesa, holding Rose’s hand, talking to Jed the coachman, together with their guard, Rufus. He started