Death in the West Wind (7 page)

“But you had no choice. You tried your best.”

It was very pleasant, John thought, to have a wife who said soothing things in moments of great distress. In fact had he known how comforting it was he would have got married long ago. Then Coralie came into his mind and her stubborn refusal to be his wife, and he felt a sudden rush of guilt, as if even thinking about her was somehow betraying Emilia.

“Where to now, Sir?” called Irish Tom from the box.

“Back to Sidmouth. We’ve completely wasted our time in coming here.”

“You’ve left word for the poor man, Sir, so something’s been achieved.”

“I suppose so,” the Apothecary answered wearily, feeling the day’s events start to catch up with him and every bone in his body begin to ache.

“You’re exhausted,” said Emilia.

“I know,” and pulling his hat down over his eyes, stretching out his legs and putting his arm round his bride, John fell fast asleep.

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He was woken abruptly by a sudden sound, or rather two sudden sounds. Simultaneously, Irish Tom called out, “Christ, what’s that?” and Emilia shrieked close to the Apothecary’s ear. Startled witless, he sat bolt upright.

“What’s going on?”

But Emilia did not answer, instead pointing a trembling finger at the carriage window. Following the line of her hand, John looked out, and the sight that he saw in the vivid moonlight froze him to the marrow.

Presumably tiring of driving across the city, Tom had taken them through the country on an entirely different route, and they were presently passing over some rugged gorse- covered terrain, a bleak and desolate place with not a sign of life anywhere. Yet ahead of them on this God-forsaken heath was another coach. And though there was nothing particularly extraordinary in that, it was the conveyance itself and its occupants that chilled John’s spine.

The carriage was all white except for the springs beneath, which seemed to be blacker than most, like cruel dark fingers supporting the bodywork. As if this weren’t odd enough, within its shadowy interior sat several people, if human beings they indeed were. For large floppy brimmed hats with a veil in the front entirely masked whatever face may lurk behind, concealing from the world exactly what these creatures might be. The hats were white and so were the greatcoats that covered the shoulders with many capes.

“They’re skeletons,” gasped Emilia.

“Nonsense … “ started John, but his voice trailed away as his eyes travelled up to the coachman.

He was dressed in exactly the same gear but with one horrific difference. The head, complete with shrouding hat, lay beside him on the coachman’s box, and the neck sticking up out of the caped coat ended in a jagged cut.

“Holy Mary,” Tom was shouting loudly, and with that let off a blast from his pistol.

The occupants of the white coach did not fire back but sped off into the night, their black plumed horses, just like those of a funeral cortege, rolling their eyes and foaming as the headless coachman urged them on with a snake-like whip.

“Oh my God,” said Emilia, and threw herself into her husband’s arms, trembling violently.

“Do I give chase, Sir?” shouted the Irishman.

“No, get us back as quickly as you can,” John called in reply.

Despite the fact that all his attention was taken up by his terrified bride, he himself was thoroughly unnerved. Though up to this moment he had had no belief in the supernatural, he had to confess that what he had just seen had shaken him to the core. That the West Country was full of tales of unearthly occurrences was a known thing, though the Apothecary had laughed at the stories when he had been told them. But this ghostly carriage with its terrifying occupants was difficult to discount. John turned to Emilia.

“It was probably just a trick of the moonlight. The whole thing was an optical illusion,” he said, more to convince himself than anyone else.

She looked at him quite angrily. “John, please don’t treat me like a child. I know what I saw. There were ghastly white things inside that coach and the driver’s head lay beside him, his neck bleeding from the cut.” The Apothecary looked perplexed. “There has to be a logical explanation.”

“There is,” said Emilia shortly. “We have just seen a phantom coach driven by a headless coachman.”

And despite the fact that he was longing to deny it, John was forced silently to agree with her

The landlord of The Ship, Matthew Salter, who had started life as a fisherman but who had saved money and become an inn-keeper, nodded knowingly. “They often come out when there’s been a violent death,” he informed his audience.

“They?”

“The people from Wildtor Grange.”

“What exactly are we talking about?” asked John, feeling himself growing increasingly irritable with fatigue.

“The apparition you saw on the moorland. It’s a well-known sight round these parts.” The Apothecary, whose old disbelief was returning now that he was safely indoors, didn’t know whether to scoff or to listen, but one glance at the avid faces of his wife and his coachman persuaded him to keep his mouth firmly closed. “Go on,” he said.

“The Grange is in ruins now but about thirty years ago it was occupied by a family called Thorne. They were a strange, bad bunch. Five sons there were, a drunken crowd of young rascals, and the father no better than he should be. Old Sir Gilbert, he was, the sire of nearly all the bastards in the county. Anyway, the story goes that the men so mistreated Lady Thorne, his wife and their mother, that she was driven off her head and from then on they kept her captive in a suite of rooms in the East Wing.”

Emilia’s eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted, while Tom was surreptiously crossing himself. Inwardly, John sighed.

“Anyway, one night she got out and set off alone into the darkness, wearing naught but her nightrail, her feet bare. Old Sir Gilbert called his sons and his coachman and went off in pursuit of her, and they finally glimpsed her crossing the wooden bridge that used to go over the river Otter. He bore down on her with great haste but what he hadn’t realised was that she had stolen an old fowling piece before she left the house. Be that as it may, she fired at the coachman and the force of the blast took his head clean off his body. Driverless, the horses charged the bridge but the weight was too great and the coach descended into the water and all its occupants drowned.”

“Tell me, why do their ghosts wear such extraordinary clothes?” John asked pointedly.

The landlord looked wise. “That’s because the lads were Angels.”

“Angels?”

“A street gang that terrorises the inhabitants of Exeter. It was in existence then and it still is now. They base themselves on the

London Mohocks and their mischief is cruel. Old Thorne’s sons were members of the pack and that accounts for them wearing the rig, beekeepers” hats and greatcoats.”

“And what happened to poor Lady Thorne?” Emilia asked. “Did she drown too?”

“No, bless you, Mam. She returned to the Grange and lived in great style till she died of drink in hopeless debt. The house was ruinous by the time she went so no relative would take it on. After that it just fell into disrepair. She haunts the ruins.”

“That family seems to have a monopoly on ghostly visitations,” John remarked drily, but nobody was listening to him.

“May I ask a question, Sir?” Tom looked at his employer and the Apothecary nodded.

“Why does sudden death stir up the ghosts?”

Salter shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps because their own was so abrupt. Anyway, you’ve seen the phantom coach and the headless driver as many have done before you, though very few outsiders mark you.”

“How often do these hauntings occur?” asked John, his mind going off at a tangent.

Once again the landlord looked doubtful. “Most people refuse to go near the heath at night, so who’s to say.”

“Who indeed,” the Apothecary answered thoughtfully. He changed the subject. “Tell me more about the Angels.”

“They’re very similar to the London Mohocks, as I said. They go round at night terrorising watchmen and women; flattening noses, cutting legs as they make their victims dance. They force females to stand on their heads against a wall, then as their clothes fall back play lewd games with them that cannot be described in front of a lady. They are reputedly the sons of aristocrats and gentry folk.”

“As were the London gang, now dispersed thank God.”

“The Exeter mob was silent for a while, about ten years in fact. But lately some choice spirits have revived the pack and they’re back to all their old tricks.”

“Can the constables do nothing?”

“No, and the nightwatchmen are too old to be effective. In other words the lads run riot as and when they feel like it. There’s been talk of citizens forming a group to protect themselves though nothing has ever come of it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, in my view, the rumour is true, Sir. The fathers of the Angels are mostly well placed and have powerful means at their disposal to protect their sons.”

Beside him, John’s bride gave a deep yawn and he involuntarily followed suit. “It’s been a long and tiring day. I’m afraid the time has come for me to retire.” Emilia smiled. “John, will you accompany me? I can’t get the picture of that headless coachman out of my mind and think I might jump at shadows.”

He grinned unevenly. “So might I. Come, my dear, we’ll escort one another.” And slipping his arm round his wife’s waist, the Apothecary took her to their bedchamber, wondering with every step of the stairs exactly what it was that they had seen on the moorland that night.
 

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At dawn, long before anyone was up, Juliana van Guylder’s body was placed in a plain wooden coffin, the lid loosely secured so that those who needed to look at her could easily do so, then put in a farm cart and driven slowly to the mortuary in Exeter. Accompanying her, in fact driving the cart, was William Haycraft, the constable.

Shortly after their departure, John woke and went to the beach. The
Constantia
rode at anchor, her sails catching the pink glow of morning, her decks as deserted as ever, her very silence echoing the brooding mystery that surrounded her. She had drifted a little in the night and the Apothecary, who had been considering a further exhaustive search of the vessel, thought better of the chilly swim and instead walked for a while, contemplating. Then he returned to the inn, wondering how long he should wait for Jan van Guylder to appear before once more going in search of the man. As it was, Emilia made the decision for him.

“Sweetheart, you must leave forTopsham as soon as you have eaten your breakfast. I shall wait here and amuse myself by looking round. If Mr. van Guylder comes I shall tell him as best I can what has befallen, but I truly think it better if you try to seek him out.”

“But what if he hasn’t returned from Exeter?”

“Perhaps you should look for him there. After all, his son’s school should be easy enough to find. Didn’t van Guylder say it was the Grammar School?”

“Yes, he did. And you think the boy might be able to tell me where his father is?”

“He is bound to know his haunts, yes.”

John nodded. “You’re quite right. I shall go as soon as I’ve had some food.”

His wife grinned at him. “Whatever you do, don’t leave without doing that.”

Much as he had feared, the Apothecary’s call at Shell House produced exactly the same result as on the previous night. Jan van Guylder had not returned from Exeter and none of his servants was able to help at all. Grateful, yet again, that he now had his own coach at his disposal, John set out for the city determined to track down his quarry.

They entered Exeter by the Topsham road and made their way up what was known as Holloway, eventually reaching the narrow confines of the South Gate, through which they entered the original old walled city. To their left lay The White Hart Inn, to their right The Bear. But though Tom looked longingly and tapped the window with his whip, John ignored him and the conveyance continued on through the Large Market to the Carfax, a word derived from the French
carrefours
or crossroads. This was the heart of the city where the main thoroughfares High, North and South Streets met each other, and was marked by a Great Conduit, providing a distribution point for piped water. At the Carfax the coach turned right, passing the massive hulk of the Cathedral and its adjacent buildings.

Ahead of them lay the East Gate, in the shadow of which, so enquiries had revealed, were housed the Exeter Free Grammar School and the Blue School, where the sons of the poor were educated. Feeling that his mission was indeed a delicate one, John was eventually shown into the office of the headmaster, where he sat turning his hat in his hands until the door opened behind him.

A big boisterous fellow with little eyes stood there, puffing and blowing with the exertion of climbing the stairs. Observing John with a narrowed porcine gaze, he demanded, “Are you the constable, Sir?” Startled, the Apothecary rose to his feet. “No, Sir. I am merely a visitor.”

“Visitor, visitor? Am I expecting one?”

“I don’t know,” John answered, feeling utterly foolish.