Death in the West Wind (13 page)

The quay master attempted to look as if he were considering, narrowing his gaze and pursing his lips, but he was outmanoeuvered and he knew it. However, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“May I see your letter of authorisation,” he said nastily. “After all, anyone could walk in here and say they were representing John Fielding.”

“Indeed they could,” Joe answered, giving him a fox-like smile. He reached into an inner pocket. “Here we are, Sir. Signed by the Magistrate himself.”

Northmore scanned the paper. “It seems to be in order,” he admitted grudgingly. “I take it you are the Joe Jago that Fielding mentions.”

“I am indeed, Sir. Now, what time do you want me and my fellows at the quayside tomorrow?”

“At dawn,” answered Northmore, giving a sly grin, clearly thinking that these upstarts from town would shudder at the very thought.

“We’ll be there,” said Joe. “Now, Sir, let me thank you for your cooperation. If you have any further questions for me I am staying at The Salutation and will be only too happy to discuss them with you.”

It had been neatly done and there was no point in lingering further. As one, the company rose and made polite salutations before stepping out into the hallway. There, hovering and pale, stood the skinny wife, wringing her hands and looking generally terrified.

“Is it true that it is Juliana van Guylder who is dead?” she whispered

“I’m afraid so,” John answered sympathetically.

“Oh how terrible. I knew her when she was a little girl. I was quite friendly with the family, you know.”

“Now, now, my dear,” said her husband from the parlour doorway. “This is not a subject fit for womenfolk. Surely you have some delicious meal with which to tempt my jaded appetite. Perhaps you should be seeing to it.”

Poor Audrey curtsied. “Yes, Husband.”
 

Emilia pitched in once more. “Would you care for me to call on you, Mrs. Northmore? I am a stranger in Topsham and would much appreciate a little company.”

The wretched woman looked at the quay master. “Would that be in order, my dear?” With the eyes of the other three men upon him, Thomas Northmore had no alternative but to say yes.

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“If ever,” said Emilia, standing outside in the fitful light of the rising moon, “you become like that, John, I shall run away to my mother.”

“And I would help you,” he answered. “What an obnoxious fellow.”

“He believes himself authoritative,” said William Haycraft. “In fact he’s known for it for miles about.”

“He has very strange teeth,” added Joe Jago, and everybody laughed.

It was not late, the interview having been such a short one, and there was yet much to accomplish. It was decided, therefore, that William would head for Exeter and see the coroner at his private quarters, leaving the others free to visit first, Jan van Guylder and then, time permitting, Tobias Wills.

“I think, Mr. Rawlings, it might be better if you undertook those tasks alone,” Joe said thoughtfully as the constable departed. “My presence might well put the gentlemen concerned off, as people are always inhibited by strangers. While Mrs. Rawlings, saving your delightful presence, Ma’am, could make them omit something that they would readily say to a fellow. So, if you are both agreeable, I will accompany the lady back to the inn.” John took Emilia’s hand. “Do you mind?” She shook her head. “Not in the least. The adventure in the clothes cupboard has quite worn me out. I shall be pleased to retire early.”

“But not,” Joe said gallantly, “before you have done me the honour of sharing a few minutes of your time with me, I hope.”

She smiled up at him, looking as angelic as when John had first seen her. “It will be my pleasure,” she answered, and the Apothecary saw the clerk’s ragged features spread into a delighted smile.

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A gloomy transformation had occurred. Shell House, usually so light and airy and charming, had become a house of mourning. Black cloth had been wrapped round the knocker and there was black hanging where the curtains usually were. Putting on a suitably sombre expression, John rang the bell and was ushered into the hall by a long-faced servant.

“How is your master?” the Apothecary enquired in hushed tones.

“Taken it very bad, Sir. He has eaten nothing since yesterday when you brought him home.”

“What about his son? Has he shown up yet?”

“No, Sir, and that’s the hard part of it. If Richard were here to comfort the Master I don’t think he’d be in quite such a state. But added to his anguish is the worry over the boy. Oh, it’s a truly terrible situation, Sir, truly terrible.”

“Do you think he is well enough to receive me?”

“He’d probably appreciate the company, Mr. Rawlings. I’ll go and tell him.”

But John’s lack of sleep on the previous night was beginning to catch up with him and it was almost a relief when the servant returned and said, “The Master begs pardon,

Sir, but asks if you would mind coming back in the morning. He was just on the point of retiring when you called.”

The Apothecary nodded agreement. “That’s perfectly all right, tell him. I’ll return. Now there is one thing you can help me with.”

“And what’s that, Sir?”

“Tobias Wills, Miss Juliana’s betrothed. Does he live far away?”

“No, Sir, just a few paces up the street at number 41, The Strand.”

“Do you know if he’s been told about his fiancee?”

“He has. Apparently he overheard a rumour in Exeter and came back here quite mad with grief. The Master confirmed the truth and the poor fellow went rushing out of the house like a blinded bull. He’s not been seen since.”

“I shall attempt a call.”

“Good luck to you, Sir.”
 

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Though Shell House was lovely it was old, having been built in the previous century. But Number 41 was very different, probably, or so John guessed, dating from the reign of William and Mary and no more than sixty years of age. From the outside it was stunning, with a pillared entrance and large gracious windows, including two dormers in the roof where the servants were housed. With its ordered gardens and delicate shape, the Apothecary considered it one of the most charming houses he had seen in a long time.

Again, there were signs of mourning about the exterior. Black draped the lion’s head knocker and all the curtains had been drawn, though as it was already dark outside this was hardly surprising. Wishing that he had a more pleasant mission, John knocked at the door.

As he stepped into the hall, having produced a card and explained the nature of his visit, the sounds of weeping were distinctly audible. From a room deep in the house’s heart a woman sobbed with a high-pitched sound, while from somewhere close by a man grieved rather more softly.

“If Master Tobias cannot see me I will quite understand,” John murmured to the footman, the timbre of his voice respectful. A door flung open dramatically. “No, I’ll see you, Sir,” shouted Tobias, rocking on his feet, clearly drunk as a wheelbarrow. “I have words to say to you.”

John bowed. “Thank you for dealing with a stranger in your hour of grief.”

“Grief, grief!” bellowed the young man. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.” And with that he swayed his way back into the small salon, John following in his wake.

Tobias looked absolutely terrible, his face red and blotchy, his eyes puffed up, his clothes crumpled as if he had slept in them and soiled where he had spilled wine down his front. As soon as the door was closed behind them he started to attack agressively.

“Did you know? Did you know when we met that she was already dead?”

John thought rapidly. To tell the truth at this delicate stage would be tantamount to inciting a riot. He lied nobly. “No, Sir, I did not.”

A look of drunken cunning crossed poor Tobias’s flushed features. “Then why were you looking for Richard?”

“As I told you, because he was missing from school.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, why? Should there be anything else?”

Tobias tapped the side of his nose. “Sit down. Have a drink. I’ve something to tell you.”

The Apothecary took a seat opposite his host’s, watching as the sad and wretched drunkard poured out two glasses of port.

“I was betrothed to Juliana,” Tobias stated belligerently. “Did you know that?”

“Yes. You told me so the other day.”

“I was going to marry her, faithless whore that she was.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the Apothecary, feeling that frisson which always heralded the fact that some important information was about to be revealed.

“That she was a whore?” John nodded. “Because she had met somebody else and let him make free with her. I was never free with her, do you know that? I respected her virtue.” Tobias wept again, loudly and blubberingly. John, fearing that the moment of truth was about to pass, leapt to his feet and administered the salts which he always carried in his pocket.

The young man wiped his eyes with his hand. “I loved Juliana, Mr … What did you say your name was?”

“Rawlings. John Rawlings.”

“I loved her, John,” said Tobias, deciding that this was not the moment for the nicety of surnames.

“I’m sure you did. But tell me about her lover. Who was he, do you know?”

“Of course I know. It was that bastard foppish Fitz, that moneyed shite from Exeter.” Memories of the card found in Richard’s room came back, together with the fact that though the Apothecary had meant to call on the Fitz family, so far the opportunity had not presented itself.

“And that’s not all,” Tobias continued thickly, “I also know who killed her.”

John felt himself grow tense. “You do? Who was it, for God’s sake?”

“Why, Richard of course. That’s why he’s gone to earth.”

John stared at him, uncomfortably aware that the same suspicion had gone through his own mind. “But why should he kill his own sister?”

“Because he was jealous.”

“Jealous? Of whom, pray?”

“Of Fitz, of course. Richard was in love with him. You see, John, that was the great irony. The two van Guylder children were both in love with the same man.”

“Oh, God!” said the Apothecary with feeling. “And what about Fitz? Did he know all this?”

Tobias burst into most unpleasant laughter. “Know? Of course he knew? You see, my dear fellow, equally he was in love with both of them.”

8

T
he spell of hot weather was over. As John Rawlings got out of bed and dressed in the dawning he could feel that the chilly wind of the previous evening was still blowing round The Salutation and in through the cracks of the window that overlooked the river. Turning to look at Emilia, lying fast asleep in their old-fashioned four-poster bed, complete with tester, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl in beside her and warm himself up in the nicest way possible.

He had never, he thought as he struggled into his shirt, considered that a honeymoon would involve so little sleep — and for all the wrong reasons. The night before last there had been none at all, while the night just gone had amounted to a mere few hours rest before being forced to rise in the cold and head down to the river to search the
Constantia.
He could, of course, have got out of the job, passed it over to Joe and the two Brave Fellows, but as it had been his idea in the first place, the Apothecary had felt determined to carry it through. However, there was one consolation. As he went downstairs for a hurried breakfast he found that the post boy had brought a letter from Sir Gabriel.

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My Son,

I am Advised by Mr. J. Fielding, at whose House I stopped to Dine t’other Day, that you are once More Engaged upon the pursuit of a Murderous Wretch. My dear Child, is there no End to the Fates that Befall You? I Hope with good Heart that You find Time for Enjoyment as well As Effort. Should a Moment be Found, pray Call upon my Old Friend Sir Clovelly Lovell in Exeter. I am Writing to him in this Same Post. Pray give my Kind Regards to Mrs. Rawlings and Trust I find Her Well. I remain, Sir, your Affectionate Father and Friend,

G. Kent.

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There was a postscript giving Sir Clovelly’s address, which, John noted with interest, was also in The Close, a mere few doors away from the Fitzes.

“Clovelly Lovell,” said John aloud over his ham, “it has to be a joke. Nobody could call their child that.”

And he was still smiling about it as he walked down the street to the quay.

It was very dark, only the faintest glow in the sky showing that indeed dawn was coming up, but the river itself was as ink black as if it were midnight. It was at full swell, gurgling and eddying in the darkness, rushing to find the Clyst so that they could journey down to the sea together. On its back the great merchantmen rode gallantly at anchor, their masts creaking in the forceful breeze.