by Deryn Lake
“And the search of the ship?” asked Raven.
“That must continue. In fact it is even more vital in view of this latest development. For how and when did Richard get aboard. That must be ascertained before we can continue any further.”
A ghastly thought struck John. “Who is going to tell the poor benighted father?”
“I shall do so in my official capacity,” answered Mr. Fielding’s clerk without flinching.
“Believe me, Sir, he will take it better from an officer of the law than he will from someone that he considers to be a friend.”
* * *
The morning wore on like a nightmare. The horrible task of examining what was left of Richard van Guylder was one of the most sickening that the Apothecary had ever undertaken. He literally had to step through pools of blood to get at the tragic youth and if it had not been for the very large amounts of brandy that he had consumed, he truly believed he could not have gone through with it. Eventually, though, it was done. Richard had died of a gunshot wound to the head and there was no reason to believe that it had been anything other than self-administered. The fingers gripping the flintlock had not been forced in any way that the Apothecary could see, nor did the position of the corpse at the table look as if it had been arranged.
Yet the suicide note bothered John. Providing that it was in Richard’s handwriting, it would certainly seem to point to him as the murderer. Yet, from his very brief acquaintanceship with the poor spotty boy, he simply would not have believed him capable of such a thing. Did the plea for forgiveness and the expression of guilt refer to something else? Was it possible, the Apothecary conjectured, that Richard had been told of his sister’s death and been unhinged by the news? Or was it even more sinister than that? The necessity of seeing Gerald Fitz had now assumed enormous proportions. In fact, John decided, it must be done this day without fail.
The removal of another body from the ghost ship, as the inhabitants of the quay had nicknamed the Constantia, had caused a near riot. A call for some tarpaulin and a plank had raised the alarm, and by the time the two Brave Fellows had struggled down the ladder with their secret burden, securely wrapped and lashed to the spar but for all that clearly resembling the shape of a human being, there was a crowd on the quay. Well to the fore, in fact pushing the throng back, was the masterful Mr. Northmore. He stopped Joe in his tracks.
“What’s that you have there?”
The clerk put on a very severe face. “It is a body, Sir. There has been another fatality aboard. One of my Fellows will inform the constable just as soon as we have arranged carriage to the mortuary.”
The quay master barred his path. “This is my quay, Sir, and all that goes on here is my responsibility. I insist on being told the identity of the deceased.”
John watched Joe think on his feet. If the truth leaked out now it might well have awful consequences as the gossip spread like wildfire and reached the wretched Jan van Guylder before he had been officially informed that he had lost both his children.
“I do not know the person concerned,” the clerk answered truthfully. “He is a stranger to me. All I can tell you is that it is a male.”
“Show me his face. I’ll soon identify him for you.”
“That would be breaking the law,” said Joe with authority. “Until the constable and the coroner have been informed I am not at liberty to let you anywhere near. Good day to you.”
So saying, he and the two Runners swept off in the direction of the mortuary, leaving John to return to Emilia.
* * *
Two hours later the four men were back together again, seated in The Unicorn, a private room in The Salutation, discussing not only what the search had yielded up but also how and when Richard had crept aboard.
“He couldn’t have been there all along, could he?” asked John.
“You mean that when he went missing he was hiding on the ship?”
“Precisely.”
Joe considered. “I suppose it’s possible. Men would have gone aboard at Sidmouth to fix tow ropes but most likely none of them went down to the cabins. I’ll wager you’re right there, Sir. That’s where the little devil hid out, God rest his sad soul.”
“Then if that is the case, the ladder is very significant.”
Raven’s black eyes glinted. “You mean he had a visitor last night?”
“Well, if not then, at least during his stay. Somebody lowered the ship’s ladder into place to allow another party to board.”
“Unless Richard went ashore for some reason.”
“That’s possible too. Perhaps he was overwhelmed by a need to see Gerald Fitz.” Mr. Fielding’s clerk donned a pair of folding spectacles which he removed from a steel case, then peered over the top of them.
“Gentlemen, let us start at the beginning. I have already sent a man with a trap to drive to Exeter bearing a letter from myself to the coroner. In this letter I informed him that I am staying here and can attend his office at any time. While I was busy organising this, the Brave Fellows sought out the constable.” Dick Ham took up the story. “He turned out to be a deputy, much sodden with drink and not enthusiastic about his duties. He was only too pleased to hand over to us; lacking pride, energy and enthusiasm. As a gesture I promised to report any developments to him. And there the matter rests.”
“So the task of finding Juliana’s killers remains with us and the excellent William Haycraft.”
Dick Ham looked doubtful. “I still think it was the brother, begging your pardon Mr. Rawlings.”
“It would be the most obvious solution, I agree. But humour me, friends. There is more behind this than we can see at the moment, I feel certain of it.”
“There are certainly Gerald Fitz and Tobias
Wills to be considered as suspects,” said Joe. He was silent a moment, then added, “Mr. Rawlings, do you feel up to going to Exeter after dinner?
“I promised Emilia that I would take her there this very night. The poor girl is getting bored indeed with being left alone.”
“And is it your intention to seek out Gerald Fitz while you are there?”
“One way or another, yes. I may manage an introduction to him through a connection of my father’s.”
“Very good. Meanwhile, I have the unpleasant task of informing Mr. van Guylder of his further bereavement. That leaves Tobias Wills to be spoken to.”
“What about Nick and Dick?” said John, slightly amused by the Runners” names.
“I think they would frighten him. He is more your meat, Sir. Perhaps a call tomorrow?”
The Apothecary shook his head. “No, tomorrow I will spend with Emilia. Just her. This unfortunate happening on our honeymoon has robbed her of my company and I believe she is starting to get unhappy. When I came back this morning she was rather pale and sad.”
“We can’t have that,” said Joe heartily. “I’ll deal with young Wills myself. Take her to
Exeter, Mr. Rawlings, and let her enjoy what the city has to offer.”
“I will certainly do my best,” John answered, then wondered if Sir Clovelly Lovell was really the right sort of person to raise the flagging spirits of a neglected bride.
* * *
As it turned out, he was. Standing only just over five feet in height and as fat and round as a bursting pumpkin, Sir Clovelly looked like a jolly doll, with his bunched red cheeks and merry water rat eyes.
“Sir Gabriel’s son, eh?” he said as John and Emilia were shown into his large salon. “I’ve been expecting you. Your father wrote that you might call.” For no reason he roared with laughter at this, slapping his thigh. John and Emilia caught each other’s eye and smiled nervously. “Have you dined?” Sir Clovelly added.
“Yes, thank you, Sir.”
“Oh shame. I quite fancied another portion. My wife tells me I’m too damned fat and must cut down my substances.” He looked gloomy at the very thought of it. “Never mind, we shall have fruit and cheeses and hams and sweetstuffs. Tell me, wh
at brings you to Exeter?”
Emilia curtseyed demurely. “We are on our honeymoon, Sir Clovelly.”
The little fat man positively bounced with delight. “Honeymoon, eh? This calls for a celebration. Bumpers are in order, I feel. Champagne of course.”
“Will Lady Lovell be joining us?” John enquired politely.
“Zounds, no. Spoil our fun. She watches every mouthful I take. Can’t relax when she’s there, damme. Do you know what she said to me?”
“No.”
“That it was hard to tell which way up I went. Damn rudeness.”
It was rude, very, but it was also outrageously accurate. Emilia smiled sympathetically in order to disguise the fact that she was dying to giggle, but John roared with laughter, Sir Clovelly looked slightly hurt.
“It is funny, I suppose. But I don’t like being deprived of my victuals.” He stuck his lower lip out like a truculent child. “Anyway, she’s out playing whist and we’ve a wedding to celebrate.” Sir Clovelly cheered up and let out another roaring laugh. “So, let’s to the fun.”
He sprang up and enthusiastically tugged at a bell rope, ordering what sounded like a feast from the servant who responded. It was perfectly obvious, thought John, that they were going to be with him most of the evening and hopes of contacting the enigmatical Gerald Fitz began to fade. However, there was nothing to stop him broaching the subject.
“By the way, Sir Clovelly,” he said when champagne had been poured and their host had made the appropriate toast, “do you know anything of a family named Fitz? I believe they live quite near you.”
“Yes, they do indeed. Strange lot. Father’s a taciturn brute, a snarling dog of a man. The wife’s a poor bird, beating her wings in her luxurious cage.”
“And the children?”
“The eldest is Gerald, an effete ass. Very handsome, of course, and dressed like a fashion plate, but no substance in him. I swear a puff of wind would blow him down.”
“Are there any others?”
“Another boy, quite the opposite of his sibling. A big, brawling creature whose very life offends me with its oafishness. And a simpering girl, all curls and poutings. Can’t say I like any one of “em.”
Whatever else Sir Clovelly may be, he was certainly a master of the word picture. John felt that he knew these people just from the pithy sentences used to describe them. He decided to take the fat man into his confidence.
“Sir, I need to meet Gerald. I am not allowed to give you all the details, so suffice it to say that he has to be questioned regarding a death. Please advise me, how can I get to see him?”
“A death, eh?” said Sir Clovelly, his water rat eyes strangely sharp and alert, giving John the impression that an acute mind lay behind all the corpulence. “I’m not surprised. Probably some lovelorn female. He has several mooning after him.”
“Did you know one called Juliana van Guylder by any chance?”
“Can’t say that I did. As I told you, I don’t reckon much to the family, albeit they’re the richest for miles. All Gerald’s women looked similar to me. All beautiful and all damned stupid.”
“I see. Anyway, what excuse can I make to see him?”
“Excuse not necessary,” said Sir Clovelly, rising once more. “If the fool’s at home he’ll come here if I ask him.”
John stared astonished. “Why’s that?”
“Because his father, for all his wealth and show, keeps a poor cellar, Sir. Damme, but he does. And Gerald, limp lily that he is, appreciates fine wine. He has a particular weakness for the champagne that I drink. If I send a footman to say that I am celebrating a wedding with the bride and groom, he will be here in a trice. Greedy bastard.”
John, who was rapidly forming the opinion that the roly-poly little man who was entertaining them so nobly was probably one of the best people ever born, laughed joyfully. And he smiled even more when instructions were given for the Honourable Gerald Fitz to be invited to step down the road and celebrate a marriage with vintage champagne. The servant was back in a trice. “He’s on his way, Sir, and thanks you kindly for the invitation.”
“Told you,” said Sir Clovelly, and bent his short bandy legs in a jig. Emilia, really pleased to be out for the evening and wearing one of her best gowns, suddenly rose to her feet and joined him, and thus they were dancing round the room when a footman intoned in the doorway, “The Honourable Gerald Fitz.”
John, who was dressed as sharply as he dared for visiting one of his father’s friends, could not help himself but raised his quizzer to survey the newcomer who was elegantly drifting into the salon.
He was divinely handsome, of that there could be no question. Tall, slim, yet muscular, forgoing a wig and instead wearing his dark hair rather long and tied with a ribbon, the Honourable Gerald truly had bon ton. Age-old elegance oozed from the wretched man and the fact that his nose was long and fine, his mouth passionate, and his eyes large and vivid, paled into insignificance beside the fact that he was an aristocrat through and through. Centuries of privilege were almost tangible as he walked into the room, surveyed Emilia with a more than appreciative eye, disregarded John as a nobody, shot a look of tolerance in the direction of his host, and languidly took a seat close to the fire.
“My dear Sir Clovelly,” he said, “how kind of you to invite me. You know I can never resist an invitation to sample your champagne.”
“My dear boy,” answered his host, affable to the point of deceit, “it is always a pleasure to entertain you. Allow me to introduce the bridal couple. John Rawlings, son of my old schoolfriend, Sir Gabriel Kent, and his charming wife, Emilia.”
Gerald made much of rising to his feet again and kissing her hand. “Such loveliness,” he breathed. He turned a casual eye in the direction of the Apothecary. “You are a very lucky man, Sir.”
“Of which I am totally aware,” answered John. “A pleasure to meet you at last, Sir. I have heard so much about you.”
“Oh really?” Gerald answered without interest.
“Oh yes,” the Apothecary gushed, his impressed face firmly in place. “I have a friend called Tobias Wills. He mentioned you to me.” Gerald raised his quizzing glass and looked John up and down. “Who’s your tailor, Sir?” He was cool, that couldn’t be denied. So cool that the Apothecary wondered whether he had ever heard of Juliana’s other suitor.
“I go to a fellow in Piccadilly,” he answered levelly, watching Gerald all the time. “At the Sign of the Popinjay. Do you know him?”
“Can’t say I do,” Gerald replied carelessly. He regarded John through his quizzer once more. “Who did you say you were?”
“John Rawlings, an apothecary of Shug Lane, London. My wife and I are in Devon on our honeymoon, and taking full advantage of catching up with old friends. Let me say that you are very well known, Sir. Everyone seems to have acquaintance with you.”
Gerald raised a cynical eyebrow. “More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.”
“Oh I would hardly have called you a fool,” John answered silkily.
Emilia spoke up. “It’s a very good thing we are here at this time, Mr. Fitz. A friend of ours, Jan van Guylder, has just suffered a double tragedy. So fortunate my husband was able to attend him.”
Gerald emptied his glass and held it out to a footman for a refill. “Van Guylder?” he said musingly. “I seem to know that name.”
“Ah, I recall it now,” stated Sir Clovelly noisily. “He’s a merchant from Topsham. Had a daughter done to death, so the gossip goes.”
“It’s true, alas,” John answered. “And now his son has been discovered dead as well. What a tragedy for one wretched individual to bear.”
Gerald had responded, the Apothecary was sure of it. There had been little more than the slightest quiver as the hand holding his glass had gone to his mouth, but movement there had been. John decided to go for the kill.
“I see you’re upset, Sir, and I ask your pardon for it. I had no idea you were acquainted with the family.
”
“I’m not,” the fop responded briskly, “and your belief that I was disturbed was accordingly quite wrong.”
“Then my powers of observation are sadly lacking,” John replied, with just the slightest suggestion of a sceptical smile.
“Ah well,” said Gerald, and gave an elegant shrug before turning his attention to Emilia, with whom he proceeded to flirt, not altogether discreetly.
John sat seething, angry with himself that he had been unable to draw Gerald out, furious that Emilia was blushing and smiling and generally looking as if she was enjoying the fop’s attentions.
Dear Sir Clovelly came to the rescue. “If you’d be good enough to step into my library a moment, there’s a book I think you might be interested in. This way, John.”
And the Apothecary was out through the door before he could gather his wits.
“Now,” whispered the fat man, his dark eyes gleaming, “what is going on? What connection has that silly rakehell with the unfortunate family you mentioned?”
“I’ve been told that he was their lover, brother and sister both. And now the pair of them are dead. Whether he has any link with the deaths I don’t know, Sir. But I am going to make it my business to find out.”
“I was watching him closely whilst you were speaking to him. He gave nothing away, in other words he’s a clever devil, but I thought he was rattled when you mentioned the death of the boy.”
“He was, even though he swore he did not know the family. But in that he lied, Sir Clovelly. I found his card in the bedroom of Richard van Guylder. He must have met him at the very least.”
“We’ll return in a moment and my suggestion, John, is that you do not refer to the matter again. Let him flirt and frill for all he’s worth, sooner or later he’ll reveal himself, that sort always does.”
But even in drink, and he imbibed plenty of it, Gerald Fitz remained totally in control, never once allowing his veneer of foppish young aristocrat with scarce two wits to rub together, to slip. So much so that the Apothecary began to doubt what he thought he knew, wondering if, after all, Tobias Wills had been mistaken. If the fact that Richard had got hold of Fitz’s card was a mere coincidence and that the Honourable Gerald, other than knowing their name, had no knowledge of the van Guylder’s whatsoever.
