Death in the West Wind

by Deryn Lake

  The time reached ten o’clock and Sir Clovelly’s collection of clocks all began to chime simultaneously. Gerald drew a magnificent watch from his waistcoat pocket and stared at it.

  “Is it that late? I really must be going. I’m promised for cards with the Beres at eleven and I’m determined to walk.”

  “Isn’t that a little foolhardy?” Sir Clovelly asked anxiously.

  “Yes and no. I’ll take a couple of armed servants as escort. I’m damned if I’m going to let a bunch of bullying little ruffians put me off my night time stroll.”

  Emilia, who had been playing up to him, though whether because she enjoyed it or because she hoped to glean information, looked puzzled. “Bullying ruffians?” she repeated.

  Gerald raised her hand to his lips and gave her a scorching glance from his dark long-lashed eyes. “There’s a gang terrorising the streets of Exeter at present. I believe they base themselves on the London Mohocks. They enjoy frightening people rather than stealing, though they are not averse to a well-filled purse. They pleasure themselves with women who they force to stand on their heads against walls … “

  “Really, Gerald, spare us the details,” protested Sir Clovelly.

  The fop gave Emilia a lazy smile. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rawlings, I did not wish to cause you offence.” Though his lips were saying the right words, his eyes were asking her to go to bed with him.

  “I’m sure that my husband will protect me,” she answered, the merest edge in her voice.

  Sir Clovelly came in. “Actually, my dear, no one is advised to try unless they are armed to the teeth and there are several of them. This gang, the Society of Angels they call themselves, are dangerous bastards — language, Sir, language — and are much feared. The beau monde of Exeter, or those that consider themselves to be such, clear the streets by eleven because of them. In fact I’ll order your coach brought round now so that you won’t have to walk a step.” He pulled a bell rope.

  Emilia turned to John. “That ghost story we heard in Sidmouth. Weren’t they meant to be Angels?”

  “Yes. The wicked Thornes, now all dead.”

  Sir Clovelly looked serious. “It’s quite an old gang. Went very quiet for about ten years then revived again, more’s the pity for us.”

  “If I could get my hands on the leader I’d string the blackguard up,” said Gerald.

  “Do men of your social standing do such things?” asked John, straight-faced.

  “Of course they do,” answered the fop, and looked down the length of his beautiful and aristocratic nose.

  It was dark in The Close as they stepped into their coach, yet Gerald strode off into the gloom quite fearlessly.

  “He’s not as foppish as he makes out,” said Emilia, snuggling down into the padded interior.

  “That would indeed be difficult.”

  “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

  “No. If you want to flirt with a fool like that, that is entirely up to you.”

  Emilia showed enormous good sense and did not argue. Instead, she neatly turned the topic of conversation. “You don’t really think Fitz a fool, I could tell that by the way you looked at him.”

  “I must say he neatly sidestepped all my efforts to draw him out.”

  “You’re very clever, John,” said Emilia, and fell cosily asleep. Or at least pretended to. “The Salutation, Sir?” called Tom.

  “Yes, and don’t stop for anyone.”

  “What about these damned Angels the servants were telling me about?”

  “It might be a little early for them. Just drive hard and I’m sure we’ll be all right.” But even as the Apothecary spoke, the sound of pistol shots rang out from a sidestreet, together with a great commotion of shouts and screams. Drawing his own weapon from his pocket, John stuck his head out of the window.

  In the dim light of the carriage lamps, he saw a woman run past screaming, her clothes in disarray. Then came the sound of fast hooves and more shots. John raised his pistol to fire at her pursuer, then realised that the woman’s headlong flight was being protected by the horseman rather than the other way round.

  “Do you need any help?” he shouted.

  “No,” came the gruff reply. “I’ve seen the bastards off.”

  “Well done.”

  The horseman turned towards him and raised his gun in mock salute. As he did so the muzzle caught the brim of his hat and lifted it slightly. John stared in amazement at the scar that ran down from the rider’s eye to below his cheek but before he could do more than gasp, the horseman had sped away into the darkness.

  9

  He had promised Emilia a day devoted entirely to her whims and wishes and this promise John Rawlings had every intention of honouring. Nonetheless he couldn’t stop his brain working and, waking early, he felt compelled to tell Joe Jago of the events of the previous evening. So much so that he got out of bed, pulled on breeches and a shirt, and in his stockinged feet made his way to Joe’s room and tapped on the door.

  “Enter,” said the familiar voice and John went in to find the rugged individual stripped to the waist and shaving himself before a travelling mirror. Joe looked at him through a froth of lather. “Oh it’s you, Mr. Rawlings. Good day. You’ll have to excuse me while I finish my toilette. I have to go into Exeter early to speak to the coroner. Constable Haycraft came here last night and it seems that two more bodies have been washed up, they think from the Constantia. Apparently one of the corpses had some identification which linked him to the vessel. William is bringing them into Topsham early today but is so worried about his farm that I offered to go to Exeter for him.”

  “Well,” John answered, sitting on the bed, “if that is where Emilia chooses to go we can give you a ride in.”

  Joe applied a viscious looking razor. “Thank you but no, Sir. I intend to be off from here within the next thirty minutes. There are certain lines of enquiry I wish to pursue in that city and so have a full day ahead. Now, how did you get on with Gerald Fitz?”

  The Apothecary shook his head. “That’s just the point, I didn’t. He said that he knew the name van Guylder but that was all. He denied knowing them personally.”

  “But he was lying?”

  “More than likely. Yet he was so good at it that I began to have doubts myself. After all, it is only Tobias Wills’s word that Gerald was Juliana’s lover.”

  Joe contorted his face and brought the razor sweeping beneath his chin. “Tobias must be seen when he’s sober. That’s for sure.” John wriggled his feet and asked a question that had been bothering him ever since he had met Gerald Fitz. “Joe, it isn’t possible that the brother did do it, is it? It isn’t some puritanical streak in me that keeps telling me he didn’t?”

  Mr. Fielding’s clerk gave a final swipe to his chin, then plunged his face into a bowl of water. He came up streaming like a swimming fox. “Mr. Rawlings, my dear, you were the one who examined the dead girl’s body. Did you not point out to William, who confirmed it to me, that Juliana bore marks from at least two pairs of hands, maybe more?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then Richard alone could not have been responsible. You must remember that. And from what you have told me of him, I think he was too ineffectual to be a killer, particularly of his own sister. No, we must broaden our net. My money goes on one or other of the two lovers.”

  “Or both,” said John, and froze at the thought. For could that be the explanation? That despite all Tobias’s drunken accusations, he and Gerald were actually working in league. “God’s teeth, Joe. You don’t think the two of them are involved, do you?”

  The clerk dried his rugged features with a towel, then lowered it to look at John over the top. “Anything’s possible, I suppose. Look, Sir. If Mrs. Rawlings is anxious to go shopping could you send your coachman to escort her while you call on Fitz? We must try and catch him off his guard.”

  “He’ll more than likely show me the street.”

  “Not as a friend of Sir Clovelly Love
ll’s, he won’t.”

  John groaned. “I wouldn’t wager on it.” He got off the bed and headed for the door, turning in the entrance. “If I’m back in time I’ll try and ferret out Tobias.”

  Joe grinned at him as he pulled on his shirt. “Don’t you worry about that. Give Mrs. Rawlings a good day. I’ve got a feeling that soon she’ll deserve it.”

  “Oh dear,” said the Apothecary, as he closed the door behind him. Rather as he had imagined, Emilia did indeed want to spend the day in Exeter, first looking at the shops, then dining out, followed by a visit to the theatre where, so the posters said, there was to be a performance of The Old Debauchees.

  Resigning himself to the fact that there would be no work done on solving the mystery of the Constantia that day, John put on a husbandly face and escorted his wife round the shops.

  There could be no doubt that Exeter was buzzing with the latest fashions and up-to- the-minute household goods. Everywhere he looked there were milliners, habit makers, glove makers, shops selling the newest products from the Potteries, all these jostling scent makers and friseurs. Very interested in the perfumeries, the mixing of beautiful scents being a sideline in which he indulged, though this was frowned upon by some of the more old-fashioned apothecaries, John opened bottles and sniffed to his heart’s content, despite a few raised eyebrows. His wife meanwhile tried on hats and gloves, being assured that she was looking at the latest modes from Paris or London or Bath, whichever took her fancy. Very pleased with a small shop which described itself as a linen drapery, haberdashery, milliners and tea dealer, Emilia bought muslins and ribbons and one particularly captivating chapeau, in which her husband thought she looked absolutely enchanting and insisted she wore straight away. Then, having stowed their purchases in the coach, they went to dine.

  The White Swan in High Street having a fine reputation for good food, the couple ate in style before proceeding on to the theatre, which was located behind the Guild Hall in Water Beer Street. Even as he drew near, John had a presentiment that the name he most dreaded to see was going to be displayed on the posters outside the building. And, sure enough, as he got close enough to read them, there it was. The Old Debauchees by Henry Fielding: Isabella — Miss Coralie Clive.

  The rest of the cast was listed below but their names had disappeared into a blur. The Apothecary stopped dead in his tracks and wished the earth would open up and swallow him.

  He must have sighed in anguish, for Emilia gave him a sideways glance. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine,” John answered, laughing carelessly.

  Emilia ran a suspicious eye over the poster. “Oh, Coralie Clive. I see.”

  “What do you mean, you see?”

  “I see that you look daunted and wondered why. Do you still have feelings for her, John?”

  “No I don’t.”

  “That denial was a little vehement, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh Emilia,” he said, suddenly feeling annoyed. “It is you I married and you I love. Coralie Clive is part of my past, that is all.”

  “Yet the sight of her name on the poster made you go pale.”

  “I am not pale,” the Apothecary answered angrily. “Now, do you want to see this play or don’t you?”

  “Could you bear to sit through it?”

  “Of course I could. Coralie means nothing to me any more.”

  Yet his heart was thudding as they took their seats in the circle where sat the brightest of Exeter’s citizens, the beau monde of the West Country as John rather patronisingly thought of them. The performance, due to begin at six, had already attracted a large and vigorous audience and the place looked full. In fact the tiers of boxes which rose directly from the pit were all taken, mostly by servants sent ahead to secure their master a place.

  It was a very old-fashioned theatre, John thought; a soberly elegant little building with proscenium doors opening on to an attenuated forestage and light provided by overhead chandeliers with tallow candles. A curtain, which would rise and fall only at the beginning and end of the play, was presently lowered to hide the scenery behind. Realising that at this very moment Coralie was backstage, getting herself ready to appear, John found that his hand was shaking at the thought that they were both under the same roof. Furiously, he took himself to task for being so feeble-minded when he had such an exquisite wife.

  “Isn’t that Gerald Fitz?” Emilia whispered as a bowing servant left a stage box and a beautifully dressed fop appeared in his place.

  John raised his quizzer. “Yes, it is. “Zounds, but he’s dressed to the hilt.”

  “Jealous?” asked Emilia, rather sarcastically the Apothecary thought.

  “No. I would say that he’s rather overdone for a provincial theatre.”

  She laughed at this, a shade too heartily, and John felt himself growing quite put out and relapsed into what he considered to be a dignified silence. If Emilia noticed she gave no sign, gazing round and clearly enjoying herself, even going so far as to wave at Gerald Fitz when he looked in their direction, quizzing glass to eye. He stared for a moment or two then clearly recognised them, getting to his feet and giving a most elegant bow. Not to be outdone, the Apothecary rose and returned the compliment.

  As he sat down again, there was a flurry of excitement as the curtain slowly went up to reveal a street scene, all painted on flats and lacking the realism of the modern effects used at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, by David Garrick. With his heart pounding, John stared fixedly at the stage, scarcely breathing as the cast began to come on and speak their lines. Finally, after a pause for dramatic effect, Coralie made her entrance, running on in an adorable costume of another age, low cut in the front, a swishing train at the back, a fan in one hand and two cheeky feathers on the top of her dark head. There was rapturous applause from the audience and Gerald Fitz shouted, “Bravo” very loudly.

  “Do you think he knows her?” Emilia whispered.

  “Of course not. He’s simply showing off.”

  “I’ll wager he goes backstage in the interval though.”

  Sure enough, Gerald Fitz did leave his seat when the intermission came, though that, in itself, proved nothing, for he could have gone to buy refreshments or find a house of easement. Rather than fight their way through the throng, John and Emilia remained where they were and ordered from the various sellers who walked round between the acts.

  The play, written by the Blind Beak’s late great half brother, Henry Fielding, was both long and funny, so that even more running time was added by the frequent pauses for laughter. Consequently, the audience did not emerge into the street until after ten o’clock. Then, instead of wandering off to have a late supper, the older members of the crowd hurried away, clearly quite anxious to get home. John wondered why, then remembered the Society of Angels who terrorised the streets of Exeter when the hour grew late. He had almost come face to face with them on the previous evening, in fact probably would have done if it hadn’t been for the lone horseman who had driven them off with his pistol. Or was it her pistol? For that great jagged scar could only belong to one person, surely. It had been the woman who dwelt in Wildtor Grange who had seen the Angels off, he felt certain of it. Was that her role then? A sole vigilante who prowled Exeter in search of troublemakers. A certainty that he must visit the Grange again and try to speak to her face to face was borne in on the Apothecary and added to his mental list of all the other things he had to do in order to find the killer of Juliana van Guylder.

  A group of people who were clearly not worried about the Angels were heading purposefully towards the stage door. At their head strode none other than Gerald Fitz.

  “Do you want to greet Coralie?” asked Emilia, all innocence.

  “Certainly not. I just want to go home and to bed with you,” John answered reassuringly.

  His wife gave him such a look then, very deep and with great feeling in it. It was so loving and so genuine that John could not help but kiss her full on the lips, regardless of the
people hurrying round them.

  “Do you love me?” she whispered, close to his ear.

  “For ever,” he answered, and kissed her again.

  It was then that two very different sounds came simultaneously. There was an “Ooh” as Coralie stepped out into the street and her admirers surged forward. This followed almost immediately by a woman’s scream close at hand. John, still holding Emilia closely, looked over his shoulder in the direction from which the scream had come and gasped at what he saw. Clad in long white greatcoats, their heads covered by floppy white hats hung with veiling, a gang of men had approached silently and now stood circling the group surrounding the actress. They were so uncannily like the creatures he had seen travelling in the phantom coach, supposedly the spectres of the wicked Thornes, that John felt his blood run cold.

  “Get Coralie Clive,” said a muffled voice and as one the Angels started towards her. It was only then that the Apothecary realised that they were armed with swords and bats, not yet drawn but clearly ready for action.

  Without stopping to think, he lifted Emilia off her feet and pushed her into a high doorway through which the scenery was obviously brought in and out. Then he took out his pistol and charged into the throng. Simultaneously, Gerald Fitz drew the sword he carried at his side and engaged the Angel nearest to him in a duel. Everything seemed to come to a halt then, and the Apothecary felt as if he were frozen as he watched the dazzling swordplay. It was truly magnificent. Gerald, for all his effete manner, was a swordsman of the first order. Unbelievably, even the other Angels stopped to observe. Indeed the duelling was so fine that it looked rehearsed, as if each thrust and parry had been worked out beforehand. Like everyone else, the Apothecary simply stood, lost in admiration, waiting for some kind of break to come so that he might pitch in.