by Deryn Lake
The frail form shuddered, though whether with horror or anticipation it was not easy to tell.
“That’s better,” bellowed Sir Clovelly. “Ah, champagne.” He rubbed his hands together. “Come on, Barty, let’s drink to the future.” The old soul took a glass with trembling fingers and John, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, nodded encouragement. “It won’t do you any harm, Sir. Truly.”
“God save the King,” said Sir Clovelly unexpectedly, and Sir Bartholomew staggered to his feet as they drank the loyal toast.
* * *
Before they left they tucked their host into bed, carried there by his servants, undressed by his man, administered to by John who, without his medical bag, was left to looking through what physics Sir Bartholomew already had. Finding a decoction of True Wild Valerian already made up, the Apothecary poured a little into a glass to ensure Sir Barty had a good night’s sleep. Not that there seemed much danger of him doing otherwise for he was already snoring. However, the physick also calmed the nerves and was good for those inclined to an hysteric, which might prove useful on the day following. John only hoped that the other effect of loosening the bowel when all else failed, would not work until the morning.
“All done?” asked Sir Clovelly, who was in fine fig after a large meal and plenty of wine. “Yes. He can sleep in peace now.”
“Besotted old ass,” said the fat man as they left the house. “Fancy being taken in by a doll common like that.”
“She was very beautiful.”
“That’s as may be. But there’s no fool like an old fool, says I. Did he really believe he’d sired her child?”
“He wanted to so he did”.
Sir Clovelly looked at his fob watch. “Talking of women, we must hurry, John. It’s nearly nine. We must get home before the ladies.”
In the event they had been back five minutes before the sound of carriage wheels were heard. John, full of conscience, went out to meet Emilia and helped her from the equipage with the words, “Don’t be angry. I’m sorry about this morning. Please forgive me.”
She turned her angelic eyes on him. “I was about to say the same. It was wrong of me to take the coach and go like that. Oh John, you must consider me a spoiled fool.”
“No, no, I don’t. I could never think that of you. I ruined your day by being longer than I intended.”
“But did you track the woman down? Did you get a chance to speak to her?”
“Yes to both.”
“I’m so pleased. What was she like?”
“Interesting,” answered John, and changed the subject. “Was the play good?”
“Very. Miss Clive took the part of Viola and strutted well in boy’s garb.”
The Apothecary contrived to look extremely disinterested and was glad when Lady Lovell, a woman twice as tall as her husband yet a quarter of his girth, said, “So you must be the gallant bridegroom. How unfortunate for you that duty calls at such a time.”
John bowed handsomely. “Lady Lovell, I’m so very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours.” She turned to Emilia. “Now, my dear, do you wish to come in?”
“No, Madam. I have had a wonderful day in your company but must now devote some time to my husband.”
“And he to you,” said the older woman pointedly, and gave John a dark and meaningful look.
* * *
It wasn’t until the morning that the Apothecary remembered that he had still to show Joe Jago the piece of white material found on the Constantia. And, even more importantly, there was all the new information about Juliana to share with him. But of Mr. Fielding’s clerk there was no sign and John wandered round the inn while Emilia sat before her looking glass making herself even more beautiful. Eventually, in the yard, examining the horses that had pulled them from London he found the two Runners.
“Gentlemen, good morning. How goes it with you?”
“Slowly, Sir,” said Dick Ham. “We were in Exeter yesterday interviewing Richard’s school friends.”
John gaped. “I was just about to tell Mr.
Jago that I have the names of his cronies. How did you get them?”
“Through the headmaster.” Dick searched in his pocket. “I have the list here. Would you care to run your eye over it and see who we’ve missed, if anyone.”
John did so, then read it again, slowly. “There’s one name that isn’t here.”
“Whose that?”
“Peter Digby-Duckworth, grandson of her elderly intended.”
The Runners exchanged a glance. “She certainly had her share of her admirers.”
“Was that the impression you got?”
Nick Raven fixed his dark eyes on the Apothecary. “Several of them freely admitted to having slept with the girl, although whether that was youthful bravado one can’t altogether be sure.”
An extraordinary idea came to John and absolutely refused to go away. He spoke it aloud.
“You don’t suppose that the child belonged to Peter and that he and Juliana were trying to foist it on the grandfather in case there were a family resemblance, do you?”
The Runner considered it, narrowing his gaze and pulling his eyebrows together. “It would make sense.”
“Yet somehow I feel she loved Fitz.”
“The one man we didn’t get to see.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because he refused to give us admittance.”
“Too grand or too guilty?”
“Perhaps a bit of both,” said Nick, and barked a laugh.
At that moment Joe came into the stableyard, dressed very finely in a plum- coloured coat, his hair on fire in the morning sun. “Ah, Mr. Rawlings, do you fancy a ride out to Sidmouth? That is if Mrs. Rawlings is agreeable.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because William Haycraft, the constable, has retrieved the shift in which Juliana was killed. Yesterday after I had concluded my business in Exeter, I hired a trap and found him working on his farm. It seems that those who prepared her for lying in state changed her into a clean white gown and were about to destroy the old one. Fortunately he stopped them. I thought you might be able to compare your piece of material with the original.”
“As long as Emilia is happy, then so am I. But Joe, can you spare me ten minutes now? The things I found out yesterday have to be heard to be believed. Intrigue is hardly the word to describe it all.”
They went into The Salutation and sat in
The Tyger and while they waited for John’s bride to come downstairs, the Apothecary told Joe Jago all that had taken place. He listened quietly, occasionally asking a question. Finally, he said, cWhat a nasty bunch of young people. Small wonder the girl got herself killed when she played fast and loose with all and sundry. Somebody must have tired of her games and decided to end them for good.”
“But who?”
“We must narrow the field.” Joe shielded his eyes from the sun that poured through the window. “I spoke to the quay master last night. I asked him what he was doing in the vicinity of Milk Street on the day Juliana disappeared. He blustered but finally broke down. He called on her to give her money.”
“Why, for Heaven’s sake?”
“He thought the child was his.”
“God’s precious teeth,” said John, leaping to his feet. “How many fathers did that wretched infant have?” Joe put his head back and bellowed a laugh that rang through the inn and down to the river.
“Well, I weren’t one of “em.”
“Nor I. So the old lecher was still having a sexual relationship with her?”
“Apparently so.”
“Poor Juliana. I almost feel sorry for her. It seems the girl was unable to contain herself. Anyway, what else did Mr. Northmore say?”
“That that was the last time he saw her. On the Monday at about two o’clock.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I think I’d better make a list to clear
my mind.” He pulled paper and pencil from his pocket and wrote in his fine hand, Suspected of Killing. Beneath that he put: Jan van Guylder (could possibly have rebelled against nature and struck down his own daughter because of her perfidy); Richard van Guylder (same but motive could be because she shamed him by her behaviour with his friends); Tobias Wills (in love with her but perhaps love turned to hate when he heard of her other liaisons); Thomas Northmore (same reasons as above); Gerald Fitz (tired of her maybe). He handed the list to John. “Can you think of any more, Sir?”
“Well, Sir Clovelly said that Sir Barty would take most unkindly to his honour being smirched. He could have hired an assassin to do the job for him. Yet, Joe, I still can’t escape the fact that there seemed to be two different attackers.”
“We’ve gone down that path countless times. If the girl stirred passions then fury might have made strange bedfellows act against her. Even old Sir Barty could have hired two footpads to make sure.”
“There’s just one thing,” said John, thinking aloud. “The baby no longer presented any problem, did it.”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“That if somebody wanted to murder her because he was terrified of being publicly accused of fathering her child and had his reputation to consider, Thomas Northmore for example, the fact that she was going to marry Sir Bartholomew would have removed that motive.”
Joe sat silently, thinking that through, then said, “You’re right of course. The child was being blamed on the old man so whoever was really responsible could breathe again.” Now Joe spoke very slowly as the thoughts came. “So whoever killed Juliana did so for another reason entirely. The fact that she was pregnant is coincidental. None the less, it still leaves a good few suspects.”
“Yes,” said John, as a glimmer of an idea was born.
13
Even while they were dressing themselves in the darkest clothes they had brought with them, the sonorous single funeral bell of Topsham’s parish church began to toll its melancholy note. John and Emilia looked at one another and shuddered, for this day would see the last mortal remains of the benighted van Guylder children laid in the earth. Juliana had been brought from Exeter on the previous day, as had her wretched brother from closer at hand, and both had spent the night laid out in the largest salon in Shell House. On these occasions coffins customarily remained open, allowing friends and neighbours and the usual strangers to gaze on the waxen features and shed a tear. But in view of their injuries, their father had decided against this and the lids had stayed securely nailed down.
Arriving home late from their day in the city, John and Emilia in company with Joe Jago and the two Runners, had gone to pay their respects and had been amazed by the size of the throng. It would seem that the entire town was there, all dressed sombrely, many openly in tears as they filed by the coffins in silence. Whatever the faults of his wayward children, it appeared that regard for Jan van Guylder had brought people out in a public show of support for him on this grimmest of occasions.
And now as they left The Salutation to walk the short distance to the church, John saw that it had happened again. The entire town was out, proceeding in a body, four abreast, to go to Shell House and bring the dead to their final resting place. With the tolling bell as accompaniment and no sound except that of the marching feet, the solemnity of the occasion was quite indescribable. Behind the solid press of people were several coaches, unable to get through the throng and forced to go at a snail’s pace behind it. Turning his head, the Apothecary had a long hard stare to see if he recognised anybody. Sure enough, Gerald Fitz was there accompanied by several other fops of about his age. It seemed that Richard’s school friends had stirred themselves to put in an appearance. Of Sir Bartholomew Digby- Duckworth there was no sign, nor indeed of any of the other older citizens of Exeter. It seemed that all the mourning — or could it merely be idle curiosity? — was being done by the young. The only mature man present was the boisterous schoolmaster who today looked as if all the bluster had been knocked out of him.
The crowd tramped down Fore Street and onto the Strand, where the great black horses with their nodding plumes and glass-sided hearses already stood, side by side, outside Shell House, the cortege entirely blocking the narrow street. Immediately behind the coffins waited Jan van Guylder and Tobias Wills, the younger man there because he was officially betrothed to Juliana, John supposed. Thomas Northmore had hidden himself in the crowd, his long-suffering wife beside him. He was attempting to adopt a pious expression but merely succeeded in looking pompous, in fact John longed to shout “Hypocrite” under the man’s nose, just to wipe the smirk from his face.
“I see that all Juliana’s lovers are present,” whispered Joe in the Apothecary’s ear.
“All but the old fellow.”
“Shame about that. I would like to have had a look at him.”
“Perhaps we can call officially.”
But Joe’s answer was lost in the melee as the crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow the two hearses to pass through. Walking stolidly behind, supporting one another in their mighty effort to remain calm, came Jan and Tobias, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Wills and all the servants. After them came the throng of Topsham people, still in silence. Swept along by the crowd, John managed to break ranks and make for the back of the church, his favourite place for observing those present. He was followed by Joe Jago, foxy face very alert, but the two Runners remained with Emilia, hidden somewhere in one of the central pews.
The Apothecary lowered his voice. “Tell me which is which of the young men.”
“The dark one sitting next to Fitz is Brenchley Hood, the big one on the other side is Fitz’s brother. The identical twins are the O”Connors, the two similar-looking are brothers, name of Berisbrooke.”
“Which is Peter Digby-Duckworth?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t meet him. But by a process of elimination it has to be the one on the end of the pew, for the other is Simon Paris.”
John stared at a very pretty young man, fair curly hair and large long-lashed eyes giving him a sensitive and girlish look. Dispensing with a wig, Peter had his blond locks tied back with a black ribbon and sported a very smart dark coat. From his vantage point John noticed with amusement that Emilia gave the charming fellow a look of admiration, and thought to himself that Peter was just the type to have women fawning all over him. The rest of Richard’s friends, though well set up in their way, were not in the same league of looks. Brenchley Hood was too pointed; chin, nose and cheeks all sharp. The brothers Berisbrooke were too bland, like big, affable, enormously stupid dogs. The O”Connors were Irishness personified; hulking red-heads with dark blue eyes. While Simon Paris, dark and dashing, was spoiled by being unusually short, probably no more than five feet in height. He also had his arm in a sling which didn’t help his general presentation.
“What do you think?” whispered Joe.
“That you could find them anywhere. A typical bunch of rips about town.”
“And all sharing the same girl!”
“Let it be hoped that her father never finds out.”
The service continued, punctuated with sobs and sniffs, for the thought of laying to rest two people, neither of whom had even reached their twentieth year, was daunting for all present. Much to their credit both Jan and Tobias, probably dosed to the eyeballs with a really strong anti-hysteric such as Greek Valerian, managed to contain themselves. But when the coffins were carried shoulder high to the greedy-mouthed double grave, the Dutchman finally broke down and sobbed despairingly on Tobias’s shoulder. Thomas Northmore, standing close by, began to sweat slightly, though whether with relief that it was over at last, it was impossible to say.
Emilia found her way to John’s side and he saw that she was weeping. “Poor things,” she said quietly.
“The living or the dead?”
“Both. John … “
“Yes?”
“Those responsible for all this suffering wi
ll be caught, won’t they?”
“We will make every endeavour. Won’t we, Joe?”
Mr. Fielding’s clerk turned his light blue eyes on her, a worried look in their depths. “It’s a terrible tangle, Mrs. Rawlings. I have my suspicions about it all but lack the evidence to proceed. We need something to happen to give us the breakthrough we need.”
“Can’t you set a trap?”
“The point is exactly who are we meant to be trapping?”
“The killer.”
“But who is he? Or they?”
“Do you think everyone should be questioned again? All the people on your list, Joe.
And that group of young men into the bargain.”
Joe scratched his head thoughtfully, his best wig, which he wore for funerals and making arrests, slipping to one side. “Does Fitz connect you with me, Mr. Rawlings?”
“He can’t do. He met me through Sir Clovelly. There’s no reason for him to suspect that I work for Mr. Fielding.”
“Then somehow get yourself to a place frequented by him and his cronies. Ask Sir Clovelly’s help if necessary. Those young rips will spill more to you when they’re in their cups than they ever would to Runners Raven and Ham.”
John looked dubious. “Well I can but try. But what about the others involved?”
“We’ll see them together and very soon at that. But there’s one thing that Gerald Fitz needs to be asked immediately.”
“I know what you’re going to say. Why, if he denied knowing the van Guylders, did he attend their funeral today?”
“Precisely.”
“There’s no time like the present,” answered the Apothecary with determination. “I’ll quiz him here and now, at the side of the grave itself if necessary.” So saying, he pushed his way through the crowd, holding a handkerchief to his face as if he were in distress and needed to leave hastily.
