Death in the West Wind

by Deryn Lake

  The Apothecary did not hesitate, leaping up the dark spiral stairs and throwing open the door of the only bedroom. On the bed, entwined in each other’s arms, stark naked, were Dmitri and Sarah, both of them covered in that same terrible red and neither of them moving at all.

  “Saul,” John screamed, “get up here. Quick!”

  He heard the old man clambering up and come to stand behind him in the doorway.

  “Christ’s mercy!” he said softly. “Who’s done this to them?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ve got to act fast. There might still be a chance. I’ll tend the man you the woman.”

  “No, Sir, t’wouldn’t be decent. I know her, you see. Let’s go t’other way round.”

  There was no time for argument. John raised the naked Sarah in his arms and put his head down to her splendid breasts, listening for the beat of her heart. There seemed to be nothing yet the smallest flicker at her wrist revealed that she clung on to life.

  “She’s alive,” John called to Old Saul.

  “So’s he, but within an inch of it. Whoever beat them round the head practically brained them.”

  “They’re still losing blood. It must be stayed. The plant Adder’s Tongue is good but I haven’t got my bag with me.”

  “I have a jar of Indian paste next door.”

  “Then go and get it, man, and bring some bandages and boiling water with you. I’ll try and revive them meanwhile.”

  John held his salts beneath Sarah’s nose, patting her hands and calling her name and pulling the bedclothes round her to keep her warm. She fluttered, no more than that, but at least it was a sign of life. Dmitri was far worse to rouse. Wiping away the blood which still oozed from the poor fellow’s head, the Apothecary practically pushed the salts bottle up the Russian’s nostrils but with very little effect. Dmitri groaned in pain but there was no response other than that. It seemed to John at that moment that there was very little hope of saving him.

  Plodding footsteps on the stairs told him that Old Saul had come back, laden. In fact the poor fellow was weighed down by a great canvas bag from which he proceeded to draw various jars and bottles.

  “I had to leave the boiling water at the bottom. I hadn’t a hand to carry it.”

  “I’ll go and get it. But before we clean them up, we’ve got to stop this bleeding. You haven’t by any chance got any Clown’s Woundwort, have you?”

  “Not only the ointment but the syrup.”

  “God be praised, let’s get some down them.”

  It was John’s favourite remedy for inward wounds and ruptures of veins and now he spooned an extra large dose down, first Dmitri, then Sarah. Then he set too with the ointment.

  “When you’ve finished with that I suggest we clean ’em up, so I can apply my special paste.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It is a great secret, known only to the Navajo tribe. But one day I might share it with you.”

  As they cleaned the blood away from the two inert forms, it became abundantly clear that the lovers had been the victims of a most frenzied and vicious attack.

  “Who could have done this?” asked Saul once more.

  “My bet would be on the gaffer from Exeter. He wanted to know if there were any survivors of the Constantia and it’s my guess that he found out there was one.”

  “But why would he want to harm them?”

  “Because, my friend,” John replied quietly, “it’s my belief Dmitri knew too much.”

  * * *

  They worked throughout the afternoon and when he finally thought it was safe to leave them, John put the couple in the charge of Old Saul and went in search of William Haycraft. Then the hunt was up for a physician to stitch the wounds, which had finally stopped bleeding. As chance would have it, as William, who had saddled up a horse for speed, rode back beside the Apothecary, he stopped short outside one of the larger dwellings.

  “That’s Dr. Hunter’s trap. He’s in Sidmouth, Lord be praised. Let me stop a moment or two and leave a message for him.”

  “Very well, but William, don’t be long. Sarah and her Russian lover are not out of the wood yet.”

  The constable looked considerably annoyed. “I find it hard that this fellow confided in Old Saul but refused to talk to me. It’s a conspiracy of silence that should never have taken place.”

  “But the fact that there really is a survivor alive will finally open this investigation up. For the chances are that he saw something, something which will definitely point to Juliana’s killers. Why else should Dmitri be attacked?”

  “I can’t wait to find out.”

  “My friend, if I were you I wouldn’t even try. I have a feeling that one glimpse of you and all concerned will become silent as the tomb. Because I am an outsider they seem to trust me. Let me get as much information as I can and pass it on to you.”

  Reluctantly, the constable nodded. “I think you’re right. I’ll keep away. But as soon as you know something please tell me of it.”

  “Well, it certainly won’t be for several days. They are both far too ill to speak — that is, of course, if they ever speak again.”

  * * *

  It was another hour before Dr. Hunter put in an appearance and exclaimed in horror at what he saw. However, he did his duty and stitched those wounds that would not heal without help, John paying his fee, knowing that Sarah would be far too poor to afford the bill. Constable Haycraft meanwhile made a thorough examintion of the house but could find no sign of forced entry, indicating that the attackers had come in through the front door.

  “It was open when we found them, but they were obviously upstairs taking their pleasure at the time of the attack. Wouldn’t the door be closed in that case?”

  “Not necessarily. Perhaps they had left it open for the cat.”

  “Oh well, we’ll find out eventually I suppose.” John looked at his watch. “I was hoping to perform one more errand today but I won’t have time now. I’m to play cards with Gerald Fitz and his cohorts.”

  “Sift them for all the information you can, John.”

  “That I fully intend to do.”

  They had been speaking in the parlour but now John and William went upstairs to take a final look at the patients. Dmitri was too deeply unconscious for John’s liking, as if he had slipped into a coma.

  “If he doesn’t regain consciousness tonight I think we’ll lose him,” he said to Old Saul.

  “Don’t worry, Apothecary, I’ll keep vigil With him — and with Sarah too. I won’t let them go, I promise you.”

  “I only hope you succeed.” John looked contrite. “Saul, I’m sorry but I have to leave you now. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to see how they are, that is if my wife is agreeable.”

  “Is she getting angry with so much interruption to her honeymoon?”

  “Not angry exactly. More hurt than cross.”

  “An Indian love potion might be the very thing.”

  “I tell you what, Saul,” said John, putting his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “if the situation gets any worse I’ll definitely buy one.”

  William looked at the couple, still lying side by side in the blood stained bed. “What are their chances, John?”

  “Not good at all. The only thing in their favour is their natural strength and energy.”

  “Well I pray to God that they make it because it seems to me that only the man can answer one truly vital question.”

  “What happened aboard the Constantia.”

  “That, and whether he, too, saw angels before he jumped into the sea. “He had been planning to go to Wildtor Grange to seek out Elizabeth di Lorenzi, but in view of the day’s dramatic events all such plans had been overturned. For John knew that it was vital he kept his evening appointment. To see Gerald Fitz relaxed, hopefully in his cups, and to find out all he could about his relationship with Juliana van Guylder was too great an opportunity to be missed. Keeping well away from the ruined house in which the extraordinary
Marchesa hid herself, John returned to Topsham.

  Emilia had been back, had changed for the evening into a fine gown and had gone out again in the company of Joe Jago, Irish Tom had informed him as he clattered into the inn yard on the skittish grey mare. They had travelled in the Runners coach, driven by Dick Ham, Nick Raven acting as guard, all four of them taking themselves off for a night out in Exeter.

  “The two Runners are going incognito,” the coachman had explained, relishing the word so much that he had said it twice.

  “What exactly do they mean by that?”

  “They will be mingling with the crowd dressed in ordinary clothes.”

  “That should be fun for them.”

  “Indeed it should, Sir. Now, I’ll just get the coach polished up while you change your clothes. I’ve been making enquiries and hear that the Fitz place is one of the grandest houses in town. We can’t arrive looking shabby, now can we?”

  “Certainly not. I shall make an effort.”

  It being his habit never to travel without at least one superb suit, John fetched his best from the clothes cupboard. Indigo silk embroidered with silver leaf work, an intricate silver waistcoat beneath, was his choice, the ensemble completed by fine white stockings and meroquin leather shoes with sparkling buckles. Fixing a diamond brooch — a gift from Sir Gabriel — to his flared skirt coat, John turned to see it glitter in the light. On his head the Apothecary wore a tie wig with a long queue interwoven with black ribbon. It was undress but considered extremely smart by the younger members of the beau monde. Completing the rig with his great stick, John stepped forth for his evening’s entertainment.

  The Fitz house was indeed very imposing, so large that Gerald and Henry had been given a whole suite of rooms at the back in which to entertain their friends. Ushered down a long passageway by a footman in very stylish livery, John was announced and shown into a spacious salon, lit by a dozen chandeliers. Here a reception with servants carrying round champagne was in full swing.

  “My dear Rawlings,” said Gerald Fitz, approaching with a languorous air, “how good to see you.” He raised his quizzer and studied John’s suit, then sighed. “I simply must get back to my London stitcher. One feels quite the frump in comparison to your heavenly costume. Remember to give me your tailor’s name before you leave. Now, introductions are in order I believe.”

  They were all presented, all those young men he had seen at the funeral and a few more beside. John almost had the feeling of being an intruder amongst them, as if this were a community complete in itself who resented strangers however well-dressed they might be.

  “We drink first, then go in to cards and dice,” Fitz informed him. “Then we play for an hour or so before supper. Then sport is resumed once more and goes on till dawn, or later. Have some more champagne, my friend, it will do you good.”

  As his glass was being refilled, John heard the distant peal of the doorbell, at which Fitz clapped his hands together for silence.

  “Gentlemen, our last guest has arrived. I know our golden rule is that no women are allowed but in this case I have been so bold as to make an exception. I ask you to welcome her with much good show.” There was a dramatic pause and every eye turned to the door which was suddenly flung open. The elegant footman stood there, completely concealing the figure that waited behind him. John felt a sudden surge of excitement.

  The servant cleared his throat. “Lady Elizabeth, the Marchesa di Lorenzi”, he announced in ringing tones as every man in the room bowed low in greeting.

  15

  She looked sensational, dressed entirely in scarlet trimmed with black roses, her sacque back dress, which fitted tightly in the front but flowed in a full train at the back, made from a fabric called chine. The Apothecary, with his love of high fashion, recognised it at once as being woven in the materials satin and flowered velvet, both together in one piece, having a waistcoat of similar cloth in his clothes press in London. Round her neck the Marchesa wore a simple black choker adorned by a velvet red rose in the centre of which, like a dewdrop, glittered a diamond. This night she was fully wigged, her head piece a stylish concoction of looping white curls. While high on her cheekbone, almost flaunting her scar to the world, Elizabeth wore a black patch in the shape of a galleon.

  Gerald Fitz raised his quizzer and walked towards the new arrival, and John knew by the fop’s very gait that he desired her.

  “Exquisite, Madam, truly exquisite. Now may I present the company to you?”

  “Delighted,” she said, and flashed her eyes round the room. They fastened on John and he saw her brief look of surprise turn into something else, a small clouding, a tiny warning which he could not interpret. But at that moment it seemed as if all the beaux in Christendom were bowing before her and it was with impatience that the Apothecary waited his turn, wondering what it was that she had been trying to signal to him. His opportunity came at last. “May I present a visitor from London, Ma’am? John Rawlings, a man of medicine I believe.”

  “How d’ye do?” said Elizabeth grandly, and extended a haughty hand.

  So that was it. They were to act as if they were perfect strangers. John gave quite the most elaborate bow in his repertoire, then raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ma’am. Your reputation as the most beautiful woman in Exeter precedes you.”

  “Not as far as London, surely?”

  “Even as far as London,” John replied solemnly, and gave another, smaller, bow.

  He moved on, letting the next sycophant take his turn, wondering what she was doing here and why she should be friendly with Fitz, of all the repellant people. But his train of thought was broken by a tug at his elbow and John, looking round, saw a young man with the sleeve of his coat hanging loose, and that of his shirt barely disguising the fact that ke was bandaged from shoulder to wrist.

  “Sir, may I present myself? Percival Court’s the name. I overheard Gerald say that you were a man of medicine.”

  “Yes, I’m an apothecary.”

  “Oh, are you? Then I wonder if I might seek your advice regarding my arm.”

  Wishing that people wouldn’t do this to him at social gatherings, John gave a noble smile.

  “Certainly. What seems to be the trouble with it?”

  A very sheepish grin crept over Percival’s features. “Well, I’ve received a wound but have not dared consult a physician about it.”

  “Why not, damme?”

  “Because word would be bound to get back to my father. It’s from a sword.”

  “I presume you’ve been duelling?”

  “Precisely. And if he knew I swear my revered sire would disinherit me. He’s damned strait-laced about that kind of thing.”

  “But surely you could go to a doctor who doesn’t know him, someone who would be utterly discreet?”

  Percival sighed. “The trouble is everyone knows him — and me — for miles around. You see, he’s Lord Clyst.”

  John looked blank, the name meaning nothing to him. “Nonetheless … “

  Percival’s expression changed and he suddenly appeared desperate and haunted. “Please, Sir, I really do need help. The damn thing is terribly painful.”

  “You realise I haven’t got my bag with me.”

  “If you could just advise.”

  “Then let us step somewhere where we can be private and I’ll take a look at it.”

  The wound had become infected, that was the trouble. John stared in horror at a severe gash which should have been stitched immediately but was now inflamed and oozing with pus.

  “This mustn’t be left a moment longer,” he said. “You are to get into your coach and go to a physician now.”

  “But

  “There are no buts, your life might well be at stake. Have you heard of blood poisoning? Sepsis? It is fatal. For God’s sake, Percy, who did this to you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Some friend indeed! What were you quarreling about? A w
oman?”

  “In a way.”

  He wasn’t going to be drawn further, that was obvious, but the fact remained that the silly creature had to be persuaded to go for immediate treatment.

  “Don’t move!” said John with sudden authority. “There’s someone who should see this.”

  Percival opened his mouth to object but the Apothecary gave him such a dark look that he closed it again without saying a word. Glaring at him, John left the room and went to seek out his host, explaining as briefly but as clearly as he could that one of the guests was in dire peril if he did not get to a doctor very quickly indeed.

  Fitz raised his quizzer to stare. “And to which of my many foolish friends do you refer,

  “To Percival Court.”

  A truly extraordinary expression momentarily crossed Fitz’s features and John was immediately struck with the notion that his host knew far more about the incident than he was going to admit. “I see,” he said slowly.

  “I must impress on you, Gerald — I may call you that, mayn’t I … ?”

  Fitz nodded.

  “That Percival could die if he isn’t treated swiftly. Sepsis will set in and will kill him, there’s no doubt about that.”

  Fitz went pale. “I’ll speak to him at once.”

  “I’ve left him in the small ante-chamber. Please do your best to persuade him.”

  They went into the passage together but at the door, Fitz turned. “No offence, John, but I would rather speak to him privately. He’ll take more notice if no one else is present.”

  “Of course,” the Apothecary answered, and turned to go as the door closed behind Gerald Fitz. However, he did not hurry about returning to the reception, instead lingering in the corridor for several minutes. The voices coming from within were muted but just for a moment Fitz’s became distinctly audible. “I order you to go — now,” he said.