Death in the West Wind

by Deryn Lake

  “There’s more in that man’s medicine than I care to admit,” the physician had confessed to Joe.

  “I believe that,” John said now as the clerk repeated the remark. “I must write down Old Saul’s remedies before I quit Devon. He has told me so much that I really need to take written note in case I forget.”

  “A sensible idea, Sir. By the way, I’ve left Runner Raven at the house, along with the old fellow. I’ve a feeling that the widow and the Russian might still be in danger from an outside source.”

  John nodded but said nothing, a vague idea now beginning to take definite shape in his mind.

  Joe stared out of the window then made a small sound of triumph. “He’s here, the old bastard. Let’s give him ten minutes then go in.”

  “That would suit me perfectly.”

  Joe rubbed his hands together and winked. “But will it suit him I ask myself.”

  “I very much doubt it,” answered John, and laughed.

  * * *

  He was not pleased to see them, that much was certain. Thomas Northmore flashed his whalebone teeth, carefully restored to their former glory, in a snarl, and led his visitors into the parlour without saying a word.

  “Now what is it?” he asked wearily. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  Joe Jago came straight to the point. “It’s about your visit to Juliana van Guylder when she was lodging in Exeter. You said you thought the child she was expecting was yours. Yet my feeling is that she stopped having sexual relations with you some months hack. So how is this possible?”

  Thomas lowered his voice. “I’ve already told you. We were still intimate.”

  “I don’t believe you. Subsequent information leads me to assume she had met someone else with whom she had genuinely fallen in love. I think she had already dropped you. So why did you give her money?”

  The quay master wrestled with himself, obviously longing to keep his image as a great lover intact yet probably realising that it would be safer to tell the truth.

  “All right,” he said eventually, “she had left me for someone younger and richer than I, a callow boy.”

  “Did she tell you his name?”

  “No. But the child was not his. She told me that it was mine, that she was several months pregnant and it had been conceived at our last encounter.” He looked coy. “She said she needed to go to a physician in Exeter but that it would cost money. She said that she must do this or her new lover would not accept her.”

  John and Joe exchanged a look of pure amazement, both thinking of Sir Bartholomew Digby-Duckworth’s immense glee at the thought of being a father. So Juliana had just wanted money to spend on gowns. The Apothecary, who did not like the quay master at all, suddenly felt very sorry for him.

  “Did you kill her?” asked Joe in a quiet, even voice.

  “Certainly not. How dare you even suggest it.”

  “Because it would make perfect sense. An elderly lover jilted for a younger man is just the sort of person to lose his temper and kill the former object of his affections.”

  Thomas Northmore went purple in the face with fury, indeed he started to tremble with rage. “How dare you! How dare you!” he shouted, teeth gnashing.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” Mr. Fielding’s clerk answered calmly. “These questions are routine in a case of murder.”

  Thomas exploded into speech. “Damn your accusations and damn you, Sir. I’ll have you know that I am not elderly, by God. The fact is that I am in the very prime of my life.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear, whatever next,” said John Rawlings and lowered the tone of the entire proceedings by starting to laugh.

  17

  The fine weather had returned and as they approached Sidmouth they saw that the sea and the sky had performed that magical trick of blending into one, obscuring the horizon into a brush-stroke, turning the whole of that glorious seascape into a bowl of immensely delicate blue china.

  “It really is entrancing here,” said Emilia. “I shall miss Sidmouth when we have gone.”

  John could have replied that twenty-four hours ago she was bored to sobs with the whole place and was tired of walking the beach and collecting shells, but he was learning, or trying to.

  “It was so kind of you to offer to befriend the women in this case. I am sure Sarah Mullins will be delighted to see you. She has had a very hard life, you know, and yesterday was within an inch of losing it.”

  “Poor thing. Who would do such a thing to a harmless female?”

  “Someone who was ruthless enough to rape and beat Juliana to death.”

  Emilia shivered. “Will you catch him?”

  “Yes. I think he is on the point of betraying himself.”

  “I hope you won’t be in any danger.”

  “With Joe and the Runners to protect me I hardly think that that will be the case.”

  “I pray not. I’m still not used to being a wife, let alone a widow.”

  “I can assure you,” said John, with a twisted smile, “that I intend to be around a great deal longer yet.”

  They had driven across the wild heathland, passing within distant sight of Wildtor Grange, and now had started the descent into the fishing hamlet. On every side of them, encouraged by the sunshine, daffodils had opened in abundance, so that the track seemed to weave through a carpet of yellow, while the air was filled with the sound of birds” voices. John thought he had never known a lovelier spring in his life and called to Irish Tom to stop the coach for a moment so that they might look around them.

  “Do you like wild Devon?” he said to his bride.

  “It is a place to which I will always return,” she answered simply, and took his hand as the carriage slowly trundled forward again and they heard the wild high call of the sea.

  It seemed that Old Saul was still maintaining his vigil, for he answered the door to the little cottage nestling beneath the cliffs.

  “Oh, it’s you, my friend,” he said to John. “I thought it might be the man from Bow Street.”

  “He called on you, I believe.”

  “Yes, and he left one of his men here. He seemed to think that Sarah and Dmitri could be attacked again.”

  “They might well. Where is the Runner?”

  “Asleep in my place. He was awake all night so is snatching a few winks now. He told me to shout for him at the slightest sign of trouble.”

  “And Mr. Jago and the other Runner?”

  “Asking questions in Sidmouth about who saw what and when.”

  “Did you tell them about the gaffer from Exeter?”

  “I certainly did. After they’ve finished here they plan to go into the city to see if they can identify his coach.”

  “What exactly was written on its side?”

  “There was a coat of arms and some Latin words. It said something about sickness.”

  “Extraordinary,” said John, shaking his head.

  Emilia interrupted. “Shouldn’t you be looking at the invalids?”

  “Of course I should.” John picked up his apothecary’s bag. “How are they this morning, Saul?”

  “Much improved. Some while ago a sailor brought me some Moringa and from the plant I compounded an oil. There is nothing like it for rapidly healing wounds.”

  “What recipe did you use?”

  “Wax, ox fat, honey, barley, the oil and a little pulped leaves of Herb Robert. I boiled all together, made a poultice, and have bandaged them up with it. They will have healed in a few days, mark my words.”

  John put his bag down again. “Is there any point in my taking this?”

  “If you have a good tonic in there I am sure they would much appreciate it.”

  The Apothecary laughed. “You make me feel like a novice, Saul.”

  “Only because you are younger than I,” the older man answered kindly. “Now, Sir, which of them would you like to see first? I thought they might heal better if they had separate quarters so Dmitri is in my house — in my bed in fact.”


  “Then I think a quick look at Sarah, after which I’ll leave her in the company of my wife. It is the man that I really need to talk to. Is he up to answering questions?”

  Old Saul shook his head. “Not really. But I know the matter’s urgent so he’ll have to put up with it. After all, he’s young and strong.” John turned to Emilia. “Let me examine Sarah privately, then I’ll call you up. You won’t mind sitting with her, will you?”

  “I told you I wanted to be involved.”

  He kissed her cheek. “It’s good of you to offer help.”

  The wounded woman lay on her bed, as pale as the linen surrounding her, her flaming hair almost shocking against the white pillow that framed her face. Round her head where she had been so savagely hit, Old Saul had wound bandages, so that she looked like some extraordinary Egyptian relic, a body being prepared for mummification. Therefore it was almost a shock when the bright blue eyes opened suddenly and she stared at John, first in terror, then more calmly as recognition returned.

  He sat on the end of the bed. “Sarah, how are you feeling?”

  She could hardly speak but a faint whisper came in reply. “I lived, Sir, and for that God be thanked.”

  “I won’t bother you with a lot of questions, just tell me one thing. Did you see who attacked you?”

  “I caught a glimpse of him, yes. He was clad all in white and had a veiled hat upon his head which made his face invisible.”

  “The Society of Angels.” John answered. “It was one of them.”

  “I think it must have been, Sir.”

  “But you saw nothing of him, nothing that could be used to identify the man?”

  Sarah hesitated, then said, “Yes, Sir, there was one thing, though I certainly did not see his features.”

  “What?” asked John eagerly. “What was it?”

  “It was a mark of some kind, like a tattoo. It was in a strange shape and it was on the inside of his wrist where it would never normally show.”

  “What did it depict? Can you remember?”

  “Oh yes, I can remember all right. It was an angel’s wing, just one, furled up as if prior to flight.”

  The Apothecary stood up. “It must be their insignia. By God, they must be stopped, and stopped fast. They’ve done too much damage to too many people to be allowed to continue any longer.” His voice changed. “Now, would you like my wife to sit with you for a while? She’ll keep you company while I go next door to Dmitri.”

  “How is he?” whispered Sarah.

  “Improving every day,” John answered, just hoping that what he was saying was correct.

  As it turned out, he told the truth. Indeed Dmitri, tough sailor that he was, was actually sitting up in the truckle that Old Saul used for a bed. Before the Apothecary had gone up to him, he had woken jolly Dick Ham, the Runner whom Joe had left on duty, and sent him next door to protect the two women, then he and the medicine man had climbed the narrow stairs to the floor above. With Old Saul acting as interpreter, John, after asking a few general questions about the Russian’s health, came to the most vital part of the interview.

  “Dmitri, what happened that day aboard the Constantia? Can you remember what took place?”

  The Russian spoke rapidly to Old Saul.

  “He says, Sir, that it was very hot and that there was no wind. They were virtually becalmed. There were six crew in all and they were all up on deck waiting for a breeze.” Dmitri said something else and Old Saul added, “He said even though there was no wind it was a relief to get some fine weather because they’d hit a terrific storm in the Channel and both the vessel and the men had been thoroughly soaked.”

  “What happened next?” John asked.

  Once more there was an exchange in Russian, then Old Saul said, “He’s going on about how lovely it was at sea, what a wonderful aroma there was in the air. Then, he said, he saw an angel float out of the sky and land on deck.”

  “What?” John exclaimed, flabbergasted, remembering all too vividly the man who had died in his arms with the words, “Angels come.”

  “That’s what he said, my friend.”

  “Can you ask him to explain.”

  Old Saul rattled off in Russian once more. “He says he can’t. But he saw angels, more than one. They all did. They went flying with them, right over the side of the ship.”

  “Oh “zounds,” answered John wearily. “Ask him how these angels were dressed.”

  More Russian was spoken, then Saul said, “They had long white robes and huge white wings, that is all except the ones that came last. They had white coats and hats and carried in their arms the most beautiful angel of all.”

  “Dear God, was this all an hallucination or were they seeing Juliana and her killers?”

  “Perhaps a little of both,” Old Saul replied. He stopped speaking, deep in thought. “It almost sounds as if they had been smoking opium.”

  “Ask him if they had.”

  But Dmitri knew enough English to answer this. “Opium no smoke. Not good.”

  “Then what is the explanation?” said the

  Apothecary, and relapsed into a baffled silence.

  It was Old Saul who asked the key question. “What cargo was the ship carrying?”

  “Hemp. It was sold to a ropemaker in Exeter.”

  “I see. Well, that doesn’t get us much further.”

  But John wasn’t listening to him, instead repeating the words, “Hemp for making rope and canvas. Cannavis, cannabis. By God, Saul, that’s it!”

  “What?”

  “It was the cargo. If it was badly retted in the first place, which I suspect, then soaked in a storm, it would emit fumes as it dried out. And cannabis is an hallucinatory plant. The whole crew would have been affected. It’s a wonder they didn’t see the entire heavenly host with the power of those vapours. Small surprise that they jumped into the sea. The poor bastards could quite easily have believed they could fly.”

  “So the attack was all for nothing. Dmitri was too far gone to identify those who brought the dead girl aboard.”

  “Absolutely. He wouldn’t have known what was going on. But whoever assaulted him doesn’t realise that, does he.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “And therein lies our strength, my friend. For that is how we will find him, by laying a trap into which he is going to blunder well and truly.”

  “I hope I will be able to play my part,” said Old Saul stoutly.

  “You, my friend, may well prove to be the lynch-pin.”

  * * *

  The light thrown by the fire which blazed cheerfully in the snug known as The Tyger, turned Joe Jago’s hair into a burnished halo as he nodded enthusiatically to the plan that the Apothecary had just proposed to him.

  “Yes, Mr. Rawlings, it is indeed a masterly idea. But are the two wounded people up to such an ordeal — or should I say ordeals?”

  “Fortunately they were both fine physical specimens before they were attacked, and this strength has stood them in good stead. If we treat them carefully I am quite sure that they will be able to cope with the situation.”

  “But the first plan necessitates them leaving home and coming to Topsham.”

  “I will send Irish Tom to drive them and Old Saul and I will be with them if they should feel at all ill.”

  “But the fact that the man was hallucinating? That he couldn’t, in reality, give reliable evidence?”

  “As he speaks very little English, Old Saul will translate. He can hold our audience in suspense, mark my words. But, Joe, don’t forget the woman. The tattoo she saw may hold the key to the identity of Juliana’s murderer.”

  “Then, Mr. Rawlings,” said Joe Jago, “I suggest we put both schemes into action as soon as possible. Tomorrow, in my official capacity, I shall invite Jan van Guylder, Tobias Wills, Thomas Northmore and Sir Bartholomew Digby-Duckworth to attend us here at The Salutation, on the evening following.”

  “I think you should add Sir Clovelly Lovell to tha
t list. He can look after poor old Barty, as he calls him, and will add weight to the occasion.”

  “In every way.”

  John smiled. “Yes, in every way.”

  “And the other plan?”

  “We must be more subtle about that and set it up with care.”

  “Indeed we must, for that night we should catch a murderer.”

  “No more talk of murder,” said Emilia, coming into The Tyger, looking very lovely in her dining gown. “Tonight we must celebrate my clever husband’s ingenuity in solving the riddle of the Constantia.”

  “Well said, Mrs. Rawlings,” answered Joe. “I think we can indeed safely forget why we are here and devote ourselves to having a thoroughly good evening.”

  “Did they really believe they saw angels?” asked Emilia as the three of them went in to dine.

  “Who knows?” answered John. “It is even possible that they actually did.”

  18

  It was bizarre, considered John. Seated side by side, neither ever having cast eyes upon the other, were two men both of whom laid claim to being the affianced husband of Juliana van Guylder. Further, the man who thought himself to be the father of her child was sitting on the other side of the old chap who confidently believed that he himself had sired it. What a tangle of manners — or rather lack of them — the Apothecary thought. As convoluted and corrupt as those of any London belle of fashion. For what a promiscuous little bitch the dead girl had been. It was only tragic that this night her father would be subjected to the ordeal of hearing just how unsavoury her behaviour had become in the time leading up to her murder. Yet, despite that, Jan van Guylder was himself one of the suspects and therefore could not be excluded from the meeting.