by Deryn Lake
“Never mind.” John glanced at his watch. “If I come with you I must be very quick. My wife is waiting for me at The Bridge.”
“How long will it take you to tell me your plan to capture the Angels?”
“Elizabeth,” said John, seizing her by the shoulders, “I don’t think Joe Jago wants anyone else involved in this.”
“There is no force on earth that would keep me out of it,” she answered vigorously, and with that put her foot in the stirrup and set off at speed in the direction of Wildtor Grange.
* * *
He caught up with her at the stables, a massive block of buildings surrounding a cobbled courtyard, lying directly behind the big house but slightly to the north east, thus ensuring that the moist west wind would carry the smells away from the residence. Here, once, had struggled hostlers and coachmen and tack boys, all busy about the task of keeping the place running. Now it was empty and silent, only the stamp of the Marchesa’s horse as it moved in its loose box breaking the intense quiet. Elizabeth saw him coming and directed him to a mounting block and held his reins for him while he dismounted.
“The most beautiful hostler in the world,” said John.
She gave him another smile of great charm but did not answer, merely taking his hand and leading him over to the second largest coach house. For the second time that day the pair of them tugged on massive doors, then walked into the dim interior that lay beyond. But this place was as nothing compared with the boathouse of torture and despair, even though the white coach gave John a chill when he first looked at it.
“So this is how they travel the countryside frightening everyone to death.”
“Yes, the little beasts.”
“Have you looked inside?”
“No,” Elizabeth answered boldly, and, marching over, climbed onto the coach’s step and peered through the window. Then she screamed and stared at him in anguish. In a second John was at her side, gazing in over her shoulder. Just for a moment he thought he had seen the most horrible sight that day, for a decapitated head, still wearing its hat, lay on the floor, a jagged and bloody cut at the neck where it had been severed from its body. Then he laughed.
Elizabeth gazed at him in horror. “What are you doing?”
“Laughing, my dear Marchesa, at a bit of pure theatre. It’s the thing that the coachman had sitting next to him. Allow me.” And with that he opened the carriage door, went inside and picked the head up. “Ugly looking brute,” he said, staring into its sightless eyes.
“Show me.”
“Here. I’ve a mind to send it through the post to our friend, Simon Paris.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Elizabeth answered determinedly. “I’ll deliver it to his house tonight and leave it sitting on the railings.”
“How can I ever stop you putting yourself in danger?” John asked with a note of despair.
“That you never will,” she answered, and it was her turn to laugh at his aggrieved expression.
Very slightly annoyed with her, the Apothecary began to examine the coach’s interior, not really hoping to find anything but feeling that it was sensible to look while he had the opportunity to do so. Without much enthusiasm, having found nothing of interest on his initial search, he raised the coach’s seat, only to discover that it was hollow beneath. Putting his arm in, he felt around, and his fingers came in contact with a leather bag. Grunting slightly, he pulled it out.
“What have you got?”
“I don’t know yet.” With a feeling of trepidation John opened the bag and looked inside. Another bag lay within, this one filled with tiny white grains. Dipping in a finger, the Apothecary licked it.
“Well?”
“Opium. No doubt to be sold to those seedy houses in which it is smoked or for those who wish to take it to try its odd effects for themselves.”
“So that is what they are smuggling. Would it be worth a great deal of money?”
“A considerable amount, certainly.”
“Then they will come back here for it.”
“If you are planning to catch them in the act, forget it. I intend to remove it straight away.”
“But they won’t know that.”
“Elizabeth, stop it. Promise me you won’t set a trap for them. It’s too dangerous for a woman on her own.”
“I promise on one condition. That you tell me of your plan to catch Juliana’s murderers.”
“You are blackmailing me.”
“Yes, I know.” She kissed him, very lightly and without passion. “So?”
“Well,” answered John, whispering in the coach’s gloomy interior. “It’s going to start like this …”
20
It was a very public farewell. Drawn up on the quay, quite close to the stagecoach that ran between Exeter and Topsham on a regular basis, was the coach that had carried Joe Jago, Nick Raven and Dick Ham to the West Country. Standing beside it were its three passengers, long-faced at the prospect of leaving a job unfinished, obviously sad that they must depart from friends old and new, clearly uncomfortable that they had failed in their quest to find the killers of Juliana van Guylder.
For the return journey the carriage that had journeyed all the way from Bow Street in London had been cleaned, removing all traces of the good red earth of Devon, while the horses, well-rested and groomed, jingled their harness as they awaited the order that would start them on their way homewards. But first the ritual of leave-taking had to be carried out.
Joe Jago, suitably solemn in sage green, a colour that became his vivid hair, was bowing to all and sundry.
“Mrs. Rawlings, gentlemen, I cannot tell you how distressed I am to abandon you like this. But, alas, the call for return has come from Mr. Fielding himself. To leave a case unsolved is a slur on the reputation of the Runners and myself.” He sighed deeply. “But there is no help for it. Go we must and go immediately.”
John spoke. “This is a very worrying development because Emilia and I must also depart, probably tomorrow or the next day. My shop can no longer manage without me.” He turned towards William Haycraft, who was wearing his best suit of dark grey serge for the occasion.
“But we know that we can rely on you, my good Sir, to bring the guilty to book.”
The constable looked dubious. “I’ll do my very best. The trouble is that I have no men at my disposal.”
Joe gave an over-hearty laugh which rang out so loudly on the morning air that several people looked round. “A man of your calibre, Sir, is worth a dozen, believe me.”
William appeared uneasy. “It is kind of you to say so but I am only too conscious of my limited resources.”
There was an uncomfortable silence broken by Jan van Guylder, who hovered on the edge of the little group. “This is a sad day, Mr. Jago. I had thought in my simplicity that the great men of London would solve this terrible crime. But it was not to be.” He turned to the constable. “Believe me, “ Mr. Haycraft, I will do everything in my power to assist you.”
There was another lull in conversation, broken by Joe Jago, whose voice this morning seemed unusually loud. “Gentlemen, we waste time. We have many miles to cover today. I apologise once more and bid you all farewell.” He bowed and the other men did likewise, then the clerk raised Emilia’s hand to his lips. “Mrs. Rawlings, what can I say? Your company has been a delight. My only wish is that this wretched business has not ruined your honeymoon. Runners Ham and Raven, we must away.”
Moving together, the two men, clearly keen to take the road, ran to the coach, one climbing onto the coachman’s box, the other holding the door open for Mr. Fielding’s clerk. At this Jan van Guylder let out a cry of anguish which he attempted to muffle as passers-by stared. Richard Ham, the driver, cracked his whip and Joe Jago stuck his head out of the window.
“May good fortune attend you,” he shouted, and waved his hand until the coach had vanished into the distance on the Exeter Road.
* * *
The next day, almost at the sa
me time of morning, the scene was repeated, only on this occasion it was the turn of the Apothecary and his wife to leave the town of Topsham. Again, William Haycraft, looking mournful beyond belief, was there to wave them farewell, as was Jan van Guylder and Tobias Wills, both of whom, despite the troubles that the pair had brought in their wake, seemed sorry to see them go.
“Does this mean that the mystery will remain unsolved?” Tobias asked in disbelief.
“No,” John answered cheerily, “Constable Haycraft is still on the case.”
“But he is one man against so many.”
“I am sure he will manage,” the Apothecary replied with a confident air, and handed his wife into the waiting conveyance.
“Where to, Sir?” called Irish Tom at the top of his voice.
“To London,” John answered with gusto, and stepping into the coach, waved his farewells until he, too, was just a small speck in the distance.
Looking bereft, Jan van Guylder and the man who would have been his son-in-law had affairs turned out differently, walked into a nearby hostelry and there discussed the departure of all” those who had been investigating the murder of the girl who had been so dear to both of them not even noticing the slight young man who rose from his place in the corner and headed outside in the direction of the Exeter coach.
* * *
Once a week the London to Exeter stagecoach carried foreign mail bound for Lisbon, which was then taken to Falmouth and shipped out on a Saturday morning by packet, should such a vessel be waiting in Falmouth harbour. Consequently, passengers bound for the wild reaches of Cornwall could either change at Exeter and wait for this weekly stage, or catch it in London, preparing themselves for a monumentally long journey when they did so. Leaving the Gloucester Coffee House, Piccadilly, at four a.m. they could, if they were agreeable to sleeping in the coach and not putting up at an inn, reach Exeter just before ten o’clock on the following evening. However, this was not for the faint hearted and most passengers preferred to travel at a more leisurely pace, even though it took longer. Further, there were not many who elected to undertake the treacherous journey to Cornwall and the coach usually cleared out at Exeter. As for the return, the stage was often empty.
On this particular day, however, a Cornish sea captain and his wife, who desired to shop in Exeter, were aboard, and at Newton Abbot three more people got in. They were men, all rather rugged looking, in the driver’s opinion. None wore wigs, one having a head full of tight red curls, another very dark and slightly foreign in appearance, the third a big, blond, jolly fellow. When asked if they were going to Exeter the reply was negative.
“Put us down at the Halfway House inn. We’re to meet someone there.”
So they were duly dropped off, their dues having been paid in advance, and were last seen heading into that remotest of hostelries, carrying no luggage whatsoever. Sometime later, in fact during the morning of the following day, a young couple came by trap, hired from a Honiton farmer, and were deposited at the same place, where they paid the farmer off and went within. The landlord, delighted by this sudden rush of custom to his out-of-the-way establishment, supposedly situated half way between London and Falmouth, though nobody really believed that, was pleased when this group of strangers appeared to get on well together. Indeed, such a good companionship was struck up that they ordered refreshments to be served in his one and only private room, where he could hear them chatting whenever he passed the door, though the words themselves were not audible.
“Well, so far, so good,” said Joe Jago, rubbing his hands together.
“Were you seen at all?”
“Definitely not. We turned off the road just outside Exeter and proceeded to Newton Abbot via the rough country near Dartmoor. We crossed the river by horse ferry, one big enough to get the carriage on.”
“Where have you stabled it?”
“In Newton Abbot. What about yourselves?”
“We left the coach in Honiton in the care of Irish Tom. He’s a good man but gets too carried away in a mill so I thought it best to keep him at a safe distance,” John answered. He leant forward. “When do we put the plan into action?”
“Tonight. It’s my guess that they won’t hold fire once they think we’re all gone. You, Mr. Rawlings, and Runner Raven are to protect the widow, Dick and I will remain with Dmitri. Old Saul is to act as decoy by leaving the house and walking towards the tavern in a marked manner.”
“Supposing he is attacked?”
“Constable Haycraft has agreed to pose as a drunken fisherman sleeping it off on the beach. At the first sign of trouble he has been instructed to go to Saul’s aid.”
“Have we enough people? The Angels in force represent quite a lot of armed men.”
“We will have the element of surprise on our side. And remember that they can’t crowd into those fishermen’s cottages in a body. The buildings are far too small. With any luck we will be able to pick them off one by one.”
“I hope it happens tonight,” John said. “I want to get it over.”
“As do we all,” added Emilia with feeling. “You will be careful, won’t you. Everyone of you I mean.”
There was a chorus of not altogether convincing agreement, then her husband asked another question. “Jan van Guylder was aware of what was going on. You don’t think he will show up, do you?”
“I doubt it,” the clerk answered him. “He is only vaguely aware of the details. He knew that our leaving was a blind but was far from certain what the next step was. By the way, he has seemed much better of late.”
“That’s since his talk to my wife, who has had as good an effect as any tonic I could have prescribed him.”
Runner Raven, sipping canary, his dark eyes gleaming over the rim, said, “What did you say to him, Mrs. Rawlings?”
“Actually he did most of the talking. He was telling me about a Mrs. Kitty, a sailor’s widow who works in the brothel in Exeter because she has three young children to rear and has no other source of income. He told me that he loved her but could not make her his wife by reason of losing the good opinion of the society in which he mingles. Oh, in case you didn’t know, he was with her on the day Juliana was murdered.”
Joe grinned. “He did admit as much to me, under some duress I might add. Anyway, what did you advise him?”
“To marry her and take her and her children back to Holland with him where nobody would know anything about her. He has business interests out there, so I don’t see why not,” she added a shade defiantly.
“Good plan,” answered Joe succinctly. “It would give him something to live for. Let it be hoped that he has the good sense to defy convention and follow through.”
“He’s certainly thinking about it. He says there is nothing to hold him in Topsham any longer.”
Dick Ham spoke up. “What are our instructions if the attack happens, Mr. Jago? Do we shoot to kill?”
“No, to wound only. We must get statements out of them. We still don’t know if somebody financed Juliana’s killing. Further, light must be thrown on Richard’s suicide. A dead man can tell us nothing, remember. The only circumstance in which you can kill an attacker is if he is about to kill you. Now, as soon as it is dark we set forth. So not much more to drink, lads. It might spoil your aim.”
“How are we going to get there?” asked John.
“All arranged. William Haycraft is coming for us with his largest cart.”
“I think it’s exciting,” said the Apothecary.
“I think it’s frightening,” answered his wife.
* * *
It was a little nerve-racking, John had to admit, as they left the hostelry aglow with candles and plunged down the treacherous track and into the darkness. Overhead, the great sweep of sky which seems to stretch forever in the mysterious county of Devon, was the colour of stained glass, the deep blue that comes just before it turns to ebony. The first star was out and other pinpoints of light were beginning to appear. In the distance he could
hear the slow murmur of the sea, which, in his fancy, was singing to the stars, the mermaids joining in, calling on them to shine and light the waves. He was in far too poetic a mood, John felt, for a night that could, if the attacker rose to the bait, end in death and bloodshed. For despite all that Joe Jago had said, the Apothecary knew that his finger would tremble on the trigger if he discovered which of them had tortured a helpless girl and beaten her to her death.
They spoke in whispers, lying on the floor of the cart, concealed by sacks, these last pulled over their faces as William drove down the single street, past The Ship and habitation. Then the wheels crunched the shingle and drew to a halt.
“Best go on foot from here,” murmured the constable. “If the cart is parked too near the cottages it might arouse suspicion.”
“Is there anybody about?” asked Joe. “Anybody at all?”
“No, the place is deserted. The fishing boats are beached and they are all in the alehouse.”
“There’s nobody hiding?”
“No one at all.”
“Then, my lads,” ordered Mr. Fielding’s representative, “let us go.”
They piled out of the cart, landing on the wet sand, which clung round their feet. The tide was going out and there was driftwood and seaweed on the beach. Picking their way through it, the five men silently walked to where Sarah’s cottage and that of Old Saul blazed with candlelight, gleaming far more than they normally would, hoping to attract those sinister moths of the night who might later come out to see what was afoot.
Joe spoke very quietly. “Now, each of you to your post. William, where are you going to be?”
“Over by that rock. I’ve borrowed some clothes and have hidden some fish to rub on my skin.” He chuckled, a rather odd sound in the tension of that night. “I have to smell right if I am to convince anybody.”
