Death at the Wedding Feast jr-14

by Deryn Lake

  Sir Clovelly’s jowls positively trembled. ‘Really? Is that a fact? It’s not just the wretched physician trying to frighten one?’

  ‘No Sir, it is true alas.’

  Sir Clovelly hastily swigged down his port then handed the glass to the Apothecary. ‘Here, you take this. And ration me to a glass an hour if you would be so good.’

  ‘I will gladly do so, Sir.’

  But all the time he was speaking John’s mind was turning over what Sir Clovelly had told him. Could the assassins possibly have known the fat old fellow and realized that he was not on their list? It looked extremely like it. But then, he thought, they would had to have been local men. Unless the cold brain behind the killings had had them brought down from London. But in either event it seemed that their victims had not been chosen at random. That some kind of organized inventory had been at work.

  He came back to attention as Sir Clovelly let out a great sigh. ‘You promise to come and see me again, dear boy. I think all this resting is going to become monotonous.’

  ‘May I suggest, Sir, that a little gentle exercise might help you to overcome your condition. Perhaps a turn or two round the green or a quiet stroll by the river. I think they would do you the world of good.’

  ‘Really? Then I shall start tomorrow. Indeed I will. So I think I’ll just have a final drink to toast that. If you would be so good as to fill my glass, my dear.’

  Having left Sir Clovelly’s house John decided, on a whim, to make his way into the cathedral, a place which to his shame he had not visited before. Immediately as he entered through the mighty doors the feeling came over him of quiet, of tremendous peace. Just for a moment John felt his cares float away as he looked around him.

  Dominating the whole thing was the great East Window, parts of it medieval, a vivid flash of colour on a sombre afternoon. As John approached it a hidden organist burst forth with a voluntary, the sounds of which tore the Apothecary’s heart from his body. At least that is how it felt. In a weakened state he sat down in a pew and studied the various saints portrayed in stained glass, including St Sidwell, whose waif-like looks and tumble of fair hair particularly appealed to him. With the music of the voluntary filling the entire building he got up again and wandered round, noticing the number of strange heads surrounded by foliage that were carved everywhere. He had always supposed them to be pagan, a fertility symbol most probably, but they had crept into Christian architecture and were extremely well represented in Exeter cathedral, to say the very least.

  He walked down a side aisle, looking at the various tombs, realizing as he did so that the whole building was ancient in the extreme, that it dated back to Norman times and earlier. With a strange feeling of calmness he turned back to glance at the glorious East Window once more — and then he spotted a familiar figure. On her knees, crouched in a pew, eyes closed and lips mumbling silently, was Mrs Cushen. It was an opportunity too good to be missed. John silently slid into the pew behind her.

  She must have sensed his presence because her head suddenly shot up and she glanced over her shoulder. For a second he had a feeling that he was looking on something raw with pain, then Mrs Cushen collected herself and grimaced at him.

  ‘Oh gracious how you startled me. Fancy seeing you here, Mr Rawlings.’

  John assumed his honest face. ‘I came in to seek a little solace after yesterday’s terrible happenings.’

  ‘I too. Oh what a dreadful experience it was. My poor husband is lying in bed, suffering from shock. The whole affair has quite unhinged him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘And I believe that the Countess has taken it very badly. Oh, it is such a sad thing.’

  The familiar sentences rung round John’s ears, but looking deep into Mrs Cushen’s face he could see the poor woman actually was in deep distress. He wondered why. Had one of the victims meant more to her than he had previously thought?

  He said, ‘This is hardly a suitable environment for conversation. May I escort you to a teashop where we can talk more freely?’

  She opened her eyes very wide and the Apothecary sensed her panic. ‘No, no thank you. I really would prefer to remain here for a while. I am praying for those who lost their lives, you see.’

  ‘Of course. I do beg your pardon for disturbing you. Forgive me.’

  ‘Naturally. Farewell, Mr Rawlings.’

  And she bent her head, closed her eyes, and raised two hands in front of her. John rose and with one final look at the East Window — from which, or so it seemed to him, Saint Sidwell flashed him a grin — he left the building and for a moment or two stood uncertainly. Then, overcome with the need to use the facilities, he hurried into The Blackamore’s Head where, holding forth loudly and as drunk as a fiddler’s whore, was Lord George Beauvoir. John hurried outside to the bog house, and when he returned it was to see George come crashing down towards the floor.

  ‘Is he drunk?’ he asked a fellow standing at the bar, watching the proceedings with interest.

  ‘Drunk?’ chortled the other. ‘Why, you could hang him on a line for a week and he’d never know the difference. Why, do you know him?’

  ‘Never seen him before in my life,’ lied John cheerfully, and whilst ordering his pint of ale observed George being picked up by the shoulders and feet and hurled into the street outside.

  Having downed his drink, the Apothecary set forth to call on Toby Miller who lived a short distance away. But he never got there because he had only walked a step or two when he saw the Constable coming towards him.

  ‘Constable Miller,’ he called.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rawlings. I was just on my way to call on Mr James and offer him my condolences. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Very much indeed.’

  They made their way down to the river where some delightful small villas had been built overlooking the great waterway. John thought it a fine place for a gossip and a farter to dwell, but was disappointed when they turned into a small alleyway which backed on to the pretty houses.

  Toby looked in his notebook. ‘This is it. Number Three, River Row.’

  He knocked on the door which was answered by a scowling hag. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr James, if it is convenient.’

  ‘Well it ain’t,’ she answered, and was about to slam the door in their faces when a faint voice called from within, ‘Who is it, Gertrude?’

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, displaying a rotten brown tooth that hung quivering on her upper set.

  ‘Constable Miller and Apothecary Rawlings,’ replied Toby formally.

  ‘I heard that,’ called the distant voice. ‘Show them in, Gertie.’

  Reluctantly she opened the door a couple of inches. ‘He’s in,’ she said, and fixed them with a beady, beastly eye as they made their way up a dark and dusty staircase.

  Twenty-One

  Mr James had pulled himself out of bed and into an ancient armchair by the time they entered the room. He had a rather grubby blanket wrapped round him and was almost bent in half, snuggling into it. He looked thoroughly decrepit but in fact, thought the Apothecary, peering into his face, he was probably little more than fifty and far from stupid.

  Tobias Miller broke the silence. ‘I am so very sorry, Sir, that your wife has been called to her Maker. The whole thing is a complete tragedy.’

  Mr James straightened slightly. ‘Yes, my heart is broken. Though, to be honest, she was rarely at home. Her social life, you know. Always flitting from one place to another. But she moved in good circles, I can tell you.’ His eyes swivelled round to John, who noticed that they were a strange colour, a type of river grey. ‘I presume that you are the apothecary that was mentioned.’

  ‘You presume correctly, Sir. That is my profession.’

  Mr James suddenly pulled the blanket up over his face and began to moan, rocking himself to and fro like a forlorn child.

  Toby and John exchanged a glance of surprise before John stepped forward an
d gently put down a hand. ‘Hush, Sir, please do. I know you are in the depths of mourning but try to brace up.’

  The blanket was lowered very slightly so that the pair of eyes became visible — and what anguish in their depths. ‘How can I brace up? I am in mourning for all of my life as well as that of poor Lettice, shot by some thug on a whim. Oh God, I might as well be dead myself.’

  At this moment the poor fellow voided some wind with such a loud explosion that John found himself in the unfortunate position of wanting to laugh. Constable Miller however kept a straight face.

  ‘That’s as may be, Sir. But I am afraid I am here on official business and I have to ask you some questions.’

  There was no reply as Mr James hid once more behind the blanket.

  Tobias Miller came as near to losing control as John had ever seen him. ‘Mr James,’ he thundered, ‘for God’s sake act your age. You can’t revert to babyhood unless you are a total idiot, in which case you should be committed to an asylum. Now what is your Christian name?’

  The man slowly sat up straight. ‘My name is Geoffrey James and I am a merchant of Exeter. Indeed I have been one for many a long year.’

  ‘And what do you deal in?’

  ‘Spices. I import them from the Indies and distribute them to my many customers.’

  ‘And how can someone of your importance behave as you are doing? Wrapping yourself in a blanket and behaving like a child. For shame.’

  ‘I think you are addressing me out of turn. I suggest you apologize,’ Geoffrey answered, slowly getting out of his chair.

  John decided that this was the moment to intervene. He put on his sympathetic but professional manner. ‘My dear Mr James, I am actually here to offer you some help. Your late wife mentioned to me — in the strictest confidence of course — that you suffer badly with flatulence. I think I can procure a cure — forgive the pun.’

  The grey eyes looked at him with bored resignation. ‘I have had quacks treating me for years. All to no effect.’ As if to prove the point he voided wind thunderously once more.

  ‘What have they prescribed?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Geoffrey answered sadly. ‘All sorts of things. I couldn’t name them.’

  ‘Tell me, are onions included in your diet.’

  ‘Yes, I do like a boiled onion. I must admit I do.’

  ‘Well, I should give that up for a start. Have you had a clyster?’

  ‘Not in a while. I don’t like the things.’

  ‘Nobody does. But you must persevere. I am going to prescribe for you a weekly washout with the combined flowers of Melilot and Chamomile together with a half a dram of the powdered root of Lovage, taken by mouth once a day. You will find it very warming and further it actually dissolves wind.’

  Mr James heaved a sigh. ‘If you think it will do any good.’

  ‘I most certainly do, Sir. I shall call on your tomorrow with an apothecary’s boy to administer the purge. And now, Sir, may I suggest that you retire to bed. You are obviously worn out with sorrow. At what time would you like me to arrive?’

  Somehow John managed to glance at Toby unseen and the Constable picked up his cue. ‘I can see, Sir, that you are not well enough to answer questions today. I too will return tomorrow at the time you wish.’

  Geoffrey nodded with affected weariness. ‘That would suit me better. You can fix the times with Gertrude. But please don’t come together.’

  They bowed their way out and walked down the street and straight into a tavern.

  ‘That,’ said Toby Miller, ‘was one of the most awkward interviews of my life.’

  ‘I think the man is in genuine grief. He looks utterly careworn — and as for his distressing and odorous complaint. It would be enough to try the nerves of any human being,’ John answered, and drank the strong jigger of gin he had ordered.

  An hour later the Apothecary got into the coach which had been waiting for him, but instead of going straight to Elizabeth’s home went to see his patient, Felicity, at Sidmouth House. He found her feverish but making good progress. The surgeon from Exeter, Alexander Perkins, had removed the bullet and spent the night at Sidmouth House. Indeed he had only just returned home, and the Apothecary found Felicity dropping off to sleep when he entered her bedroom accompanied by her mother. On examining her arm he found it bandaged. Very carefully John raised the wound to his nostrils and sniffed.

  ‘The surgeon has spread it with a different paste from the one I used.’

  ‘Alehoof,’ answered Lady Sidmouth. ‘I keep a supply of it in my medicine chest. When I am running low I get a fresh batch from the apothecary in Exeter.’

  ‘Very wise. And clever of Mr Perkins to use it.’

  ‘I think he is a very clever young man,’ said Lady Sidmouth pointedly, looking in Felicity’s direction.

  At that moment there was a noise downstairs and the mistress of the house was called urgently to settle some minor dispute in the kitchens. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Felicity patted the bedcover.

  ‘Pray sit here, Mr Rawlings. There is something I want to tell you that nobody else must hear.’

  John sat, agog.

  ‘Last night you can remember the confusion and noise. Well, after you and everybody else had eventually left, my mother insisted that I go to my bedroom and lie down, awaiting Mr Perkins’ arrival. But I could not sleep. My arm was throbbing and hurting so much and the room felt hot and oppressive. Anyway, to come to the point, I decided to disobey her and take a turn round the gardens. I walked to where the lawns begin, where they sweep down to the sea. And there, on the beach below — it is only visible at low tide so you may not have noticed it — I saw two distant figures. I could not recognize who they were but they were walking close together and they kissed from time to time. They must have been connected with our house because there is no other way down to the beach. I know it was probably two of the servants but nonetheless it gave me quite a start.’

  ‘You didn’t recognize them at all? Was there nothing that gave you any clue?’

  ‘No, except that…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Except that the woman had something on her head — a scarf of some kind I think — that blew out from time to time on the wind.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about this? It wasn’t by any chance the two assassins?’

  ‘No, these two people were shaped differently. It most certainly wasn’t them.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Apothecary, and sat silently, thinking.

  The sound of Lady Sidmouth returning had him leaping up again and examining Felicity’s arm once more.

  ‘Well, Mr Rawlings, and what is your prognosis?’

  ‘In bed for a few days, then up and taking a little gentle exercise. Particularly of the arm. In short, Felicity should keep using it. But I am sure that Mr Perkins has said this to you already.’

  ‘He certainly has. He will be calling again tomorrow.’ She looked at Felicity, who went very pink.

  ‘Then there will be no need for me to return except for a social call. I am sure Elizabeth will be visiting soon.’

  John took his leave, filled with thought. He could picture the couple walking in the moonlight, dark shapes alone on that small beach that only appeared when the tide was out. They must have climbed the wooden staircase back to the house, then parted to go — where? Had they only been servants as Felicity had wondered or had there been something altogether more sinister about their tryst? All the way back to Elizabeth’s house he turned the matter over and over in his mind but could come to no conclusions whatsoever.

  That night he dreamed such a dream. He was on a strip of sand, walking behind the couple who constantly eluded him. For however much he increased his pace they always remained at the same distance in front of him. He could hear them laughing quietly and he watched the girl’s scarf blow out in the wind, taking off over her head as if she would fly away with it. The couple reached the end of the beach and turned to go back in the
other direction and the Apothecary, rather than being able to see their faces, felt that he had to turn too. So now he walked in front of them and he heard them both pursuing him. He broke into a run but whichever way he went he knew that they were right behind him. In the end he was so terrified that he ran into the sea and swam out a little way. But the sea was black and cold and hateful, and the moon had gone in. Down he went, down and down into the inky depths, then he gave the most almighty scream and woke up.

  He was alone in the big bedroom and the door was open. Elizabeth must have got up to see to the twins, as was her custom despite the nursery maids. Still feeling nervous because of the dream, John got out of bed and pulled on a nightrail. He crossed to the window and looked out and suddenly he had a mental picture of Rose and Sir Gabriel. It was quite distinct. Sir Gabriel was fetching her from school and she was greeting him with radiant eyes and a glowing complexion. She was happy, John felt certain of it, yet as always when he thought of his daughter he had a longing to see her. He wondered whether to get a flying coach to London and go home for a while, leaving the investigation in the hands of Constable Miller, a most able man in John’s view.

  Yet there were so many things that just didn’t add up. The two men dressed as women, ready to kill, yet holding back from Sir Clovelly Lovell; the thread of red hair; Mrs Cushen’s strangely fearful manner in the Cathedral; sad Geoffrey James behaving like a baby; and lastly Felicity’s strange sighting of two people walking on the beach below her. What did any of it mean? Were the incidents even related? Shaking his head, the Apothecary went downstairs to find something to eat and drink in a hope that this would finally get him off to sleep peacefully.

  Twenty-Two

  His appointment with the extremely miserable Mr James, who had given John some cause for concern in the hours of wakefulness he had had the night before, was not until two o’clock. Therefore the Apothecary decided to put the morning to some use and make a call at the home of the late Mr Meakin, the third person to die in the shooting affray.