Death in the West Wind

by Deryn Lake

  “Him and another, Sir Clovelly, I had the most preposterous conversation today which I would very much like to repeat to you.”

  “Then step into my library, my boy, and we’ll discuss it over a bumper or two. A most valuable asset when it comes to sharpening the brain. Or so I’ve always found.”

  Not quite certain that it would have the same effect on him, having breakfasted hours earlier and hurriedly at that, John sipped at his glass as he told his host, who listened in total silence, not only the story of his meeting with Daniel but also about Juliana’s connection with Tobias Wills and Thomas Northmore.

  Eventually Sir Clovelly nodded. “It is becoming quite obvious to me that the girl was little better than a doll common.”

  “Reluctant though I am to admit it for the sake of her father, I think you are right, Sir.”

  “And you say that her brother shot himself and that one of Mr. Fielding’s men believes it was he who killed his own sister?”

  John sighed. “Yes.”

  “Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. There were the marks of at least two assailants on her. But it seems to me she could have made so many enemies, had so many different men on a string, that any two of them might have conspired together to bring about her end.”

  Sir Clovelly looked thoughtful. “I wonder.”

  “What, Sir?”

  “About old Sir Barty. He wouldn’t take too kindly to his honour being impugned.”

  “Could you tell me something about him.”

  “Known him for years. Nice chap. Rich as Croesus, part of the banking family of course. He’s retired from business affairs now, though. His son runs the bank and, in time, his grandson will take over I suppose, though I can’t say I’d trust him with my money, empty-headed young fool.”

  “Sir Barty’s a widower, I take it.”

  “Heavens yes. Edith died years ago. He never seemed to be very interested in women after that but obviously this young doxy has wormed her way in.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventy-eight.”

  “And she eighteen. What a situation.”

  Sir Clovelly shook his head knowingly, his plump cheeks swaying very slightly. “Men with money can buy almost anything. He has bought youth and beauty to warm his bed at night.”

  “Do you think he is still potent? Could he possibly be the father of her child?”

  The older man looked dubious. “You are an apothecary, you should know more about that than I. No, my guess is that someone else has done the deed but that she will foist the infant on to him, much to the old fellow’s eternal delight.”

  “That will cause ructions within the family.”

  “Won’t it indeed.” Sir Clovelly sank a bumper. “What say you John that we stroll in that direction and call on the old fellow? Lady Lovell never stops telling me that I need to take more exercise.”

  “Won’t he be in mourning?”

  “Privately perhaps but publicly my guess is no. I imagine that the fact of his forthcoming nuptials was shrouded in secrecy. They were probably quietly going to one of those churches where the officiant asks no questions.”

  “What defeats me,” said John, forgetting himself and taking a large mouthful of wine, “is what she intended to do about Tobias Wills. Apparently they had been betrothed for some time.”

  “I reckon she intended to present him with a fait accompli with the rest of her friends and family.”

  “What about Gerald Fitz? According to Tobias, Juliana was in love with him.”

  “Perhaps the cries of her heart were stilled by the chink of money bags.”

  “How aptly put. And in answer to your earlier question, Sir, I would very much like to call on Sir Bartholomew.”

  “Then so we shall. I am as anxious as you are to see how this all turns out.”

  * * *

  It was a fine afternoon, indeed rather warm, and Sir Clovelly puffed and panted and complained about his legs as they turned out of The Close and, cutting up St. Martyn Lane, made their way into High Street, going towards the East Gate. This they passed through but not before Sir Clovelly had called into The Dragon Inn for rest and refreshment. Then, admitting to feeling somewhat better, he trundled towards Long Brook Street and the fine house built close to the bowling green in which resided Sir Bartholomew Digby-Duckworth.

  Outside the city wall there were trees and fields and a rural aspect, and John concluded that it must be considered a most desirable neighbourhood in which to live, so close to town life and yet in far more pleasant surroundings. Small wonder, then, that Juliana van Guylder had decided that this would be her future home. For though Tobias

  Wills’s house was splendid, Topsham life would inevitably seem dull in comparison with the delights of the city.

  As they approached the mansion from the lane, John was frankly astonished to see the scale of the place. Passing through a gateway he found himself in a large courtyard, a garden to his left, most well tended, and built round this area of green, various buildings housing kitchens and pantries together with a brewhouse and larder. A great oaken door lay ahead of them upon which Sir Clovelly most vigorously knocked, probably thinking about the refreshments that lay within.

  Not one, but two footmen answered and ushered them inside a long and spacious passageway, to the left of which lay a small reception parlour. Opposite this and leading off to the right was a huge hall in one corner of which was a spiral staircase climbing to a balcony above. This balcony ran all the way round the room and was one of the most unusual architectural features the Apothecary had ever seen. However, he had no time to study it as he and Sir Clovelly were ushered into the parlour while Sir Bartholomew was informed of their arrival. A few moments later one of the footmen returned.

  “Sir Bartholomew will receive you in the large parlour, gentlemen. If you would be good enough to follow me.”

  They proceeded down the corridor, past a series of windows overlooking yet another courtyard surrounded by further kitchens and storehouses.

  “It’s like a palace,” whispered John. “How many people does he entertain at a time?”

  “In the old days of balls and receptions it was dozens. Now he simply sees a few close friends.”

  “I feel sure his future wife planned to change all that.”

  “I’ll wager she did indeed.”

  They had turned right down yet another passageway then paused before two large doors which the footman flung open. “Sir Clovelly Lovell and Mr. John Rawlings,” he announced.

  “Greetings, my friends,” said a voice from a high backed chair, and its occupant half rose to welcome his guests.

  He was incredibly fragile, John thought, a whispering shadow of a man; thin and old and transparent of skin. He looked as if his stay in this world might be counted in weeks, not months. And clearly, John thought, this had been in Juliana’s mind: to marry him, establish herself as his heiress, then simply wait for the inevitable. Why then, he wondered, that air of brooding on the evening when he had first met her? Why that petulant mouth? Could it possibly be that this girl of many lovers had finally fallen in love herself and was wretched because she could not be with the man of her choice?

  His mind roamed on. Surely it could not be the unpleasant Thomas Northmore, who had called on her in Milk Street, that she pined for. Yet John had seen some strange things in his time, the most unlikely people utterly besotted with persons of no apparent appeal. More likely though that it was the handsome Gerald Fitz who, if Tobias Wills were to be believed, was just as capable of loving her brother as he was of loving her. But the puzzle about the father of her child remained. Could it even possibly be old Sir Barty? Looking at him with a professional eye, John doubted it in the extreme.

  The fragile fellow was en deshabille this afternoon, a blue turban from which protruded wisps of white hair, on his head, a long robe covering his person. Yet even the loose drapes of this could not disguise how thin he was, no flesh upon him at all,
just a bag of bones and folded skin. Even while John studied him, his total antithesis, the rotund Sir Clovelly Lovell, was making introductions.

  “ … the son of a very old friend of mine.

  Sir Gabriel Kent, John Rawlings.”

  “How d’ye do, Mr. Rawlings. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” Even his voice was a piping treble.

  “The honour is mine, Sir Bartholomew.” And John made a powerful bow that clearly gave a good impression.

  “Well now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  John remained silent, looking to Sir Clovelly for his cue, and was delighted to see the fat man rise to the challenge with aplomb.

  “My dear friend,” he said sombrely, “you may show me the door if you will, but news has reached me of a grievous sad nature. Do not ask me how I know, certain things must always remain confidential. Suffice it to say that I have heard that someone dear to you, someone to whom you had made a certain committment, has been snatched from your embrace in the cruellest way possible. My dear Sir, I have come to you today to offer you the hand, nay the shoulder, of comfort.”

  It was pathetic, Sir Barty’s face, no bigger than Sir Clovelly’s fist, crumpled like a squashed sultana.

  “I loved her,” he sobbed, tears of distress running down his crinkled cheeks. “I really loved her, Clovelly. It was a secret, the greatest secret of my life. At long last I had met my true love and we were going to be married in the summer. Then the wedding was brought forward because she found herself with child.”

  Momentarily he stopped weeping and looked roguish, and John thought that men must never give up, that they must carry the illusion of virility and irresistability with them to the very last trump.

  Sir Bartholomew’s moment of glory was brief. “But she was killed,” he gasped. “Most foully murdered, though nobody seems to know by whom. There’s a rumour sweeps the city that men from London have come to investigate, the crime is so serious.”

  John’s opening had come. “It’s perfectly true, Sir. Mr. Fielding’s Runners are here seeking the perpetrator of this terrible deed. And, in honesty, I have to tell you that I am privy to their discussion. I can only hope, Sir Bartholomew, that if we all speak frankly today, as men of the world, we may grow a little closer to Juliana’s killer.”

  He had deliberately refrained from putting the word in the plural, terrified of sending the old man into a dire hysteric from which there would be no rescuing him this day.

  Sir Clovelly chimed in. “Let me assure you, Barty, that John Rawlings is a young man of the highest integrity. It is my one wish that not only do we raise your spirits this noon but that we can relieve you of that cloak of silence which it must have been your torture to bear these last few days.”

  In a gesture unbearably sad, Sir Bartholomew held out a skinny hand to his old friend, who clasped it in his podgy fingers in return. Then the old man cried again as if he would never stop. Rising from his chair, John administered his smelling salts and laid a cooling hand on the hot dry brow.

  “Come, Sir,” he said gently. “This will do no good. You must gather all your strength to join me in the hunt for the murderer.”

  Unable to speak, Sir Barty merely looked at him, Sir Clovelly meanwhile had pulled a bell rope and had ordered the servant who responded to bring a decanter of best brandy and three stout glasses. Then he sat down, very calmly and quietly, waiting for his old friend to regain control.

  There were several minutes of profound silence, then the bereaved man spoke. “I’m sorry gentlemen that you should have seen me thus. It’s just that she came to me like a flower in the winter of my life. I thought that whatever time I had left on earth she would fill with sunshine. But you are right. The evil must be punished and I will do whatever I can to help.”

  “Then, Sir, if I might ask,” John said gently, “how did you first meet Juliana?”

  Sir Batholomew looked the slightest bit sheepish. “It was through my grandson,” he said.

  Sir Clovelly’s eyebrows shot up and John stared.

  “He, Peter, was at school with her brother Richard, even though he was older by several years. Richard was often invited to socialise with his school friends because he boarded and had little to occupy his free time other than his studies. In this way Richard’s sister Juliana was introduced to the group and because of her outstanding beauty … “ The old man caught his breath and said, “Her hair was like spun silk … she became a firm favourite. I used to invite the young people round here for cards and on one occasion Juliana came with them. Neither of us wished to play and we spent two pleasant hours in conversation. I tell you, my friends, that was all the time it took for me to fall deeply in love with her. I began inviting her here on any pretext and one day I declared myself. To my amazement she did not spurn me but said she would give the matter her serious consideration. I did not see her for two weeks and then she came here, looking so radiant that I knew I had not been rejected.”

  John and Sir Clovelly caught each other’s eye but said nothing.

  “The very next time I saw her I proposed.”

  “Did she accept?” rumbled the fat man.

  “Not straight away, no. Juliana said it was an enormous step to take and she needed time.”

  “When did you become lovers?” the Apothecary asked bluntly.

  Again that roguish look. “Soon after that. All the young men had been here for an evening of whist. She was to travel home in one of my coaches but events overtook the pair of us. I remember that Gerald Fitz was the last to leave, walking as usual, for despite all his foppish ways he has the courage of a lion. But be that as it may, he shot her such a strange look as he went through the front door.”

  “Was he jealous, do you think?”

  “Possibly.” Sir Barty shook his head. “Yet it wasn’t quite that.”

  “Then what?” asked Sir Clovelly, intrigued.

  “I can’t specify.”

  “Who were her friends?” John asked. “Tell me who made up the group.”

  “Well, there was Gerald and my grandson, of course. Richard van Guylder, James and Charles Berisbrooke, the O”Connor twins, Simon Paris and Brenchley Hood.”

  Sir Clovelly snorted. “In short, all the rips of Exeter, excluding Peter, of course.”

  Sir Bartholomew smiled a wintry smile. “My grandson is as wild as the rest. But they’re all good-hearted boys, just full of youth and exuberance, that’s all.”

  “They will have to be questioned about Juliana,” John said, to himself more than anyone.

  “I believe they were all in love with her,” her elderly lover said benignly. He turned to his guests. “Is there anything else you need to ask me?”

  “When you last saw her.”

  “On a Saturday, about two weeks ago. She came hurrying in here late, having caught the stage from Topsham.”

  The Apothecary vividly recalled the Saturday of his arrival in Topsham; the market, the sad-faced monkey, Emilia’s excitement and Juliana, slipping out of her house and running towards the quay, from whence, though he had not known it at the time, the Exeter coach departed.

  “Why did she want to call on you at such an unusual hour?”

  “To tell me that she was with child and to ask me to bring our marriage date forward so that she would not cast shame upon her family.”

  “So she had agreed to marry you by then?”

  “Yes, indeed. It was to be in the summer, a grand affair in the Cathedral. The beau monde were to be present, in fact every dignitary in town.”

  John and Sir Clovelly exchanged a look and the fat man pulled a face. “Surely, though, you had not announced it,” he said.

  “No, we were waiting a while. But her news changed all that. We were to be married this week, very quietly. But … “ his sad and shrunken mouth trembled, “ … I never saw her again. I sent her back home early next morning, my coachman took her, and that was the last glimpse I had of her.”

  “But you arrang
ed for her to stay in lodgings in Milk Street, Sir.” It was a statement not a question.

  “Yes. She was to catch the early coach and black Daniel was to meet and help her. He had often come here with Brenchley Hood and I thought him a likely fellow to run an errand.”

  “But she didn’t call on you?”

  “No. I went to Milk Street, incognito of course, but when I enquired, I was told that she had only been there one day and had not been seen after that.”

  “My dear chap, what did you do?” asked Sir Clovelly.

  “I made enquiries as best I could, but considering the secrecy of our liaison it was not easy. However, nothing bore fruit. It was as if Juliana had vanished off the face of the earth. Then rumours began to circulate about a body brought to the mortuary. That it was the daughter of a Topsham merchant called van Guylder. I bribed an official to let me in … * Sir Bartholomew let out a sudden shriek which made both his visitors jump.

  “ … and it was her. My darling lay on a cold slab, hidden by a sheet. Oh God, let me die too.”

  And that won’t be long, John thought cynically, if the poor old fellow continues in this manner. “Calm yourself, Sir, I beg you,” he said.

  Sir Clovelly, who had clearly had enough of high drama, stated firmly, “It’s time he got drunk. I’ll ring for refreshments.”

  “Not just liquid I beg you,” John answered. “I haven’t eaten for hours.”

  “Leave it to me,” the fat man answered firmly, and once more tugged a bell rope. “Sir Bartholomew has invited us to dine,” he told the footman who answered. “Meanwhile, my young friend is famished and we require light food and plenty to drink. Be so kind as to see to it. I’m always polite to other people’s servants,” he added in a loud aside.

  John fought the overwhelming urge to laugh that always seemed to come over him when situations became slightly farcical, Sir Clovelly on the other hand had no such inhibitions. “Now come along, Barty,” he said, and guffawed.

  The poor old man waved a feeble hand, weeping afresh. At this, his friend practically poured a full glass of brandy down his throat. “Don’t choke, this will do you good. Now brace up, Barty, do. You’ll sire a few bastards yet. All is not lost.”