Death in the West Wind

by Deryn Lake

  Puzzling over the use of the word “order”, John returned to the party.

  * * *

  It seemed to be the night for wounded men, for the first to accost him as he went back into the throng was the dashing little Simon Paris, his arm still in its sling. Half smiling, John stared at the injured limb.

  “What happened to that?”

  Simon looked casual. “Fell over and hit myself on a boulder. Damn nuisance, can hardly get a glass to my lips.” He roared with laughter.

  “I take it you’ve been to a doctor?”

  “Of course. Someone had to extract … “ He stopped short.

  “Extract what?” John asked politely.

  “A piece of rock that splintered,” Simon answered patly, then laughed again.

  The Apothecary changed the subject. “I saw you at the funeral the other day. A very sad affair that.”

  Simon seemed relieved to talk about something else. “Yes, bad business. Rumour has it that Richard murdered his sister then shot himself. Is it true?”

  “You seem convinced.”

  “That’s because I’m certain that is not what happened.”

  “You give the impression of knowing a great deal about it.”

  “Well, I’m staying in Topsham at the same inn as the men who have come from Bow Street and, obviously, we chat about it.”

  “Oh yes, I’d heard some big-wigs from London were investigating.” Simon Paris flashed his dark eyes. “Ridiculous, in my view. What could they possibly know about local affairs?”

  “I’m sure they have their methods,” John answered enigmatically.

  Simon looked bored and waved to someone across the room. “Excuse me, Sir. I’ve just seen an old acquaintance. If you’d forgive me.” He bowed and departed.

  “So,” said a soft voice in the Apothecary’s ear, “you are a friend of Gerald Fitz’s. I am greatly surprised.”

  “I am equally surprised to see you here,” he answered, smiling, and turned to see Elizabeth looking at him, very quizzically he thought. “And just for your information,” he added in the lowest tone possible, “Fitz is no friend of mine. I am here to snoop on him.”

  “But I thought you were in Devon on honeymoon. Which reminds me, where is your bride?”

  Without thinking, John took Elizabeth by the hand. “I am indeed on honeymoon and my bride is out with friends. But meanwhile I have become involved with the case of the girl found dead aboard ship. Have you heard about it?”

  “Of course. Everyone has.”

  “As an apothecary I was asked to examine her body. She had been raped and beaten to death. One of the suggestions put forward, though this is by no means proven fact, is that it was the work of the Society of Angels. Because of that I wanted to ask you if you had seen anything unusual round about the time of her death.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Roughly two weeks ago. She was last seen alive in Exeter on a Monday but exactly what day she died is not quite certain.”

  Elizabeth put her fan to her face. “There are ears everywhere here. Come to Wildtor when this evening ends and we can discuss it. It would be far safer.”

  “Very well.”

  “One final question. What has Gerald Fitz got to do with all this?”

  “He knew the girl, in fact he was probably her lover. Further, most of the young men in this set admit to having slept with her and, to crown all, she was about to marry Sir Bartholomew Digby-Duckworth on the pretext that she was carrying his child.”

  Instead of looking askance, Elizabeth laughed. “I wonder what she did in her spare time.”

  “Heaven knows.”

  At that moment came a call for silence, then Gerald Fitz spoke. “Lady Elizabeth and gentlemen, the grand saloon is set for gambling. Let us to our pastime.” He made much of walking through the company to escort the Marchesa in, nodding his head to John and whispering, “He’s gone to see our family physician,” as he did so. The Apothecary bowed by way of acknowledgment and made his way into the gambling room.

  The next hour was one of immense concentration as John, who was not a truly accomplished card player, fought his way through an intense game of whist during which Peter Digby-Duckworth, a gambler to the very bone, executed a stunning Bath coup and won a dashing rubber. It was a relief in view of all this to hear the supper interval called. With an ingratiating smile on his face the Apothecary fell into step with the winner.

  “Well played, Sir, well played.”

  “I get a fair amount of practice.”

  “How I envy you that.”

  Peter turned his ravishing lilac eyes on to his companion. “You’re the man from Topsham, ain’t you? The one who’s here on honeymoon?”

  “I am indeed, Sir. Rawlings is the name, John Rawlings.”

  “Peter Digby-Duckworth.”

  “Digby-Duckworth!” John trilled. “Why, I met your delightful grandfather only t’other day.”

  Peter looked at him coldly. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. But he was much in gloom, alas. It seems that his betrothed was one and the same as that poor unfortunate girl whose funeral you attended recently.”

  “That poor unfortunate girl was a whore, Sir, and my grandfather nothing more nor less than a besotted old fool.”

  “Oh come now.”

  “Come now nothing,” answered Peter, tossing his golden queue, his tongue obviously loosened by drink and success. “In case you have any illusions left, Juliana van Guylder had jigged the feather bed with practically every man in this room.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “Yes, even including me.”

  “Was it your child she was carrying?”

  Peter shrugged. “Who knows, it could have been anyone’s.”

  “Your grandfather’s perhaps?”

  “No, that’s for sure. He might flatter himself but the poor old chap was utterly wrong in thinking so.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I lied just now. It’s mine.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Pretty sure. She’d been Fitz’s for a while, but he tired of her when she started to talk about marriage. So, hearing of her splendid reputation as a lover, I took her on.”

  “And it was during her liaison with you that she conceived?”

  Peter’s eyes danced mischievously. “Yes, but that doesn’t prove a thing. Not with a girl like Juliana. However, in case it was mine, it was a splendid notion to palm it off on my grandfather, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re amoral, the whole damned bunch of you.”

  “Fun though.”

  “Not for your victims,” John answered, and walked away.

  * * *

  The supper was superb. Indeed, whatever else one could say or think about Fitz, he was a splendid host. Clearly, though, he was making some sort of play for Elizabeth, probably hoping to amuse himself with a much older woman, John thought. She, however, though charming and courteous, gave him not a whit of encouragement. Nor did she anybody else, contriving in the most clever manner to be attentive yet at the same time remain somewhat aloof. The Apothecary found himself lost in admiration of her stylish behaviour. Eventually, though, it was time to leave the repast and head back for the gaming saloon and it was then that he found himself walking beside her.

  “Is your coachman here?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes. Emilia, my wife, has been driven by somebody else.”

  “Head for Wildtor as soon as we have finished here. I have remembered something that might be relevant to the girl’s murder.”

  “Will you get there ahead of me?”

  “Yes. I shall leave in an hour. Follow me after a discreet interval.”

  She could say no more for Fitz, flushed with champagne and carnality, was bearing down on her. Elizabeth made the tiniest of curtsies in John’s direction and moved away.

  He had never been lucky with dice and tonight he seemed worse than ever. In danger of
parting with a great deal of money, the Apothecary bowed out of the game and took to wandering the room, pretending to be tipsy but in fact observing the company. The Berisford brothers, looking more like large and foolish hounds than ever, were playing deep and losing. Little Simon Paris, however, was doing well, as were the O’Connor twins, who were making a great deal of Irish noise about it. Brenchley Hood had also given up and was sitting quietly in a corner, glass in hand, staring pensively into its dark red depths. His pointed face in repose was set in harsh lines that made him look thoroughly wretched. John decided on bold tactics.

  “May I sit beside you, Sir?”

  The other looked up and nodded halfheartedly. Carefully adjusting the skirts of his coat, the Apothecary took a seat.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is John Rawlings and I am visiting from London. I saw you at the funeral the other day and marked your sadness. My condolences.”

  Brenchley stared at him blankly. “You have the advantage of me, Mr. Rawlings. I am afraid I didn’t notice you. But then I didn’t notice much that day.”

  “You were very attached to the deceased?”

  “Not so much to Richard, but to Juliana, yes.”

  “She was indeed very beautiful.”

  “You met her?”

  “Only twice. My wife and I were invited to dine by her father. What a tragic thing that she should meet her end in so brutal a manner.”

  Brenchley Hood blanched white. “Don’t even mention it, I beg you. The very thought makes me sick to my gut.”

  Sensing blood, John persisted. “But who could have done such a vile thing? What tortured mind could have conceived of such an end?”

  Brenchly stared at the floor, totally silent, shaking his head.

  “I mean, my dear Sir, to have raped the poor girl like that. Why, it’s atrocious.”

  Hood jerked upright. “What did you say?”

  “That Juliana was raped before she died. Did you not know?”

  “No, I didn’t. My God, are you sure of this?”

  “Absolutely certain. I apologise. I see that I have upset you.”

  The other man lurched to his feet, his eyes wildly dilated. Then he clutched his hand over his mouth and dashed from the room, clearly headed for the plunger closet, a vast wooden edifice with gleaming brass handles, drop holes and gurgling cocks, the delights of which John had already sampled.

  The Apothecary stared after his disappearing form thoughtfully. “The only one to have a good word for her,” he said quietly, and wondered to himself if he had finally discovered the true paternity of Juliana’s child.

  * * *

  Exactly as she had said she would, the Marchesa departed a short while later. John waited a good thirty minutes, then followed suit making an excuse about not wanting to disturb his wife by being too late. Fitz bade him farewell, clearly disappointed that the Apothecary had not played.

  “I thought you said you were a gamester, Sir.”

  “So I am,” John answered benignly, “but tonight my mind was on other things.”

  “What, pray?” Fitz was more than a little drunk.

  “On Percival’s wounded arm, for one thing. On the misery of your friend Brenchley Hood for another.”

  “Both too high strung for their own damned good,” Fitz answered. “A pair of flaps those two.”

  But despite his words his face had hardened and his eyes grown just a fraction tight. Clearly the evening had not gone entirely to plan.

  John gave a charming bow. “I am sorry not to have played a better hand but despite my poor performance let me assure you that I have passed a most enjoyable evening.”

  “You did not find us too out-of-town for your liking?”

  “Not at all. The company was as elegant, sparkling and fine as any London salon.”

  He had said the right thing and Fitz allowed himself a small smile. “I am glad that we were able to please.”

  “My dear Sir, had it not been for the fact that I am newly married I would have stayed all night.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “Please do.” John gave another elegant bow and made his escape, glad to leave before tempers grew frayed through drink.

  Outside it was cold, the temperature having dropped dramatically while John had been in the house. Irish Tom stood in a huddle with the other coachmen round a small brazier that had presumably been put there for their benefit. He looked up as the Apothecary approached.

  “Going so soon, Sir?”

  “What do you mean, soon? It’s well after midnight.”

  Tom looked jovial. “And it wouldn’t be right to keep Mrs. Rawlings waiting, now would it, Sir?”

  John rolled his eyes. “We’re not going back yet. I’ve another call to make.”

  The coachman sighed. “Where are we going now?”

  John lowered his voice. “To Wildtor Grange and I don’t want any protests.”

  “Protest? Me? Taken off the streets by the kindness of your father’s heart and given a chance to make something of myself. Though nothing was said at the time of my appointment about driving a young madcap hither and thither in pursuit of murderers and the like.”

  “Are you giving notice?” John asked, his tone acid.

  “Not me, Sorrh,” Tom answered Irishly. “For if truth be told I’m having the time of my life.”

  “Funnily enough,” said John, “so am I. Now set to. There’s still much to be achieved this night.”

  With that he clambered into the coach and they set off towards the wild heathland, the Apothecary smiling to himself in the darkness.

  16

  By night Wildtor Grange was even more terrifying than by daylight. Its black shape, silhouetted against what little moon there was, reared skywards like some haunted ruin, and John had to summon every ounce of his nerve to enter through the broken window and make his way through the pools of shadow to where the monstrous staircase disappeared upwards into the darkness. Step by step he crossed the enormous hall, then started to ascend silently, afraid to make a sound, foolishly feeling as if the house were listening to him, waiting to pounce should he so much as cough. Desperately wishing that Elizabeth would appear from her suite and greet him, he crept through the dimness, his heart plummeting at every creak of the floorboards.

  That she was there ahead of him, he had no doubt, for lighted candles had been left in niches to help him find his way. He had seen their glow from outside and thought that they had made the house look even more unearthly rather than less. In fact Irish Tom had crossed himself at the sight and uttered some incomprehensible chant aimed at keeping off evil.

  “Will you be alright going in there, Sorrh?”

  “I have to meet someone. I’ll be perfectly safe. She’s on our side.”

  “She?” Tom had said, and raised his eyebrows.

  But John had ignored him and entered the eerie mansion where he was certain Elizabeth di Lorenzi awaited him.

  He reached the top of the stairs and looked round, not certain in the darkness which endless corridor he should go down. But as his eyes adjusted to the deepened gloom he saw that a row of candles had been placed on the floor of one of them and made his way to that one, his ears alert for any sound. There was none but a smell was beginning to fill his nostrils; a smell of deep rich perfume, the sort that could madden a man with its aroma.

  “Marchesa,” he called quietly, and in the distance came an answering, “Si.”

  The door to her rooms stood very slightly open and through it John could see the comforting gleam of both candle and firelight. It seemed that Elizabeth had had time to put a tinder to logs before he arrived. Not only had she done that, he saw as he tapped lightly then made his way inside. She had already poured him a glass of wine froma claret jug, while her own stood close beside. Of the lady herself, however, there was no sign.

  “Marchesa,” John called again.

  “Yes, Mr. Rawlings,” she answered, and came to stand in the bedroom d
oorway.

  She had changed, removing her beautiful gown and wig. Now Elizabeth wore a silk robe, tied loosely at her waist, while her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said, and walked into the room.

  John was seized by the thought that she had nothing on beneath the robe and felt his heart quicken at the very idea of it. Carefully placing himself in one of the two chairs, he watched as she elegantly curled onto the sofa and smiled at him.

  He cleared his throat. “You said you had some information for me.”

  He must have sounded strained for the Marchesa laughed. “You appear nervous.”

  John had had sufficient to drink to give him a little courage. “That’s because I am.”

  “Why?”

  “A combination of things. This frightening house — and you.”

  She laughed again and her hair rippled in the shadows as she did so. “Me? I make you nervous? Surely we are fighting for the same cause. Anxious to see justice done and villains punished.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  John leant forward, his elbows on his knees. “I find you terribly attractive, my Lady, and I am a newly married man. I fear the power you have over me, if you want the truth.”

  She laughed aloud. “How ridiculous. I am old enough to be your mother.”

  “I doubt that. I am twenty-eight in this June coming.”

  “And I am forty-three.”

  “There you are then.”

  “There you are then nothing. I could easily have borne a child at fifteen.”

  “But you didn’t, did you.” It was a statement not a question.

  “No. Now, are you too afraid to come and sit next to me?”

  “Yes,” said John, but he did so for all that. As soon as he was beside her he was done for. The kiss was as electrifying as the first, if not more so, and the fact that her robe had slipped open and his hands could stray beneath was almost too much for him. He swept her body to his and would have made love to her there and then had he not thought, with a wrench of his heart, of Emilia’s face as she had made her marriage vows and the sweet look she had given himwhen he had pledged his to her.