Death in the West Wind (2 page)

“Hope, Carolina,” read John aloud.

“And one from Oporto, the Charming Molly.”

“Packed with wine, no doubt.”

“Not a very suitable name really.”

“What would you suggest?”

“The Drunken Portugese,” his bride answered, and pealed with laughter at her own joke.

Once again, John was silent, thinking how similar yet how different were the two women he loved. Yet even as he considered it he recalled that the past tense now applied to Coralie Clive, that beautiful, ambitious actress who had turned him down rather than lose her chance of becoming truly celebrated in her profession. Very quietly, he sighed. His charming bride had everything a man could desire:gloriouslooks and a delightful personality to go with them. So how was it possible that he could even spare a thought for Coralie?

Old habits die hard, he decided to himself, and with deliberation turned his mind to his new wife and the task of concentrating solely on her.

They had left behind the crowded quays and were now walking through a residential area where gracious houses overlooked the water. One in particular caught John’s eye. Older than the rest, it had a charming front door, a shell made of plasterwork creating a hood above.

“Look at that,” he said to Emilia.

“How attractive it … “

But she got no further, for the door suddenly flung open and a girl appeared in the opening, a girl with no covering on her head and her hair hanging in what John could only think of as a cloud of gold. Emilia’s hair was beautiful, rich and colourful as ripe corn, but this young woman’s looked as if it had been spun from silk. Without meaning to be rude, both the Apothecary and his bride stopped to stare at her.

Almost furtively, the girl glanced up and down the street, then she looked across at the young couple. Clearly relieved that they were strangers, she took a step outside and then from the interior of the house a voice called out.

“Juliana, where are you?”

The girl did not hesitate. She ran like a gazelle towards the quays, not looking back over her shoulder, and disappeared from sight as swiftly as she had come into it. John and Emilia turned to gaze at one another but before either of them could say a word, a man strode into the open doorway.

He was a Dutchman, of that the Apothecary felt certain. Tall, well set up and very fair, he had the traditional looks associated with that country. Though his head of flaxen hair was tinged with grey, there was a similarity between him and the girl which made John Rawlings fairly sure that he was looking at her father.

The Dutchman took a step into the street. “Juliana,” he called again. Then he looked across at the two strangers. “Have you seena young woman?” he asked abruptly.

He was Dutch all right, thought John. The slightly guttural accent confirmed his suspicions.

The Apothecary hesitated. There had been something about the girl’s plunging flight that had made him feel she had vital tasks to perform, that she was in trouble of some kind and was hell-bent on sorting it out. “Yes, Sir,” he answered, at the same time taking hold of Emilia’s elbow and putting the very slightest of pressures upon it.

“Did you see where she went?”

“Off into the back streets, I believe. I must confess, Sir, that I wasn’t paying full attention. Were you, my love?” He turned to his wife and raised one of his mobile eyebrows.

“No,” she answered neatly. “I was staring at the river and the flight of the gulls.”

“How poetically put,” said John under his breath, and grinned at her. Emilia lowered her eyes demurely.

“Huh,” snarled the Dutchman and went back inside, slamming the door loudly behind him.

“Dear me!” remarked the Apothecary, pulling a face.

“I think there’s great bad feeling there. Shall we move on?”

But before they could take a step, the door opened again and the Dutchman reappeared, this time looking decidedly contrite. He crossed the pathway in a couple of strides and stood bowing before them.

“Forgive my lack of courtesy, Madam. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Jan van Guylder. I am afraid that I suffer with a wilful daughter and tend to forget the niceties in my efforts to control her. Am I forgiven?”

Despite the fact that he must be in his fifties, his eyes were the clear bright blue of delftware and John saw Emilia melt, though he personally reserved judgement.

She dropped a deep curtsey. “There is no need to apologise, Sir. I am sure that we all suffer family difficulties from time to time.” John hid a smile and bowed. “John Rawlings, Mr. van Guylder. And this is my wife, Emilia.”

The Dutchman bowed again. “You are visiting Topsham for the first time? I do not recall having seen you in the town.”

“We only arrived today. We are here on holiday and staying in The Salutation.”

“Then please allow me the honour of ; inviting you to dine. I am a Topsham man by adoption and we are known for our hospitality.”

But there’s something else, thought John.

This man has a desperate need to talk to someone.

Curiosity aroused, he was just about to accept, then remembered that he was married and that there was somebody else who must now be consulted. He turned to Emilia. “My dear?”

But she was clearly as inquisitive as he was. Dropping another curtsey, she gave a delightful smile. “My husband and I would be pleased to take up your invitation, Sir.”

“Then shall we say tomorrow at about this hour. We country people tend to eat much earlier than you town folk.”

“How did you know that?” asked John. “That you were from the city? Because of the cut of your clothes, Sir. There is no more mistaking a suit made in London than there is one made in Amsterdam.” He fingered his own rather dreary garb. “Local tailor, alas.”

“But surely in Exeter there must be some fine fitters. We noticed several fashionable folk when we stayed there.”

A slightly odd expression crossed van Guylder’s face. “I never linger long in Exeter. I go in on … “ He hesitated very slightly, “ … business, then come straight out again. I am a merchant and a mariner and Topsham is my home port.” He did not explain further.

“However, tomorrow I shall wear some Dutch clothes and see how you like them, for I can tell by your own array that you are a connoisseur of style, Sir.”

John bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Then we await the meeting with pleasure.”

So saying, the three exchanged salutations and parted company.

“What do you make of that?” asked the Apothecary as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I think that he is frightened.”

John gazed at his wife in astonishment. “What a curious word to use. Do you mean it literally?”

“Not in fear for his life, no. But he is very afraid. Do you think it is for his daughter? Do you believe that she has fallen in with bad company?”

The new husband held his bride at arm’s length. “What an acute little creature you are.

I would never have credited you with being so observant.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Be neither. Just let me kiss you.”

So she did, several times, there in the April afternoon, before she and John continued their walk along The Strand.

At the end of the pathway lay a vast expanse of water, the meeting of two rivers at high tide, the confluence heading out for the open sea and finding it at Exmouth. At low tide there was nothing but mud flats, the Exe reduced to a narrow channel, but seen like this the sight was inspiring.

“What’s this place called?”

“ Riversmeet. Where the Exe and the Clyst find one another,” John answered.

“Rather a romantic thought, two rivers conjoining.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Is that a bowling green over there?”

“Yes. I can’t think of a more picturesque location, can you? I must have a game before we go.”

“And I must see the show put on by the Company of Comedians. I noticed a poster advertising it as we drove in.”

John hugged her to him. “Are you enjoying your honeymoon?”

“Yes, let’s hope nothing happens to interrupt it.”

“What do you mean?”

Emilia looked vague. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that trouble seems to follow you about, John.”

The Apothecary laughed scornfully. “Not on honeymoon, it doesn’t.”

His bride put her finger to his lips. “Don’t tempt fate, my darling. One simply never knows what is going to happen next.”

*
 
*
 
*

Though the exterior of Shell House, Jan van Guylder’s home, was obviously sixteenth century, much modernisation had taken place within. Small rooms had been knocked into several large ones and low ceilings had been raised, that of the drawing room adorned by an enriched oval from which hung a magnificent chandelier. Blue delftware tiles from Holland lined the fireplace, which was surrounded by a carved wooden frame, while in the corner was a newly built and extremely elegant wig cupboard. A moulded cherub’s head adorned the arch leading into the dining room and similarly that above the stairs. Yet in the midst of all this fashionable comfort there was no sign of a Mrs. van Guylder; in fact the Dutchman greeted his guests alone. After a while John’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked the inevitable question. “Do you live here just with your daughter, Sir?”

Van Guylder shook his head. “No, I also have a son. He is studying at the Grammar School in Exeter. He boards there but comes home to attend divine service in Topsham every Sunday, so you will meet him.”

“And Mrs. van Guylder?” asked Emilia.
 

“Dead, alas. We had a third child, another boy, but my wife was not strong and neither of them survived the birth. She was English, you know. A member of the Gibbs family. I met her through their trading contacts with Holland and decided to settle in Devon. I believe that my daughter’s erratic behaviour can be linked directly to the early loss of her mother.”

Emilia nodded sympathetically. “I am sure you are right. It is not easy for a man to bring up a girl single-handedly, particularly as she has no sisters.”

Jan looked apologetic. “I begged her to join us this evening, thinking different company might enliven her, but she pleads the headache and asks that you will forgive her.”

“Of course,” said John. He put on his helpful face from the range of expressions that he found he could these days summon up at a moment’s notice. “Would you care for me to go and see her, Sir? I am an apothecary by trade and perhaps could prescribe something.”

The Dutchman slowly shook his head. “I don’t think she would agree. She has already refused a visit from our physician who is an old friend of the family. I doubt very much that she would see a stranger.”

“As she wishes, naturally.”

“But I do thank you for the offer. I only say no because I know how difficult she can be.”

“Indeed,” said John, and a notion came to him which firmly took root.

The door opened and a youth of about sixteen came into the room, pausing in the doorway as he saw the guests, then gazing open-mouthed at Emilia.

Van Guylder got to his feet, announcing, “My son Richard.” The boy bowed, his pimply face flushing as he did so. The Dutchman turned to Emilia. “Madam, may I present him to you?”

She inclined her head. “Of course.”

His father made the appropriate introduction while Richard bowed and flushed more than ever. At Emilia’s husband, however, he shot a look of curiosity tinged with something that John thought of as unease. Coming to the conclusion that the entire family was somewhat odd, the Apothecary made small talk until dinner was served.

It was just as they were going in to dine that the unexpected happened. A flustered-looking maidservant appeared and breathlessly informed van Guylder that Miss Juliana was much recovered and would be joining them after all. Swiftly ordering another place to be laid, the Dutchman led the way in, his face grim and set.

She timed her entrance well, waiting until everybody was seated then hovering a moment before making her way to the foot of the table, opposite her father. In the gleam of candlelight the silver-gilt hair shone as if it had a life of its own and John saw Emilia straighten her shoulders as she realised that a beauty to rival hers had come into the room. In fact they were not unalike, both fairheaded and small, with exquisite little faces. But whereas Emilia glowed with newly- married contentment, a smile never far away from her lips, Juliana was molten with secret thoughts, her eyes shuttered lest she should reveal their hidden mysteries, her mouth petulant but provocative. Looking at her, John felt certain that his theory was correct.

“I am glad that you have recovered from the headache, Madam,” he ventured. “I make quite a study of that particular complaint.”

She shot him an uninterested glance. “Oh really.”

“I am an apothecary,” John persisted, “and over the years have observed the manner in which my horde of different patients have been afflicted by certain illnesses. From this I drew the conclusion that some ailments, headaches in particular, can be caused by many things. In other words, people are subjected to them for various reasons.”