Death in the West Wind (30 page)

“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

B
y 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 from
_a
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 doorway.

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.

“Elizabeth, I can’t,” he said, moving away.
 

“Don’t you want to?”

“More than anything, but I’m married. I love Emilia.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you enthral me, you witch.”

Her dark eyes looked into his. “John, if you were single would you follow me anywhere I asked?”

“To the ends of the earth if need be.”

“Then with that I must be satisfied,” she answered, and sat up straight, pushing him away from her, indeed forcing him off the sofa and back onto his chair. “We shall not speak of this incident again. But just know, John Rawlings, that I, too, would come to you if you were to require it of me.”

“Then my happiness is complete,” he said simply, and sat silently, as they both did, watching the flames leap and reflect in the crystal of the claret jug.

Eventually she spoke. “Do you want to hear what it is I have to tell you about the girl?” He looked at her, thinking how lovely she Was. “Yes, of course. I must return to London soon but have vowed to find Juliana’s killers before I do so.”

“You say you last saw her on a Monday roughly two weeks ago?”

“Yes, catching the stage into Exeter in company with her brother.”

“Well, I believe that I caught sight of her the next day.”

John reached across and took her hand, kissing it briefly before she slowly removed her fingers. “Tell me of it.”

“Not far from Topsham there is an inn called The Bridge.”

“I’ve seen it. It stands right by the River Clyst and there is a weir nearby.”

“That’s the place. Anyway, I’ve been watching the entire area because it is my belief that the Angels are dealing in contraband goods and landing them somewhere round there. At high tide there is a vast expanse of water where the two rivers, Clyst and Exe, meet. Smuggled goods could be landed from an ocean-going ship then taken up the Clyst in a smaller vessel. Then stowed away awaiting sale.”

“What has this got to do with Juliana?”

“I’m coming to that. Sometimes, dressed as a man, I have called at The Bridge Inn, just to see what I could see. Inside, the place consists of a series of small snugs, each one quite private in itself, so I have got into the habit of going into each, then apologising if the party inside was clearly conversing in confidence. However, on that particular Tuesday, I walked into one and there sat a girl I had never seen before.”

“What did she look like?”

“Very beautiful indeed with fine blonde hair. But — and this is the interesting part — she was not alone.”