Death in the West Wind (31 page)

“Who was with her?”

“Two young men, one of whom I knew, the other I saw for the first time last night.”
 

John was agog. “Who were they?”

“Peter Digby-Duckworth, as handsome as ever. In fact I could not help thinking what a golden couple they made. The other not so attractive, rather dark and saturnine.”

“Brenchley Hood?”

“The very same. Now, does this help you?”

John poured her some more claret, then refilled his own glass. “Yes and no. As I told you, Juliana was pleasuring herself with both of them, yet it is still interesting to have a sighting of her on the day she died.”

Even in the firelight he could see that the Marchesa had gone pale. “Did those young men murder her?”

“It’s certainly possible.”

Elizabeth shook her head but said nothing and once again there was a profound silence. A million thoughts teemed in John’s brain and eventually he spoke them out loud. “Do you think Fitz and his friends the Society of Angels?”

The Marchesa nodded. “It has been my belief for some while but so far I have been unable to prove it.”

John frowned. “Yet there’s a flaw in that argument. I actually saw Gerald Fitz fight one of them off. They made a daylight attack on the actress Coralie Clive and he was there, amongst the crowd. He drew his sword and wounded one of them badly. At that the men present turned on the Angels and they ran for it, the injured man with them.”

The Marchesa stared into the fire, clearly thinking. “Yes, that does rather ruin the theory.”

“Unless … “

“Unless what?”

“I don’t know. I can’t even put the notion into words. Yet a thought nags at me that there is something I should have seen, something that is just out of my reach, something I am really aware of, would it but come to the forefront.”

“It will in time,” the Marchesa said softly. She stood up. “Is there anything more I can tell you?”

“Did you overhear any of their conversation?”

“No, alas. After observing them for a moment or two I left the snug and went to another.”

“If only you’d stayed.” John got to his feet and looked at her, their eyes almost on a level because of her unusual height. “But then that’s easy to say in hindsight, for the world is full of if-onlys, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Indeed it is. And speaking of that, I think you had better go. Your wife will be waiting for you.”

“Yes.” He was longing to embrace her for a final time. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Who knows?” she answered, then melted into his arms as their lips met in one last passionate kiss before John turned on his heel and walked away.

*
 
*
 
*

The Salutation was both dark and deserted except for a skinny little skivvy who was scrubbing the floors, presumably to avoid the hours when the customers tramped about. She looked up, startled, as John came past her, walking in his stockinged feet.

“Oh, Sir, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“You weren’t meant to,” he whispered. “I’m very late and must creep into my room so as not to disturb my wife.”

“Then be careful on the stairs, Sir, they tend to creak a bit.” John gave her a sickly grin by way of reply and continued on his way, avoiding her pail by a hair’s breadth.

Upstairs, the corridor leading to his bedroom, with its fine river view, was completely deserted and dim, the only light thrown by a candle tree, complete with eight tapers, which had been set on an oak coffer to light latecomers to bed. Glancing round to check that he was completely alone, John stripped naked. Then, leaving his clothes folded outside the door, he crept inside and slipped straight into bed, hardly daring to breathe as he slid down beside his wife. But she merely sighed and turned over, her back now towards him, while the Apothecary stared at the ceiling and wondered about himself and his extraordinary character. Glad that he had had the strength of mind not to make love to Elizabeth, sorry that such a profound experience would now never be his.

*
 
*
 
*

How he did it he never afterwards knew, but John woke at the same moment as Emilia, feeling as fresh as if he had spent the entire night lying beside her.

His wife looked at him wide-eyed. “I didn’t hear you come back.”

“I stole in, in order not to disturb you. I’m sorry I was so late but that wretched Fitz takes it as a personal insult if one does not gamble all night with him.”

Emilia yawned. “It seems like ages since I last saw you.”

“I apologise, sweetheart, but there were some interesting developments in Sidmouth yesterday. A couple were attacked, one of whom was a survivor of the
Constantia.
It is all highly suspicious.”

She yawned again, this time rather pointedly. “Quite honestly, I’m getting a little tired of the whole affair. I just want to spend some time with you.”

“And I with you,” said John, really meaning it. “Now, tell me, what did you do last evening with all your admirers?”

“The two Runners disappeared into the city but Joe and I went to the playhouse. It was the last night of Miss Clive’s season. She played Juliet and was very good, though a little old for the part I thought.”

“To get a Juliet the right age is impossible.”

“Be that as it may, your friend leaves for Bath this morning, or so the theatregoers said. And to think you never even got to greet her.”

“No,” said John, and reflected that since his meeting with Elizabeth he had not spared his former mistress even a single thought. Rapidly coming to the conclusion that he must be a base and worthless human being, he felt a mood of depression coming on him, out of which was born the conviction that he must somehow become an exemplary husband.

“Are you sorry?” asked Emilia, startling him.

“For what?” John said nervously, thinking that somehow she must have found out about himself and the Marchesa.

“For not seeing Coralie Clive.”

“I did see her.”

“Oh, don’t be irritating. You know what I mean. Alone, privately.”

“I no longer wish to see her privately. I am married to you.”

“Sometimes, John,” Emilia answered, “I think you have to say that just to remind yourself.”

And she disappeared into the small dressing room which led off their quarters where she splashed about very noisily at the bason-stand.

* * *

Fortunately the ordeal of an angry breakfast was broken by the arrival in the parlour of Joe Jago, resplendent in dove-grey with a pink flowered waistcoat. For the thousandth time since they had met, John found himself wondering about the man’s private life. That Joe must have come from the streets, for his knowledge of cant was tremendous, indeed he often spoke it when resident in London, John was certain. He also knew that Mr. Fielding’s clerk lived in Seven Dials and was unmarried, but other than for those facts his knowledge of the fellow was scant. Yet there was a certain dignity about Joe which precluded questioning of any kind. The Apothecary had always had the feeling that if ever Jago wanted to confide in him, he would do so.

If the clerk was aware of any frostiness between the newlyweds, he certainly didn’t reveal it. In fact he beamed a smile at them both. “Good morning to you.”

“Do come and join us,” said John, glad of an ally. “I’ve much to tell you and I want to spend today with Emilia so now would be a convenient moment.”

She could hardly argue with that and Joe, rubbing his hands at the prospect of what the Apothecary had to tell him, drew up a chair.

“Relate your tale, Sir. Relate your tale.”

“First tell me how you got on with Thomas Northmore.”

“Not at all, I fear. Our masterful friend has been avoiding me. I called at his home but his wife said he was in Exeter on business and would not be back until this evening, when I intend to visit once more, though I took the precaution of not saying so.”

“Very wise. Now I’ll tell you all that has happened to me.”

Even Joe, who ate like a trencherman, put down his fork as the Apothecary told the story of Dmitri’s rescue from the
Constantia
and of the subsequent attack on both him and the Widow Mullins.

“You see what this means, Sir? That whoever put the body on board thinks that he was seen and now wants to kill the one person who could give evidence against him.”

“But why attack the woman?”

“Because the assailant probably thought Dmitri had confided in her.”

“But he speaks hardly any English. Only Old Saul, the local medicine man, can truly converse with him.”

“Whoever attacked them might not have known that. On the other hand he probably wanted to kill her because she could identify him. But whatever the reason, the Brave Fellows and I must get over to Sidmouth promptly. There’s much to be done.”

John frowned and sighed. “I hope the pair of them survived the night.”

“I’ve a mind,” said Joe, more to himself than anyone else, “to leave one of the Runners standing guard there. If the would-be killer finds out that he has failed he might decide to strike again.”

“Yes,” answered John, very thoughtfully indeed.

Joe remembered his manners. “And how are you today, Mrs. Rawlings? I hope I didn’t keep you out too late.”

“Not too late for my husband,” she answered, smiling sweetly. “He was at cardplay nearly all the night.”

“Observing Fitz and his cronies,” the Apothecary explained.

“Anything to report on that front?”

“Nothing definite. Only a feeling in the air.”

“And what might that be, Sir?”

“That despite other evidences, they could be the Society of Angels. Yet there’s no proof, Joe, that’s the devil of it.”

The clerk nodded slowly. “It would make a terrible sense. All young, with too much money and too much time on their hands.”

“It could explain Richard’s suicide, if he had got in over his head.”

“It could indeed.”

Emilia interrupted, giving John the same dazzling smile. “And what delights do you have planned for me today, my dear?”

“I thought a drive to Dartmoor, though it will take us most of the morning to get there.”

“But what would be the point? As soon as we arrived we would have to turn round and come back.”

“It would make a change, though.”

“Then I’ll go. I fear that we are starting to run out of things to do here and I rather fancy a few days in Bath before we return to town.”

“Then we’ll have to solve this case quickly,” Joe said jovially, but his voice died away as Emilia turned on him an extremely stony face. “No offence, Ma’am,” he added hastily.

“I had rather hoped my husband might be allowed to terminate his interest,” she said.

Joe gulped. “At any time, Mrs. Rawlings, at any time. He only has to say the word.”

The Apothecary squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting a confrontation at the breakfast table. “I think, Emilia, that you and I should talk about this in private.”

He had not meant the words to come out quite so severely, indeed he had wanted to placate rather than inflame, but his wife shot him a black look. “I would suggest immediately after breakfast.” And she turned a cold shoulder towards him and concentrated her conversation entirely at Joe. Horribly aware that this was a bad situation at any time but particularly so on honeymoon, John chomped his way through the meal in silence.

Mr. Fielding’s clerk, clearly uncomfortable, finished his food in haste then made the excuse of needing to check the situation in Sidmouth and rose from the table. As soon as he was out of earshot, John turned to his wife.

“Emilia, we can’t go on in this atmosphere. Please complete your breakfast so that we can discuss the matter.”

“I have completed it, if you had bothered to look. It is you, husband, who are still eating.”

“Not any more,” he answered, and putting down his irons, took her by the hand and led her from the parlour.

“Now,” he said, as soon as the bedroom door had closed behind them, “tell me exactly what is bothering you.”

“Isn’t it obvious? This is meant to be our honeymoon yet all you do is chase round the countryside after criminals, spending as little time with me as possible.”

“It was your choice to go to Exeter yesterday. I did not force you to.”

“What else was I expected to do? Sit on the beach all day twiddling my thumbs? Be fair, John. We might as well be strangers for all we see of one another.”