Death in the West Wind (36 page)

“Of course I do.”

“Then step into the fresh air. The atmosphere in here is beginning to choke me.”

“I’d like to set fire to the whole damnable place.”

“That must wait until it has been seen by Joe Jago and Constable Haycraft. If it is torched now there would be only our word that it contains the evidence that it does.” John turned again to take one last look at the mattress, the chains and the whip. “Go on, Elizabeth. Go ahead of me. I’m just going to make a quick drawing.”

“You have paper and pencil?”

“I always carry some. It’s a habit I got into after working for Mr. Fielding.”

“Strange young man,” she said with a smile of great sweetness, then turned on her heel and hurried into the daylight.

Alone in there, John felt touched by such a sense of horror, such a clutch of fear, that he could barely execute his sketch. It seemed to him, unsuperstitious person though he might be, that Juliana’s restless shade was trapped within the boathouse walls, that she lived again and again that last terrible time on the mattress, where she had suffered the horror of careless violation, then the chaining and beating that had ended her short and reckless life. A thought occurred to him. There had been no significant marks on the body’s wrists. Loath though he was to touch them, John crossed the decking and picked up one of the chains, finding what he had suspected. The wrist pieces were made like bracelets and were lined with velvet. These were no ordinary chains but those made especially for lovers who enjoyed the use of physical restraints. The presence of the whip suddenly made a great deal of sense. Wondering where this sink of depravity was going to lead him next, the Apothecary made his way into the fresh air.

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*

He found Elizabeth sitting on a tree stump, paler than usual. She had removed her hat and the net that bound her hair, so that it sprang free around her shoulders. She looked up as he approached. “Are you alright?”

“Just about.”

“What a terrible place. How could you bear to stay in there?”

“I couldn’t really.”

“Do you want to come back to the Grange for a moment?”

“I shouldn’t. My wife is waiting for me.”

“But I have something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“The phantom coach.”

John was all attention. “You’ve found it?”

“Yes. I’ve never really paid much attention to the stables up till now. I’ve kept my horse in a loose box but never investigated the coach houses. Then yesterday for no real reason that I can explain to you, just a twitch of my nose, if you understand me … “

John nodded.

“ … I decided to go inside them. The first was amazing, filled by an old rotting coach that must have carried the Thornes around in their heyday. But the next was simply astonishing. For there, looking as ghostly as ever in the shadows, was that awful white carriage, just as fearful close to as it is from the distance. Anyway, I climbed on to the coachman’s box and guess what I found there.”

“What?”

“A pool of dried blood, shed, no doubt, when I shot the headless coachman.”

“I wonder how that trick was done.”

“By using a very short man with a fake neck on his head.”

John Rawlings’s thoughts danced a jig as his pictorial memory strove to bring something to the surface. Then he gave a wild cry of elation.

The Marchesa looked startled. “What is it?”

“Do you remember the assembly at Fitz’s place?”

“Of course.”

“And do you recall the little man, Simon Paris?”

“The one with the wounded … “ Elizabeth suddenly realised what she was saying and her eyes dilated. “Of course. It was him. So they are the Angels.”

“Without a doubt. The only thing I can’t quite understand is Fitz himself duelling with one of them. Unless … “

“What?”

But the Apothecary shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. There’s something at the back of my mind about that incident but I haven’t quite worked it out.”

“Could it have been staged in some way?” John stared at her, then let out a yell. “Of course, of course. I see it now. Look no further than Lord Clyst’s little boy.”

The Marchesa stared at him, nonplussed. “I don’t understand you.”

“Never mind.” John glanced at his watch. “If I come with you I must be very quick. My wife is waiting for me at The Bridge.”

“How long will it take you to tell me your plan to capture the Angels?”

“Elizabeth,” said John, seizing her by the shoulders, “I don’t think Joe Jago wants anyone else involved in this.”

“There is no force on earth that would keep me out of it,” she answered vigorously, and with that put her foot in the stirrup and set off at speed in the direction of Wildtor Grange.

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He caught up with her at the stables, a massive block of buildings surrounding a cobbled courtyard, lying directly behind the big house but slightly to the north east, thus ensuring that the moist west wind would carry the smells away from the residence. Here, once, had struggled hostlers and coachmen and tack boys, all busy about the task of keeping the place running. Now it was empty and silent, only the stamp of the Marchesa’s horse as it moved in its loose box breaking the intense quiet. Elizabeth saw him coming and directed him to a mounting block and held his reins for him while he dismounted.

“The most beautiful hostler in the world,” said John.

She gave him another smile of great charm but did not answer, merely taking his hand and leading him over to the second largest coach house. For the second time that day the pair of them tugged on massive doors, then walked into the dim interior that lay beyond. But this place was as nothing compared with the boathouse of torture and despair, even though the white coach gave John a chill when he first looked at it.

“So this is how they travel the countryside frightening everyone to death.”

“Yes, the little beasts.”

“Have you looked inside?”

“No,” Elizabeth answered boldly, and, marching over, climbed onto the coach’s step and peered through the window. Then she screamed and stared at him in anguish. In a second John was at her side, gazing in over her shoulder. Just for a moment he thought he had seen the most horrible sight that day, for a decapitated head, still wearing its hat, lay on the floor, a jagged and bloody cut at the neck where it had been severed from its body. Then he laughed.

Elizabeth gazed at him in horror. “What are you doing?”

“Laughing, my dear Marchesa, at a bit of pure theatre. It’s the thing that the coachman had sitting next to him. Allow me.” And with that he opened the carriage door, went inside and picked the head up. “Ugly looking brute,” he said, staring into its sightless eyes.

“Show me.”

“Here. I’ve a mind to send it through the post to our friend, Simon Paris.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Elizabeth answered determinedly. “I’ll deliver it to his house tonight and leave it sitting on the railings.”

“How can I ever stop you putting yourself in danger?” John asked with a note of despair.

“That you never will,” she answered, and it was her turn to laugh at his aggrieved expression.

Very slightly annoyed with her, the Apothecary began to examine the coach’s interior, not really hoping to find anything but feeling that it was sensible to look while he had the opportunity to do so. Without much enthusiasm, having found nothing of interest on his initial search, he raised the coach’s seat, only to discover that it was hollow beneath. Putting his arm in, he felt around, and his fingers came in contact with a leather bag. Grunting slightly, he pulled it out.

“What have you got?”

“I don’t know yet.” With a feeling of trepidation John opened the bag and looked inside. Another bag lay within, this one filled with tiny white grains. Dipping in a finger, the Apothecary licked it.

“Well?”

“Opium. No doubt to be sold to those seedy houses in which it is smoked or for those who wish to take it to try its odd effects for themselves.”

“So that is what they are smuggling. Would it be worth a great deal of money?”

“A considerable amount, certainly.”

“Then they will come back here for it.”

“If you are planning to catch them in the act, forget it. I intend to remove it straight away.”

“But they won’t know that.”

“Elizabeth, stop it. Promise me you won’t set a trap for them. It’s too dangerous for a woman on her own.”

“I promise on one condition. That you tell me of your plan to catch Juliana’s murderers.”

“You are blackmailing me.”

“Yes, I know.” She kissed him, very lightly and without passion. “So?”

“Well,” answered John, whispering in the coach’s gloomy interior. “It’s going to start like this …”

20

I
t was a very public farewell. Drawn up on the quay, quite close to the stagecoach that ran between Exeter and Topsham on a regular basis, was the coach that had carried Joe Jago, Nick Raven and Dick Ham to the West Country. Standing beside it were its three passengers, long-faced at the prospect of leaving a job unfinished, obviously sad that they must depart from friends old and new, clearly uncomfortable that they had failed in their quest to find the killers of Juliana van Guylder.

For the return journey the carriage that had journeyed all the way from Bow Street in London had been cleaned, removing all traces of the good red earth of Devon, while the horses, well-rested and groomed, jingled their harness as they awaited the order that would start them on their way homewards. But first the ritual of leave-taking had to be carried out.

Joe Jago, suitably solemn in sage green, a colour that became his vivid hair, was bowing to all and sundry.

“Mrs. Rawlings, gentlemen, I cannot tell you how distressed I am to abandon you like this. But, alas, the call for return has come from Mr. Fielding himself. To leave a case unsolved is a slur on the reputation of the Runners and myself.” He sighed deeply. “But there is no help for it. Go we must and go immediately.”

John spoke. “This is a very worrying development because Emilia and I must also depart, probably tomorrow or the next day. My shop can no longer manage without me.” He turned towards William Haycraft, who was wearing his best suit of dark grey serge for the occasion.

“But we know that we can rely on you, my good Sir, to bring the guilty to book.”

The constable looked dubious. “I’ll do my very best. The trouble is that I have no men at my disposal.”

Joe gave an over-hearty laugh which rang out so loudly on the morning air that several people looked round. “A man of your calibre, Sir, is worth a dozen, believe me.”

William appeared uneasy. “It is kind of you to say so but I am only too conscious of my limited resources.”

There was an uncomfortable silence broken by Jan van Guylder, who hovered on the edge of the little group. “This is a sad day, Mr. Jago. I had thought in my simplicity that the great men of London would solve this terrible crime. But it was not to be.” He turned to the constable. “Believe me,
“
Mr. Haycraft, I will do everything in my power to assist you.”

There was another lull in conversation, broken by Joe Jago, whose voice this morning seemed unusually loud. “Gentlemen, we waste time. We have many miles to cover today. I apologise once more and bid you all farewell.” He bowed and the other men did likewise, then the clerk raised Emilia’s hand to his lips. “Mrs. Rawlings, what can I say? Your company has been a delight. My only wish is that this wretched business has not ruined your honeymoon. Runners Ham and Raven, we must away.”

Moving together, the two men, clearly keen to take the road, ran to the coach, one climbing onto the coachman’s box, the other holding the door open for Mr. Fielding’s clerk. At this Jan van Guylder let out a cry of anguish which he attempted to muffle as passers-by stared. Richard Ham, the driver, cracked his whip and Joe Jago stuck his head out of the window.

“May good fortune attend you,” he shouted, and waved his hand until the coach had vanished into the distance on the Exeter Road.

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The next day, almost at the same time of morning, the scene was repeated, only on this occasion it was the turn of the Apothecary and his wife to leave the town of Topsham. Again, William Haycraft, looking mournful beyond belief, was there to wave them farewell, as was Jan van Guylder and Tobias Wills, both of whom, despite the troubles that the pair had brought in their wake, seemed sorry to see them go.

“Does this mean that the mystery will remain unsolved?” Tobias asked in disbelief.

“No,” John answered cheerily, “Constable Haycraft is still on the case.”

“But he is one man against so many.”

“I am sure he will manage,” the Apothecary replied with a confident air, and handed his wife into the waiting conveyance.

“Where to, Sir?” called Irish Tom at the top of his voice.