Death at the Wedding Feast (22 page)

‘No, except that . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Except that the woman had something on her head – a scarf of some kind I think – that blew out from time to time on the wind.'

‘You're absolutely sure about this? It wasn't by any chance the two assassins?'

‘No, these two people were shaped differently. It most certainly wasn't them.'

‘I see,' said the Apothecary, and sat silently, thinking.

The sound of Lady Sidmouth returning had him leaping up again and examining Felicity's arm once more.

‘Well, Mr Rawlings, and what is your prognosis?'

‘In bed for a few days, then up and taking a little gentle exercise. Particularly of the arm. In short, Felicity should keep using it. But I am sure that Mr Perkins has said this to you already.'

‘He certainly has. He will be calling again tomorrow.' She looked at Felicity, who went very pink.

‘Then there will be no need for me to return except for a social call. I am sure Elizabeth will be visiting soon.'

John took his leave, filled with thought. He could picture the couple walking in the moonlight, dark shapes alone on that small beach that only appeared when the tide was out. They must have climbed the wooden staircase back to the house, then parted to go – where? Had they only been servants as Felicity had wondered or had there been something altogether more sinister about their tryst? All the way back to Elizabeth's house he turned the matter over and over in his mind but could come to no conclusions whatsoever.

That night he dreamed such a dream. He was on a strip of sand, walking behind the couple who constantly eluded him. For however much he increased his pace they always remained at the same distance in front of him. He could hear them laughing quietly and he watched the girl's scarf blow out in the wind, taking off over her head as if she would fly away with it. The couple reached the end of the beach and turned to go back in the other direction and the Apothecary, rather than being able to see their faces, felt that he had to turn too. So now he walked in front of them and he heard them both pursuing him. He broke into a run but whichever way he went he knew that they were right behind him. In the end he was so terrified that he ran into the sea and swam out a little way. But the sea was black and cold and hateful, and the moon had gone in. Down he went, down and down into the inky depths, then he gave the most almighty scream and woke up.

He was alone in the big bedroom and the door was open. Elizabeth must have got up to see to the twins, as was her custom despite the nursery maids. Still feeling nervous because of the dream, John got out of bed and pulled on a nightrail. He crossed to the window and looked out and suddenly he had a mental picture of Rose and Sir Gabriel. It was quite distinct. Sir Gabriel was fetching her from school and she was greeting him with radiant eyes and a glowing complexion. She was happy, John felt certain of it, yet as always when he thought of his daughter he had a longing to see her. He wondered whether to get a flying coach to London and go home for a while, leaving the investigation in the hands of Constable Miller, a most able man in John's view.

Yet there were so many things that just didn't add up. The two men dressed as women, ready to kill, yet holding back from Sir Clovelly Lovell; the thread of red hair; Mrs Cushen's strangely fearful manner in the Cathedral; sad Geoffrey James behaving like a baby; and lastly Felicity's strange sighting of two people walking on the beach below her. What did any of it mean? Were the incidents even related? Shaking his head, the Apothecary went downstairs to find something to eat and drink in a hope that this would finally get him off to sleep peacefully.

Twenty-Two

His appointment with the extremely miserable Mr James, who had given John some cause for concern in the hours of wakefulness he had had the night before, was not until two o'clock. Therefore the Apothecary decided to put the morning to some use and make a call at the home of the late Mr Meakin, the third person to die in the shooting affray.

The deceased had not lived in Exeter but in a very small village outside called Clyst St Agnes. His house, however, denoted someone of wealth, standing as it did in its own beautiful grounds and reached by a short drive with a carriage sweep in front. As the coach approached – borrowed from Elizabeth once more – John peered through its windows trying to work out the profession of the newly dead man. He concluded that he was either a lawyer or a physician.

The door was answered by a footman wearing a very solemn face. Outwardly the house had signs of deep mourning, the curtains all being drawn and the knocker swathed in black material.

‘I am sorry, Sir, but Madam is not receiving anyone at all. There has been a tragedy in the family, you see.'

‘Yes, I understand completely. I was just hoping for a brief word with . . .'

‘Will I do?' interrupted a voice.

The door opened a little wider to reveal a wee dot of a woman, no more than four feet and a few inches, with a tiny busy face and hair scraped back off her face into a high curly bun.

John made a bow. ‘Mrs Meakin?' he asked.

‘Alas no. Poor Ella is lying down. She is with child, you know. I am Miss Meakin, sister of Alan.' She suddenly burst into tears like an April shower, dry one minute, rain pouring the next. And as suddenly, it was gone again. ‘To whom am I speaking, if you please?'

‘John Rawlings, Madam. I am here on semi-official business.'

‘Are you? Are you going to solve the mystery of dear Alan's death? Then enter, pray do. Hawkins, be good enough to fetch sherry for two to the parlour.'

As he walked through the house the Apothecary could see that it was finely appointed and tastefully decorated and reckoned that the family were monied people.

‘Do take a seat,' said Miss Meakin. ‘Now, what can I do for you?' A pair of bright eyes were fastened on him and she added, ‘Please do not think me callous in receiving you like this. It is just that I want this horrid mystery solved and if I can help in any way, I will.'

‘I am very obliged to you for seeing me. I just have a few questions if you would be so good.'

‘Certainly.'

At this point the sherry arrived and Miss Meakin poured them both a schooner.

John raised his glass. ‘Your health, Madam. Let me just explain that I am assisting the Constable of Exeter, Tobias Miller, with his investigations.'

This was not strictly true but the Apothecary had no hesitation in telling a white lie, anxious as he was to find out if the dead man had a more intimate relationship with St Austell and his family, or had merely been acquainted through business. He guessed at the latter.

‘Obviously, Miss Meakin, you have been told all the details of the terrible affair at the Earl of St Austell's wedding feast. Tell me, how well did your brother know the Earl?'

‘Well, socially, he didn't. But the Earl had considerable dealings in Devon – as well as Cornwall – and Alan was a lawyer, in charge of the Earl's Devon affairs.'

‘I see. Very much as I thought.'

‘What else can I help you with?'

‘I don't know really.' For once the Apothecary was at a loss, having failed to make any true connection between the two dead men.

‘Would you like another sherry while you think?'

‘Yes please.'

Miss Meakin refilled his glass and John sipped, wondering what to say.

‘Alan's wife could not go with him to the wedding feast – and God be thanked for that in hindsight – because she is very near her time. My poor, poor sister-in-law. Heaven alone knows what future awaits her.'

‘But surely you have enough money.'

‘Yes, we do. Though Alan's salary was a goodly part of it. He was very clever you know. As I told you he handled all the Earl's affairs.'

John had a moment of inspiration. ‘St Austell wasn't by chance making a new will, was he?'

‘Oh yes,' replied Miss Meakin earnestly. ‘Alan was much involved with it. The Earl left a personal bequest to his bride, apparently, which would see her comfortably off for the rest of her days.'

‘Really? And do you know if it had been signed or not?'

She looked bewildered. ‘Oh yes. It was signed shortly after they became betrothed.'

Suddenly the Apothecary saw a thread. Lord George and Viscount Falmouth must have been quite displeased about that, to say nothing of Lady Imogen. He drank his sherry rather fast and stood up. ‘It really has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Meakin. If there is anything I can do to help you or your sister-in-law please do contact me. I am staying with Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi at her house near Exeter.'

The little dot opened her eyes wide and then wept again. ‘Thank you for being so polite, Mr Rawlings,' she said in a muffled voice.

‘Thank you for receiving me, Miss Meakin.' He bowed his way out, hat across his chest. ‘Please give my condolences to Mrs Meakin.'

‘I will, I will.'

He left her crying in full flood and stepped out and into his carriage with an entirely different view of the case.

Unfortunately he had no time to pursue his idea at present because, looking at his watch – still the one that Sir Gabriel had given him for his twenty-first birthday – he discovered that he had less than half an hour until his appointment with Mr James. But when he panted to the front door, a minute or two late, the horrible Gertrude waved her tooth at him and shouted, ‘He's out,' before slamming it shut in his face.

John stood, slightly annoyed and quite definitely nonplussed. He had made a firm arrangement to call on Geoffrey James and now the fellow had backed out. He decided that he would try to locate him and knocked on the door again.

It was opened after a minute and Gertrude thrust her unlovely face out. ‘Wot is it?'

‘Do you know where Mr James has gone?'

‘Down to the river. Says he's going to drown hisself.'

‘Oh for God's sake,' John answered impatiently, and set off at some speed.

Originally the River Exe had been tidal and navigable up to the city walls, and it had thrived as a busy port. In the 1270s, however, Isabella de Fortibus, the Countess of Devon, had built a weir across the river to power her mills. Whether this was a deliberately spiteful action no one knew but it had the effect of cutting off Exeter's thriving harbour from the sea. Twenty years later trade with the port resumed only to be cut off once more, this time by Hugh de Courtenay, Earl of Devon, Isabella's cousin. This meant that all goods had to be unloaded at Topsham – a town that John could remember clearly from the days of his honeymoon – and carried by road. The Earls, rubbing their hands in glee, collected heavy tolls to anyone using the highways,

For 250 years the city sent petitions to the King to have the port reopened, until finally in 1550 Edward VI, the boy King – Henry VIII's son by Jane Seymour – finally granted permission. In 1563, Exeter traders employed a Welshman, John Trew of Glamorgan, to build a canal to bypass the weirs and rejoin the river in the centre of the city, where a great quay would be built. In 1677 it was extended and the entrance was moved to Topsham, and in 1701 the canal was deepened and widened to allow ocean-going sailing ships right of passage.

This was how Elizabeth had met her husband, the Italian trader, the Marchese di Lorenzi, who had sailed his ship to Exeter loaded with Murano glass. And she, the daughter of an English Earl, pampered and cosseted since birth, had run off with him and lived a wild and exciting life in Italy. Until tragedy had intervened and she had returned to England to bring up her son on her own.

But now, John thought, she had a lively pair of twin boys to cope with, and just for a second came near to understanding her possessiveness over them.

It seemed to him that as a merchant of Exeter Geoffrey might go down to the quay, and it was to there that John made his way. There was no sign of his quarry but for a few minutes he stopped in open-mouthed admiration of the great ships – sails furled, decks swarming with men – that lay at anchor there. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder and looking round saw the melancholy Mr James, drunk as a wheelbarrow, swaying on his feet, and looking a ripe shade of green.

‘Greetings,' said Mr James, then shambled to the water's edge and was horribly sick into the river.

John, observing him with a seasoned eye, waited till all the retching was done and then walked forward and dragged the wretched man back to where two barrels offered a temporary sitting place.

‘Now,' he said, ‘tell me everything.'

‘I loved her, that was the trouble,' said Geoffrey incoherently. ‘She was an awful wife, terrible in fact, but I couldn't help myself. I just loved her.'

‘Why was she so bad?' asked John.

‘Unfaithful. Always out. Gossip. Everything that one wouldn't desire in a woman.'

He hiccuped violently and John instinctively leaned away.

Mr James continued, his speech somewhat clearer. ‘You see, she was fascinated by what she thought of as the “best people”. She had very humble origins, you know. Born to a labouring family. Her father heaved goods coming off the ships. But she was very pretty at one time and had a pleasing way with her. So pleasing that I married her. I loved her so much. Oh God's wounds.' His voice broke on a sob. ‘Anyway, she set about cultivating society people. She would do anything to get to know them. Anything at all.' By now he was crying openly.

John watched in silence, certain he knew what was coming next.

‘That wretch the Earl of St Austell. She became his mistress. He would bed any doxy and I am certain he took her as part of a wager. And after that, he would torment her. Send for her once a year and openly laugh in her face before seducing her. He turned her into a flip-flap. My pretty little Lettice.'