Death in the West Wind

Death in the West Wind

DERYN LAKE

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by
Allison & Busby Limited
Bon Marche Centre
241-251 Femdale Road
Brixton, London SW9 8BJ
http://zvzvw.allisonandbusby.com

Copyright © 2001 by Deryn Lake

The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior
written consent in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent
purchaser.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN
978-0749005887

Printed and bound in Ebbw Vale,
by Creative Print & Design

Acknowledgements

So many people have so generously given of their time to help me with this book. First and foremost, Charlie Smith, ropemaker and man of the sea, who told me the meaning of canvas and helped me in many ways to get the nautical details correct. Next, fellow crime writers Michael Jecks and Mary Jones. Mike gave me the idea for this story after a very good Sunday lunch at which a great deal of wine had been consumed. Mary went to no end of trouble to take me round Topsham and help with the photography, to escort me to The Bridge Inn and sample the fare, to send me road maps of the period and to make enquiries about the quay master and come up with a name. Next the Devonians; Barbara and Derek Marriott, who introduced me to the Sea Dog and also gave me another idea for the plot; Heather Skermer, always
,
ready for a gin and giggle; Imogen Vance, who masterminds things from a distance. And grateful thanks to those fantastic publicists Beth Macdougall and Tom Templeton whose sheer expertise got me the best publicity I have ever had. Last but very farfrom least, I would like to thank Madeleine Midgley and the staff of the Devon and Exeter Institution, situated in The Close, Exeter. They are the nicest, friendliest group of archivists I have dealt with and they helped make this book possible.
 

The West Wind

It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;

I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.

For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,

And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.

John Masefield

1

A
few miles beyond Exeter, the sea worked its usual magic and the wind changed, coming from the West. Pushing down the window of his brand new carriage, a smart affair comprising gleaming black bodywork with scarlet trim, a fine conceit of the owner’s monogrammed initials upon the door, John Rawlings stuck out his head. Well pleased with what he saw, he sniffed the air, relishing the faint smell of salt, his ears excited by the wild high cry of gulls, his face warm in the gently blowing April breeze. It was springtime, the year 1759, and the Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, had left London on honeymoon, those idyllic four weeks immediately following a wedding, during which time he had decided to go on holiday with his bride, Emilia. A European tour not being possible because of the present hostilities, they had chosen to visit Devon, that huge and mysterious county of contrasting moods, to which they had presently ventured with a certain amount of trepidation.

The night before this bright April morning they and their team of elegant horses had rested at the Half Moon in the High Street and had watched the departure of the Exeter Stage Coach, leaving for London by way of Dorchester and Salisbury, taking three days over the journey in summer, longer in the other seasons when the ways were more likely to be foul.

“We could have travelled on that,” John had said to his bride, who stood beside him at the window overlooking the courtyard wearing nothing more than a nightrail.

Emilia had smiled at him saucily. “It wouldn’t have been half as much fun,” she had answered, referring, though not directly, to the fact that they had made love, and twice at that, in the dark depths of their own carriage while Irish Tom, their coachman, had driven stoically on.

“No, it wouldn’t,” John had answered, holding her close to him and mentally thanking Sir Gabriel, his adopted father, who had presented them with the brand new equipage, complete with horses and driver, as a wedding gift.

They had departed from town in it the day after their marriage. John had worn a suit of dazzling green and gold for his wedding, while Emilia, radiant in white taffeta, had stood beside him in the glow of the rose window of St. Ann’s, Soho, where the ceremony had taken place. From there the bridal party, complete with three fiddlers, had made its way to number two, Nassau Street, in which every room had been turned over to accommodate the feast and the dancing that would follow. And though the house had been full to overflowing, there had been so much happiness and jollity that nobody had minded when Samuel Swann, John’s lifelong friend who had acted as bridegroom’s witness, had got very tipsy and high-spirited and danced till he fell over at the feet of a young lady.

Nicholas Dawkins, the Apothecary’s apprentice, had been allowed to discard his sober gear and dress up for the occasion, being given a plum-coloured suit as a special gift, in which he looked both pale and handsome. While Sir Gabriel Kent, who always dressed starkly in a combination of black and white, emerged in an ensemble of glittering silver brocade with only a darkly embroidered waistcoat to add a sombre note. John Rawlings thought, as he looked round the company, that it was one of the best-dressed marriages he had ever attended, and that his lovely bride looked more like an angel than ever in her bridal array.

The young couple had set forth the next morning, following in the wake of the Exeter Stage, which left from the Gloucester Coffee

House in Piccadilly. They had rested at Thatcham and the next night at Marlborough, then on to Bath, where they had lingered a day or two taking the waters. After that they had stayed at Taunton, then made their way to Cullompton, and now they were departing from Exeter, their destination the bustling port ofTopsham where John had a mind to look at the great ships of the world and watch their exotic cargoes being unloaded.

He breathed in once more, filling his lungs with salt air.

“You’re sniffing,” said Emilia from within the confines of the coach.

“Come and sniff with me. This air is so good for you.”

“It’s certainly like wine. I don’t think I have ever slept so well in my life.”

“That’s because you are married to me,” John answered, to which Emilia instantly responded, “Don’t be pompous,” and the Apothecary, just for a heart-wrenching moment thought of Coralie Clive, his love of many years, who would certainly have replied exactly as his bride had just done.

If Emilia noticed the small silence, she said nothing, and continued to stare out of the carriage window, watching as Topsham appeared in the distance, a forest of masts lining its thronging quay.

“Where to now, Sir?” called Irish Tom from the coachman’s box.

“The Globe or The Salutation. Whichever we like the look of.”

“Very good, Mr. Rawlings,” the Irishman answered, then slowed down as a toll gate came into sight, its little house standing by the roadside, the only attendant a small girl of about eight years old.

“Where’s your pa?” shouted Tom in his broad Irish brogue.

The child answered in an incomprehensible drawl of long aahs.

“What’s that you say?”

John put his head out of the window again. “She’s speaking with a Devon accent, Tom. Just pay her and let’s be on our way.”

“All very foine, Sir. But I don’t know how much.”

“Let me have a try.”

Eventually, with Emilia’s help, it was discovered that the toll was two pennies, somewhat expensive in John’s view, and the carriage passed through and into the town.

“Well?” said the Apothecary, watching the expressions of delight that crossed his wife’s face.

“It’s wonderful. So lively. Why, John, there are even persons of good fashion here.” jne laugned indulgently. “Then it will suit you?”

“Very much so. I think perhaps we should stay several days.”

“It would certainly make an ideal base from which to see the surrounding countryside.”

“Then you can look at the ships and I the shops.”

“Women!” said the Apothecary, and laughed again, delighting in her company.

“The Salutation is on our right, Sir,” called Irish Tom. “Do you want to stop?”

Gazing at the huge studded door, complete with small wicket, dating from at least two hundred years earlier, John felt instantly drawn to the place.

“The Salutation it is,” he shouted back, and the equipage swept beneath the arch, over the cobbles and into the stable yard.

*
 
*
 
*

An hour later all was arranged. The newlyweds had booked a fine bedroom at the back of the inn, overlooking the River Exe, and had set out to perambulate before the hour to dine. As it was a Saturday and early afternoon there was a lively market in the town, and the Apothecary was greatly impressed with the array of meats, poultry and other fowl, the mounds of cheeses, butter and fruits, to say nothing of the quantities of cider, beer and wines and spirits on offer. Emilia, on the other hand, was more interested in the laces and gloves, the ribbons, frills and furbelows, and with a man owning a small, sad-faced performing monkey, dressed in a fez and waistcoat.

“Oh look at the poor creature. See it capering to the music. I’m sure it is not happy.”

“It is perfectly happy,” John answered firmly. “It is well fed and well cared for.”

“But look at its eyes. Surely it is not natural for it to dance so.”

“It loves it. Monkeys are born comedians.”

“Should I offer to buy it off him?”

“Most certainly not. What would we do with a monkey on our honeymoon?”

“It could ride beside Irish Tom.”

“Emilia, stop it,” said John. “It would be cruel to take it away from its master, believe me. You’re not going to try and adopt every sad-looking creature you come across, are you?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

“You impudent young woman!”

But it was love play and they kissed one another, lightly, then continued their perambulation, going towards the river. it was a marvellous place, the great waterway sniffing the breath of the sea, and stirring its heart because of it. John gazed with enthusiasm at the slipways, docks and yards and at all the warehouses and workshops associated with the river. Sweet perfumes rose from the brandy distillery, the astringent smell of salt from the works on the marshes. Close by loomed a windmill grinding corn for export. And everywhere were moored ships, some with exotic foreign names, others from closer at home, their port of origin painted upon them. The Violet of Topsham, Two Sisters of Swansea, Nightingale of Lymington, Friends Adventure from Bridlington.

“Marvellous!” said the Apothecary appreciatively.

“Oh look, there’s one from the Colonies,” answered Emilia, pointing.