Death in the West Wind (25 page)

The crowd tramped down Fore Street and onto the Strand, where the great black horses with their nodding plumes and glass-sided hearses already stood, side by side, outside Shell House, the cortege entirely blocking the narrow street. Immediately behind the coffins waited Jan van Guylder and Tobias Wills, the younger man there because he was officially betrothed to Juliana, John supposed. Thomas Northmore had hidden himself in the crowd, his long-suffering wife beside him. He was attempting to adopt a pious expression but merely succeeded in looking pompous, in fact John longed to shout “Hypocrite” under the man’s nose, just to wipe the smirk from his face.

“I see that all Juliana’s lovers are present,” whispered Joe in the Apothecary’s ear.

“All but the old fellow.”

“Shame about that. I would like to have had a look at him.”

“Perhaps we can call officially.”

But Joe’s answer was lost in the melee as the crowd parted like the Red Sea to allow the two hearses to pass through. Walking stolidly behind, supporting one another in their mighty effort to remain calm, came Jan and Tobias, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Wills and all the servants. After them came the throng of Topsham people, still in silence. Swept along by the crowd, John managed to break ranks and make for the back of the church, his favourite place for observing those present. He was followed by Joe Jago, foxy face very alert, but the two Runners remained with Emilia, hidden somewhere in one of the central pews.

The Apothecary lowered his voice. “Tell me which is which of the young men.”

“The dark one sitting next to Fitz is Brenchley Hood, the big one on the other side is Fitz’s brother. The identical twins are the O”Connors, the two similar-looking are brothers, name of Berisbrooke.”

“Which is Peter Digby-Duckworth?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t meet him. But by a process of elimination it has to be the one on the end of the pew, for the other is Simon Paris.”

John stared at a very pretty young man, fair curly hair and large long-lashed eyes giving him a sensitive and girlish look. Dispensing with a wig, Peter had his blond locks tied back with a black ribbon and sported a very smart dark coat. From his vantage point John noticed with amusement that Emilia gave the charming fellow a look of admiration, and thought to himself that Peter was just the type to have women fawning all over him. The rest of Richard’s friends, though well set up in their way, were not in the same league of looks. Brenchley Hood was too pointed; chin, nose and cheeks all sharp. The brothers Berisbrooke were too bland, like big, affable, enormously stupid dogs. The O”Connors were Irishness personified; hulking red-heads with dark blue eyes. While Simon Paris, dark and dashing, was spoiled by being unusually short, probably no more than five feet in height. He also had his arm in a sling which didn’t help his general presentation.

“What do you think?” whispered Joe.

“That you could find them anywhere. A typical bunch of rips about town.”

“And all sharing the same girl!”

“Let it be hoped that her father never finds out.”

The service continued, punctuated with sobs and sniffs, for the thought of laying to rest two people, neither of whom had even reached their twentieth year, was daunting for all present. Much to their credit both Jan and Tobias, probably dosed to the eyeballs with a really strong anti-hysteric such as Greek Valerian, managed to contain themselves. But when the coffins were carried shoulder high to the greedy-mouthed double grave, the Dutchman finally broke down and sobbed despairingly on Tobias’s shoulder. Thomas Northmore, standing close by, began to sweat slightly, though whether with relief that it was over at last, it was impossible to say.

Emilia found her way to John’s side and he saw that she was weeping. “Poor things,” she said quietly.

“The living or the dead?”

“Both. John … “

“Yes?”

“Those responsible for all this suffering will be caught, won’t they?”

“We will make every endeavour. Won’t we, Joe?”

Mr. Fielding’s clerk turned his light blue eyes on her, a worried look in their depths. “It’s a terrible tangle, Mrs. Rawlings. I have my suspicions about it all but lack the evidence to proceed. We need something to happen to give us the breakthrough we need.”

“Can’t you set a trap?”

“The point is exactly who are we meant to be trapping?”

“The killer.”

“But who is he? Or they?”

“Do you think everyone should be questioned again? All the people on your list, Joe.

And that group of young men into the bargain.”

Joe scratched his head thoughtfully, his best wig, which he wore for funerals and making arrests, slipping to one side. “Does Fitz connect you with me, Mr. Rawlings?”

“He can’t do. He met me through Sir Clovelly. There’s no reason for him to suspect that I work for Mr. Fielding.”

“Then somehow get yourself to a place frequented by him and his cronies. Ask Sir Clovelly’s help if necessary. Those young rips will spill more to you when they’re in their cups than they ever would to Runners Raven and Ham.”

John looked dubious. “Well I can but try. But what about the others involved?”

“We’ll see them together and very soon at that. But there’s one thing that Gerald Fitz needs to be asked immediately.”

“I know what you’re going to say. Why, if he denied knowing the van Guylders, did he attend their funeral today?”

“Precisely.”

“There’s no time like the present,” answered the Apothecary with determination. “I’ll quiz him here and now, at the side of the grave itself if necessary.” So saying, he pushed his way through the crowd, holding a handkerchief to his face as if he were in distress and needed to leave hastily.

People were already wandering away, most too shocked to speak, but Fitz and a big brawny boy who resembled him slightly were already heading for his carriage.

“Mr. Fitz, my dear Sir,” said John, hurrying towards him, “how very nice to see you. We met in Exeter t’other day if you remember, at the home of Sir Clovelly Lovell.”

Gerald looked at him through his quizzer. “Oh yes,” he said disinterestedly.

“The name’s Rawlings, John Rawlings.” He bowed to the brawny lad. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Henry Fitz,” said the other, sighing with boredom.

John continued unperturbed. Adopting a slightly stupid expression, he said, “I didn’t expect to see you here today, Sir. I was convinced you said to me that you didn’t know the van Guylders.”

Fitz was smooth as satin, there could be no doubting that. “I meet so many people,” he said languidly. “If memory serves I said I recognised the name. Then I was reminded that I knew the young man. He was at school with someone or other and would come for cards or dice occasionally. But one gets confused with them all, don’t you agree?” John contrived to look enormously earnest.

“That is just what I said to Coralie Clive on the last occasion I saw her. You’ve heard of her perhaps? She’s an actress.”

Fitz came to life. “My dear fellow, I saved her from kidnap but recently. She was being attacked by those frightful louts who call themselves the Angels. I swear they would have carried her off had I not intervened.”

So he hadn’t seen John there, that much was plain. “Oh thank you for that, Sir,” he answered, beaming inanely. “Any friend of Miss Clive’s is a friend of mine.”

“You know her well?”

“We are both members of the same gambling set,” John lied cosily. “We often play with the best gamester in town, the Masked Lady. But then I don’t suppose you would have heard of her here in Exeter.”

“
Au contraire
”, said Gerald, steadfastly refusing to be impressed. “The name has been mentioned. Tell me, Sir, do you play deep?”

“Very deep,” John answered, glinting his eye. “And I haven’t rolled a dice since I left town, more’s the pity.”

Big Henry spoke. “What say we invite Mr. Rawlings to cards tomorrow? You said it’s time we had a game to cheer us after all this sadness.”

Gerald smiled at his brother as if he were a slightly simple child. “Would you like that?”

Henry looked enthusiastic. “Shall we send for the others as well?”

“Why not? Time Mr. Rawlings met a few friends his own age. Shall we say seven o’clock? I live in The Close, near to Sir Clovelly. Ask anyone. No wives by the way. It’s an all male affair.”

John swept a stunning bow. “My dear Sir, I shall be there. You can count on it.”

“Well?” said Joe as the Apothecary returned to his side.

“Triumph. He’s invited me to gamble tomorrow with the whole nest of vipers present.”

“Excellent.”

Emilia sighed. “And what shall I do while all this is going on?”

“I wondered whether I might escort you to dine in Exeter, Madam?” Joe asked with deference.

“It would be my pleasure,” answered Emilia, and gave John a rather cold look.

*
 
*
 
*

Whatever the circumstances, the death of the young before their time and, in this case, even before one of their parents, is such a terrible tragedy that none connected with it can leave the experience unscathed. So it seemed for all the people who had attended the double funeral that day; only the young men of Exeter getting into their carriages and driving off without a backward glance. Yet John thought he detected a certain sadness in the pointed face of Brenchley Hood, whose father employed black Daniel amongst his retinue of servants. Was it possible that through the servant Brenchley knew more about Juliana’s condition than the others? Or did some other reason give an extra pinch to that sharp, harshly defined chin?

However, he had no time to ponder it. The flow of people had turned back towards Shell House and John and Emilia found themselves going along with it. But even as they moved, Joe Jago took his leave. \

“It is not seemly that I attend, Sir. Besides I have to write a full report for Mr. Fielding tonight which must catch the post first thing in the morning.” Joe dropped his voice. “Don’t forget that you ought to question that mysterious woman as soon as you can. We need to find out if she saw anything unusual while she was out and about.”

“Right,” John whispered back, guiltily glad that Emilia had moved out of earshot.

Shell House was sombre indeed, full of sad-faced people, the women weeping, the men taking strong liquor to help them recover from the ordeal. Jan was tightly under control once more, so much so that John could not help asking Dr. Shaw what he had prescribed.

“A concoction of my own. Some Greek Valerian, one simply cannot better it for any form of the vapours, and a little opium.” He saw John’s look and hurried to explain, “Not enough to hurt him in any way, nor even to make him sleepy. The merest dash just to help him keep his emotions in check.”

John decided to be very forthright. “Dr. Shaw, you remember how you told me of Juliana’s bad behaviour.”

“One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, of course, but yes, the girl was very wild and unruly.”

“Is it possible that her father could have lost his temper with her? Could have struck her a violent blow and accidentally killed her?”

“Never. He was too lenient with her if anything. The poor devil has had a terrible life in many ways, but nothing has affected him so deeply that he would turn into a murderer.”

John nodded. “And Richard? Would he have been capable of killing his own sister?”

Dr. Shaw looked thoughtful. “You are asking this because the poor child blew his brains out and left some sort of note?”

“Yes. It said, “I cannot bear the burden of guilt any longer. Juliana forgive me.”

“May I ask how you know all this? I thought you were here on your honeymoon, not investigating a tragedy.”

“Sir, I told you the truth. I am on my honeymoon and I am also an apothecary with a shop in Piccadilly. What I did not tell you is that in the past I have worked with John Fielding, the blind magistrate, helping to solve various cases of murder and so, willy-nilly, I have got drawn into this one. I cannot go into all the details with you, it would not be ethical to do so, but let me say that though I personally suspect neither Jan nor Richard of killing Juliana, there are those that do.”

Luke Shaw made no comment but asked another question. “And why do you not?”

“Because the girl was raped before she died and I feel neither father nor son brutal enough for such a vile offence.”

“Yet his suicide note was rather damning.”

“But it could be referring to something else, some other terrible event that he had on his conscience.”

“What though?”

“That remains to be discovered. Perhaps he borrowed money off her and gambled it all away.”

“He certainly moved with a crowd of choice spirits. I often felt the lad must be out of his depth.”

“If he was, he has paid for it very dearly.”

“Yes indeed.”

Dr. Shaw frowned, clearly thinking things through. “You’re sure it was suicide, not murder?”

“The position of the corpse seemed natural enough and the fingers gripping the pistol did not appear to have been arranged.”