Death in the West Wind (17 page)

“Jealous?” asked Emilia, rather sarcastically the Apothecary thought.

“No. I would say that he’s rather overdone for a provincial theatre.”

She laughed at this, a shade too heartily, and John felt himself growing quite put out and relapsed into what he considered to be a dignified silence. If Emilia noticed she gave no sign, gazing round and clearly enjoying herself, even going so far as to wave at Gerald Fitz when he looked in their direction, quizzing glass to eye. He stared for a moment or two then clearly recognised them, getting to his feet and giving a most elegant bow. Not to be outdone, the Apothecary rose and returned the compliment.

As he sat down again, there was a flurry of excitement as the curtain slowly went up to reveal a street scene, all painted on flats and lacking the realism of the modern effects used at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, by David Garrick. With his heart pounding, John stared fixedly at the stage, scarcely breathing as the cast began to come on and speak their lines. Finally, after a pause for dramatic effect, Coralie made her entrance, running on in an adorable costume of another age, low cut in the front, a swishing train at the back, a fan in one hand and two cheeky feathers on the top of her dark head. There was rapturous applause from the audience and Gerald Fitz shouted, “Bravo” very loudly.

“Do you think he knows her?” Emilia whispered.

“Of course not. He’s simply showing off.”

“I’ll wager he goes backstage in the interval though.”

Sure enough, Gerald Fitz did leave his seat when the intermission came, though that, in itself, proved nothing, for he could have gone to buy refreshments or find a house of easement. Rather than fight their way through the throng, John and Emilia remained where they were and ordered from the various sellers who walked round between the acts.

The play, written by the Blind Beak’s late great half brother, Henry Fielding, was both long and funny, so that even more running time was added by the frequent pauses for laughter. Consequently, the audience did not emerge into the street until after ten o’clock. Then, instead of wandering off to have a late supper, the older members of the crowd hurried away, clearly quite anxious to get home. John wondered why, then remembered the Society of Angels who terrorised the streets of Exeter when the hour grew late. He had almost come face to face with them on the previous evening, in fact probably would have done if it hadn’t been for the lone horseman who had driven them off with his pistol. Or was it
her
pistol? For that great jagged scar could only belong to one person, surely. It had been the woman who dwelt in Wildtor Grange who had seen the Angels off, he felt certain of it. Was that her role then? A sole vigilante who prowled Exeter in search of troublemakers. A certainty that he must visit the Grange again and try to speak to her face to face was borne in on the Apothecary and added to his mental list of all the other things he had to do in order to find the killer of Juliana van Guylder.

A group of people who were clearly not worried about the Angels were heading purposefully towards the stage door. At their head strode none other than Gerald Fitz.

“Do you want to greet Coralie?” asked Emilia, all innocence.

“Certainly not. I just want to go home and to bed with you,” John answered reassuringly.

His wife gave him such a look then, very deep and with great feeling in it. It was so loving and so genuine that John could not help but kiss her full on the lips, regardless of the people hurrying round them.

“Do you love me?” she whispered, close to his ear.

“For ever,” he answered, and kissed her again.

It was then that two very different sounds came simultaneously. There was an “Ooh” as Coralie stepped out into the street and her admirers surged forward. This followed almost immediately by a woman’s scream close at hand. John, still holding Emilia closely, looked over his shoulder in the direction from which the scream had come and gasped at what he saw. Clad in long white greatcoats, their heads covered by floppy white hats hung with veiling, a gang of men had approached silently and now stood circling the group surrounding the actress. They were so uncannily like the creatures he had seen travelling in the phantom coach, supposedly the spectres of the wicked Thornes, that John felt his blood run cold.

“Get Coralie Clive,” said a muffled voice and as one the Angels started towards her. It was only then that the Apothecary realised that they were armed with swords and bats, not yet drawn but clearly ready for action.

Without stopping to think, he lifted Emilia off her feet and pushed her into a high doorway through which the scenery was obviously brought in and out. Then he took out his pistol and charged into the throng. Simultaneously, Gerald Fitz drew the sword he carried at his side and engaged the Angel nearest to him in a duel. Everything seemed to come to a halt then, and the Apothecary felt as if he were frozen as he watched the dazzling swordplay. It was truly magnificent. Gerald, for all his effete manner, was a swordsman of the first order. Unbelievably, even the other Angels stopped to observe. Indeed the duelling was so fine that it looked rehearsed, as if each thrust and parry had been worked out beforehand. Like everyone else, the Apothecary simply stood, lost in admiration, waiting for some kind of break to come so that he might pitch in.

It happened very suddenly. A wicked thrust from Gerald drew blood from the Angel’s arm. There was a cry of, “You bastard,” and the Angel fell back clutching his wound. As if released from a trance, John fired at the feet of the Angel closest, forcing the man to jump in the air. At this the younger and more stalwart men present turned on their attackers and in a trice it was all over. The Angels ran off into the dark streets and the whole incident was finished. With a sense almost of anti-climax, the crowd broke up. Emilia came out of her doorway and shot a quick glance in the direction of Coralie, who had remained standing quite still throughout, displaying no sign of panic. Was it John’s imagination or did his wife pull a face before she turned a smile at him?

“Are you going to speak to her?”

“Of course not. She hasn’t even seen me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

Before John could answer, Gerald Fitz’s voice rang out. “Miss Clive, I am one of your most ardent admirers, having driven to London many, many times in order to see you perform. Allow me to present you with my card.” He bowed and handed it over, all the time eating the actress with his eyes.

Coralie took the card in a gloved hand. “The Honourable Gerald Fitz,” she read aloud.

“At your service.” He bowed again, most fulsomely. “May I have the great pleasure of escorting you to supper? My coach awaits nearby.”

She smiled up at him. “As you defended me so nobly it would be churlish of me to refuse. I should be delighted.”

Gerald bowed for the third time and John wondered nastily whether he had had lessons in bowing as well as swordsmanship, and decided that he probably had. Disgruntled, he turned away and walked, holding Emilia’s hand, to where Irish Tom awaited them.

*
 
*
 
*

It was late but The Salutation was still lit by candles and appeared to be full of people. Indeed, Joe Jago hovered in the doorway. peering anxiously into the courtyard as John’s coach rumbled over the cobbles.

“Ah, Mr. Rawlings,” he said without preamble. “I’m afraid your services are required. There’s been an affray. Tobias Wills is very drunk and under arrest. Mr. Northmore, the quay master, is flat on his back, bruised and bleeding. While Mr. van Guylder has taken too much sleeping draught and is being attended by his physician who is unable to cope with all the other problems simultaneously.”

“Where would you like me to go first?” said John.

“To Tobias Wills. They have locked him in the cellar where he is attempting to kick the door down.”

“Hare and hounds, what a night!” answered the Apothecary and, kissing Emilia swiftly on the cheek, hurried to his room to get his medical bag. As a precaution he put on his long apron just in case anyone decided to vomit in his direction.

Even as he approached the cellar a rumpus could be heard and John, who had been sent down in the company of Dick Ham, the Flying Runner, turned to his companion.

“As we open the door he’ll probably come charging out.”

“Let him,” said Dick cheerfully, “there are ways of stopping a headlong bull.” And he indicated both his fist and his foot with a sly wink of the eye.

The Apothecary decided to calm the situation. “Tobias,” he called through the crack, “get a grip on yourself, man. You’ll achieve nothing by all this drunken brawling.”

“Go and piss yourself,” Tobias shouted back.

“If that’s your attitude you must take the consequences,” John answered and, nodding at Dick to stand by, opened the door and stepped back. Much as they had expected, Tobias came flying out as fast as his shambling gait would allow him. Dick acted fast as lightning. Out went his foot and Tobias hit the stone floor with an almighty thud.

“Right,” said John, straddling the fallen man. “I’ve had enough of your stupidity. It’s time you sobered up and acted like the gentlemen you’re supposed to be rather than an oafish lout. I’ve got something here that I want you to drink. It will calm you down enough for us to have a rational conversation, tomorrow if not before.”

“I’ll not have any of your muck down my throat,”

“You’ll have it and like it,” the Apothecary answered, and turning Tobias over and propping up his head, poured the juice of white poppy into his gulping mouth. Though a great deal was spat out, sufficient went in to have effect, and after a while Tobias dropped into a gentle sleep.

Making absolutely sure that no bottles or barrels were lying round the place, the Apothecary and Dick rolled Tobias onto a mattress and covered him with a rather nasty looking blanket, the presence of which suggested that the cellar had been used as a temporary gaol before. Placing a bucket close by in which the wretched young fellow could answer the calls of nature, John and Dick went out quietly, locking the door behind them.

“One dealt with, two to go,” the Apothecary said with a sigh.

“Do you want me to stick with you for the rest of the night, Sir? I’ve precious little else to do.”

“That would be an enormous help. You never know with these unhappy tormented people when one of them is going to get rough.”

“Just as I thought. Now, who are you going to see next?”

“I presume that Mr. Northmore is somewhere in the inn?”

“They’ve carried him to an upstairs room, Mr. Rawlings.”

“I see. How exactly did he get into that state?”

“He was drinking in one of the snugs, considering himself too fine to mix with the locals, I dare swear, when in comes young Tobias, full of fight, and accuses Northmore of having an affair with Juliana.”

“Oh my God, not another one.”

“Very much Mr. Jago’s reaction.”

“Was there any truth in it, do you reckon?”

“That remains to be seen. But the accusation was that it was Northmore who deflowered her when she was a young girl.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him, considering himself so desirable as he does.”

“Again what Mr. Jago thinks. However, Northmore rose up on his high horse and denied it and Tobias hit him in the guts.”

“Good old Tobias!”

“Which is just … “

“ … what Mr. Jago said.”

They both laughed and went upstairs to one of the smaller back bedrooms. Knocking gently on the door, a voice croaked, “Come in,” and the Apothecary and the Runner went in to see an extraordinary sight.

Snatching at what was left of his dignity, the quay master had dragged himself to a chair where he sat in his small clothes, a pair of skinny white legs sticking out before him, his breeches, ripped up the back seam beyond repair, draped over the back. As well as the guts, it seemed that he had been punched in the mouth, for his lips were swollen and bleeding and his whalebone dentures lay beside him on a table with several of their more important components missing. The urge to guffaw was almost uncontrollable and John found himself with an inane grin on his face as his mouth twitched and pulled and his ribs started to ache.

“My dear Sir,” he said in a strangulated voice.

The quay master’s pebbly eyes glared at him. “Are you laughing at me, young man?”

“Good gracious, what a thought,” John answered, and buried his head in his medical bag as his shoulders began to shake.

To his great credit Dick Ham managed to keep a straight face, a trick which he had obviously mastered by means of adopting a forceful manner.

“The accusations that Mr. Wills made against you, Sir, namely that you had robbed Miss van Guylder of her virginity. Is there any truth in them?”

The quay master looked furious, as best he could in his underwear. “How dare you ask me such a question. Who are you to interrogate me? I’ll deal with a higher authority, not a common pipsqueak like yourself.”

All John’s mirth vanished and he straightened up and looked Mr. Northmore in the eye.

“Runner Ham represents Mr. John Fielding, I’ll have you know.”

“And what is John Fielding to me? He has no fame in Devon, Sir. If I have to speak to a magistrate then I shall make sure that it is one from Exeter, and there’s an end to it.”