Death in the West Wind (6 page)

“I’ll gladly do that, Sir. And is it in order if I wet me whistle while I’m about it?”

“Certainly,” answered John, only wishing that he could do likewise.

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The sun was just beginning to lower in the sky as they clambered aboard the deserted ship, while the warm west wind had started to freshen a little. Without preliminaries, the two men went straight to the corpse which lay just as John had left it, her hair blowing in the breeze, though this time her sad white arms did not swing quite so freely. John laid his hand on Juliana’s neck and felt that rigor mortis had begun to establish itself.

“She’s starting to stiffen,” he said to William.

“What does that mean?”

“That she’s been dead at least twelve hours, though, of course, the warm weather would most certainly affect the process so it could well be more.”

“So she was killed — if she was killed — in the early hours of this morning?”

“As I said, it could have been earlier. Perhaps some time last evening. Now, will you help me turn her?”

The constable did not flinch but helped lift the fragile body and lay it on its back, gasping as he saw the state of the bruising on the neck and face. Disliking the task, John raised Juliana’s shift above her breasts so that she lay exposed to the two men’s examination. The pale flesh was covered in marks, there were even the weals of a whip to be seen.

“By Christ,” said William, “whoever did this must swing for it. Did the beating kill her?”

“I think we can safely presume yes. I imagine that there must be internal injuries which were too severe for her to sustain.”

“Poor little thing.”

The Apothecary looked very harsh indeed. “I think there may be more than one little thing involved in this.”

William gaped. “What do you mean?”

“When I met her I became utterly convinced that the girl was pregnant.”

The constable stared at the youthfully flat stomach. “There’s no sign of it.”

“I did not mean anything advanced. Probably no more than ten to twelve weeks in all.” He bent over the body, running his hands over the wounded abdomen and pressing here and there. “Difficult to be absolutely sure without an autopsy but I am fairly certain that I am right.””A motive for murder perhaps? If the father didn’t want to be involved.”

“Quite possibly.” John slid his hands lower. “My God, this poor thing has been violently raped. Look at this bruising — and at this.”

But the constable’s sticking point had been reached. Turning away, he shook his head from side to side. “I can’t, Sir. It’s not decent. No God-fearing creature could do so. Medical men excepted,” he added hastily.

The Apothecary felt a slight sense of shame. Along with all his kind, he had come to regard the human body as an object of interest and had forgotten the sensitivities of others when it came to examination. Noting to himself the smears of dried semen on Juliana’s thighs, he concealed her privy parts with a swabbing cloth, lying on the deck close to his feet.

“I’ve covered her up, Mr. Haycraft. But I would like you to look once more at the marks on the rest of the body. When you’re ready.”

William, somewhat reluctantly, turned back his head. “I’m sorry about that, Sir. It’s just that I felt it would be wrong for me to have gazed at her so.”

“That’s perfectly understandable. But you must realise that the coroner will want a report and I must note every detail. Now then, observe these.” John pointed to various marks and discolourations on Juliana’s stiffening corpse.

“Yes, I see them, and savage they are too.”

“Does anything strike you about them?” With clear reluctance, the constable bent lower. “They are at rather odd angles.”

“Precisely. It seems to me that the blows are coming from different directions, which would suggest to me that more than one pair of hands delivered them.”

William looked aghast. “Are you saying that this girl was beaten to death by several people?”

“Horrible though the prospect is, that is exactly what I mean.”

The constable’s face went dark. “Get ashore, Mr. Rawlings, and write your letter. The sooner the two Brave Fellows get here the better for all of us. If a mob committed this atrocity, then that mob must be called to account, and the more men we have to help, the better.”

“But what of the body? We can’t leave it here overnight.”

“No, indeed. It must be brought ashore and set to rest in a quiet place. Tomorrow she will be taken to the mortuary in Exeter, God rest her soul.”

“But how do we get her off?”

“There’s only one way. A smack must come out with a net. Then she must be placed in it and lowered over the side.”

“I suppose,” said John resignedly, “it means more trips up and down that horrible rope.”

“I think,” answered William with a half smile, “that the time has come to search for the ship’s ladder.”

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It was dusk by the time John got back to The Ship and the place was glowing with candles, an attractive sight from the lane outside. Even more attractive was the sight of Emilia within. Dressed simply but effectively for dinner, her golden hair piled on her head and secured with a decorative comb, the Apothecary stood for a moment just looking at her. She smiled at him.

“Has it been awful?”

He nodded. “Yes. Sidmouth does not boast its own physician and it fell to my lot to examine the body. So tonight, alas, when we have dined, I must write a report for the coroner while the event is still fresh in my mind, and also a letter to Mr. Fielding which William Haycraft, a really good constable despite all my fears, is taking personally to catch the London Mail.”

Emilia’s skin was like ivory as she asked, “Where is Juliana now? Not alone on that boat, surely?”

“In a barn at Cotmaton Hall. The owner is an officer in the Guards, rarely at home, but he is there at the moment and has given his permission.”

“I will take her flowers,” said John’s bride with determination.

“I wouldn’t advise it. She’s not a pleasant sight.”

“It’s the least I can do. I did not like the girl when she was alive, now I must make amends.”

“Where will you get flowers at this hour of the day?”

“I shall go out and pick them.”

“It’s nearly dark.”

“Then Irish Tom can accompany me and afterwards we can drive out to the Hall. It will occupy the time while you write your report and letter.”

“Oh, very well,” said John with a sigh, for there was no arguing with that logic. He had a momentary flash of the married life that lay before him, in which Emilia, with clear reasoning, would win every point that she so wished. The Apothecary’s crooked grin burst forth. “You’re not an angel, you’re an imp,” he said, then set to washing in the china bowl in preparation for dinner.

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In the event, John — writing faster and more fluently than he had hoped — finished the report of his findings and his letter to Mr. Fielding just as William Haycraft knocked on the door of his bedroom.

“Is it ready, Sir?”

“It is. Come in, come in.”

The constable stood in the doorway. “I won’t stop, Sir. I’ve quite a night ahead. I’ve decided to take the cart into Exeter and hand your letter to the Mail coach direct. I’ll have to delay going to Topsham till tomorrow. And meantime I want to go up to the Hall and pay my respects to the deceased. There’s quite a few gone up there already, your wife among “em.”

“You surprise me. Why are they going to see a woman who none of them knew?”

William looked earnest, an endearing expression. “There’s some, no doubt, who’ve gone through morbid curiosity. But there’s others, good Christian folk, who wish to say a prayer for the poor lost soul.”

John felt slightly chastened. “Then I shall go with you,” he said. “It is the least I can do.”

The cart awaited in the street outside and they bumped over the track, past the church, and on beyond the village to where, pleasantly situated in its own grounds, stood a Devon long house with a thatched roof. Beyond it lay several outbuildings and John saw that a glimmer of light was coming from one of the barns. Captain Henry Carslake, the owner of the property, which John felt certain dated back to Jacobean times, stood outside the barn, easily distinguishable by his military uniform. He appeared to be in charge of a small quiet queue plodding solemnly within, hats snatched from heads in the doorway as they entered the presence of the dead. Having spoken softly to the Captain, with whom he was clearly on good terms, Constable Haycraft led the way in.

Whoever had swiftly organised Juliana’s resting place had done well. She lay on a table top, held in place by two stout trestles, a tall church candle in a holder at each corner. Round her body, which was now dressed in a white linen gown, flowers and green leaves had been placed, so that she looked more like a sleeping May queen than the victim of a cruel and vicious attack. The worst of her facial bruising had been disguised by her hair, which had been brushed forward and lay like a silken veil all round her. John, who had seen the girl at her worst, was strangely moved by the sight of her deathly purity and felt the tears well up behind his eyes.

Ahead of him in the slow procession which walked solemnly round the makeshift bier and out of the barn door, Emilia was weeping and Tom the coachman was looking very Irish and making the sign of the cross. A terrible thought came to John at that moment. At home, in Topsham, poor Jan van Guylder must be going frantic with worry, unaware that his erring daughter was dead, believing only that she must be missing. At this very minute he was probably scouring the streets in the darkness, calling her name. Very quietly, the Apothecary whispered,

“Tom.”

The coachman looked round. “Yes, Sir?”

“Wait outside for me.”

“Very good, Sir.”

They joined one another at the barn door, Emilia already gone to sit in the coach, hiding her tears from the world.

“Tom, we must go to Topsham. It’s wrong not to break the news to Juliana’s father^ tonight. It might be his wish to see her before she is taken to the mortuary.”

“But

“If we hurry we will still be there at a civilised hour. We must escort Mrs. Rawlings back to The Ship then go like the wind. The horses are well rested and should enjoy some exercise.”

“Very good, Sir,” said the coachman with an air of weary resignation.

Emilia put her head out of the carriage window. “I heard that and I think I should go with you. A woman’s touch would undoubtedly be of help.”

“There’s no time to argue,” said John, mounting the step. “There’s a man in extremis who needs our help. Now, no more discussion. Let’s concentrate on getting there.”

“We’ll need a physician to accompany him.”

4

John could not remember ever feeling quite so deflated. They had rushed to Topsham at full speed, clattering through the streets of Exeter where, despite the fact that the hour was growing late, there had still been a parade of fashionable folk. It had been a small, rather modest attempt to emulate the ways of London’s beau
monde
and at any other time the Apothecary might have found it amusing, but tonight his mood was too intense for enjoyment.

Retracing its route of a few days previously, the coach had left the city and headed for the port, bristling with the masts of ships etched against the moonlit sky. Stopping for no one, John had ordered Tom to drive on through the narrow streets until they had come to Shell House. There, bracing himself to impart the terrible tidings, he had leapt from the conveyance even as it came to a halt and pulled the bell-rope, while Emilia peered anxiously from the carriage window.

A man servant had answered the call. “Yes, Sir?”

“My name is Rawlings. I dined with Mr. van Guylder the other night. Is he in please?” The elderly man had shaken his head. “No, Sir, he’s gone to Exeter.”

“Do you know whereabouts?”

“No, Sir, I don’t.”

“Or when he’ll be back?”

“Don’t know that neither. He left in a great hurry and gave no indication when he would be returning. I’ll tell him you called, shall I?”

“If you would ask him to contact me urgently. I am staying at The Ship in Sidmouth. If he could send a boy with a message or better still come in person.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“You look black as a cloud,” Emilia said as her bridegroom hurled himself back into the coach.

“It’s because I don’t know what to do. Van Guylder has gone to Exeter, presumably looking for his daughter, but it’s pointless seeking him there. He could be anywhere. We’ve no option, I’m afraid, but to turn round and go back.”

“Have you left a message?”

“I’ve asked him to contact me urgently. Obviously I couldn’t say what it was about and it’s not the sort of thing one puts in a note. Oh damnation, I’d hoped to spare the poor chap and now, I suppose, I’ve made it worse for him.”

“How?”

“He’ll worry all the more when the servant tells him I’ve called.”