Death in the West Wind (34 page)

There was a stricken silence during which somebody farted nervously. John, hating his sense of humour, kept his eyes well down, not daring to look. Eventually Sir Clovelly gave a burst of laughter and said, “Better out than in, what?” and everybody tittered.

Joe remained impassive, the craggy face not moving a muscle. He was, John thought, one of the most controlled men he had ever met. “Well?” he said.

Tobias Wills spoke first. “I was working in my father’s office. He imports and exports goods and is training me to take over the business one day. I was there and witnesses can vouch for me.”

“You did not leave at all?”

“Briefly, to visit a client. He was out, however, and I returned almost immediately.”

“How long were you away?”

“No more than an hour.”

“I was entertaining friends to sherry and whist,” piped up Sir Bartholomew. “Sir Clovelly can stand up for me. He was amongst them.”

“That is correct,” boomed the fat man. “I remember it because Lord Hood spilled drink upon his breeches.”

The Apothecary watched Joe weigh up his next words, aware as both of them were that the old fellow could never have committed the crime in person but would have had to hire a ruffian to carry out his will.

“I’ll accept that, Sir Bartholomew. Though I may have to question you further about your associates, should it come to it.”

“What does he mean?” Sir Barty asked, cupping his ear in Sir Clovelly’s direction.

“Stap me, how would I know,” the other answered, and roared with laughter once more.

“Well, I was working at the harbour,” said Thomas Northmore. “I was in my office as is my wont and there are dozens who can swear to that.”

“You did not depart at any time? Perhaps to take a stroll?”

“I am constantly on the move, of course. After all, I am the quay master.”

“Prat,” said Tobias loudly.

“How dare you.”

“Be silent,” thundered Joe. “Did you leave Topsham at all that day, Sir? Remember that I am an officer of the law and it would be dangerous to lie to me.”

“I did take a brief ride out to quench my thirst, yes.”

“And where did you go?”

“To the Bridge Inn. Not far from here.” John and Joe exchanged a glance. “Did you see anyone you knew there?”

“No. Why?”

“Because as chance would have it, Sir, that is the place in which Juliana van Guylder was last seen.”

“Bloody murderer!” yelled Tobias, and leapt in the quay master’s direction, his breeches straining slightly as he did so. Yet again, Runner Raven was too quick and the young man found himself with one arm behind his back, held in an iron grip.

Joe’s hair appeared to catch fire as he lost his temper in a sensational way. “Mr. Wills,” he thundered, “control yourself. Who are you to accuse others and attempt to assault them in my presence? I swear to God I’ll have you on a charge if you so much as make another move.”

“Wretched young man,” said the quay master nastily.

Joe rounded on him. “That’ll be enough from you, Sir. You are in no position to criticise another. Now, tell me about your visit to the Bridge Inn. Did you meet Juliana there? Had you gone by prior arrangement? And have a care when you answer.”

Thomas gulped noisily. “I did not even see her. The place is a warren of small snugs. I sat alone, supped my ale, then left.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“A girl served me. I am sure she knew who I was.”

Joe looked at John. “Mr. Rawlings, would you be good enough to ask Runner Ham to escort Mr. Northmore to the inn when this meeting is over and there question witnesses as to exactly what transpired. To be in the same place as a former object of your affections on the very day she is murdered and swear you did not even glimpse her, seems to me to be stretching the arm of coincidence to breaking point.”

The quay master had gone very pale. “But it’s true I tell you,” he blustered.

Joe turned away from him and his tone became kinder. “Mr. van Guylder, where were you two weeks ago?”

The Dutchman looked stricken. “That is something I do not want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because it is a matter personal to me.”

“Would you prefer to discuss it in private?”

“If I must, then yes.”

“Very well. But first there is one more thing that I would like all you gentlemen to do.”

“Now what?” said Tobias, sitting quietly enough but still surly.

“Recently two people were attacked and left for dead by someone who thought they knew the identity of Juliana’s murderers. But though that someone had disguised himself he did not think to hide the tattoo on his wrist, a tattoo which can very easily be identified. Runner Raven, would you bring in the two witnesses please.”

“What do we have to do?” asked Sir Bartholomew peevishly.

“Roll back your shirt sleeves, gentlemen, and show us the inside of both your wrists.”

“Me too?” asked Sir Clovelly, and looked rather disappointed when Joe shook his head.

The door opened and the Widow Mullins, still swathed in bandages which she had disguised by use of a black veil, made a dramatic entrance, leaning on Nick Raven for support, while Dick Ham followed closely behind, Dmitri holding on to his shoulder. In their wake came Old Saul, staring ominously at every man in turn, particularly at Sir Bartholomew who looked fit to drop with fright.

Joe drew himself up, his ragged face set and serious. “Dmitri,” he said very slowly, “do you recognise anyone here?”

The Russian took his time, studying every face in turn, then he said something to Saul.

“What’s he telling you?”

“That that man there … “ He pointed at Thomas Northmore, “ … looks familiar.”

What happened next was highly theatrical. The quay master made a gurgling sound then fell sideways out of his chair, crashing onto the ground, totally unconscious. For a split second everyone stood frozen, then John dashed to kneel beside him, loosening the man’s collar and pulling out his formidable teeth.

“Has he had a fit?” said Joe.

“No, just fainted.”

“Serve him right,” muttered Tobias defiantly.

“While he’s unconscious let Mrs. Mullins look at his wrists.”

Sarah did so but there was no tattoo and she shook her head. “This man is more heavily built than my assailant. Whoever attacked me was flat about the stomach. It’s not him.”

Nor was it anybody else. Slowly, the injured woman walked from person to person but there was not a tattoo to be seen. On that evidence it seemed that everyone present was in the clear. Yet thoughts of a hired assassin from amongst the Society of Angels could not be ruled out, particularly in the case of Sir Bartholomew Digby-Duckworth. Aware of this, Joe took the only course of action open to him.

“Gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation. Everything that you have said will be checked. Kindly leave the names of the witnesses who saw you on that fateful day, and also details of where they may be contacted, with Runner Raven. You are free to go except for Mr. van Guylder with whom I shall have a private word.”

It was over and slowly the company began to break up, stepping over the inert form of the quay master as they made their way out of the door. Joe turned to John who was administering smelling salts.

“I’ll leave you to bring him round, my friend, but I don’t intend to spare the man. He will be taken to The Bridge as soon as he is fit to travel. What an extraordinary story he told us.”

“Strangely, I think it’s true,” John answered. “If he had met Juliana there that day he would have been crazy even to mention that he went to the inn at all.”

“Would it be possible for you to ask your contact if she saw him?”

John felt himself flush. “I had not planned to call on her any more.”

Joe did not pick up the nuance. “I think it would be worth trying.” He turned to Jan.

“Now, Mr. van Guylder, would you be so good as to step into The Unicorn, which should be empty, and I will join you in a moment so that you can tell me your tale.”

“Can we go now?” asked Sarah Mullins plaintively as the Dutchman went out.

Joe swept her a wonderful bow. “My dear Madam, I do beg your pardon. In the heat of Mr. Northmore’s faint I had rather forgotten my manners. Runner Raven will take you all home. You have helped us enormously.”

“It wasn’t any of them, you know.”

“I realise that. The only question that remains is whether any were in league with the Society of Angels.”

“The old man could be,” said John, dragging the quay master into a sitting position as signs of consciousness began to appear. “If the Angels are who we suspect, then he knows them all - and their fathers.”

“I wonder,” answered Joe, “I just wonder.”

“What?”

“Exactly how involved with Juliana the Digby-Duckworths really were - and if either of them, grandfather or grandson, actually did sire that child of hers.”

“A very interesting thought,” said John, and slapped Thomas Northmore’s cheeks, not altogether gently, as he began to come round.

*
 
*
 
*

It was late, very late, but in The Tyger a fire still burned and Joe Jago, his feet stuck out before him, was thinking out loud to a yawning John Rawlings.

“I suppose we’re a little further forward. At least we’ll be able to find out whether they were telling the truth about that Tuesday.” He took a sip of port. “Pity Northmore was too poorly to be taken to The Bridge. I’d love to catch him out in a lie.”

The Apothecary said, “I’ll escort him there tomorrow. Nick and Dick will presumably be too busy checking alibis.”

Joe nodded. “They will indeed. Thank you for that. Perhaps you could interview the vigilante at the same time. She may have seen Northmore skulking about.”

“I will if I run into her.”

Joe turned a bright eye in his companion’s direction. “You’ve told me very little about her. In fact all I can remember you saying is that she watches the Society of Angels, has a hideout in Wildtor Grange, and that when you last saw her she reported that she had seen Juliana on the day of the murder.”

“There’s nothing else to tell. That’s it.”

“She presumably has a name.”

“I believe it’s Elizabeth,” John answered vaguely.

“Ah,” said Joe, and poured himself another port.

19

T
he Bridge Inn had been built in a truly delightful situation. Surrounded by verdant pastureland, the hostelry stood on the very edge of the River Clyst, a tumbling weir of sparkling water behind it, the ancient bridge that gave the place its name, to its right. On the other bank, just to give the scene a look of total rustic charm, a delightful mill threshed its wheel in the foaming stream.

John had ridden there on a hired horse, not wanting to be confined to the coach this day. But Emilia, who had seemed determined to accompany him, had confessed that she was not a good horsewoman and had ordered Irish Tom to drive her. So the Apothecary, feeling almost as if he were an outrider to some regal personage, had ridden beside the carriage, constantly glancing over his shoulder to see if Thomas Northmore were anywhere in the vicinity.

Very early that morning, before he had set off on his many and varied tasks, Joe Jago, looking stylish in dove-grey and lavender, had called at the quay master’s house and ordered him to be at the inn by noon without fail.

“How did he respond to that?” John had asked as they said their farewells.

“Quite meekly. I think the man is actually nervous.”

“I’m not altogether surprised.”

“However, you’re probably right about him. The very fact that he admitted going to The Bridge surely means that he didn’t see Juliana. But get all you can, Mr. Rawlings. He deserves nothing better.”

John, with one foot in the stirrup, had held fast to his wheeling mount. “In view of what Dmitri said about the angels in coats and hats carrying the most beautiful angel of all, together with the piece of white material I found that most certainly did not come from Juliana’s shift, don’t you think it was members of the Society who killed her?”

“Very probably. But why, Mr. Rawlings. Why? They may well be a bunch of hooligans but there’s no motive.”

And John had had to agree. If the Society of Angels had struck against Juliana, why had they done it? Indeed she had been doxy to them all but that in itself was no reason for killing. Emilia put her head out of the carriage window. “What a lovely place. I would like to spend some time here. Can we?”

“Once I’ve interviewed Thomas Northmore’s witness, the day is ours.”

“Shall we walk by the river?”

“I’d like that very much.”

John’s bride withdrew her head and he was left to look at her profile through the glass and think how beautiful she was and how he must do his very best to make her happy. Then his attention was drawn by the sound of hooves and he saw that the quay master was approaching on a large horse with a somewhat boring face, not unlike that of Thomas Northmore himself.