assassins possibly have known the fat old fellow and realized that he was not on their list? It looked extremely like it. But then, he thought, they would had to have been local men. Unless the cold brain behind the killings had had them brought down from London. But in either event it seemed that their victims had not been chosen at random. That some kind of organized inventory had been at work.
He came back to attention as Sir Clovelly let out a great sigh. ‘You promise to come and see me again, dear boy. I think all this resting is going to become monotonous.’
‘May I suggest, Sir, that a little gentle exercise might help you to overcome your condition. Perhaps a turn or two round the green or a quiet stroll by the river. I think they would do you the world of good.’
‘Really? Then I shall start tomorrow. Indeed I will. So I think I’ll just have a final drink to toast that. If you would be so good as to fill my glass, my dear.’
Having left Sir Clovelly’s house John decided, on a whim, to make his way into the cathedral, a place which to his shame he had not visited before. Immediately as he entered through the mighty doors the feeling came over him of quiet, of tremendous peace. Just for a moment John felt his cares float away as he looked around him.
Dominating the whole thing was the great East Window, parts of it medieval, a vivid flash of colour on a sombre afternoon. As John approached it a hidden organist burst forth with a voluntary, the sounds of which tore the Apothecary’s heart from his body. At least that is how it felt. In a weakened state he sat down in a pew and studied the various saints portrayed in stained glass, including St Sidwell, whose waif-like looks and tumble of fair hair particularly appealed to him. With the music of the voluntary filling the entire building he got up again and wandered round, noticing the number of strange heads surrounded by foliage that were carved everywhere. He had always supposed them to be pagan, a fertility symbol most probably, but they had crept into Christian architecture and were extremely well represented in Exeter cathedral, to say the very least.
He walked down a side aisle, looking at the various tombs, realizing as he did so that the whole building was ancient in the extreme, that it dated back to Norman times and earlier. With a strange feeling of calmness he turned back to glance at the glorious East Window once more — and then he spotted a familiar figure. On her knees, crouched in a pew, eyes closed and lips mumbling silently, was Mrs Cushen. It was an opportunity too good to be missed. John silently slid into the pew behind her.
She must have sensed his presence because her head suddenly shot up and she glanced over her shoulder. For a second he had a feeling that he was looking on something raw with pain, then Mrs Cushen collected herself and grimaced at him.
‘Oh gracious how you startled me. Fancy seeing you here, Mr Rawlings.’
John assumed his honest face. ‘I came in to seek a little solace after yesterday’s terrible happenings.’
‘I too. Oh what a dreadful experience it was. My poor husband is lying in bed, suffering from shock. The whole affair has quite unhinged him.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘And I believe that the Countess has taken it very badly. Oh, it is such a sad thing.’
The familiar sentences rung round John’s ears, but looking deep into Mrs Cushen’s face he could see the poor woman actually was in deep distress. He wondered why. Had one of the victims meant more to her than he had previously thought?
He said, ‘This is hardly a suitable environment for conversation. May I escort you to a teashop where we can talk more freely?’
She opened her eyes very wide and the Apothecary sensed her panic. ‘No, no thank you. I really would prefer to remain here for a while. I am praying for those who lost their lives, you see.’
‘Of course. I do beg your pardon for disturbing you. Forgive me.’
‘Naturally. Farewell, Mr Rawlings.’
And she bent her head, closed her eyes, and raised two hands in front of her. John rose and with one final look at the East Window — from which, or so it seemed to him, Saint Sidwell flashed him a grin — he left the building and for a moment or two stood uncertainly. Then, overcome with the need to use the facilities, he hurried into The Blackamore’s Head where, holding forth loudly and as drunk as a fiddler’s whore, was Lord George Beauvoir. John hurried outside to the bog house, and when he returned it was to see George come crashing down towards the floor.
‘Is he drunk?’ he asked a fellow standing at the bar, watching the proceedings with interest.
‘Drunk?’ chortled the other. ‘Why, you could hang him on a line for a week and he’d never know the difference. Why, do you know him?’
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ lied John cheerfully, and whilst ordering his pint of ale observed George being picked up by the shoulders and feet and hurled into the street outside.
Having downed his drink, the Apothecary set forth to call on Toby Miller who lived a short distance away. But he never got there because he had only walked a step or two when he saw the Constable coming towards him.
‘Constable Miller,’ he called.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Rawlings. I was just on my way to call on Mr James and offer him my condolences. Would you care to join me?’
‘Very much indeed.’
They made their way down to the river where some delightful small villas had been built overlooking the great waterway. John thought it a fine place for a gossip and a farter to dwell, but was disappointed when they turned into a small alleyway which backed on to the pretty houses.
Toby looked in his notebook. ‘This is it. Number Three, River Row.’
He knocked on the door which was answered by a scowling hag. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come to see Mr James, if it is convenient.’
‘Well it ain’t,’ she answered, and was about to slam the door in their faces when a faint voice called from within, ‘Who is it, Gertrude?’
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, displaying a rotten brown tooth that hung quivering on her upper set.
‘Constable Miller and Apothecary Rawlings,’ replied Toby formally.
‘I heard that,’ called the distant voice. ‘Show them in, Gertie.’
Reluctantly she opened the door a couple of inches. ‘He’s in,’ she said, and fixed them with a beady, beastly eye as they made their way up a dark and dusty staircase.
Twenty-One
Mr James had pulled himself out of bed and into an ancient armchair by the time they entered the room. He had a rather grubby blanket wrapped round him and was almost bent in half, snuggling into it. He looked thoroughly decrepit but in fact, thought the Apothecary, peering into his face, he was probably little more than fifty and far from stupid.
Tobias Miller broke the silence. ‘I am so very sorry, Sir, that your wife has been called to her Maker. The whole thing is a complete tragedy.’
Mr James straightened slightly. ‘Yes, my heart is broken. Though, to be honest, she was rarely at home. Her social life, you know. Always flitting from one place to another. But she moved in good circles, I can tell you.’ His eyes swivelled round to John, who noticed that they were a strange colour, a type of river grey. ‘I presume that you are the apothecary that was mentioned.’
‘You presume correctly, Sir. That is my profession.’
Mr James suddenly pulled the blanket up over his face and began to moan, rocking himself to and fro like a forlorn child.
Toby and John exchanged a glance of surprise before John stepped forward and gently put down a hand. ‘Hush, Sir, please do. I know you are in the depths of mourning but try to brace up.’
The blanket was lowered very slightly so that the pair of eyes became visible — and what anguish in their depths. ‘How can I brace up? I am in mourning for all of my life as well as that of poor Lettice, shot by some thug on a whim. Oh God, I might as well be dead myself.’
At this moment the poor fellow voided some wind with such a loud explosion that John found himself in the
