daughter he had a longing to see her. He wondered whether to get a flying coach to London and go home for a while, leaving the investigation in the hands of Constable Miller, a most able man in John’s view.
Yet there were so many things that just didn’t add up. The two men dressed as women, ready to kill, yet holding back from Sir Clovelly Lovell; the thread of red hair; Mrs Cushen’s strangely fearful manner in the Cathedral; sad Geoffrey James behaving like a baby; and lastly Felicity’s strange sighting of two people walking on the beach below her. What did any of it mean? Were the incidents even related? Shaking his head, the Apothecary went downstairs to find something to eat and drink in a hope that this would finally get him off to sleep peacefully.
Twenty-Two
His appointment with the extremely miserable Mr James, who had given John some cause for concern in the hours of wakefulness he had had the night before, was not until two o’clock. Therefore the Apothecary decided to put the morning to some use and make a call at the home of the late Mr Meakin, the third person to die in the shooting affray.
The deceased had not lived in Exeter but in a very small village outside called Clyst St Agnes. His house, however, denoted someone of wealth, standing as it did in its own beautiful grounds and reached by a short drive with a carriage sweep in front. As the coach approached — borrowed from Elizabeth once more — John peered through its windows trying to work out the profession of the newly dead man. He concluded that he was either a lawyer or a physician.
The door was answered by a footman wearing a very solemn face. Outwardly the house had signs of deep mourning, the curtains all being drawn and the knocker swathed in black material.
‘I am sorry, Sir, but Madam is not receiving anyone at all. There has been a tragedy in the family, you see.’
‘Yes, I understand completely. I was just hoping for a brief word with…’
‘Will I do?’ interrupted a voice.
The door opened a little wider to reveal a wee dot of a woman, no more than four feet and a few inches, with a tiny busy face and hair scraped back off her face into a high curly bun.
John made a bow. ‘Mrs Meakin?’ he asked.
‘Alas no. Poor Ella is lying down. She is with child, you know. I am Miss Meakin, sister of Alan.’ She suddenly burst into tears like an April shower, dry one minute, rain pouring the next. And as suddenly, it was gone again. ‘To whom am I speaking, if you please?’
‘John Rawlings, Madam. I am here on semi-official business.’
‘Are you? Are you going to solve the mystery of dear Alan’s death? Then enter, pray do. Hawkins, be good enough to fetch sherry for two to the parlour.’
As he walked through the house the Apothecary could see that it was finely appointed and tastefully decorated and reckoned that the family were monied people.
‘Do take a seat,’ said Miss Meakin. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ A pair of bright eyes were fastened on him and she added, ‘Please do not think me callous in receiving you like this. It is just that I want this horrid mystery solved and if I can help in any way, I will.’
‘I am very obliged to you for seeing me. I just have a few questions if you would be so good.’
‘Certainly.’
At this point the sherry arrived and Miss Meakin poured them both a schooner.
John raised his glass. ‘Your health, Madam. Let me just explain that I am assisting the Constable of Exeter, Tobias Miller, with his investigations.’
This was not strictly true but the Apothecary had no hesitation in telling a white lie, anxious as he was to find out if the dead man had a more intimate relationship with St Austell and his family, or had merely been acquainted through business. He guessed at the latter.
‘Obviously, Miss Meakin, you have been told all the details of the terrible affair at the Earl of St Austell’s wedding feast. Tell me, how well did your brother know the Earl?’
‘Well, socially, he didn’t. But the Earl had considerable dealings in Devon — as well as Cornwall — and Alan was a lawyer, in charge of the Earl’s Devon affairs.’
‘I see. Very much as I thought.’
‘What else can I help you with?’
‘I don’t know really.’ For once the Apothecary was at a loss, having failed to make any true connection between the two dead men.
‘Would you like another sherry while you think?’
‘Yes please.’
Miss Meakin refilled his glass and John sipped, wondering what to say.
‘Alan’s wife could not go with him to the wedding feast — and God be thanked for that in hindsight — because she is very near her time. My poor, poor sister-in-law. Heaven alone knows what future awaits her.’
‘But surely you have enough money.’
‘Yes, we do. Though Alan’s salary was a goodly part of it. He was very clever you know. As I told you he handled all the Earl’s affairs.’
John had a moment of inspiration. ‘St Austell wasn’t by chance making a new will, was he?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Miss Meakin earnestly. ‘Alan was much involved with it. The Earl left a personal bequest to his bride, apparently, which would see her comfortably off for the rest of her days.’
‘Really? And do you know if it had been signed or not?’
She looked bewildered. ‘Oh yes. It was signed shortly after they became betrothed.’
Suddenly the Apothecary saw a thread. Lord George and Viscount Falmouth must have been quite displeased about that, to say nothing of Lady Imogen. He drank his sherry rather fast and stood up. ‘It really has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Meakin. If there is anything I can do to help you or your sister-in-law please do contact me. I am staying with Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi at her house near Exeter.’
The little dot opened her eyes wide and then wept again. ‘Thank you for being so polite, Mr Rawlings,’ she said in a muffled voice.
‘Thank you for receiving me, Miss Meakin.’ He bowed his way out, hat across his chest. ‘Please give my condolences to Mrs Meakin.’
‘I will, I will.’
He left her crying in full flood and stepped out and into his carriage with an entirely different view of the case.
Unfortunately he had no time to pursue his idea at present because, looking at his watch — still the one that Sir Gabriel had given him for his twenty-first birthday — he discovered that he had less than half an hour until his appointment with Mr James. But when he panted to the front door, a minute or two late, the horrible Gertrude waved her tooth at him and shouted, ‘He’s out,’ before slamming it shut in his face.
John stood, slightly annoyed and quite definitely nonplussed. He had made a firm arrangement to call on Geoffrey James and now the fellow had backed out. He decided that he would try to locate him and knocked on the door again.
It was opened after a minute and Gertrude thrust her unlovely face out. ‘Wot is it?’
‘Do you know where Mr James has gone?’
‘Down to the river. Says he’s going to drown hisself.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ John answered impatiently, and set off at some speed.
Originally the River Exe had been tidal and navigable up to the city walls, and it had thrived as a busy port. In the 1270s, however, Isabella de Fortibus, the Countess of Devon, had built a weir across the river to power her mills. Whether this was a deliberately spiteful action no one knew but it had the effect of cutting off Exeter’s thriving harbour from the sea. Twenty years later trade with the port resumed only to be cut off once more, this time by Hugh de Courtenay, Earl of Devon, Isabella’s cousin. This meant that all goods had to be unloaded at Topsham — a town that John could remember clearly from the days of his honeymoon — and carried by road. The Earls, rubbing their hands in glee, collected heavy tolls to anyone using the highways,
