Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake Page B

the coach without a backward glance, but he, just for a moment, stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. Was there really a pale face looking out at him from behind a barred glassless window in the East wing? Or was it just a trick of the light? Whatever the answer, John was glad to clamber into the snug confines of the carriage and shout to Tom to drive to Topsham as fast as he could go-John and Emilia found themselves approaching Topsham from an entirely different direction. Hugging the banks of the River Clyst, they passed a mill, then crossed a bridge leading to an inviting hostelry. A foaming weir lay on one side, meadowland on the other, between the two, the Bridge Inn. The Apothecary, longing for something to calm his nerves after his strange ordeal in the clothes cupboard, cast longing eyes in its direction but this time Emilia had the last word.
    “I am not going to appear in public in this state of disarray, John. I would like to go straight back to The Salutation and wash and change for dinner. The odour of that terrible house is still upon me.”
    And the Apothecary had to admit that in truth both of them smelled decidedly musty and reluctantly nodded his head. “I must visit the place another time, though. It is situated in such a pleasant location.”
    “Yes, another time,” Emilia answered firmly, and there the matter was put to rest.
    Tom turned the horses down a rough track where they picked their delicate way to Fore Street. The river came into sight, gleaming in the early afternoon sunshine, the masts of the ships thick as a forest. And there, neatly placed on a corner and looking most welcoming was The Salutation. Emilia, clearly very conscious of her dishevelled appearance, rushed upstairs to their room, giving orders as she went for some hot water to be brought, but the Apothecary went straight to the parlour reserved for guests, where he flung himself into a chair and ordered a large brandy.
    A figure rose from a settle at the far end. “Well, Sir, you look as if you’ve been having a few adventures,” said a familiar voice.
    John gaped, then sprang to his feet, throwing his arms round the newcomer, so very pleased was he to see him. “Joe,” he shouted, kissing him on the rugged cheek. “Why, if it isn’t Joe Jago.”
    Mr. John Fielding’s clerk and right-hand man, affectionately dubbed the blind Magistrate’s eyes, returned the embrace. “Well, Sir, this is a fine how dee do, ain’t it? Here you are enjoying your honeymoon, as every man has a right to do, and bless me if you don’t stumble across a body. Mr. Fielding had to chuckle … “
    John could almost hear the melodious rumble and smiled.
    “ … but for all that he says to me, “I believe our friend is in trouble”. So here I am, Sir. Setting forth from London into the mysterious West country.”
    “Are the Runners with you?”
    “They are, Sir, and keen as greyhounds. They’re in the kitchen at this very moment taking ale with the locals.”
    John grinned and gave a great sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re here, my friend. This is truly one of the weirdest situations I have ever found myself involved in.”
    “If you’ll take a bottle of wine with me, Sir, I suggest we sit over there in that quiet corner and you tell me the story right from the start. Then I can make a list if I have to.”
    Famed amongst his associates for his lists, John could see that Joe had pen, ink pot and paper already standing on a nearby table.
    “But I’m forgetting my manners,” said the clerk as they sat down. “How is Mrs. Rawlings?”
    Just for a second the Apothecary wondered who he meant, then he said, “Emilia is very well, thank you, but at the moment quite taken up with making a toilette. I should say that we have a good hour in which we can talk before she puts in an appearance.”
    “I’ll make myself scarce then, Sir.”
    “Oh no you won’t. She would be mortified. You must join us for dinner.”
    Telling