Read Online Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deryn Lake
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said, “Oh very well. Where do you want to begin?”
“Perhaps in Richard’s room. There might be some clue in there, possibly the address of one his friends, maybe a hint as to where he has gone.”
Regarding him with a look of extreme suspicion, the teacher led the way to an institutional building, not guaranteed to bring a great deal of comfort into the lives of those unfortunate young men who dwelt there. However, John supposed, sacrificing the delights of home must be considered a small price to pay in return for a good education. Richard’s cell was spartan, monastic almost, containing a hard-looking bed and chair and a small table. Text books lay open, strewn about the place, giving the impression that the pimply youth rarely spent a moment without study. Small wonder, thought John, that the poor chap makes the journey back to Topsham to attend divine service on Sundays. He would seem to have little else in his life.
Behind him the headmaster was puffing noisily. “Not much here, is there?”
“Perhaps we should look through his clothes.”
But again there wasn’t much. Two serviceable but good quality suits, a cloak, two pairs of shoes and a battered hat seemed to be the sum total of Richard’s possessions. Picking up the cloak, the Apothecary felt in the pocket. A handkerchief, a snuff box — a rather pathetic pretension, John thought — and a calling card was all there was to show by way of contents. He turned the card over in his hand.
“Gerald Fitz,” the Apothecary read, “7, The Close, Exeter.” Over his shoulder, the headmaster was doing the same thing. “Fitz, eh?” he said breathily. “Never knew young van Guylder mixed in such exalted company.” The Apothecary’s svelte brows rose in an unspoken question.
“The Fitzes are one of the richest and best connected families in the county. They’re related to Lord Courtenay, you know.”
The piggy eyes glinted meaningfully and John, to whom the name meant nothing at all, looked intelligent and said, “Ah.”
“Of course Gerald Fitz was not educated here; private tutors and all that frippery. However, I believe he is a pleasant enough young man, though quite the beau of fashion if one were to judge by appearances.”
John looked round the dismal little room once more, trying to picture the spotty boy sitting at the table, his nose in a book, wishing he were somewhere else. He turned to the headmaster again. “As I mentioned, Mr. van Guylder is not at home. You wouldn’t by any chance have knowledge of his haunts in Exeter?”
The porcine eyes gleamed rudely. “You could try a certain house in Blackboy Road.”
“Do I take it you mean a house of pleasure?”
The headmaster laughed gustily. “Pleasure, ill repute? What’s in a name?”
“What indeed? Does this house have a number?”
“No, but you cannot miss it. Outside hangs a sign portraying a female leg, stockinged and gartered. It is much patronised, so I believe, by the officers stationed at Rougemont Castle.” The teacher’s face took on a perceptive expression. “So both father and son are out of contact at the same time. How odd.”
“It is certainly a coincidence but let it be hoped that by the end of the day each will have returned.”
“When,” said the headmaster nastily, “I set eyes on young Richard again he can be assured of a sound beating.”
A fact guaranteed, thought John, to keep him away as long as humanly possible.
Outside in the street, nestling close to the East Gate so that he might observe the passing parade from the commanding view of his coachman’s box, Irish Tom sat patiently, his eyes moving from time to time to The Dragon Inn in High Street, a look of longing on his face whenever he did so. Much as John wanted to get on with his search for the van Guylders, father and son, he simply didn’t have the heart to keep his employee, who had after all been born in a hostelry in County Tyrone, away from his ale a moment
“Perhaps in Richard’s room. There might be some clue in there, possibly the address of one his friends, maybe a hint as to where he has gone.”
Regarding him with a look of extreme suspicion, the teacher led the way to an institutional building, not guaranteed to bring a great deal of comfort into the lives of those unfortunate young men who dwelt there. However, John supposed, sacrificing the delights of home must be considered a small price to pay in return for a good education. Richard’s cell was spartan, monastic almost, containing a hard-looking bed and chair and a small table. Text books lay open, strewn about the place, giving the impression that the pimply youth rarely spent a moment without study. Small wonder, thought John, that the poor chap makes the journey back to Topsham to attend divine service on Sundays. He would seem to have little else in his life.
Behind him the headmaster was puffing noisily. “Not much here, is there?”
“Perhaps we should look through his clothes.”
But again there wasn’t much. Two serviceable but good quality suits, a cloak, two pairs of shoes and a battered hat seemed to be the sum total of Richard’s possessions. Picking up the cloak, the Apothecary felt in the pocket. A handkerchief, a snuff box — a rather pathetic pretension, John thought — and a calling card was all there was to show by way of contents. He turned the card over in his hand.
“Gerald Fitz,” the Apothecary read, “7, The Close, Exeter.” Over his shoulder, the headmaster was doing the same thing. “Fitz, eh?” he said breathily. “Never knew young van Guylder mixed in such exalted company.” The Apothecary’s svelte brows rose in an unspoken question.
“The Fitzes are one of the richest and best connected families in the county. They’re related to Lord Courtenay, you know.”
The piggy eyes glinted meaningfully and John, to whom the name meant nothing at all, looked intelligent and said, “Ah.”
“Of course Gerald Fitz was not educated here; private tutors and all that frippery. However, I believe he is a pleasant enough young man, though quite the beau of fashion if one were to judge by appearances.”
John looked round the dismal little room once more, trying to picture the spotty boy sitting at the table, his nose in a book, wishing he were somewhere else. He turned to the headmaster again. “As I mentioned, Mr. van Guylder is not at home. You wouldn’t by any chance have knowledge of his haunts in Exeter?”
The porcine eyes gleamed rudely. “You could try a certain house in Blackboy Road.”
“Do I take it you mean a house of pleasure?”
The headmaster laughed gustily. “Pleasure, ill repute? What’s in a name?”
“What indeed? Does this house have a number?”
“No, but you cannot miss it. Outside hangs a sign portraying a female leg, stockinged and gartered. It is much patronised, so I believe, by the officers stationed at Rougemont Castle.” The teacher’s face took on a perceptive expression. “So both father and son are out of contact at the same time. How odd.”
“It is certainly a coincidence but let it be hoped that by the end of the day each will have returned.”
“When,” said the headmaster nastily, “I set eyes on young Richard again he can be assured of a sound beating.”
A fact guaranteed, thought John, to keep him away as long as humanly possible.
Outside in the street, nestling close to the East Gate so that he might observe the passing parade from the commanding view of his coachman’s box, Irish Tom sat patiently, his eyes moving from time to time to The Dragon Inn in High Street, a look of longing on his face whenever he did so. Much as John wanted to get on with his search for the van Guylders, father and son, he simply didn’t have the heart to keep his employee, who had after all been born in a hostelry in County Tyrone, away from his ale a moment
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