Free Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake Page B

revelations.
    “Your son is missing from his lessons,” he said quietly.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He hasn’t returned to school since his weekend with you.”
    “But today is Wednesday. He caught the coach on Monday morning.”
    “Yes, I know. I saw him.”
    “You what?”
    “Mr. van Guylder,” said John patiently, “it is obvious that I must tell you the whole story. Answer me truly, are you up to hearing it?” The Dutchman nodded but looked so pale around the gills that John decided on another course of action. Putting his head out, he called up to the coachman.
    “Let us take our guest home. He will be better equipped in his own surroundings to deal with all of this. As fast as you can Tom without causing hazard.”
    It was a journey of pure torture. Refusing to rest or sit quietly, van Guylder bombarded the Apothecary with questions which he felt duty bound to answer. In this way, the story of Juliana’s discovery on the deserted ship, though related tactfully, sounded so sinister as to be unreal. Indeed, even as he was telling the tale, John was remembering the ghostly white coach and its terrible occupants and how hard it was proving for him to dismiss the incident as having a perfectly rational explanation. Right at the back of his mind was growing the nasty feeling that there had been something supernatural about the whole affair and that somehow or other the ghost-ship and its solitary passenger might be connected with it.
    But he had practical things to do. The Dutchman, who had wept silently since he had got into the coach, collapsed in a heap as John, omitting all the unpleasant details, described to him how Juliana had been found. Smelling salts were administered, clothing loosened, and a bandage soaked in common water soldier applied to the brow, thus preventing Jan van Guylder from losing consciousness all together. No one had ever been more relieved than when the masts of Topsham came into view and Tom turned the carriage in the direction of Shell House.
    Yet here the situation grew slightly worse as Jan, still sobbing, said, “I pray Richard has returned. At least we can comfort one another in this black hour,” then rushed into his home calling his son’s name.
    John did not know what made him so certain that the spotty boy would still be missing, but certain he was. Groaning audibly, he got out of the carriage and went into the house. Van Guylder was now acting like a man possessed, hurling himself from room to room, throwing open doors and demanding of the bewildered servants where Richard was hiding. So terrible was his manner and his look that a young female domestic started to scream, her high-pitched yells adding to the general pandemonium.
    John, who had brought his medical bag with him even on honeymoon, dashed to the coach to get it and collared Tom to come in and help. Between them they managed to adminster a large dose of Greek Valerian in the form of an infusion, already prepared, down the throat of the loudly protesting Dutchman.
    “What does that do, Sir?” asked the coachman.
    “It is very good in hysteric cases and works wonders with the vapours. Give some to that girl while you’re at it. I want to question the servants.”
    Yet, with one exception, this proved fruitless. Much as they wanted to help, for the news of Juliana’s death had shocked them into stunned silence, there was little they could add. The young mistress had left the house early on Monday morning and had not been seen since.
    “Did she take clothes with her?”
    “Yes, Sir,” said the dead girl’s personal maid, “and a strange selection at that. As well as her travelling dress, which she must have been wearing, she took evening clothes and her very best gown.”
    “So she carried a large bag?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    John thought aloud. “Then the coachman will probably remember her.”
    “Of course he will, Sir. He took Miss Juliana into Exeter quite regular.”
    “So if anybody met her at the