Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake Page A

was done, and stretch out beside his wife. He was asleep within two minutes and knew nothing further until at some time in the small hours there came a thunderous knocking on his door. It so startled him that John was out of bed and on his feet before he even realised it. Practically sleepwalking he slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack, looking out blearily. In the gap he could see framed the honest countenance of William r
    Haycraft, the constable.
    “So sorry to disturb you at your rest, Sir, but I was wondering if you would be able to come with me down to the beach.”
    “Why, what’s happened?” asked John, trying to bring his thoughts into some semblance of order.
    “A man’s been found in the shallows, pretty far gone but still alive. I wondered if you might be prepared to tend him.”
    “Where does he come from, do you know?”
    “Certainly not an English ship, he’s speaking a foreign tongue.”
    “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll join you.”
    “What is it?” said Emilia.
    “A man’s been washed ashore in dire straits. The constable has asked me to help.”
    “Do you want me to come?”
    “No, darling, I don’t. It’s going to be unpleasant, I’m sure of it. Stay here and keep my place warm.”
    She was clearly in no mood to argue for she snuggled back down into the pillows. Pulling on travelling breeches and a shirt, John grabbed his medicine bag and followed the constable down the stairs, thinking his must be one of the most eventful honeymoons a man had ever experienced.
    The fishermen were on the beach and the
    Apothecary realised that it must be time for the fleet to set out. The man they had found, for presumably that was how he had been discovered, had been carried inshore and covered with a pile of old sails and nets to keep him warm. Further, some goodhearted soul had lit a fire out of driftwood to give the poor devil a chance to recover. He was terribly weak, though, thought John, feeling his feeble pulse and looking at all the outward signs of cold and exposure. In fact if it hadn’t been for the unseasonably warm weather the wretched fellow would probably be dead. Reaching in his bag he fetched out a decoction of agrimony made with wine, a general cure-all for internal wounds, bruises and hurts. This he followed with a dose of white poppy juice to ease the man into a peaceful sleep and relieve any pain he might be suffering. He turned to the constable.
    “We must get him inside if he is to have a chance of survival. Can The Anchor take him?”
    “They will if I order it. There is still some respect for the law round here.”
    “Can you fetch a table top or similar. We’ll need it to carry him on.”
    “I’ll find something and I’ll be as quick as I can.” And William set off at speed.
    Left alone, John stared at the man brought in from the sea, thinking that he was probably no more than forty years old and certainly not English. Dark hair and a swarthy skin, clearly visible in the moonlight, spoke of different origins.
    John had a brainwave. Very gently, close to the man’s ear, he said the word, Constantia? There was a reaction, for the eyelids flickered and then slowly opened. The Apothecary repeated himself and there was a barely perceptible nod of the head.
    So this was a member of the disappearing crew. “Do you speak English?” John asked slowly.
    “A little,” the man gasped, then came a drift towards sleep.
    “What happened? Tell me?” begged the Apothecary desperately.
    The man opened his eyes and gave him a look that John would never forget. “Angels come,” he said, and then quite quietly and with not another word, he died.

6

    D espite the earlier fatigue he had suffered, the Apothecary realised there would be precious little sleep for him that night. Between them, he and William had carried the dead sailor back to The Ship where they had placed the body in an outbuilding and firmly locked the door. Then they had gone to sit on the