Death in the Valley of Shadows (14 page)

Serafina did not smile. “I wonder what Bussell meant by that. Do you think it indicates that he knew all along about his wife’s affair with Aidan Lenchurch?”

“That was the impression I got, yes.”

“And does he think she had Lenchurch murdered?”

“That I couldn’t say.”

“What a strange affair it is,” said Serafina as they returned to the salon.

John sat apart while the others played on, ostensibly reading but in fact not seeing the words at all, turning the events of the wake over and over in his head. What had brought about the sudden change in Montague Bussell’s attitude? There was no doubt that momentarily the mask had slipped and the affable husband had been replaced by someone else; someone who considered that Ariadne deserved all she got. But did that extend to believing she had murdered the former object of her affections, John wondered. Deciding that somehow or other he must talk to the duped Mr. Bussell and find out more, the Apothecary attempted to concentrate.

Behind him he heard Serafina call out, “Gentlemen, let us pause for supper. If you would follow me…”

But she got no further. From the drive came the sound of horses hooves clattering at speed and a coach being driven recklessly towards the house.

Louis shot to his feet. “What the devil…?” And he hurried to the front door.

The brothers Bussell, roused at last from their act of blase young bucks, looked round in some surprise but still remained too lethargic to leave their chairs. John, sensing danger, left the room and joined Louis, standing with his footmen, watching the carriage hurl itself towards the entrance. As it drew nearer, with a shock he recognised it.

“It’s the Runners!” he exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name are they doing here? They should be half way to Bow Street by now.”

Louis shook his head, as startled as John, as the conveyance drew to a halt with a rear of horses and Runners Ham and Raven jumped down from the coachman’s box.

“What’s going on?” called John. A mad idea occurred to him. “Has she escaped?”

“It’s a bit worse than that, Sir,” said Dick, giving the briefest bow to John and Louis.

“Then what…?”

“She was taken ill on the way to town. And I mean seriously ill, gentlemen.”

With that he threw open the door of the carriage and the foul smell of vomit and excrement hit the nostrils like an evil gas.

“God’s grace,” said John. “What happened?”

“First of all she was violently sick. Repeatedly so. We tried to keep her head out of the window but she became too weak to stand. Then she lost control of her bowels and soiled herself.”

“All the while she was rolling in agony,” put in Dick Ham. “God’s life, Mr. Rawlings, but we had no alternative but to take the wretched woman home.”

“Is she there now?”

“Yes, we managed to get her into the hall but there she collapsed.”

“No doubt they’ll send for a physician but I’d better go to her meanwhile,” said John, already turning to race upstairs to fetch his medical bag.

“You can’t travel in the coach, Sir,” answered Nick Raven firmly. “It’s like a midden. Tomorrow, by daylight, we must swab it out and somehow try to make it sweet-smelling again.”

“Take it to the stables but stand it well away from the other carriages,” Louis ordered. “Then, gentlemen, make your way to the kitchens. I’ll see to it that you are given some good brandy. You look in need of something strong.”

John turned to him. “The sons. What do we tell them?”

“Simply that a messenger has come from the big house and that they are to return home immediately.”

“But won’t they find out?”

“It will be too late by then.” Louis gave a Frenchman’s shrug.

Serafina joined them in the hall. “What’s going on?”

“Fetch those two bumpkins,” her husband answered. “Mrs. Bussell was taken ill in the coach. John is going to her now. They must leave immediately.”

Hoping for a lift, the Apothecary’s wishes were dashed. On Louis’s instructions, two large horses were brought round and the brothers swung into the saddle and were off, with their customary lack of charm leaving John to sort out his own transport.

“I don’t feel like taking an unknown road in the darkness.”

“Could you drive a gig?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound too certain. I’ll send one of the servants with you.”

So it was that the Apothecary, in company with one of Louis’s stable boys, set off in the direction of Merrow Place, wondering what he would find there and what could possibly have caused Mrs. Ariadne Bussell’s sudden and violent attack of sickness.

As soon as he entered her bedroom, John knew that she was dying. She was drained of all colour and the snapping eyes were closed. The great mouth was open, however, and through it she was breathing in shallow gasps. Luckily for the Apothecary, the family physician had not yet been found and so he was able to make an examination for himself.

Very quickly, he drew back the bedclothes, recoiling at the smell of Ariadne’s napkin, a large version of the type put on babies. He spoke to her maid, more tersely than he meant to.

“Change this. Give the poor creature a little dignity.”

“But it’s such a struggle, Sir, and she’ll only fill it again.”

“I don’t think so. Change it and send for her sons.” A thought struck him. “Where is Mr. Bussell?”

“In his study.”

So he hadn’t gone to London in pursuit of his wife. Or had he seen the Runners’ coach turn round? Whatever, it was as well that he was present.

John took Ariadne’s pulse and raised one eyelid. A conker eye regarded him glazedly. Then, as the maid turned her back, searching for fresh linen, he examined Mrs. Bussell’s lips and tongue. Neither were swollen. Yet though this ruled out any of the Wolfsbane venoms, John felt utterly convinced that this was not simply an attack of severe food poisoning. In fact he was sure that Ariadne had been deliberately poisoned. With a lurch of his heart, the Apothecary realised that the principal suspect in the case of the murder of Aidan Fenchurch was about to die herself, thus sending all their neat conclusions reeling. But there was no further time to think; the brothers, one on each side of their father, were coming into the room.

Justin eyed John suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

“I am an apothecary, Mr. Bussell. I came to offer your mother any help I could give. But, alas, she is too far gone.”

“What do you mean by that? What are you saying?”

“That your mother is dying, Sir, and is beyond my skills.”

“But why?” asked Montague. “She was all right this morning.” He eyed John suspiciously. “Who are you anyway? Ain’t you something to do with that wretched Fielding fellow?”

“I assist Sir John occasionally,” John answered. “But this is not the moment to go down that path, Sir. Save your thoughts for your wife.”

Montague went to the bedside. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “What could cause this change to happen so suddenly?”

“I would imagine that something was administered to Mrs. Bussell. That, other than food poisoning, is the only explanation.”

The little man faced John truculently. “I think you’re a fraud and a fake, Sir. Out of my house, d’ye hear? Let’s get a physician to her at once.”

“Dr. Bowles has been sent for, Father. They’re out looking for him now.”

“Meanwhile, you are to leave at once.”

“Certainly, Sir,” answered John, and was just about to make a dignified exit when there was a huge gasp from Ariadne.

The three men turned back to the bed, though John remained exactly where he was. But there was no need to examine her closely to see that the Shadow had breathed her last. With that final exhalation the dark eyes flew open and one hand, tense a second before, hung limply over the side of the bed. It would seem that from beyond the grave, Aidan Fenchurch had been avenged.

“
Mon Dieu,”
said Louis, shivering as John described the scene. “What happened then?”

“The boys looked suitably grim but did not cry. As for Bussell, he struck the maid.”

“He what?” exclaimed Serafina, shocked.

“He clouted the maid. Blamed her for not sending for help sooner. Said Ariadne would be alive but for her. Then he hit her again and walked out of the room. I think he would have struck me too but I managed to get out ahead of him.”

The Comtesse looked pensive. “That suggests to me that he has a very nasty streak. He probably poisoned her himself and thought that that was a clever way of deflecting the blame.”

“Strangely enough, my dear,” said John, downing a strong brandy, “that is exactly what I thought too.”

“I believe this case is simpler than we all reckoned,” Louis remarked, stretching his long legs towards the fire and placing his folded hands behind his head. “I think Bussell paid two assassins to remove his wife’s lover and then got rid of her by poisoning her food or drink.”

“That would suggest a certain amount of expert knowledge.”

Louis shrugged. “If he didn’t do it himself he probably paid someone else. He’s rich enough.”

John nodded. “You may well be right. It certainly makes a neat pattern. My God, there’s a lot to report to Sir John.”

“Will you leave tomorrow?” Serafina asked.

“Yes, bright and early. Much as I have enjoyed your delightful hospitality, I have been here too long as it is. I only hope that I get back before Emilia. She will not be best pleased if she and her mother return to an empty house.”

“No,” the Comtesse agreed, “she won’t. John, you must put her first from now on. I know you love solving mysteries for the Public Office but that is not the most important thing in your life any more.”

He nodded. “I know. Believe me, I am a reformed character. Once I have reported the latest turn of events to Sir John, I shall devote myself entirely to my family.”

“Yes,” said Louis, his voice suspiciously expressionless, “I’m absolutely sure you will.” Then he and Serafina exchanged a glance in which lay both fondness and exasperation.

“Will you be going to Bow Street first, Sir, or shall I take you straight home?” Irish Tom called down from the coachman’s box.

“Bow Street,” John answered. “The court should soon be rising for the dining hour. I’ll make my report to Sir John, then I can devote myself totally to home duties.”

“I wonder if Mrs. Rawlings is back yet.”

“I hope not. I want to be there to welcome her.”

“She’ll be very close to her time, won’t she.”

It was a statement not a question and John, hearing the words, felt such a thrill of apprehension that he almost countermanded his instruction to go to the Public Office. But then good sense prevailed. Better by far to get the last bit of business over so that all his time could be devoted to Emilia and the child that was to come.

The Blind Beak had just arrived in his first floor salon, the room that John knew and loved so well, and was allowing himself a preprandial glass of sherry. Elizabeth Fielding was in the chair opposite his but the precocious Mary Ann, their adopted daughter, was elsewhere, somewhat to the Apothecary’s relief. He did not find it easy to relate some of the more lurid details of a case in front of her, yet as a guest was not really in a position to suggest that she leave the room.

Sir John listened in his customary silence but Lady Fielding reacted amazingly, looking utterly astonished at the news that the principal suspect had died.

“Do you think she was poisoned?” the Magistrate finally asked.

“Yes, I do. No stomach complaint could manifest so quickly and claim a life, other than for genuine food poisoning, of course.”

“And you believe that impossible?”

“I can’t say for sure. I don’t know what she ate that day but I imagine that as they were going to a funeral both she and Mr. Bussell would have eaten lightly.”

“Um. Where are the Runners at present?”

“They have retired to the inn awaiting your instructions, Sir John.”

“I’ll get word to them straight away. I want them to check with the cook exactly what Mrs. Bussell consumed before she left for the funeral. But I tend to agree with Comte Louis.”

“In what regard?”

“I think that originally we went down the wrong track. In hindsight I believe that Montague Bussell seethed with jealousy, that he knew all about her affair with Mr. Fenchurch and her subsequent unrelenting pursuit of her victim. I think he is responsible for both their deaths.”

“But why poison Mrs. Bussell at the wake? For it must have been then if the timing of her falling sick is anything to go by.”

“To deflect suspicion from himself. Anybody could have tipped something into her glass or sprinkled a substance onto her food in that crush. You say that there was a goodly crowd present?”

John nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Then that will be his story, mark my words. That somebody with a grudge against his wife took it into their head to kill her.”

“As an act of revenge for Fenchurch’s death?”

“Precisely.”