Death in the Valley of Shadows (15 page)

It was John’s turn to become silent.

“You do not agree?” asked the Beak.

“It could have been just that, Sir. Any one of the family could have hated Ariadne sufficiently to want to see her off.”

“You have a point, Mr. Rawlings. But none of them would have wanted to kill their own father, now would they? No, this second murder points to one person and one person alone. My further instruction to the Runners will be to bring Bussell in for questioning.”

“You’re probably right,” said John.

And indeed the fact could not be argued against. Who else would want to kill both Aidan Fenchurch and Ariadne Bussell? One, perhaps, but not the other. Most certainly the entire focus of the enquiry had changed. Yet the Apothecary could not help but feel that there was some thread, some obscure fact, that he should have noticed by now but which at the moment lay beyond his grasp.

John had not requested a fast drive home but Irish Tom gave him one regardless of the fact. They positively sped through the streets, irritating several hackney coach drivers who shouted abuse. The Irishman ignored them and positively whirled up The Hay Market, then cut across various smaller alleys, a feat not achieved at quite such top speed, then clattered along Gerrard Street and turned left into Nassau Street with a thunder of wheels. He drew to a halt outside number two and John dismounted. But before he could cross the space leading to his house, the front door flew open. The Apothecary stared, for there stood the last person on earth he had expected to see, Sir Gabriel Kent had come to town.

“Father,” said John, running to him and hugging him. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking your place, my son. Where in heaven’s name have you been?”

“In Surrey actually…” He stopped explaining. “Where’s Emilia?”

“Within.”

The word was said solemnly and with much import and John felt his stomach heave. “Oh my God, is she all right?”

“She is very tired but other than for that she is well enough.”

“I must go to her at once.”

Sir Gabriel laid a restraining hand on his adopted son’s arm.”No, my boy, she is asleep. You will be doing her no favours by waking her up. However, there is another visitor here whom I would like you to meet. Come into the library.”

John felt a faint flicker of irritation. “What is going on? Visitors calling and Emilia sound asleep. Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, it’s quite serious I assure you. Now follow me and sit down. You must be tired after your journey. Have you dined?”

“Not as yet.”

“Then let us have some champagne.” Sir Gabriel motioned John to a chair then rang the bellrope. “Some champagne and three glasses, if you please,” he asked the footman who answered. “And could you ask Mrs. Alleyn and Miss Rose to step this way.”

The servant grinned, quite broadly. “Certainly, Sir Gabriel.”

“Who’s Miss Rose?” John asked, then momentarily closed his eyes as the warmth of the fire combined with the early start to the day and the strain of the previous evening, made him suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

He opened them abruptly as what felt like a lace-trimmed cushion was placed on his lap. John looked downwards and a pair of bright blue eyes gazed back into his. He quite literally couldn’t believe what he was seeing. An infant lay on his knees, an infant quite newborn and yet with that look of ancient wisdom, of knowledge and understanding, that was almost shocking in its unexpectedness. Yet it was not to the baby’s knowing expression that John’s gaze was drawn, instead he looked at her hair. It was red and gold and curled round her head in whorls and spirals. It was the longest, thickest hair he had ever seen on a baby and this, together with her rosebud mouth and creamy skin, made her the prettiest infant he had ever seen.

John’s voice came out as a croak. “Is she mine?”

Sir Gabriel and Emilia’s mother, Maud Alleyn, laughed gently. “She is yours and Emilia’s.”

“When was she bom?”

“Yesterday. Just after daybreak. She came into the world like aspring flower. Her mother named her Maud Phyllida Rose because of it. Do you approve of that?”

“Rose Rawlings,” said John in wonderment. “She couldn’t be called anything more apt.”

He picked the child up in his two hands so that her face was on a level with his and they looked at one another long and hard for several minutes. Of course those who knew about such things would tell him later that the child merely twitched with a flatulent spasm, but John knew differently. There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that as they stared at one another, each one getting the measure of the other. Rose Rawlings quite deliberately winked at him, sweeping long dark lashes onto her snowdrop cheek.

That night the whole house seemed alive because of the presence of the newcomer: candles and fire burned more brightly, snatches of cheerful song came from the servants’ quarters, wine sparkled in goblets, laughter seemed to come from every room.

Emilia had woken much refreshed and had sat up to feed her child, somewhat alarmed at the prospect but greatly comforted by a decoction of leaves and roots of marsh mallow boiled in water with parsley and fennel and applied warm to her breasts. Nicholas, who had come home from the shop early, had compounded it himself and was delighted that his Master had sanctioned the mixture as fit to be used by Mrs. Rawlings. As for John, he could hardly bear to leave Rose for a second, amazed by her minute hands and feet, by her perfect little body, by the luxuriant growth of hair upon her head.

“I wonder where that colour comes from?” said Emilia, as the child suckled peacefully.

“Your father?”

“No, he was brown before he went white. I thought your mother perhaps.”

“No, she was dark. Midnight hair, Sir Gabriel used to call it.”

“Perhaps it is from your real father, John.”

“It could be. I know nothing of him at all, not even what he looked like.”

“Perhaps you’ll find him one day.”

“Do you know,” said John thoughtfully, “I used to care about that. But now that Rose is here I have a blood relative again and I no longer have the desire.”

“Do you like the name?” asked Emilia, snuggling into his arms where he sat beside her on the pillows, supporting her as she fed their child.

“I can think of nothing more appropriate. I know you chose Maud and Phyllida out of courtesy to the two grandmothers but please let her be known as Rose, by us at least.”

“Rose Rawlings it is,” said Emilia.

“Rose Rawlings,” echoed John, and knew with certainty that this was one of the turning points of his life.

Chapter Nine

J
ohn Rawlings woke suddenly, wondering as he lay in the darkness what the sound was that had broken his sleep. Then he heard it again. Somewhere in the house a baby was crying. Just for a moment he thought he was at Serafina’s Palladian villa in Surrey and that one of her children was in tears, then he realised that this was the cry of an infant, not an older offspring, and his memory returned. He was a father, Emilia had given birth, and it was Rose Rawlings herself who was shouting to be fed. Smiling, John lit a candle and got out of bed.

He was sleeping in a room no bigger than a box, usually reserved for the personal servant of a house guest, but for which he had volunteered in order that Emilia should get her much-needed rest. It was at the top of the house, close to the bedrooms of the regular staff, and as he started to pad downstairs in his nightshirt, a door opened and Dorcas, Emilia’s maid, appeared.

“I’ll see to the baby, Sir.” she whispered.

“No, I’ll do it. I’d like to. Go back to bed.”

“This is her feeding time, Sir. She wants her mama.”

“Then I’ll take her.”

“Very good, Mr. Rawlings.”

She yawned, gave him a look that was an exquisite mixture of resentment and gratitude, and went back to her room.

Very rich families with larger dwellings than number two, Nassau Street, had nursery suites staffed by servants whose sole job it was to care for the babies and children of the household. But John’s establishment being far too small to warrant such an arrangement. Rose lay in a cradle in the same room as her mother. As John went through the door, Emilia was just beginning to stir as the baby cried, but when he picked his daughter up she stopped wailing and his wife went back to sleep.

He realised with enormous pleasure that he wasn’t in the least afraid of his child. Most new fathers hardly dared touch the newborn for fear of dropping them but John felt utterly confident with her and wondered why. Then he realised that in the many years since he had become a fully-fledged apothecary, he had handled and treated so many children and infants that they no longer worried him.

“Rose Rawlings, you do not daunt me,” he said quietly.

She gave him that wise, knowing look of hers, then tested him by crying again. John carried the noisy bundle over to Emilia who sat up, still half-asleep, and started to feed her. Everything went quiet again.

“Do you like her?” Emilia whispered.

“No. I love her,” he whispered back. “Sweetheart…”

“Yes?”

“I apologise for not being in the house when she was born. Though other men may not care, I do. Very much indeed. But the case of Fenchurch and the Shadow has become even more convoluted and I truly could not leave Surrey until yesterday.”

Emilia nodded her head resignedly. “It was ever thus.”

“Don’t be angry with me, please darling.”

“What would be the point? I would have left you on honeymoon if I had allowed one of Sir John’s enquiries to come between us.”

“It is a ridiculous hobby for a man to have.”

Emilia shook her head. “No, not at all. It is public-spirited of you to help track down wrongdoers.”

“But I don’t do it for that. I do it because it is both exciting and challenging.”

She smiled and suddenly looked very tired indeed.

“Has she finished? Shall I remove her?” John asked.

“A few more minutes and then you can.”

“Would you mind if I took her down to the library for a while? I want to talk to her.”

Emilia gave her husband a loving smile. “You are quite mad and utterly sweet. Take her by all means.”

The library fire was almost out but John threw on another couple of logs and blew the embers with bellows, while Rose observed him with interest. Then they sat together and watched the flames flicker up. He felt that he had always known her and wondered if this was a belief common to all new parents. Then he decided that it was not, that it was especial to him and Rose, that they were friends of centuries standing. Finally they both fell asleep at the same time and did not wake until the fire went out again and the room grew cold. Holding her close, John tiptoed back upstairs and put her back in her cradle without waking Emilia. Then he retired to his box bedroom and lay awake, wondering again what it was about the deaths of Aidan Fenchurch and his mistress that he should be noticing but still had not yet managed to grasp.

After the high drama of the last few days it was reassuring to get back into the shop and work amongst all his familiar things. Compounding and mixing, crushing herbs into a paste, putting the ash of burnt vines into pots to sell as tooth whitener; all these things John found quite relaxing. Therefore he was somewhat taken aback when a voice from the shop called out, “Is Mr. Rawlings within?” and he left the back room to see that Lieutenant Mendoza, very dark and dashing without his wig, had come to visit him.

John wiped his hands on a towel. “My dear Sir, how nice of you to call.”

The Lieutenant lowered his voice. “I need to speak to you privately, Sir. There is much to tell.”

“Then come into the compounding room. Or would you prefer to go out somewhere?”

“Walls have ears,” said the Lieutenant. “Is your room utterly private?”

“Utterly. My apprentice will look after the shop and the door between can remain closed. But first, can I offer you some refreshment? Would you care for tea?”

The Lieutenant looked shifty. “Have you any brandy?”

“A little. I’ll pour you a draft.”

“Thanks. I feel I need it.” The Lieutenant took the proffered glass and downed it in one. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, taking a seat at the wooden table.

“Why not start with your connection with the Fenchurch family. Were you and Louisa childhood sweethearts?”

“Hardly. My uncle brought me up with his children because my father died tragically at the age of nineteen. Anyway, uncle and Aidan were business rivals. We are Portuguese, by the way, though my father settled here when he was very young and I was born in this country. Be that as it may, rivalry brought about bad blood between the two families. Accusations were hurled about stealing customers, that sort of thing. Then my uncle started to lose money, rather suspiciously I thought.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The Lieutenant held out his glass for another brandy and John refilled it. “I could never prove it, of course, but I had the feeling that obstacles were deliberately put in his path.”

“I see,” said John, thinking that here was a possible motive for murder.