Death in the Valley of Shadows (34 page)

The Apothecary burst out laughing. “You’re damn cheerful company I must say. Anyway, shall we get Greville tonight?”

Joe fingered his chin. “No, tomorrow morning - early. Let’s catch the bastard while he’s abed.”

John shivered involuntarily, remembering the sight he had seen when last he called at Merrow Place early. “I wonder what’s happened to Justin’s body,” he said slowly.

“Well, it will have been removed, that’s for sure.”

“Should we arrest a man before his brother’s funeral?”

“We not only should, we will,” Joe replied forcefully. “That bastard. Think of Evalina. My God, her avenging is long overdue.”

“You’re right, of course. So tomorrow morning it is.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Joe, and clinked glasses with the Apothecary.

The next morning he woke abruptly. It was a grey dawn, promising rain, not light enough for a body to be stirring, but Jago was already up, half-dressed, and standing at the washbasin. He looked round and grinned as John bade him the best of the day.

“Ready to catch your fox?” he asked.

“Good and ready,” said the Apothecary, sitting up. He yawned and ran his head through his hair which, as usual, was in need of cutting.

“I won’t be long,” Joe added, turning away and applying a dangerous looking razor to his chin. “I told the girl to bring some more hot water.”

“Good.” John consulted his watch. “Great God! It’s only five o’clock.”

“I said we’d get our man early.”

“And early it is. We’ll probably miss breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” said Joe Jago firmly, “can wait.”

Somewhat against his better judgement, John found himself in the stable yard some thirty minutes later, struggling to saddle up Herring.

“Here, let me,” said Joe. And yet again revealed another facet of his amazing personality by getting the animal ready in a matter of minutes, all the time talking in a soft voice, using cant mixed in with English.

“You are truly incredible,” said John admiringly.

“Something I learned from my father,” answered Joe. And the Apothecary realised that never before had he mentioned a member of his family or, for that matter, discussed anything personal.

John felt he dared to ask a question. “Did your father come from London?”

“No, Sir,” answered Joe, and there he dropped the matter. “Well, we’d best get on our way. I’ve a feeling about this.”

“What sort of feeling?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ve most certainly got one.”

They trotted out of the stable yard, John leading the way, and after ten minutes came to the gates of Merrow Place, which were firmly closed. Joe descended rapidly and knocked at the door of the gatekeeper’s lodge.

“Open up at once,” he shouted. “I’m here on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, and here I stay until you let me in.”

A grizzled head appeared at a first floor window. “The master said…” it began.

Joe went perfectly white with anger and John realised that the man had been more affected by Evalina’s murder than he was admitting. He recalled the turned back and the furious pipe puffing, the infinitesimal pause before Jago had touched the dead woman.

“Now are you going to admit us or do I break your door down?” the clerk was bellowing.

The head muttered, “All right, all right,” and withdrew.

“I will not be denied entry,” said Joe furiously, more to himself than anyone else. And so he continued, muttering beneath his breath, until eventually the lodgekeeper appeared and the gates were swung open.

“So I should think,” the clerk said as he went through.

He cantered up the drive like a man possessed, John struggling to keep up, but reined in and proceeded quietly for the last few minutes.

“Is this where you and Irish Tom were kept prisoner?” he hissed over his shoulder at the Apothecary.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive. Look at the stables.” Joe followed the lines of John’s pointing finger. “There’s the archway. I’d remember it anywhere after an experience like that.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Joe grimly.

He dismounted and went to the front door, his anger only just under control, and there set up a thunderous knocking and bell pulling, fit to waken the dead, a thought that brought no comfort to John.

“Open up in the name of the law,” Jago shouted.

There was the sound of many bolts being pulled back and eventually the oily face of the same servant that had admitted John on that fateful morning - had it really only been two days ago? - appeared.

“Yes?” he said.

Joe produced a card from an inner pocket and thrust it under the footman’s nose. “I demand to come in now and see your master,” he said shortly.

The footman was very cool, John had to grant him that. Taking his time, he produced a pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose, then he slowly and laboriously read the card.

“Joseph R. Jago, clerk to Sir John Fielding, the Public Office, Bow Street, London,” he read laboriously. Then he licked his lips. “I see. You want the master, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

The servant’s eyes flickered over John. “I think I know you, Sir.”

“This is my assistant, John Rawlings,” Joe continued in the same harsh tones. “He goes where I go.”

“You’ve been here before, Sir.” The footman was addressing John direct. “On the day Master Justin died. I wanted to speak to you but you just left the house.”

“Well you may speak to me now,” John answered. “May we come in, please.”

“Yes,” the man answered. “You may.”

And he opened the front door wide and allowed them into the vast echoing wastes of the hall.

“The master is still abed,” the man continued. “If you will wait in here, gentlemen.”

He crossed the hall and ushered them into another huge room. Then he closed the door quietly behind them.

Not only were the curtains drawn but the shutters closed across the four huge windows which formed almost the whole of one wall. Just for a moment John and Joe were blinded, unable to see anything, then they slowly began to make out shapes. Furniture with white sheets over loomed like ghosts. Distantly, John noticed a sofa and several chairs, all closed beneath their pale drapes.

“Are we meant to sit down or what?” he asked Joe.

Then a voice spoke out of the darkness. “No, gentlemen, you are meant to remain standing.”

They froze, rooted to the spot, and John, narrowing his eyes, made out a dim shape sitting behind the desk. A shape which had remained so still that until this moment he had not even seen it.

“So, my dears, you thought you’d catch old Uncle Greville unawares, did you? Thought that by turning up here at this ungodly hour you’d find him napping. Well, my friends, your every move has been watched. I knew last night that you had returned to West Clandon, Mr. Rawlings, and that you had a henchman with you. So I reckoned that, being a creature of habit, you’d come for me almost as soon as it was light. Only you didn’t expect a reception committee, did you?”

Greville paused for breath and Joe Jago spoke into the brief silence.

“Mr. Greville Bussell, I have here a warrant for your arrest. I would suggest…”

“Suggest be damned,” replied the other man harshly. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to shoot the pair of you, then I’m taking off abroad for a long tour. By the time I come back your mysterious disappearance will be something that people tell their children about when they want them to go to bed.”

And in the darkness John heard a pistol cock. He had never been so frightened in his life and he spoke wildly, determined to get a little more time.

“It was you who killed Aidan Fenchurch and Evalina, wasn’t it? Why, for God’s sake?”

“Aidan had given my mother the runaround for enough miserable years. I was sick to the back teeth of him. As for the woman, she was in revenge for the deaths of my parents.”

Just for a moment there was the suspicion of a catch in his voice and the Apothecary caught himself thinking that perhaps there was some feeling in Greville after all.

“Why did you take me prisoner?” John asked. “What did you hope to gain by that?”

“You were getting too damned close on my trail, you bastard. I sensed it at the funeral. You would have vanished, you and your coachman, if you hadn’t managed to escape.”

“But what about Justin,” John went on, “surely he didn’t want to do those things?”

“Justin was softer than I am, poor fool. But he went for Aidan right enough. We’d both had enough of my mother’s complaints. It was a pleasure to take him out.”

“It might have been for you. But Justin paid the penalty,” John said softly.

“Enough talking, goodbye my friends,” Greville answered.

And with that a pistol fired, twice, in the half-light. The figure behind the desk rose to its feet, staggered a few steps towards them, then fell back with a groan. Despite everything, John’s training came to the fore and he rushed forward.

“Careful,” said Joe Jago’s voice behind him, and the Apothecary, reluctantly, slowed down.

Walking past him, Jago knelt down beside the body while John, at last, hurried to the window and let in some much-needed light.

There lay Greville, shot through the head and the heart, steeped in his own blood.

John stared at Joe and thought he had never seen his face more ragged, his expression sterner.

“So die all of his sort,” Joe said shortly and, blowing the end of his smoking pistol, put it away in his pocket.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
he temptation to leg it through the window was almost overwhelming but Joe gathered his dignity round him like a cloak.

“I am an officer of the law and the man resisted arrest,” he announced. “That is what happened.”

John, kneeling over the body, grinned wryly. “Yes, I suppose it did. Joe, how did you shoot him? He had the gun in his hand.”

“Let it just be said that I was quicker than he was.”

“But I never realised you were such an excellent shot.”

A humourless smile crossed Joe’s features. “Another hobby of mine. Now enough. I am going back to the hostelry to have some breakfast and a large brandy. Will you accompany me or do you intend to stay here and answer questions?”

“I’ll come with you.”

As luck would have it the hall was empty, the servants obviously at work in another part of the building. None the less, Joe Jago insisted on leaving a note. It simply said, ‘Your master lies dead in the large salon. He died resisting arrest. If any need to speak to me on this matter I shall be at The Onslow Arms for the next few days.’

“There, that’s done,” he said, and marched out of the front door.

Never before, thought John, had he seen him in such a ruthless mood, nor quite so hard of purpose. Lost in wonderment, he followed on, almost blindly, to where the horses were tethered.

“Joe?” he said, as Jago began to unloop the reins.

“Yes?”

“Are you really going to leave it like that?”

“What?”

“Greville. After all, the man is dead.”

“Mr. Rawlings,” said Joe, suddenly earnest, “if he had not have died, we would. It was a case of
him
or us. I had spoken the words of arrest but he did not come quietly. Now, truly, that is all I have to say on the matter.”

And with that the Apothecary was forced to be satisfied.

The only sign of weakness that Joe Jago exhibited was to drink two big draughts with his breakfast. Then, whilst still consuming the third, he turned to John.

“Well, Sir, do we head for Foxfire Hall?”

“It’s still only nine o’clock, we’ll be there by mid morning. I think we should get it over, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“In fact the sooner we draw this wretched business to its conclusion the better it will be for all of us.”

So, almost on the dot of half-past nine, the two riders set out in the direction of Stoke d’Abemon and the great house of shadows, as John now thought of it, that lay beyond. He shivered, remembering the first time he had driven there with Irish Tom on the box and how they had followed the River Wey’s meanderings until finally they had come to a track. Now he and Jago took the same route, passing through dense woodland as they did so.

“How much longer?” asked Joe.

“About another thirty minutes or so.”

They rode on a mile or two and then the rain, which had been threatening since daybreak, arrived, drenching them.

“I don’t care for this at all,” said Joe, pulling up in the shelter of some trees, and at that precise moment his mount cast a shoe. “Damnation!” he exclaimed, and slid from the saddle to have a look at Finn’s hoof. The shoe was almost completely off, sticking out at an angle and secured by only one nail. “I’ll have to get to a smithy,” he said. And at that proceeded to yank out the one remaining nail with the aid of a knife retrieved from his coat pocket.