Death in the Valley of Shadows (6 page)

“Did you really mean that?” asked Jocasta.

“About starving her? Yes, certainly. Obviously she is grieved to lose her father, especially in such horrific circumstances, but quite frankly I consider such a show to be attention seeking and no more. Order the servants to give her nothing but fluids for the next twenty-four hours and I am sure you will soon find a change in attitude.”

“But I don’t think I can cope with that noise much longer.”

“Then I’ll put a good dose of laudanum into some wine, that should render her unconscious for a while.”

“It won’t kill her, will it?”

“Of course not. An overdose would but I assure you that I will measure it out very carefully.”

Jocasta gave a half smile. “Perhaps I should have some.”

“You don’t need it,” John answered seriously. “I believe that you are possibly a very strong woman indeed.”

In the drawing room into which he had first been show, Millicent awaited him. Standing in a comer, back turned, shoulders heaving, she looked like a tragic little mouse. In a great rush of sympathy the Apothecary went to her side and put his arm round her. She jumped as only a maiden lady could, and moved away. Very contrite, John bowed.

“Madam, I did not mean to give offence. Only to offer comfort.”

She turned to face him, all confusion, her small face working with emotion. “It is just that I am so upset, Sir. Aidan was very good to me, took me in when my father died, deeply in debt. Without my cousin I tremble to think what my future would have been. That is why his bmtal death affects me so badly. If he had ended in his bed it would have been bad enough, but to go like that, bleeding in the street…” Millicent fought nobly to control her sobs but lost the battle.

“May I give you a soothing draught?” John asked. “I assure you that I am a recognised Apothecary and not some quack.”

“Of course you are, I never doubted it for a moment.” She looked bewildered. “An Apothecary I mean, not a quack.” Her cheeks quivered. “Oh dear, I sound very foolish, don’t I?”

“No,” said Jocasta, coming to join them. “You sound just like our Cousin Millicent.” She cuddled the older woman to her.

“She was our governess, you know. She looked after us when our mother died.”

Millicent, still clearly embarrassed, began to jabber slightly. “Of course it was most fortuitous - not dear Dorothy’s death of course, I didn’t mean that. No, it was just the timing. Papa went into debt - so very, very badly - and died in that horrible gaol just as Dorothy quitted this life. Naturally Aidan didn’t want to put his girls into the hands of a stranger and as I had been a governess to the Delameres - such a good family - he asked me if I would consider the position. I was only too happy to accept, as you can guess, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Indeed I can.”

“I was twenty-six at the time but felt as if life had just begun when Aidan offered me a home.”

It was a tale so similar to those he had heard from other poor relations that the whole story seemed familiar, yet the Apothecary’s sympathies were stirred. Unless endowed with great physical charms, girls without means had little chance of securing a good match and were frequently forced to act as governesses to other people’s children.

“How kind of him,” he murmured.

Her eyes filled with tears. “And now he has gone. Poor Aidan. Whatever his weaknesses he did not deserve such a fate.”

John was longing to ask what those weaknesses might have been but thought it more circumspect not to do so. However, he hazarded a shrewd guess that Millicent knew of her late employer’s affair with Ariadne Bussell, a fact that she had kept secret from his daughters.

“It was indeed a most grim end,” he said now. “But pray do not distress yourself. Allow me to give you some physick.” And he fished in his medical bag, then poured out a deep measure which he handed to her.

Millicent sipped at it in true spinsterish fashion and John had a vision of her going through life like that, always taking little sips of everything, be it food, drink, or carnality. Never attacking anything with gusto, always careful, always cautious, a woman of small appetite in every way.

“It’s a little sour,” she said, and gave a timid laugh.

“Drink it down,” advised Jocasta. “It did me good. Come on, Millie.”

Her cousin took another tiny mouthful, then put the glass down and wept again. “Oh, what are we going to do without him?” she asked mournfully.

“If you’re worried about your future, stop now,” Jocasta said. “Papa has left Foxfire Hall to me - or so he always promised. I shall probably go to live there and, of course, you will be my companion.”

“You will marry again,” said Millicent sombrely. “I have no doubt of that.”

Jocasta shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows? I have certainly met no one to match Horatio as yet.”

“How long ago did your husband die?” John asked.

“Eighteen months. It was very sudden. Admittedly he was older than I, but none the less it was unexpected.”

“What happened?”

“He must have eaten something that disagreed with him, or so the doctor thought. He had violent stomach pains, sickness and laxes, and was dead by morning. Poor dear soul. It was considered that the mushrooms he consumed were poisonous. I had none because I have never been fond of them.”

The Apothecary nodded. “One can’t be too careful with fungi. You really must be able to differentiate between the toxic and the harmless.”

Millicent spoke up. “When I was a girl - such a very long time ago - “ She smiled a little archly. “We used to go picking in the woods. That was in the days before Father lost his fortune. Anyway, Mama would carefully examine everything we brought back. For poison, you see. She was most particular.”

“Very wise,” said John.

Jocasta exhaled her breath in a bitter sound. “Poor Horatio. I still can’t think how it happened. Do you remember, Millie, how the cook took all the blame and left our employment hurriedly. But really it was misadventure.”

The conversation was getting more sombre by the minute and tears from both women seemed imminent. The Apothecary frantically wondered how he could possibly lighten the situation but was saved by a wild gurgling scream from the upper floor. All three looked at one another.

“Evalina,” said Jocasta, and, “I’ll deal with her,” said John, snatching his bag and sprinting up the stairs before the other two could even get a start. On the edge of anger, he entered the room of Aidan Fenchurch’s eldest unmarried daughter.

“How dare you!” she expostulated.

“More to the point, have you no respect?” he answered furiously.

She hadn’t expected that and gaped, not an attractive sight from a woman who had spent the last thirty-six hours in bed without attending to her toilette.

“You should be ashamed,” John thundered. “With your father lying in the mortuary, you are now the head of the family. And what do you do? Lie slummocky in your sheets, wailing like a banshee and resembling a gorgon. You have the worst end of the staff, Madam. Rise up, wash, dress, and show a little dignity. Why, a child of twelve would behave in a more seemly manner than you can muster. Shame on you.”

She glowered from beneath the hanging curtains of her hair. “Upstart, rogue. What are you doing in this house?”

“I come about your late father’s business,” he answered magnificently, and swept out.

At the bottom of the stairs Jocasta and Millicent waited anxiously.

“How is she?” asked the older woman.

“Play acting,” said John. “I shall definitely barb her drink for her. Then you will get some peace. But no mercy, mind.” He fixed the governess with a look. “I know you were called upon to be her mother, but do not give way. If she were smaller, she should be spanked. I am afraid. Miss Millicent, that in these dire circumstances you must be cruel to be kind. And now, ladies, with that advice I take my leave.”

He bowed, then remembered the information that Sir John Fielding had wished him to obtain, rather spoiling his exit.

“By the way, do either of you know the whereabouts of Mrs. Bussell, Mr. Fenchurch’s friend? She ordered some pills in my shop but forgot to leave her address.”

Was it his imagination or did a silent ripple run between the two of them?

“Mrs. Bussell lives in Grosvenor Square,” said Jocasta. “Number six, I believe.”

“A very seemly address.”

“Indeed it is. But then, of course, her husband is very, very rich so what else would you expect.”

“Aha,” said Sir John Fielding. “It seems the Shadow lives most comfortably.”

“So it would appear.”

The Magistrate sighed. “I wonder at these husbands, truly I do. Was he aware of her affair and subsequent pursuit of her lover? Or is he merely an ignorant fool?”

John shrugged and shook his head. “Who knows?”

“Whatever the case, he has settled for keeping her into old age. Anyway, Mr. Rawlings, tomorrow you and Jago will ruffle her feathers. A woman like that needs to be called to order from time to time.”

“Do you think she paid to have Aidan Fenchurch killed, Sir?”

“Yes, I do,” said Sir John, sighing heavily. “The devil of it is going to be proving that she did so.”

Chapter Four

H
aving closed the shop for the night, John and his apprentice made their way home to discover that the post boy had brought a letter from Sir Gabriel with a postscript added by Emilia, assuring her husband of her improved health. The Apothecary read it through several times, the last reading being in bed before he blew out the candle and closed his eyes. But instead of falling asleep immediately he once more lived through the sequence of events precipitated by Aidan Fenchurch running into his shop hotly pursued by Mrs. Bussell.

What, John wondered, had she wanted in particular that would have driven her to run after her quarry in such a way? What could have been so urgent that she must see him then and there? Or was she just a crazed indulged woman whose every whim must be granted as soon as she so much as thought of it. Probably the latter, he considered, and fell to conjecturing what Montague Bussell could possibly be like and whether he would be at home when John and Joe Jago called at Grosvenor Square in the morning.

As it transpired, despite the earliness of the hour neither husband nor wife were in, a fact with which the representatives of the Public Office could not argue as no previous appointment had been made.

“Who shall I say called, Sir?” asked a footman, looking at Joe as if he had crawled from beneath a damp stone.

Sir John Fielding’s clerk and right hand man showed his steel. With a flourish of hard, somewhat dangerous-looking fingers, he produced a card from within his sensible worsted coat and thrust it beneath the arrogant servant’s nostrils.

Startled, the man read it aloud. “Joseph R. Jago, clerk to Sir John Fielding, the Public Office, Bow Street.” He looked slightly taken aback. “And to what does this refer, Sir?”

“Mind your business,” snapped Joe mightily. “I wish to see Mrs. Bussell and I shall return. My conversation with her is privy to the pair of us. Good day to you.” And he stamped down the stone steps to where John waited in the street below.

“Upstart,” said the clerk, none too quietly.

The Apothecary, who had grown accustomed to the ill manners of servants through years of calling on the sick, nodded sympathetically, then looked thoughtful. “D’ye know, he goes with his employer somehow.”

“Is she of that ilk; rude and arrogant?”

“Horribly so. But I’d wager a goodly sum that when we finally pin her down she’ll be in flirtatious mode, all grins, winks and teeth.”

Joe shuddered. “Heaven forfend! I think I’d rather meet her aggressive.”

“Are you sure about that?” said John, and burst into hilarious laughter, startling a passer-by.

They had come in the coach used for Bow Street business and now had it at their disposal. “Do you want me to take you to the shop, Sir?” Joe asked as they climbed aboard.

The Apothecary shook his head. “If it is no trouble to you, my friend, I would like to call at the mortuary. I have a feeling that I shall know more about Aidan Fenchurch’s death if I can see the extent of his injuries.”

“He’s in a rough state, Sir. But then I have no need to warn you of that.”

“I don’t relish the task but I know I won’t be allowed in without an official present so this will be my only chance to see him. What’s the ruling regarding the body, by the way?”

“The coroner is due to release it to the family later today.”

“Then we’d best make haste,” John answered, wondering why he had set himself this loathsome duty.

The thing that he hated above all about mortuaries was the terrible smell of sweetness. Though the slabs were kept as cold as possible, still flesh had only one fate once the life force had left it and there was nothing that could be done about that. To counteract the stink of corruption and decay, herbs were scattered and rose water sprinkled by the mortuary keeper, but still the stench caught in the back of John’s throat as he made his way down the central aisle to where lay the last mortal remains of Aidan Fenchurch covered by a stark white shroud.