Death in the Valley of Shadows (9 page)

It was easier to join in than explain their real reason for being there and by mutual, silent consent John and Joe allowed the conversation to dwell on wine and its merits rather than the loss of Fenchurch and their involvment in investigating his death. However, the elderly woman did give a sigh and say, “And to think he was killed by footpads. It is hardly safe to leave one’s house these days.”

“Indeed, Ma’am,” said Joe. “However Sir John Fielding and his fellows are doing their best to stem the tide of violence.”

“Unfortunately, a Runner is never there when you want one,” answered the old chap. “Why, d’ye know, I was sitting in my own house t’other night when I heard a cry of ‘Stop thief!’ A highwayman, would you believe, had attacked a post-chaise in Piccadilly and it was not yet eleven o’clock at night. Anyway, chase was given, but the wretch rode over the watchman, almost killing him, and escaped.”

“Did you report the matter to the Public Office?”

“No, Sir, I did not. I saw but little, having hurried to my street door rather too late.”

“Insufficient to describe the robber?”

“Alas, yes. Where will it all end?”

“On the gallows,” said Joe determinedly. “Such audacity as to rob in the very heart of town will bring him down eventually.”

The conversation was reaching the end of its course and John was just wondering how they could move away without causing offence when a sudden hush fell over the room. The two sisters and Cousin Millicent had finally come in. It would appear that the great queue of mourners had at last departed and only those who had been invited to stay on remained.

Millicent held up her hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, as the governess of the girls as well as their cousin, they have asked me to thank you all for coming to pay respects to poor dear Aidan. We have a gift of mourning gloves which we hope you will accept. Of course nothing can fit everybody - that is, we are all different in hand sizes are we not, if you follow my meaning. But for those of you who are exceptionally big or small -1 refer to your hands, of course, not your build…” She giggled nervously,”…we shall order special pairs to be made. After all, Shakespeare’s father was a glover, was he not,” she added completely inconsequentially. Somebody laughed, which seemed to make Millicent more anxious than ever. “Now, more claret and cake will be served, except for those who are drinking ale and eating biscuits, that is. Oh dear me, I do hope I have made myself clear.”

“Very,” said Joe Jago, and bowed deeply. “A good speech, Madam.”

Millicent went scarlet, then white, and sat down hurriedly in a comer. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rayner and Miss Fenchurch began to move round amongst their guests.

“I am so glad you came, Mr. Rawlings,” said Jocasta, arriving before him. She turned her eyes on Joe Jago. “How do you do, Sir.”

He kissed her hand very gallantly. “Jago, Madam. I am here representing Sir John Fielding.”

She grew very pale. “Of course, I keep forgetting. The Public Office believes that killers were hired to do my poor father to death.”

“There is much that would indicate so,” Joe answered, adding swiftly, “Of course, we have no evidence as to who could be behind such a terrible act.”

“It could only be a business rival,” Jocasta stated firmly.

“Dare I ask,” John said quietly, “if Mr. Fenchurch’s affections were ever engaged elsewhere after your mother’s death?”

She gave him a level look. “He courted a Mrs. Trewellan for a while, but she turned him down I believe. Papa and her son did not see eye to eye.”

“And that was all? There were no further alliances?”

Jocasta looked suddenly fraught. “Why do you ask? Do you believe a woman could be behind this terrible business?”

“It is possible,” John answered diffidently.

“But who? Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“I know I shouldn’t gossip,” she said, taking a glass of claret from a passing tray, “but I always thought that that obnoxious Mrs. Bussell gave Father the eye.”

“Really?” said John, noticing that Joe had most discreetly removed himself so that she and the Apothecary could be absolutely private.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t know her, of course. She became a friend of the family shortly after my mother died and was always hurling herself at him, like a great marmalade cannonball.”

The description was so accurate that John’s crooked grin appeared briefly, then vanished. For this was the moment of decision. The most intelligent and well-disposed member of the family was telling him her observations. To dissemble with her would be a disservice indeed.

“Mrs. Rayner, do you remember me telling you that your father came into my shop in Shug Lane and told me he thought me an honest citizen?”

“Of course I do.”

“On that occasion he was being pursued by Mrs. Bussell and actually asked me to conceal his presence. I did so, hiding him in my compounding room at the back. Please don’t be shocked because a man is only a man when all is said and done…”

Why, he thought, had she suddenly gone rigid? What was it that made her momentarily appear elsewhere?

Jocasta collected herself. “Go on.”

“He admitted to me that he had briefly had an affair with her, when he was lonely and bereft, missing your mother desperately. He also told me that he ended the relationship, when Mrs. Trewellan came on the scene. It was then that Mrs. Bussell took to following him about, full of hatred and spite, making his life a misery.”

John hesitated, not wanting to make further trouble, but Jocasta was there before him. “Do you mean that she could be responsible…?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody does. But it is a path of enquiry that Sir John Fielding is most anxious to pursue.”

“What is John Fielding pursuing?” asked Millicent in her odd little voice, having left her comer and silently joined them.

“Nothing, dearest.”

“Did I hear Mrs. Bussell’s name? Such a jolly woman, is she not? Always laughing and joking and so very clever with her brushes. Of course, I paint a little but nothing in her field of endeavour.”

John looked round the room. “She is not here I see.”

“Oh you know her!” said Millicent, clapping her hands. “Is she not a wit?”

The agony of answering such a question was spared for it was at this moment that Evalina, having no doubt decided that people were relaxing too much, let out a spectacular howl and swooned, knocking a tray of wine from a passing servant’s hand. There was general uproar as glasses shattered, showering to the floor in tinkling pieces, and a deaf old gentleman yelped as his hand was cut and gouted blood. John and Joe exchanged a glance, then acted as professionally as they possibly could. The clerk administered salts and attempted to heave the fainting woman into a chair, no mean feat, while the Apothecary bound the old man’s wound with his handkerchief.

Millicent and Jocasta appeared, looking anxious.

“Oh Evalina,” her sister said impatiently. “How I wish that you would get a grip on yourself. Do the words respect for our visitors mean nothing to you?”

“There, there, Evie,” fluttered the cousin, patting Evalina’s large white hands. “Come on, dear. It’s the strain, you know,” she said to the group who had gathered round, staring at the prostrate form with a certain degree of malicious enjoyment. “She’s taken her father’s death very hard, haven’t you, pet?”

“We all have,” snapped Jocasta.

“Unfeeling, unfeeling,” moaned Evalina, then rolled her eyes up once more.

“I wouldn’t advise taking her to bed,” said the Apothecary very loudly. He turned to a hovering footman. “Could you get me some ice and water in a pail. That should do the trick.”

One of Evalina’s lids twitched slightly.

“Yes, in severe cases of the swoon my old master always held the patient’s head in a bucket of freezing water. Failing that, he threw it over them. Rough treatment admittedly, but most effective.”

“Drag her to one side of the room. I do not want the Turkey rug ruined,” said Jocasta, clearly delighted by the whole idea.

Evalina groaned and sat up, clutching her brow. “Oh the heat, it is too much for a body to bear.”

“Why not take a turn in the garden?” suggested Millicent kindly. “I’ll go with you.”

“Yes,” said Evalina, clambering to her feet and leaning heavily on her cousin, who buckled under the strain. “I must have air.”

The guests politely drew apart to make way for her and she was in the process of performing an extremely elaborate and wildly theatrical exit when from downstairs came a scream that far outshone anything Evalina could do. Indeed this scream held a note of genuine terror and despair and was so heart-rending that even the murmured conversation was hushed. Running feet could be heard on the stairs and then the door to the drawing room was flung open. A small girl with a mop of tossing red hair topped by a cheeky hat, stood in the entrance. Her terrified gaze swept round the company and finally came to rest on Jocasta.

“The coffin,” she said breathlessly. “Whose is it?”

“Father’s,” Mrs. Rayner answered briefly.

“Oh no, oh no,” the little thing gasped and reeled back into the arms of a dashing young soldier, all red coat and jet black curls and not a white wig in sight, who was coming into the room behind her.

Everybody stared and there was a moment of even more intense quiet, then Jocasta spoke once more. “Lieutenant Mendoza, I presume,” she said icily.

“At your service, Ma’am,” the young man responded, and clicked his heels and bowed with aplomb despite the fact that he was the only thing preventing a fainting girl from falling to the floor.

Everything considered, it had been a most interesting night, John thought as he finally entered the quiet of his own home and with a sigh of relief went into the library to sit down. To see the hysterical Evalina behaving just as badly when she was up and about as when she was bed-ridden had been quite a revelation, but to meet the missing Louisa in such circumstances had been even more fascinating. Though nobody had uttered a single word of explanation, it seemed apparent that the girl had either eloped with the dashing Lieutenant Mendoza or had been on the point of doing so. Whatever, there was yet another skeleton in the Fenchurch family cupboard that needed investigating.

And where, the Apothecary wondered, were the biggest skeletons of all: the Bussells, husband and wife? If they had not gone to their Surrey retreat, they were clearly hiding out somewhere else. But why? Was their absence a coincidence or had they deliberately left London to avoid Ariadne being questioned by Sir John Fielding? This brought him back to the question that puzzled him most of all. Did Montague Bussell know that his wife had indulged in an adulterous affair with the late Aidan Fenchurch? And, if so, was he aware of her subsequent obsessive shadowing of the dead man? Could it even be that Montague loved that most unlovable of creatures and was gamely trying to protect her from the processes of the law?

“Strange,” said John aloud, and picked up the newspaper. But his mind was roving, refusing to concentrate on the printed words before him. He closed his eyes, thinking that he might doze before supper, for it was too late to dine, so much time having been spent attending to the fainting women of the Fenchurch household. Millicent had been very competent throughout, he thought. She had removed Evalina, who had started to berate Louisa, shouting the word ‘slyboots’ over and over again, before she could scandalise the few remaining guests, hovering in the hope of hearing further gossip. Then she had returned and in her funny little way organised those family members who were not weeping or yelling into having a meal. They all owed her a lot, John considered. And he wondered whether she had secretly loved Aidan; a tradition for poor plain female relatives taken into the household out of pity, particularly if the head of the family were a man of powerful personality.

Considering deeply as he was, the Apothecary was abruptly dragged back to reality by the sound of Irish Tom’s voice in the hall.

“I know he’s reading but I’ve a letter from Mrs. Rawlings that he will want to see.”

The Apothecary got up and put his head round the library door. “I certainly will. Can you bring it in, Tom.”

“At once, Sir.”

“And how is she?”

“Round as a rosebud and just as blooming.”

“What a nice description.”

“But she won’t be coming home for a few days yet. Mrs. Alleyn has arrived and begs a while yet in the country before they both return to London for the birth.”

“Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t leave it too long. I was planning on going to Surrey and taking Emilia with me.”

The coachman frowned. “I don’t know about all this travelling, Sir. I think when Mrs. Rawlings gets home she ought to stay put until that child arrives.”

This was utterly beyond the bounds of polite conversation between employer and servant but the hulking Irish coachman, who had been given to John as part of his wedding present and who had shared several adventures with him, meant far more than an ordinary hired hand and was therefore accorded all the privileges of someone deeply trusted.

The Apothecary nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

“I take it the visit out of town might be connected with the Public Office.”