Death in the Valley of Shadows

Death in the Valley of Shadows

DERYN LAKE

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by
Allison & Busby Limited
Bon Marche Centre
241-251 Femdale Road
Brixton, London SW9 8BJ

http://zvzvw.allisonandbusby.com

Copyright © 2003 by Deryn Lake

The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,
by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or
otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior
written consent in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent
purchaser.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN
978-07490-0641-2

Printed and bound
by Creative Print & Design, Wales

For Tony Fennymore - whose true story was the inspiration for the plot.

Acknowledgements

As usual there are several people to thank. First Judy Flower for looking up the history of West Clandon, East Clandon and Stoke d’Abernon for me. I am most grateful to her. Then my editor, David Shelley, who continues to inspire, and my agent, Vanessa Holt, who has such a naughty laugh. Finally, the people who keep me sane: Anoushka Ainsley, Susan Carnaby and John Elnaugh. Where would I be without them?

Chapter One

W
hat a morning it had been. First, April had laughed, then she had wept, and the apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly, had emptied and filled accordingly, customers leaving to embrace the first of the spring sunshine or take shelter against the penetrating showers that had followed all too quickly. The bell above the door had constantly pealed, merry as a marriage chime, so that either John Rawlings, Apothecary, or his apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, had been sent scurrying out of the compounding room, away from their herbs and simples, to serve the passing parade. So it was that when the bell had rung with a particular urgency, just after the hands of the clock had reached noon, they had looked at one another and shrugged.

“Your turn, Master,” said Nicholas, still using the term of address beholden on him until his indentures were finally served.

“Damnation,” answered John, who was weighing the powdered root of Devil’s Bit, a powerful antidote to plague, and had reached a critical stage in his calculations.

“Shall I go?”

“No, fair’s fair. It is my shift.” And the Apothecary passed the hand-held scales to Nicholas and went into the shop.

A man stood panting in the doorway, his pale, somewhat crablike eyes rolling in his head.

“Help,” was all he said.

“Are you ill?” John asked, hurrying round the counter.

The newcomer shook his head. “Place to hide,” he gasped.

The Apothecary stared. “What?”

“I mean it. Help me. I am being pursued.” The man took a further step into the shop, his face, florid at the best of times through a liberal consumption of wine, John thought, now purple. “Please,” he added despairingly.

The Apothecary did not hesitate. There was something frantic about the man. “The compounding room, quickly,” he said, shoving the newcomer towards the back of the shop.

Nicholas, hearing a scuffle, came out hurriedly. “Master, are you all right?”

“Yes. Conceal this man. There’s someone in pursuit of
him
.”

“Who?”

“How would I know?”

But even as they pushed the quarry into the dark recesses behind the rows of hanging herbs, the answer came. The door flew open once more, the bell jangled frantically, and a woman with a marked West Country accent demanded, “Has a man just come in here?”

She was like last Christmas’s spiced orange, John thought: red, round and starting to wizen. She also had the most irritating teeth.

“Well?” she said.

The Apothecary was more than annoyed, not having seen such a display of bad manners in quite a while.

“Well what?” he asked coldly.

The woman simpered, realising that she had not made a good impression. “Forgive me, Sir. I forget myself.” The burr in the voice indicated the Bath area, John decided. “I am looking for a friend of mine. I thought I saw him step through your doorway.”

The Apothecary hardened his eyes. “No one has come in here, Madam.”

She looked to the ground, then up again, clearly not believing him. “Are you certain?”

John felt frankly furious. “Do you doubt my word?”

The woman raised her chins, there were several of them, with an air of challenge. “Yes, Sir, I do. I demand to search your premises.”

“What?” said John, exploding with wrath. “You demand what? Out with you, Madam, before I call the watch.”

“How dare you! Don’t you lay a hand on me or I shall create a scene that will be heard from here to Covent Garden.”

“Create away,” the Apothecary answered coolly. “I shall declare you mad and that will be an end of it.”

Nicholas, looking pale and somewhat sinister, stepped out of the compounding room. “Do you need help, Master?”

“If this woman refuses to move, yes. For I intend to put her bodily into the street.”

A pair of snapping dark eyes, the colour of the hard fruit of horse chestnut trees, known by children as conkers, regarded John nastily.

“You haven’t heard the last of this. I’ll be avenged for this insult, just you wait and see.”

“I tremble in my boots. Good day to you, Madam.”

She snorted and went out, leaving behind the stale odour of flesh that had remained unwashed for a considerable number of days.

“Harridan!” John called after her retreating back.

She quivered but did not turn, leaving the Master and his apprentice to stare at one another bemusedly.

“What a terrible woman - “ Nicholas began, but before he could get another word out there was the sound of a groan from the compounding room.

“Damme, I’d almost forgotten him,” John exclaimed, and they hurried into the back to administer.

The man had slumped into a chair and was presently leaning forward on the wooden table, his head buried in his arms, his face, what little could be glimpsed of it, quite dangerously mottled.

“Loosen his neckwear,” the Apothecary ordered, and went to pour out a tot of brandy from the bottle which he kept for medicinal purposes alone.

Nicholas duly struggled with shirt and cravat, not an easy task, for their visitor kept moaning testily and moving away, presumably believing that somebody was trying to molest
him
.

“Steady, Sir, steady,” the Apothecary said reassuringly. “You are in no danger now. Your wife has gone. At least I presume she was your wife.”

One of the crab-like eyes rolled in his direction. “No spouse she,” its owner said gustily, then he sighed and sat upright, taking the proffered tot of brandy with trembling hand. Sensing that some interesting saga was about to be revealed, John took the other chair while Nicholas crouched on a low stool, his elbows resting on his bony knees, his chin cupped in his hands.

“So, Sir, are you able to tell me of your predicament?” the Apothecary asked encouragingly.

A hand came out for another brandy and then a third, after which the man sighed again, then said heavily, “That woman was once my mistress.”

“But no longer?”

He shuddered. “Heaven forbid.” The pale eyes looked at John piercingly. “Are you a man of honour, Sir?”

“I belong to an honourable profession. As to my personal life, I have never cheated or robbed a living soul, though I must admit to telling the odd falsehood.”

The newcomer nodded silently, consumed a fourth brandy, then spoke again. “I feel that I can trust you and might safely take you into my confidence. But before I do so, allow me to introduce myself; Aidan Fenchurch, importer of fine wines.”

John gave a polite bow of the head. “John Rawlings, Apothecary. And this is my apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins.”

The Muscovite, as Dawkins was nicknamed because of his Russian ancestry, heaved himself to his feet and bowed. “Your servant, Sir.”

“So, Mr. Fenchurch, you have an angry woman on your trail. I presume you told her that your affair was over?”

Aidan nodded gloomily. “Yes. But let me start at the beginning of it all. I was happily married for several years, indeed had a most accommodating wife who catered for my every whim. But then, alas, a disease of the lungs took her to her rest and I was left alone with three daughters to rear.”

“How terrible for you.”

“It was a grievous blow. Fortunately I had many good servants and their governess saw to their youthful upbringing until I was able to put the girls into school.”

“And your mistress?”

Fenchurch ran his hand over his brow. “A married woman I fear; indeed married to one of my business acquaintances, Montague Bussell. Gentlemen, may I speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“She threw herself at me. Begged me to service her. Said that since the birth of her sons she and Monty had had little to do with one another in that regard.” He smiled deprecatingly. “I am a man after all, at that time recently robbed of my conjugal pleasures. I accepted her offer.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Nicholas, wide-eyed, then clapped his hand over his mouth for daring to be so presumptuous.

Mr. Fenchurch ignored the interruption. “She was insatiable, even forcing her way into my bedroom when I took a bath and heaving within the water beside me.”

John, having just met the woman, had a vivid mental picture and fought fiercely to control his mirth. “And you tired of such ruthless pursuit?”

“Truth to tell I met another. A comfortable widow, a Mrs. Trewellan, whom I had a mind to marry. Further, I feared that Bussell might discover the truth. So I told Ariadne that all must end between us.”

“And she did not accept this?”

“That, Sir, is to put it at its mildest. I do not believe that I exaggerate when I say that she completely lost her reason.”

“What happened?”

“At first she followed me wherever I went. There was not a theatre, assembly or dining party in town at which she did not appear. It was almost as if she employed magic to find out where

I was going. I was so disturbed that I retreated to my country place and she turned up there as well, albeit that she must have journeyed some forty or fifty miles from London. She took to driving a horse and trap through the night and appearing at my gates in the morning. On one occasion she gathered together every letter I had ever written to her, tore it into little pieces, and desposited them all over my front doorstep, like snow.”

“But what did her husband say to all this? Surely he didn’t turn a blind eye.”

“Bussell is a merchant whose business necessitated him travelling to Bristol and staying there for some considerable time.”

“So while he was away…”

“Precisely.”

“And she stalks you to this day?”