Death in the Valley of Shadows (19 page)

He should have gone back to the shop but everything kept nagging at him. Thoughts flew through his mind like arrows, particularly the question of Jocasta and her extraordinary message. Was she the poisoner, hiding herself in a fog of deceit? Or had she seen something of enormous significance? In the end John could stand it no more and walked the short distance to Bloomsbury Square.

Everybody was out except for Miss Millicent, he was informed, and she was lying down with a megrim. Furious with himself that he was not carrying a medical bag, John hired a hackney coach, rushed to Shug Lane, picked up a jar of powdered Pellitory of Spain, hurled himself back into the waiting carriage and returned to the invalid, all of this achieved in under thirty minutes. As a reward for his efforts he was ushered into the sick room.

Millicent lay in the dark, the curtains drawn against the bright spring sunshine.

“May I?” asked John, and pulled one back in order to throw enough light to move around. She winced. “Oh, my head. I cannot remember a more savage attack than this.”

“Nervous tension,” he replied, nodding wisely. “You have all of you been through the most enormous ordeal of late.” He handed her the jar. “Here, try some of this.”

She peered at it cautiously. “What is it?”

“Pellitory of Spain, one of the best purgers of the brain that grows. Chew the powdered root. Miss Millicent, or sniff some up like snuff. It will clear the megrim in no time.”

“Oh I do hope so.” She put some into her mouth and chewed. “I must be well to support Evalina through the funeral.”

“You refer to Mrs. Bussell’s?” Millicent nodded. “I did not realise Evalina was so attached to her.”

“Oh she was, in her way. Of course, Evalina is not prone to attacks of sentiment, but dear Ariadne was so good to her.”

“Good gracious,” said John, genuinely astonished.

Millicent burbled on. “Evalina can get so depressed, about…” She whispered the next three words, “…the devil’s mark. But Ariadne was always tremendously bright, you know. Told her that looks are of no significance; that it is the beauty within that counts.”

The Apothecary felt sick but grinned feebly. “How nice.”

“Anyway, we are rallying behind Montague and going to the funeral.”

“All of you?”

“Yes, Jocasta is taking Louisa and Lieutenant Mendoza. They are staying with her at the moment.”

John seized his opportunity. “Jocasta asked me to call but I don’t have her address.”

“Oh, she’s in Curzon Street. Number seventeen. But I believe she’s out today and leaves for Surrey tomorrow.”

“I’ll probably wait until she returns in that case,” said John, scribbling the address on a piece of paper and putting it into his pocket. “Now, how’s the head?”

“I do believe it’s better,” said Millicent, raising herself carefully from the pillow.

“Just keep chewing until the pain goes.”

“So kind of you to bother.”

“Part of my job.”

“Is it? Oh yes. I’d almost forgotten. Will you be at the funeral, Mr. Rawlings?”

“No. Despite the fact that I’m always around I’m not really part of the family.”

“Of course you’re not. How silly of me.” She laughed nervously.

Feeling that this really was not the moment to ask her anything further, John bowed politely and made his way out.

The need to talk to Sir John Fielding, to tell him of Jocasta’s note, to ask the great man’s opinion, was so strong that the Apothecary found himself heading for Bow Street, regardless of the fact that the court might be in session and more than likely he would have to wait. Hurrying down Drury Lane, the Apothecary had a sudden sense of urgency, as if it were imperative that he got there quickly. So much so that he had almost broken into a run by the time he had reached Russell Street and doubled back to the entrance to Bow Street. Consequently, he was out of breath by the time he rushed through the front door and into the Public Office.

The place was in pandemonium. Court Runners scurrying about as if they had taken leave of their senses.

“What’s going on?” John asked Runner Munn, a veteran of the old days when Sir John’s half-brother Henry had been Principal Magistrate.

“A man has been taken ill, Sir. A man who walked in and asked to see Sir John. A physician has been sent for but has not yet arrived.”

“Where is he? Perhaps I can offer some assistance.”

“He’s in that room over there.” Runner Munn pointed. “It’s a bit of a mess within, Sir. He’s purging and casting.”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh no. I’ve got a decent coat on.”

Runner Munn grimaced. “Best take it off, Sir. There are some types of stain that will never come out, you know.”

Removing the garment then bracing himself, John opened the door. Lying on the floor in the midst of his own vomit, the state of his breeches indescribable, lay Montague Bussell.

“God’s tears,” said the Apothecary, running to him. “What has happened to you, man?”

But the poor creature could not speak. He clutched John’s shirt, holding fast to it as if it were a lifeline, and tried to mouth a word. Bending his head close, despite the appalling smell, the Apothecary strained to hear what was being said.

Montague’s lips moved. “Rake.”

“What?”

“Ake.”

It was no good, the word was unintelligible. Frantically rummaging in his medical bag, John sought anything that might alleviate the man’s suffering. But the only thing he could find was a strong sedative which he was reluctant to give lest Montague fall asleep and choke. Feeling more helpless than he had ever done in his entire life, John just held poor Bussell close.

The door opened again and John felt the arrival of the Magistrate rather than saw him.

“Well?” said Sir John.

John shook his head. “There is nothing I can do.”

“Do you mean…?”

But the answer was provided by Montague Bussell himself, who, with one final scream of agony, gave up the struggle and died in the Apothecary’s arms.

Chapter Eleven

I
n all the years he had known him, John Rawlings had never seen the Magistrate so silent. This was a silence far removed from his old ploy of sitting completely still, uttering not a word, frequently giving the impression that he had fallen asleep. This was something far more profound, Sir John Fielding was like a statue, only the slight rise and fall of his chest showing that he breathed at all.

Today he had on a dark grey suit and a shirt of white cambric, his long white wig falling in curls to his shoulders, his strong features composed and still, the black bandage he always wore concealing his sightless eyes from the world. Yet he was not composed, John knew that, for his mouth twitched very slightly as the muscles around it pulled with tension. Indeed, in all his many recollections of the man he regarded as his mentor, the Apothecary had never seen him so strained.

Eventually Sir John Fielding spoke, his voice a rasp in his chest. “You say that Bussell has died?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Dear God, what a terrible thing for the Public Office. That a man comes in, quite freely and without duress, to speak to us, and then dies in agony in one of the rooms. John, what have we come to?” He sunk his head into his hands and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“But, Sir, the poor bastard was dying anyway. From what I can make out, Montague Bussell grew tired of hiding in St. James’s Square, decided to come to Bow Street and tell us what he could but on his way must have called in somewhere and there he was poisoned.”

The Magistrate raised his head. “You are sure of that? There is no way in which he could have died of natural causes?”

“He exhibited identical symptoms to that of his wife. My guess is they were killed by Water Hemlock, sometimes called Dropwort. It grows all over the place, is completely lethal, bringing about death within three hours.”

Sir John sighed wearily. “What a fool I am. I had put the poor wretch down as our principal suspect.”

The Apothecary shook his head. “Sir, this case is much more complex than that. I have felt recently that there are far more strands to it than meet the eye. The other night Mrs. Jocasta Rayner called on me. Under the pretext of giving me her address, she left a note which read, ‘There is a poisoner in our midst’.”

“God’s wounds, what did she mean?”

“Just that, I imagine. I took it that she had seem something at the wake which she later realised was poison being admistered to Ariadne Bussell. However, I feel it only fair to tell you that my father took another view. Namely, that that could have been a deliberate ploy on her part; that Jocasta herself was guilty and this was her way of disguising herself.”

Sir John shook his head. “Aidan Fenchurch, Ariadne Bussell and now her husband. These crimes are beginning to resemble those of a Jacobean tragedy.”

It was the Apothecary’s turn to remain silent. Eventually he said, “I know the first has to be linked but yet it is so different from the other two. Is it possible that they are not related?”

The Magistrate exhaled breath slowly. “No. All my experience, all my instincts rebel at the thought. These three are connected by one of the oldest emotions in the world.”

“Revenge? Jacobean indeed.”

“Quite. Still, I agree with you that the brutal bludgeoning of a man to death is far removed from the subtlety of a poison that regards specialist knowledge to employ. But for all that these murders are linked, take my word for it.”

“Yet, Sir, you must admit that the murder of Aidan Fenchurch raises many unanswered questions.”

Sir John Fielding lifted his head and the black bandage turned in the Apothecary’s direction just as if the Magistrate were looking at him. “Mr. Rawlings, there is something very complex here. So complex that neither of us as yet can begin to credit what it can be.”

“You’re right, of course, it is all very strange. Now, what is to be done with poor Bussell’s body?”

“It is to be taken to the mortuary. There a physician will look at it. But that is a mere formality; he will be able to add nothing to what you have said yourself.”

“I think I’ll clean him up a bit before he goes. Nobody should have to bear the shame of soiled breeches. Do you have anything fresh we can put on him?”

Sir John rumbled a half laugh. “Strangely, yes. A child thief came in the other day, its speciality thieving from cascades of clothes hung out to dry. We put his cache in a cupboard somewhere. I’ll get a Runner to dig out some breeks.”

“What did you do with the boy?”

“Sent him to train for the sea. Prison would have killed the child.”

“The navy probably will as well.”

“At least he’ll stand a fighting chance.”

“Yes, poor soul.”

With this thought of justice, rough but fair, the Apothecary left Sir John’s salon and went down to the room, now locked, in which Montague Bussell lay dead.

Admitted by a Runner, John stood looking at all that was left of the wretched fellow, somehow made even smaller and more vulnerable by death. He may have been a whiskery rattish being in life but everything about him was now less noticeable, as if his features were already taking on the mask-like cast of someone who was no longer there. The Apothecary realised that he had forgotten to close the man’s eyes and bent down to do so. As he did, he looked into them and saw that they were empty, void. Was there, then, John asked himself, such a thing as a soul that had already gone on its way? Had the essence of the creature who had once been Bussell started on a new quest? In an age of strong religious beliefs, the Apothecary felt, unlike his fellows, that he knew nothing and accepted nothing, his only certainty that the eyes of the dead become so still and empty.

With a sigh, he set to work; preparing Montague’s body to go decently to its coffin and the room in Bow Street to be fit for interviewing people once more.

Thoughts of the soul returned to John that evening, long after he had firmly put the whole sad and sordid business of Montague Bussell’s demise from his mind. It was the way in which Rose Rawlings, newborn though she might be, gurgled with joy at the sight of Joe Jago. If she had been strong enough to have held out her arms she would have done so, her father felt sure of that. As it was, dandled on her grandmother’s lap, her eyes moved round as Joe came into the library and she let out a cry of delight.

“Hello, Miss,” said the clerk.

She gave the smile that everyone said was flatulence, everyone except for John that is.

“She knows you,” said the Apothecary.

“What nonsense,” answered Maud Alleyn.

But even she could not explain the way the small bundle wriggled and squirmed and started to cry and would not be content until her father, rather moist of eye, handed her to Joe, who held the infant against his rugged cheek and talked to her in a strange child’s version of cant, the language of the street people that few could understand.

It was then that he thought of the leaping soul and wondered, briefly, if this was the journey that it made, so that those who had known each other before might have a momentary glimpse of recognition before the instant passed. Then Sir Gabriel came in, tonight very beautifully dressed as he was escorting Maud to the playhouse, this being her last evening in London before she returned to her home in Chelsea, and the mood was broken. Nursemaids appeared; the child was taken away; a footman came in, stoked the fire, then brought a tray of refreshment. John and Joe were left alone to talk.