Death in the Valley of Shadows (21 page)

And he pointed with a slightly shaky finger at one of the more hideous eruptions. John produced a pair of magnifying spectacles from an inner pocket and, putting them on, bent close to Sperling’s face.

“May I?” The young man nodded and the Apothecary examined in silence. “Morphew,” he said eventually.

“What?”

“You have a severe form of the skin complaint known as morphew. But surely you have been told that before.”

“I have consulted the family physician, yes, but he prescribed some blasted product that turned my face bright green. Mr. Rawlings, I told you t’other day of my financial position. I have to work to help this household. So I hold a wretched post in a shipping office, clerking. Anyway, my work fellows despise me and are only too happy to deride my wretched condition. My verdant face was a subject of so much hilarity that I was forced to stop using the ointment.”

“And you tried nothing else?”

“No, I gave up. Which I suppose was rather feeble of me.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it was. I am going to prescribe a special mixture of my own. It consists of an infusion of Scurvy-Grass, of which you must take several doses a day, and the juice of Sheep’s Rampion which you must apply externally, again several times a day. This is a powerful combination and should cure you within two months. It may leave a few scars but better that than weeping sores.”

Sperling looked slightly doubtful. “You are an apothecary, aren’t you?”

John felt sufficiently sorry for him not to become irritated. “Yes. Now, Sir, would you like to call into my shop later this morning and we can have the medicaments ready for you. It is in Shug Lane, Piccadilly.” And he handed the young man a card.

Sperling read it and looked a little shame-faced. “I’m sorry I sounded doubtful. It is just that I had it in my mind that you were some kind of Runner.”

John smiled. “I suppose I am in a way. I have worked with Sir John Fielding on several occasions. As you know, he is blind. Because of this he likes to have around him sighted people he can trust. I happen to be one of them and I consider it a great honour.”

“Indeed.” Sperling rang a bell. “Will you join me in a sherry? I allow myself this luxury when I am not working.”

“Just one,” John answered. “I unfortunately have a great deal to do today.”

Sperling nodded, gave the order to the maid, then smiled at the Apothecary rather sadly. “You called to see Mama?”

“Yes. I wondered if she had any information regarding the funeral of Montague Bussell.”

The young man managed to look doleful and excited simultaneously. “I say, what a business. Is it true that he died in Bow Street?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Apparently he wanted to make a statement of some kind but never got that far. Whoever had poisoned him had done so shortly before he arrived, and he started to cast and have laxes, then died.”

Sperling clapped his hand over his mouth and widened his eyes. “’Zounds, what a disaster.”

“It was indeed.”

“Do you know I almost felt sorry for those two brutes at their mother’s funeral. To lose two parents to the poisoner’s juice within a matter of days must make them not only sad but uneasy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they could be next.”

The girl returned with a decanter and two glasses, then left the room again.

“That had never occurred to me,” said John.

“What?”

“That this might be a vendetta against the Bussell family. But if it were, where would that place the killing of Aidan Fenchurch?”

Sperling shook his head. “I don’t know. Could have been a street robbery all along.”

John groaned aloud. “What a terrible affair this is. As soon as one settles into a theory another one comes along to displace it.”

Sperling looked sympathetic. “It must be awful for you.”

The Apothecary decided to change the subject before too much was said. “Is your mother within? I need to have the briefest of words with her.”

The young man pulled a face. “She has a visitor at present. I don’t know how long they will be.”

So he knew that Mendoza was in the house, John thought. But whatever excuse could the amorous woman have made?

“A little early for a call,” he ventured.

“But you came now,” Sperling replied pleasantly.

God’s wounds, thought the Apothecary, wondering where to turn next. But his dilemma was solved for
him
by a further clank of the doorbell.

“Another early caller,” he said.

“Yes,” answered Sperling and burst into violent laughter which seemed to the Apothecary to be quite inappropriate.

The maid appeared. “Mrs. Mendoza, Sir.”

John nearly fell clean out of his chair. So here was a can of worms. It would appear that the beautiful Louisa had discovered her husband’s infidelity and was on his trail. He shot a glance at Sperling who had gone very white beneath his pimples.

Seized by the horrid idea that the young man was going to send her away again, the Apothecary decided to intervene.

“Ah, dear Louisa,” he said, shooting to his feet. “Such a delightful girl. It will be a pleasure to have a glass of sherry with her.”

Sperling looked stricken. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice. “Mary, show her in.”

A second later there was a flouncing of skirts in the doorway and there stood the little beauty, radiant in deep blue and white, her red hair unpowdered and a mass of flying curls, a saucy concoction of feathers atop the lot.

“Charming,” said John, bowing and kissing her hand. “Mrs. Mendoza, we meet again.”

She looked blank, then recognition came. “Weren’t you at Father’s funeral?”

“Indeed I was, Madam. I am investigating his death on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, and have become quite friendly with your family in the meantime. I am apothecary by trade and was able to treat your sisters for shock and depression.”

“How kind of you,” Louisa said absently. She turned to her host. “Sperling, is my husband here? He flew out of the house in a veritable whirlwind but one of the servants thought he heard him direct a hackney to Liquorpond Street.”

Sperling gulped. “I think he must have been mistaken. The Lieutenant’s not here.”

Louisa frowned. “Oh, how strange. Well then. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Have a sherry,” said John, quite overstepping the bounds of polite behaviour in his desperation to keep her there.

Both she and Sperling looked utterly astonished but at least he had the good grace to mutter, “Yes, please do.”

John made much of drawing his watch from his pocket and staring at it.

“I wonder how much longer Mrs. Trewellan’s visitor will be,” he said loudly. “I really cannot leave my apprentice alone in the shop for another half hour.”

Louisa, who had taken both a seat and a glass, looked startled. “Your mother has a caller?” she asked Sperling.

“Er, yes. But he… she… shouldn’t be much longer. Hark…” he announced theatrically, “…I think I hear them going now.”

And there was indeed the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Ha, ha,” said John, looking quite insane as he once more shot to his feet and grabbed his hat. “I must be off. Indeed I must. Thank you, thank you, my friend, Madam, it has been a pleasure.”

And he flew through the door and into the hallway, startling the maid who was just showing the visitor out.

“I must leave,” the Apothecary told the terrified girl. “A matter of the uttermost urgency.”

And he grabbed the inner knob and hurled himself into the street.

The Lieutenant was already several strides ahead of him and John took to his heels in order to catch him up. At the sound of pounding feet, Mendoza whirled round.

“Mr. Rawlings!” he exclaimed in utter astonishment. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I might well ask the same of you,” the Apothecary replied grimly.

A look of intense fury crossed the military man’s handsome Latin features. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I find it odd you should be whiling away an hour or two with a mature widowed lady while your pretty young wife is forced to come looking for you.”

“I don’t like your inference, Sir.”

“You must draw from it what you will.”

Lieutenant Mendoza appeared to explode with wrath. His face went red, his eyes bulged, a bead of sweat burst onto his forehead. “How dare you accuse me? You know nothing of the matter whatsoever. You should keep your nose out of other people’s affairs, you interfering little prick.”

“I do not think it is your place to insult me,” said John haughtity

“Place be damned,” shouted the Lieutenant, and crashed a hard-knuckled fist onto the Apothecary’s chin, swearing violently as he did so.

“Oh dear Lord,” groaned John with an air of resignation, as he slowly slithered to the ground, saw a wonderful flurry of stars, and then lost consciousness.

Chapter Thirteen

H
e awoke to find that he had been propped up against some railings and that Sperling and Louisa, together with Samuel Swann of all unlikely people, were administering to him in a somewhat ineffectual manner. With a groan of pain, the Apothecary reached into his pocket, found his bottle of salts, took an extremely hearty sniff and thus revived himself.

“My dear friend,” said Samuel loudly, clapping John on the shoulder and making him wince. “What happened to you? Were you set upon by footpads?”

The Apothecary gingerly fingered his chin. “No. I was crunched on the jaw by one extremely angry young man.”

“The blackguard. Who is he? I’ll knock his damnable block off.”

John was just about to open his mouth to say ‘Mendoza’ when Louisa’s charming little face came into his line of vision and he thought better of it. However Sperling, looking agitated beyond belief, caught the Apothecary’s eye then rapidly glanced away again as he guessed the truth.

Samuel was snorting like an angry horse. “It’s too bad, so it is. Hare and hounds, but a man can no longer safely walk the streets of his home city without fear of attack. We need more Runners, and that’s a fact.”

John grimaced as he started to heave himself to his feet. “Stop sounding so middle-aged and give me a hand up, will you. What are you doing here anyway?”

The Goldsmith looked mysterious, then winked slowly. “Private business,” he said.

If it hadn’t been so painful John would have laughed. It was crystal clear that Samuel had made good his plan to call on the Blind Beak and offer his services, and that Sir John had found him something relatively unimportant to do.

Sperling spoke. “You’d best come back into the house, Mr. Rawlings. I’m sure Mama will be ready to receive you by now.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will,” John answered with meaning. “Anyway, thank you all the same but my coachman should be somewhere near by and I really must get back to my shop. I will be perfectly all right, particularly if Mr. Swann would care to accompany me.”

Groggy though he was, the Apothecary managed to convey a note of mystery into the last few words which set Samuel sniffing the air like a hound catching a scent, an endearing characteristic of his which never failed to amuse John.

“I passed your coach on the way but the driver wasn’t there,” he said earnestly, then looked contrite as if he had betrayed a secret.

“He’ll be close by,” John assured him. With a heave the Apothecary managed to get on his feet.

Louisa looked anxious. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Rawlings?”

“Perfectly.” But for all that he was glad of Samuel’s strong arm as they made their farewells and walked slowly back to the deserted coach. As they approached, Irish Tom came panting up.

“I saw the affray and gave the villain chase, Sir. He wouldn’t stop and fight me like a man but for all that I gave him a good trounce over the arse with me whip. Foreign devil.”

John smiled bleakly. “Thanks, Tom.”

“’Twas nothing, Sir. There’s nothing I like better than a good mill and I’d have had one if the coward hadn’t run like the hound of hell was in hot pursuit of him.”

“I think it was more likely his wife,” said John.

Tom looked very wise and nodded several times. “Ah now, that would explain it, so it would.”

“What on earth has been going on?” asked Samuel, as the coach made its way through the crowded streets towards Shug Lane.

“What hasn’t,” answered John, and caught his friend up with all the latest developments as the journey proceeded.

The Goldsmith looked aghast. “You mean to say that the man who hit you is having an affair of the heart with that full-blown friend of the late Mr. Fenchurch?”

“How colourfully put. But yes, is the answer. That is unless they have some other sort of connection.” He looked thoughtful.

“What could that be, though?”

“I have no idea. But as this case has more strands than any I have ever come across before, nothing at all would surprise me.”