Death in the Valley of Shadows (22 page)

Nicholas, pale but determined, had managed to cope with a rush of custom, all entering the shop together on the way home from a rout, while dealing with his personal anxiety as to the whereabouts of his Master, who appeared to have vanished without trace. And when John had finally come staggering out of his coach and made his way straight to the compounding room, looking far from well, he had risen to the occasion even more admirably. Without instruction a potion had been mixed, a cooling bandage soaked in lavender water, and tea had been prepared and poured. Gratefully accepting the Muscovite’s ministrations, John had thought to himself that here was a young man more than ready to take over a shop of his own.

“Well,” said Samuel, clearly thrilled to be in the thick of it, “what would you like me to do?”

“Did Sir John give you any particular instructions?”

“Merely to assist you. He told me to tell you that Jago is visiting Miss Evalina and Miss Millicent today and will confer with you later on. So, that message conveyed, I am yours to command.” He laughed merrily.

“Perhaps you could start by taking a letter to Bow Street. I must inform Sir John of this morning’s events.”

“Of course I will. Tell me, is this fellow Mendoza a bit of a rum cove?”

“He pretends to be very honest; confided that it was his original intention to ruin Louisa until he lost his heart to her.”

“I see.”

“But this latest turn of events puzzles me immeasurably. The choice between the dead man’s mistress and his exquisite daughter is too ludicrous to be taken seriously.”

Samuel nodded. “None the less, the Lieutenant did call at her house and something did take place this morning, even if it was only a conversation.”

The Apothecary had been writing while they spoke and now sealed his letter with a blob of wax which had warmed in one of the compounding room’s pans.

“There we are. And Samuel…”

“Yes?”

“…find out what you can about poor Bussell’s funeral. I feel I should attend.”

“If you are going, then so shall I,” said Samuel stoutly.

John looked at him fondly. “What would I do without you?” he said, and meant it.

“I do realise that I am of some help to you in these investigations,” the Goldsmith answered happily.

“Yes indeed,” lied John, and watched his friend go purposefully from the shop.

The two men were much amazed to see that Emilia, dressed in a loose robe admittedly but still up and about with brushed hair and painted face, awaited them in the library.

“I’ve been lying still too long,” she said as John bent over her chair to kiss her. “So, my dear, I have decided to join you for dinner.”

“How did you know I was coming?” asked Samuel, somewhat amazed.

“Irish Tom told me.” She looked at her husband narrowly. “He said that you were involved in some kind of fracas. Are you all right?”

He nodded. “A little the worse for wear but nothing serious, I assure you.”

“What happened?”

He told her and Emilia sat silently, nodding occasionally. “There’s bad blood in that family, John.”

“Which one? The Fenchurchs or the Bussells?”

“Both. Their deeds are dark and murderous.”

“Like a terrible, tragic play?”

“Indeed. And I have a feeling that it is not over yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Emilia shivered. “I’m not sure. But these black acts of revenge are far from played out. In Jacobean tragedies do not the pieces end with bodies all over the stage?”

“Good God!” said Samuel, clutching his throat. “Who do you think is going to be next?”

“Sperling Trewellan believes the brothers Bussell are in danger. Which reminds me, he called into the shop this afternoon and bought some medicaments for his morphew. He was very solicitous for my welfare and thought I should have gone straight home.”

“And so you should,” Samuel replied firmly. “What would you have done if I hadn’t happened to have been passing by?”

“What were you doing on that route anyway?”

“I was actually on my way to Bloomsbury Square with a letter for Mrs. Rayner from Sir John. I believe he wishes to speak to her about the Poisoner note.”

John nodded. “I don’t think you would have found her there. Apparently she has returned to her house in Curzon Street.” He paused. “Do you still have the letter?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s deliver it. Tonight. In person. After we have dined.” The Apothecary suddenly looked apologetic and turned to Emilia. “If that is agreeable to you, sweetheart.”

She nodded. “It is no trouble. I intend to retire to bed once we have eaten.”

There was a knock on the door and a maid appeared. “May I bring the baby in, Ma’am?”

“Of course. Let’s spend half an hour with the little thing.”

And so they did, playing and cuddling and talking to her.

Sitting on John’s lap, she gave him that windy smile of hers and he smiled back. “There, she smiled at me,” he exclaimed.

“Naturally,” said Emilia, and winked at Sam.

But he knew, quite definitely, that his daughter not only understood every word they were saying but had given him her secret sign of approval.

As soon as they knocked at the door they were allowed to enter the house and, further, it was only a moment or two before Jocasta Rayner came into the room to which they had been shown. Tonight, clad in merciless black from head to toe, she looked amazing. Thin to starvation point, the bones on her face gave her a sculpted look that was not quite of this world. John noticed with sadness that the eyes - he had never seen them looking quite so big - were filled with tears which had not brimmed. Samuel, standing up and clutching his hat, gulped audibly at the stark vision which had just entered the room. Jocasta gave him the briefest of glances and turned back to John.

“I trust you have forgiven me,” she said.

“For what?” he asked, surprised.

“For intruding on you as I did the other night.”

“Oh that. I have already forgotten it. Now, Madam, you have heard of poor Bussell’s death?” She nodded. “Then let us not waste any time. Who was it you meant when you wrote ‘There is a poisoner in our midst’?”

Jocasta paused momentarily, just long enough to give the game away. “Montague Bussell,” she said.

“Really?” asked John. He indicated the chair behind him. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. How rude of me. These terrible times make one forget oneself completely.” She rang a bell. “You’ll take some refreshment, of course.”

Without waiting for a reply she settled herself into a chair, keeping her face averted. By the time she turned back to John her features were completely under control and her eyes had lost that vast luminosity.

“Yes?” she said.

“Could you explain that a little further,” John asked, as icily polite as she was being herself.

“About Montague?” The Apothecary nodded. “Well, I saw him, after my father’s funeral.”

“Doing what?”

“He was pouring something into Ariadne’s glass.”

“I see. Can you give a little more detail.”

“Certainly. The two glasses were side by side on a tray. Montague was leaning over and I saw him pour something into one of them. Then he picked them up, quite carefully, and handed her the one with something in it.”

“Why did you not raise the alarm? At the very least you could have knocked it from his hand and pretended it was an accident.”

Jocasta twisted her head away. “It was very difficult. I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, she had already taken a mouthful of it. I…”

But fortune was on her side. A footman entered and stood bowing before her. Jocasta took a deep breath.

“Ah, Jennings,” she said. “Brandy and port, both white and red.”

The man bowed and retired, as did the last of Jocasta’s deep breath.

“And that is all I have to say,” she concluded.

“I see,” said John. He steepled his fingers, feeling a thousand years old, wondering what the devil he should do next. But yet again he was to be thwarted. The servant reappeared, bearing a tray, and the Apothecary realised that it must have been standing immediately outside, even the number of glasses taken care of while he and Samuel had made their entrance.

“Excellent,” stated Jocasta heartily. “Now gentlemen, how may I serve you?”

She dismissed the servant and set about pouring, rather relieved to have something to do, it seemed to John. He decided to have one more go at her.

“Well, now…” he started, but too late. Samuel had joined the throng.

“A delightful home you have here, Mrs. Rayner. Is this one of Mr. Adam’s designs?”

She flashed Sam a look that would go down in the halls of fame. Intense gratitude together with just a flicker of interest, John thought.

“Yes, it is. Do you know his work at all?”

“Well, yes, now you come to mention it…”

They were off, conversing freely and fast about an architect of whom John knew little. He decided to sit back and let them talk, waiting his moment to return to the exchange. But it did not come and half an hour and two brandies later, he was still waiting. Eventually, the Apothecary decided that he must taken action. He made much of looking at his watch.

“Ah, I see that it is growing late, Samuel. We will have to think about moving on.” He turned to his hostess. “So, in your opinion, is the case now closed?”

She choked on her port. “Oh, excuse me please. I thought we had done with sad talk for tonight.” She dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “Yes, Mr. Rawlings, I do. I believe that it is all over. I think Montague poisoned Ariadne and then poisoned himself. He was on his way to Bow Street to come clean about the whole thing but, unfortunately, his frame was weaker than he thought and he died before he could confess.”

“I see,” said John. He stood up. “A very interesting theory. I shall report it to Sir John tomorrow morning. You will be around should he wish to interview you further.”

For the first time Jocasta looked put out. “Of course. I have no intention of returning to the country. Except, of course, for Montague’s funeral.”

“Quite so.”

Samuel, who had been happily imbibing, gulped down the remains of his glass and also stood up.

“Well,” said John, “it has been truly delightful in your company.”

“Oh yes,” Samuel repeated with enthusiasm, “it has been a marvellous occasion.”

Jocasta flashed him a smile of great sincerity. “Thank you for saying so. I do hope that you will call again one day.”

“I most certainly will,” Samuel answered with relish, and kissed her hand.

Afterwards, out in the street, he stood back to let a cart go by. “I say, John, what a charming woman. Don’t you think so?”

“I think,” John answered carefully, “that she is one who could do with a great deal of watching.”

Chapter Fourteen

I
t had been a working day just like any other. John had compounded and infused, laboured in the shop, gallantly lied to a lady that she looked scarcely a day over thirty, and generally got on with all the things he usually did in order to make the time pass quickly so that he could get back to Emilia and Rose. But at four o’clock everything had changed and after that there had been no let up until he had finally fallen through his front door, exhausted, tired and hungry but too far gone to do anything about it.

It had started when a messenger had come in from Bow Street; a tall good-looking young man whom John hadn’t seen before.

“Mr. Rawlings?”

“Yes, the very same.”

“Sir John says could you come, Sir. A body has been found and he thinks you should see it.”

“Very well,” John had answered, and removed the long apron he wore in the shop.

They had driven to Bow Street at quite a reasonable trot and there been picked up by Joe Jago, his customary grin for once removed.

“Who is it?” John asked when they were once more on their way.

“The last person in the world you would have expected to see.”

But further than that Joe had refused to go and led John towards the body which lay, guarded by a solitary constable, in a stony silence. They were in St. James’s Park, about a mile, no more, from Buckingham House.

She was lying face down, her green and black striped dress raised a little to show legs thicker and less attractive than John would have imagined. He still had difficulty in recognising her but as they drew nearer the constable raised her and turned her to face her visitors. John drew in a breath. For there, lolling in the constable’s arms, was Evalina Fenchurch, her face twisted into a paroxysm, her lips drawn back in a ghastly smile.

John felt himself recoil, horrified by what he was looking at, and realised that even the implacable Joe was tense.

“No poison here,” said John, almost to himself.

“No Sir,” Joe replied tersely. “Taken out exactly as her father was.”

“Beaten to death,” John answered, and then added, “What a terrible way to go.”