Death in the Valley of Shadows (13 page)

Jocasta glided up to him, so silently that it made him jump. “Mr. Rawlings, you will come back to Foxfire Hall for the wake, I trust.”

He snatched off his hat. “Madam, I would not presume. You are family and neighbours. I am a mere outsider.”

“But you did so much for Father.”

“I only met him once.”

“But he trusted you, confided in you. Felt he knew you well enough to put his papers into your safekeeping.”

“I did what any other citizen would have done.”

“Not at all. I insist that you join us. Is your coachman here?”

“Waiting with the others.”

“Then I will give him directions how to find us.”

With that she walked away, leaving John no opportunity to argue further.

“So we’re going on, are we, Sir?” Tom asked as the Apothecary approached.

“It would seem so.”

“Did anything fine happen at the funeral? Was anybody taken ill?” the coachman continued eagerly.

“No, not really. Let’s hope the wake will prove more interesting.” John became serious. “Any sign of the two Brave Fellows, Tom?”

“Not a sniff of ‘em, Sir.”

“When you’ve dropped me at the Hall could you have a look round the local tracks. They probably got as far as the Clandons and then lost themselves.”

“I’ll do what I can. How long do you expect to be?”

“One hour. No more.”

“Very good, Mr. Rawlings.” And Tom saluted with his whip as they turned through the gates and up a drive towards an imposing mansion. “By God, was this man titled?” the Irishman called out.

“No, all this was achieved through the consumption of fine wines and spirits.”

“Then we’re all in the wrong profession, so we are.”

And the Apothecary felt inclined to agree. For Foxfire Hall was vast; a huge Tudor edifice with curling chimney pots and mellow brick, built in the traditional E shape that indicated the reign of Elizabeth. Roses, in bud and leaf but not yet flowering, rambled over the walls in profusion. In summer, John imagined, the entire place must be filled with their fragrance to an overpowering degree. Where roses ended, ivy took over, so that the whole place seemed alive and bursting with growth. For once in his life, John felt that he could live in such a house with total happiness.

The heavy front door stood open, a footman on duty within the porch, another beyond who took John’s hat and cloak. Ushered within, the Apothecary almost immediately found himself amongst the other mourners, who mingled in an oak- panelled, tapestry-hung Great Hall. A table on which cakes and some sort of punch had been prepared stood to one side, the visitors not yet touching the refreshments but forming a line to pay their condolences to the family members who stood on the raised dais at the end of the hall. As luck would have it, John found himself immediately behind the couple he had met at the church door.

John bowed. “Madam, Sir, we meet again. The name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly.”

“Gilbert,” replied the other. “Henry Gilbert and my wife Martha.”

Everyone bowed once more. “You have known the family long?” John enquired politely.

“I was a childhood friend of Dorothy Millard, who married Aidan Fenchurch. Foxfire Hall was her home you know, but her father sold it to Aidan when his debts became too crippling, so the old place has stayed in the family. They were a bad lot the Millard brothers, inveterate gamblers and profligates, the pair of em.

“I see,” said John looking wise and thinking to himself that somewhere within these recollections there might lie a valuable bit of information.

“Anyway, Aidan was steady enough, restored the Hall where old Millard had let it fall into disrepair. The girls were here a lot when they were small.”

“So you know them well too?”

“Yes. Of course, little Louisa is my favourite…”

“That’s because she’s the prettiest,” interrupted Martha.

“But it seems she’s married another ne’er-do-well.”

“Lieutenant Mendoza? Is he a bad lot then?”

“Very poor family, so they say. Church mice. Anyway, Louisa will be a wealthy young woman now that her father is dead. I believe he left substantial amounts to all three girls, to say nothing of Foxfire and the London house. Rich pickings for someone.” He rubbed his hands together.

“You shouldn’t gossip, Henry,” Martha reprimanded. “We’re here to grieve not gabble.”

John decided on a direct approach. He looked musing. “So, many people stood to benefit from poor Mr. Fenchurch’s death it would appear.”

“Many indeed,” came the reply.

They were nearing the top of the queue and John saw Ariadne Bussell, conker eyes abrim with tears, step up to Evalina.

“Oh my dear,” she said, Bath accent rich.

The eldest of the three sisters flashed her father’s ex-mistress a dark, unfathomable look. “Mrs. Bussell,” she said between clenched teeth.

This day Evalina looked terrible, the port wine stain seeming redder and more noticeable than ever. If one added to this the redness of her eyes and the flush in her unblemished cheek, she looked like a study in crimson. Despite her penchant for swooning, John felt genuinely sorry for her.

Aidan’s Shadow seemed unable to realise the woman’s wretched state, however. “Know that you have all my sympathies,” she said loudly, as if delivering a speech to the rest of the room. “If ever you need a mother to talk to, then you may rely on me.

Evalina looked stricken but made no reply and it was left to Millicent to say, “How kind of you, Mrs. Bussell.”

Jocasta’s voice, sharp with suspicion, came in. “I know how close you were to my late father, Madam.”

She gave Mrs. Bussell what the Apothecary could only think of as a dark look from eyes that were so reminiscent of his except in their colour. Nor had she finished yet.

“Mr. Bussell, you must comfort your wife. Why, her grief is as profound as if she had lost a husband rather than a friend,” Jocasta continued.

John caught himself thinking that Mrs. Rayner might well have been lying. That she had always known of her father’s attachment to Mrs. Bussell.

Montague gave a silly laugh but the Apothecary could see he was put out by the remark.

“Grief affects us all differently,” he answered shortly.

“Indeed it does.”

They passed down the receiving line, Mrs. Bussell raising an eyeglass to inspect Lieutenant Mendoza more closely, then simpering at
him
before she returned to the body of the Hall where a footman served punch to those who had paid their respects. It was very strong, John thought, as he took a sip.

“So,” said Henry Gilbert, “a new chapter begins in the history of this great house. Who is to inherit, do you know?”

“I think Mrs. Rayner. She intends to live here with Miss Millicent, I believe.”

“That should liven the place up!” the old rogue said sarcastically.

“You are impossible!” his wife remonstrated. “Poor Mr. Rawlings.”

John spread his hands. “No, really, I…” But he got no further. There was a sudden commotion at the back of the Hall and in company with everyone else, all mingling and refreshing themselves by now, the family dutifully serving their guests to help out the servants, the Apothecary turned to see what had caused it.

He stared, his eyes, popping. Runners Dick Ham and Nick Raven, totally ignoring the two protesting footmen who were trying to stop them, had entered the Hall. Runner Raven, who was small and dark and totally suited to his surname, strode in and bowed to Evalina.

“Madam, is there a Mrs. Ariadne Bussell present?”

The poor woman went redder than ever and gasped out, “Yes, there,” and pointed a trembling finger.

Nick crossed the Great Hall, seemingly oblivious to all the staring faces. “Madam,” he said in ringing tones, “I must ask you to accompany me peacefully. I have the power of arrest but prefer not to use it.”

“What is all this?” she demanded furiously.

“Sir John Fielding wishes to see you at Bow Street. It is in connection with the death of Mr. Aidan Fenchurch.”

“My God,” said Ariadne and fell backwards onto her husband, who promptly lost his balance and crashed to the floor, where he lay, looking dazed.

“I’ll not accompany you anywhere,” she said contemptuously, glaring at the Runner from her supine position.

“Then I arrest you,” Nick answered calmly. “Madam, come with me.”

Chapter Eight

I
t was quite extraordinary, thought John. Walking into Serafina’s salon, lit by candles, all of which were reflected in the many gilt- edged mirrors that hung round the walls, it was as if the dramatic events of that afternoon had never taken place. For there, lounging back in chairs, trying to look like negligent young men about town and not quite succeeding, were what could only be Justin and Greville Bussell, totally unaware of their mother’s arrest and the subsequent undignified scene which had ensued. Slightly aghast, John walked up to the table.

Serafina looked up, saw who it was, and flashed the Apothecary a signal with her eyes. He signalled back that he must speak to her in private. She understood and got to her feet.

“Gentlemen, if we could halt play for a few minutes. Allow me to introduce my house guest, John Rawlings. John, may I present Justin and Greville Bussell.”

Neither of the brothers Bussell got to their feet, obviously considering themselves too versed in the ways of high society to bother with ordinary courtesies. They did, however, look up from the hand of cards that each was holding. Justin, John saw, was tall, with thick dark features and the same conker-coloured eyes as his mother. He gave a half-hearted smile in the direction of the new arrival and the Apothecary saw that he had also inherited the formidable teeth of his dam. Teeth which had positively gnashed the air as Mrs. Bussell had been manhandled, kicking and yelling, out of the Great Hall and into the waiting Bow Street coach.

Greville, on the other hand, was slightly smaller, though that didn’t say much. John guessed that the pair of lumpkins must both loom over six feet in height. But still the snapping eyes dominated; a family characteristic that John did not care for at all.

“How do?” said Justin lazily.

Greville tried a little harder. “A pleasure, Sir.”

The Apothecary was furious, so much so that he actually felt his heart beat speed up. He gave the most stylish bow in his repertoire, kissed his fingers into the air and said, “Gentlemen, your reputation precedes you. You are the toast of West Clandon. I salute you.”

They stared at him suspiciously, vividly reminding John of a pair of plough-pulling oxen, and not too bright into the bargain. He couldn’t help it. “Moo,” he added.

Serafina fluttered brightly. “John, my dear, pray step outside a moment. I must find you a book. We are involved in whist but are due to have supper soon.”

It was a feeble excuse but it got them out of the room and into the passageway, beyond earshot.

“What happened?” she whispered. “Did you get to the funeral?”

“I did indeed. And, my dear, it was more than dramatic. The Runners arrived at the wake and arrested the mother of those two oafs - or is it oaves? - who was hauled off without further ado.”

Serafina’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands in excitement. “What did her husband do?”

“At first he looked like an astonished rodent.”

“I’ve never seen one of those,” interrupted Serafina with a smile.

“Now don’t start,” admonished the Apothecary. “Then he suffered some sort of change of heart and muttered ‘Nemesis’ beneath his breath, but loud enough for those closest to hear. After that he rallied and became the concerned husband, asking the Runners where they were taking his wife and whether he could accompany her.”

“What did they say?”

“No. But he was at liberty to follow them to Bow Street from whence he would be allowed to escort Mrs. Bussell home, providing Sir John Fielding saw fit.”

“Meaning?”

“That the Magistrate has the power to hold her in custody.”

“Gracious me. What happened next?”

“The wake turned into a near riot. Evalina swooned in style. Cousin Millicent quivered, Jocasta attempted to restore order with no success, and for no reason that I could see. Lieutenant Mendoza drew his sword. The rest drank as rapidly as they possibly could.”

Serafina suddenly looked serious. “What do we do about the sons? Tell them?”

John thought in silence, then said, “Best not. Let it come from their father. They’ve no idea of my connection with the case, have they?”

“None at all. I invited them here as a neighbourly gesture, saying that Louis and I would love to play cards with them.”

“Have you shown them your mettle yet?”

“I’ve held back but now they are beginning to bore me so after supper I shall concentrate.”

John laughed. “God help them. A mother under arrest, a father muttering ‘nemesis’, and you playing them at whist. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”