Death in the Valley of Shadows (18 page)

“Indeed,” he said noncommittally. “Now, how are things with you?” the Apothecary continued, anxious to change the subject.

Samuel looked gloomy. “My betrothal to Christabel Witherspoon is at an end.”

“I didn’t realise it had even begun.”

“It had not yet been formally announced, that is true. But promises had been made privately. However, after they moved back to London from Islington, and as her brother’s reputation as a painter continued to grow, she suddenly found herself the toast of the town.” Samuel gave a deep sigh. “It went to her head, I fear. I suppose by comparison I looked too plodding and dull, too ordinary a sort of chap.” He emptied his glass in a gulp. “And I am, John. That is my trouble. I am a plain, honest citizen and boring into the bargain. No woman will have me. Think of all the beautiful girls I have known, all of whom have passed me by as soon as they have got to know me. But what am I to do? How can I change?”

He was so kind and so loveable and so distressed that John could have wept. The Apothecary leant forward in his chair so that his face was close to his friend’s.

“I don’t think you should change, Sam. You are a true delight just as you are. The fault lies with the women, believe me. They are too young to realise your merits. They crave nothing but excitement and glamour, little realising that that plays out soon enough. Besides, you are not boring. Look at the works of art you create with your hands. Your reputation as one of the finest goldsmiths in London grows daily.”

“But that does not fill the empty comers of my life.”

John’s heart bled for his friend. Mankind’s cruel enemy loneliness was obviously no stranger to him.

“I hate to give unsolicited advice…”

“But John, I need it.”

“Then, my dear Samuel, I would suggest that you look amongst women of your own age or, maybe, even a little older. A more mature female will appreciate your qualities far more than a flibbertigibbet.”

“But I would like to have a family.”

“Oh ‘zounds, Sam!” said John crossly. “I said mature, not ancient. Now behave yourself.”

His friend cheered up. “Tomorrow I shall go and see Sir John. An investigation is just what I need to help me get over Christabel.”

“Yes,” answered the Apothecary resignedly. “I’m sure it is, my dear.”

It was a journey of memory to be returning to Liquorpond Street in Holbourn, for that was where the enigmatical Dr. Florence Hensey, whose path had crossed with John’s on more than one occasion, had lived before the web of intrigue, of which the physician had been the centre, had finally enmeshed him. Remembering how they had first met in a post-chaise heading towards the mysterious Romney Marsh, the Apothecary smiled. He had always liked the man, regardless of everything that had transpired, and nothing could ever erase the genuine concern that the doctor had felt for the suffering of others.

Strangely, Mrs. Trewellan lived but three doors away from Dr. Hensey’s old home, and John could not help but glance over his shoulder as he knocked vigorously, half-expecting to see the physician come walking up the street.

An elderly servant answered the door. “Yes, Sir?”

“Is Mrs. Trewellan in? I do not have an appointment but am calling on behalf of Sir John Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street,” said John, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“I will see if she is at home, Sir.”

He shuffled off only to be replaced by Mrs. Trewellan herself, looking like an unmade black bed in her mourning clothes. “Yes?” she asked in her tiny voice.

“John Rawlings, Ma’am. I represent Sir John Fielding and would like to ask you a few questions regarding the recent tragic events.”

She flapped a hand in front of her face as if she were fanning herself. “I don’t see how I can help, but do come in.”

She was indeed oddly like Mrs. Bussell in appearance, other than for the teeth which, in Mrs. Trewellan, appeared to be of normal size.

“Now, how may I help you?” she asked, when they were seated in the parlour.

“I believe that at one time you were considering marriage with the late Aidan Fenchurch. May I ask why you did not proceed?”

Mrs. Trewellan looked slightly annoyed. “Surely that is my business.”

John put on his sympathetic-but-call-of-duty face. “It is, of course, Ma’am. But the fact is that Mr. Fenchurch is dead and so is his former mistress. Therefore we at the Public Office are bound to ask questions. Some of them may appear not to have any bearing on the matter in hand but, believe me, when they are all added together they form a picture.”

Mrs. Trewellan emitted a tiny sigh. “Oh very well. I decided against marriage for several reasons. Mr. Fenchurch and my son Sperling…”

For one side-splitting second John had thought she was going to say Spotty and had hardly known where to look.

“…did not see eye to eye. Further, I am partial to the feline species and Aidan could not abide my little pets. Finally, I did not care for the omnipresent Mrs. Bussell. Oh, she pretended great friendship towards me but I was not at ease with her.”

“May I ask why?”

Another wee sigh. “I did not trust her. I feared she might do me an injury.”

“But you remained friends with Mr. Fenchurch.”

“Yes. He was kind enough in his way. I did not wish to fall out with him.”

“But you no longer regarded him as a marriage partner?”

Mrs. Trewellan actually simpered. “You seem a very understanding young man.”

“Thank you. Tell me, what was your reaction when he was killed? Please speak frankly.”

“I thought Mrs. Bussell had done it.”

“How interesting. Why?”

“Because I did not believe for one second that her feelings for him had gone away. I thought she was still dangerously entranced with him.”

“So what did you think when Ariadne herself was poisoned?”

Mrs. Trewellan looked horrified. “Poisoned, do you say? I was told by Evalina, who called on me yesterday to give me the news, that she died of natural causes.”

John shook his head. “We do not think so.”

The childish voice quavered. “Then she got what she deserved. Whoever did it rid the world of a horrid, horrid woman.”

Unmade bed or no, Mrs. Trewellan certainly did not lack the courage to voice her convictions.

“Have you any idea who that someone might be?” John asked, accepting the cup of tea which his hostess had been pouring for him.

“No. It could have been anyone. She was not well liked.”

John nodded. “Perhaps you could clear up a point that has been bothering me. When I first met Mrs. Rayner she refused to believe that her father had an enemy in the world, yet later she said she recalled Mrs. Bussell’s infatuation with him. Recently, another party told me that the whole family were aware of Ariadne’s pursuit. What, in your opinion, is the truth?”

Mrs. Trewellan sipped her tea. “I think Jocasta might well dissemble. She, more than any of the other girls, put her father on a pedestal. She might well act a part rather than let his memory be besmirched.”

Remembering the piece of paper that Mrs. Rayner had handed to him, John asked, “Are you saying that Jocasta would lie in order to protect someone she loved?”

Yet another little sigh. “Lie is such a strong word. Let me say that all the truth might not be revealed.”

“I understand,” said John. He put his cup down. “Mrs. Trewellan, do you think Montague Bussell murdered his wife?”

“Quite likely,” she answered. “He knew all about Aidan and Ariadne, even though pretending not to helped preserve his amour propre. I find with those small smelly men, one can never be quite sure when they are going to explode into ill-temper. And that is what I believe must have happened. He had suddenly had enough of both of them. So he arranged for hired killers to do away with Aidan, then poisoned Ariadne himself.”

“But surely that would mean he would have to have knowledge of such things. Does he know about poisons, do you think?”

“Couldn’t he just have obtained some from the killers?”

“But why not ask them to do it? There’s something wrong here,” said John, thinking aloud.

“Perhaps he wanted the satisfaction of killing his faithless spouse personally,” said a voice from the door. Sperling Trewellan had entered the room.

His mother got to her feet. “Dearest, this gentleman is John Rawlings, who is here on behalf of Sir John Fielding, following on the visit of Mr. Jago. We are discussing the death of Aidan and Mrs. Bussell. It seems that her demise was no accident but deliberate poisoning.”

Sperling flicked some invisible dust from his lapel. “The only surprise regarding that is the fact that somebody did not do it years ago.”

“I take it you did not like her?” asked John, his crooked smile appearing.

“She was a spoiler,” answered Sperling succinctly. “She could not bear to see anyone else having fun. She would move heaven and earth to stop them. And now somebody has stopped her - for good.”

The Apothecary realised with a lurch of his heart that he was duty bound to report to Sir John that the field was open, that to nail Montague as principal suspect was hardly fair without a full investigation of everybody else.

“Did she ever do anything to you personally?” John asked, the question out of his mouth before he had time to think.

Sperling did not give a direct answer but continued the story. “She believed that my mama was the cause of her downfall. She thought that Aidan tired of her because he had met someone else. In truth he had been off her for some considerable time but was too frightened to tell her. Then she started to shadow him. But no doubt you know all about that?” John nodded. “Then she turned her attentions to Mother. Threatening her with God knows what if she didn’t leave Aidan alone.”

The Apothecary turned to Mrs. Trewellan. “Is this true?”

“Oh yes. But I saw her off. Aidan and I told her that we would reveal everything to her husband - every last detail - if she didn’t go away.”

Sperling gave a bitter laugh. “She was actually afraid of that, imagining herself without the man who had paid for every aspect of her dilettante life. But she could not let the matter drop entirely. So she turned her attentions to me.”

“What did she do?”

“Sent her two horrible sons to fleece me at cards.” Sperling changed colour, his face going white so that his spots stood out like shimmering red eruptions. “I’d always considered myself a reasonable player so I played deep - too bloody deep. I lost every penny that my father had left me. All was gone except the clothes I stood up in and the roof over my head. If it had not been for my mama’s charity I would have become a pauper overnight.”

John felt certain without any evidence at all, that here lay the cause of Sperling’s quarrel with Aidan Fenchurch, who had probably called him every kind of fool and accused him of sponging off his mother. Emilia’s words, ‘My money’s on Spotty’, came back and rang in his ears hollowly.

Mrs. Trewellan heaved herself out of the chair, her strange robe-like garment rippling as she did so. “Poor boy,” she said. “It was so unfair that he was punished.”

“Was Mr. Fenchurch sympathetic?”

She opened her mouth to answer but before she could do so, Sperling spoke for her. “No, he was not. Said that I was mad to get involved with two professional gamblers like that.”

Making a mental note to tell Serafina of this development, John said, “Was that when you two fell out?”

It was Mrs. Trewellan’s turn to speak even though the question had been directed at her son. “I thought Aidan’s attitude was cruel and unjust. That is when I began to see him in his true colours, yes.”

“So in a way Mrs. Bussell succeeded,” the Apothecary said to himself.

“What was that?”

“I said Ariadne won the point. You and Aidan decided not to marry.”

The widow lost colour. “I never thought of it like that. But you are right. She out-manoeuvred all of us. By God, what a cunning creature she was.”

“Cunning but stupid,” said her son. “Remember that. Mother. Creatures that rely on cunning have no intellect.”

John cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Did Evalina say when Mrs. Bussell’s funeral is to be?”

“The day after tomorrow in West Clandon. It seems they want to get it over as quickly as possible.”

“I wonder what the Coroner said at the inquest?”

“No doubt you’ll find out. Now, can we be of any further assistance to you?” Sperling was obviously anxious to draw the interview to a close as Mrs. Trewellan’s somewhat soggy eyes were starting to brim with tears.

“No,” said John, standing up. “You have been more than helpful. I am most grateful.” He went to the door and Sperling escorted him into the hall. “Tell me, will you attend the burial?”

The young man grinned. “But of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Did you kill her?” the Apothecary asked suddenly.

“Only in my mind. But then, I expect, so did a lot of other people.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right about that. Well, good day to you.”

“Until we meet again,” said Sperling, and for a moment looked quite unbearably sad.