Death in the Valley of Shadows (26 page)

Samuel, a face they had not seen, went to the girl to place their order, while Irish Tom, much to his annoyance, came into the same room as his master and mistress and settled in a far comer. Sitting quietly, with his back to the door, John’s flesh positively crept when another voice, conversing softly enough in all truth but perfectly recognisable for all that, started to speak behind him. Instantly gesturing to Emilia and Samuel, who had started with a ‘”Zounds and ‘zoonters but the ale is damnably cheap…” then realised that something was up, John listened.

“…the whole thing is turning into a damnable bore.”

“But we’ve had this out so many times. What’s to be done?”

“I’ve no idea. Short of you dying then coming back as your own twin brother, I cannot think of a solitary thing.”

“But you know that isn’t possible.”

“I’m aware. I’m aware. But you must admit…”

“Seriously, Sperling, what am I to do? I never reckoned on falling for the girl.”

“Search me. I’ve no idea.”

The two men relapsed into a morose silence. Neither Samuel nor Emilia said a word. The Apothecary winked an eye at her and gestured for her to speak.

“It’s simply awful weather,” she began gamely.

“Terrible,” answered Samuel heartily. “I thought this morning when I woke up that I hadn’t seen such a dreadful day for ages.”

“And who knows when it will let up,” she continued.

“Who knows?” Samuel answered, and sighed heavily over his ale.

There was a total silence and then the sound of the pushing back of chairs.

“I think we’d better be on our way,” said Sperling.

“Yes, I reckon we had.”

“Where is Mother?”

“She’s in the coach with Louisa,” the other man replied, then added, “God love her, she knows nothing of this.”

“Well, she’ll have to know soon. There’s no way forward else.”

There was a huge sigh, nor far short of a sob. “I reckon she should be told today. I can’t face the future.”

“It’s not just you, my friend. It’s all of us, remember.”

“Yes, I know.”

They started to walk towards the door; John could tell by the sound of their footsteps. And then he heard another noise. Unaware that they were in there, somebody else had come into the bar.

“Well, well, well,” said a voice, not jolly but most certainly not aggressive, yet whose very ring sent a chill down John’s spine. “If it ain’t the military man and his little friend.”

“I’ll have you stand aside, Sir. We’re on our way to a funeral,” said Sperling.

“As are we, my friend.”

“Same one, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

The four men stood silently for a moment and then there was a further shifting of feet and suddenly the main door opened and closed again.

And into that silence, presumably bored with his own company and of sitting by himself, Irish Tom called out, “Well, Mr. Rawlings, it’s time we were off” - and suddenly the bar was empty.

Chapter Sixteen

T
here was no one outside, no one at all. In the second since Tom had called out, the entire yard in which the hostelry stood had emptied, only an old pig and some disconsolate hens scratching for company.

“Well,” said John, “was that all a coincidence, or what?”

“I’m not so sure,” said Samuel, scratching his chin and looking portentous. “It seemed very odd to me.”

“But how could they have known,” put in Emilia. “Firstly, that it was John Rawlings - would the name mean anything to them? - and secondly, that you are under such strict instruction to watch for them.” She stuck her chin out, a gesture which John found strangely endearing.

“Well, I’m going to finish my drink,” he said. “There’s no point in standing out here and freezing to death.”

“Hear, hear,” replied Samuel. “Good plan.”

They all three turned and went back into The Onslow Arms, passing Tom, looking puzzled and not quite understanding, in the doorway.

Ten minutes later and they were on their way, the coach going at an excellent speed through the sprawl of houses but lowering its pace to a respectful crawl as soon as they came in sight of the church. John, as was his way, chose a place at the back but sent Emilia and Samuel further into the main body of the building. There were a few people there ahead of them but nobody that he recognised and he was just wondering when the main party would turn up when in walked the two Bussell boys. Seated as he was, the Apothecary found himself in an excellent position to observe them.

There was no doubt that Justin had been upset quite recently; telltale marks round his eyes and a slight pinkness of the nose said so clearly. His brother, a little shorter than he but a deal stockier, said nothing to him, but just stood looking around. He saw John, knew that he knew him from somewhere, but clearly failed to make the connection. Therefore he gave a terse bow of the head and left it at that. Meanwhile other members of the funeral party were arriving and taking their seats which, after a moment or two, Justin and Greville, clearly disappointed that nobody of any importance was there, did also.

Now John was left as he liked, quite alone to study everyone. But this state of affairs did not continue. With a suddenness that was almost crude, the coffin arrived, followed by a trail of people in various states of collapse. First to walk behind was Jocasta Rayner, thin to starvation point, but straight and tall for all that. Next came Millicent, in a flood of weeping, supported on either side by Lieutenant and Louisa Mendoza, who each had a hand beneath an elbow and literally guided her to her designated pew. Almost finally, looking somewhat flustered but nevertheless making as good a show as she could, came Mrs. Trewellan with Sperling. Last of all some rather dismal-looking cousins.

The parson, who was terribly old and looked fit to drop, started the service in a quavery voice which, untypically, he kept very quiet. John, for once wishing that he had decided to sit nearer to the front, very soon gave up trying to listen and instead concentrated on those who were present, wishing that something like an answer would come to him.

The most immediate problem was that of Lieutenant Mendoza, who was now sitting beside his wife and Mrs. Trewellan, a lady on either side. That young Sperling knew about the relationship was obvious, particularly after the overheard conversation. But where did it get any of them? And what did any of it mean? And what, if anything at all, did it have to do with the matter in hand? The Apothecary felt the whole thing was getting too much for him and without thinking where he was, plunged his head into his hands.

He was summoned back to reality by the sounds of somebody breaking down - and not far away at that! Horrible sobs were coming from somewhere close by and the Apothecary allowed himself the luxury of turning slightly so that he could get a better view. On his right, and not far away, Justin Bussell was slowly beginning to disintegrate, raked by heaving cries that, for the time being at least, were quiet but getting progressively louder. John caught brother Greville’s eye and recoiled from the black look he was given.

There were not many sitting near the back but those that were were becoming more and more uneasy at the sound. In fact most of them had given up on the country parson and were staring quite openly at Justin, who was by now totally out of control. It was then that Greville acted, suddenly and without warning. Rising to his feet, he put one hand under Justin’s arm and escorted him towards the door, not hesitating for one second in his determined flight. Acting on an impulse and nothing further, John followed.

They had gone round the corner by the time he got outside, but the Apothecary could hear Greville quite distinctly.

“Listen, you fool, stop your damnable caterwauling or you’ll have half the church out here. Christ, but I’ve never heard such a wailing. Anybody would think to listen to you that you had some feeling for the old bitch.”

There was no reply, just a faint glugging sound as if the owner were trying desperately to settle his breath.

“I said shut up, just in case you didn’t hear me.”

Again there was no reply but the breathing was starting to sound more settled.

“For the last time, will you be silent.”

This time there was a response, and its very swiftness startled the Apothecary witless. Without hesitation there was the noise of a flying fist and John Rawlings heard, quite definitely, the crunch of skin upon skin and the exhalation of air as one of the brothers went flying and crunched upon his back. Then he heard the other one take off, at speed and with a quite definite purpose.

Slowly he peered round the graves and saw that Greville lay flat out beside a tombstone, his hat flown away and blood coming from his nose. Very swiftly John went to check that he was breathing, saw that he was, and with that crept back into the church, saying to himself that there were moments when even an apothecary’s vow could be forgiven him.

The wake, held at Foxfire Hall, was to John just like the one that had taken place a mere three weeks ago. Everybody who was anybody was there, even Justin Bussell. However, of Greville there was no sign, and somebody offered the idea that the poor chap had gone down with a frightening megrim which had come upon him in church. As nobody bothered to contradict this, this became the accepted version of why he was missing, and people were heard wishing him better via his brother, which rounded the whole thing off very neatly.

John found himself once more with the forthright neighbours.

“My dear Sir, how very nice to see you again. Though I suppose one shouldn’t use the word nice in these depressing circumstances. Oh dear, I don’t know what to think,” said the wife in a breathless rush.

“Is it true,” said the man, cutting straight to the point, “that Evalina has been done away with?”

“Do you mean murdered, Sir?”

“Yes, I do, damme. Well, is it?”

There was no reason why he shouldn’t be told, so the Apothecary came directly out with it. “Yes, it’s true enough. She was walking in the park and apparently met up with some ne’er-do-wells. Anyway, they attacked her and left her dead.”

“And robbed?”

“No,” said the Apothecary slowly, “she wasn’t robbed, not that I’m aware of.”

“Oh, you’d have been told if she had. So, another one, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Um.” The husband looked suddenly foxy. “Had she gone to meet anyone, do you know?”

“Why do you ask? Do you know something I don’t?”

“Matter of fact, I do.” The man touched the side of his nose and winked an eye. “Won’t say any more at present but I definitely have some information about poor Evalina. No looks at all. But money always attracts, don’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Oh Henry, you’re always speaking out of turn,” said the wife, loving every minute.

“Nonsense, my dear. No the truth is, old fellow, she was having an affair with…”

But silence was being called for and the neighbour, alongside everyone else in the room, was shutting his mouth out of respect.

Jocasta spoke up. “My friends and family, thank you again for your support. I cannot tell you how much it means to me. Your help and love are worth more than money can buy at this time. I thank you with all my heart.”

She then stood stiffly to one side while an old uncle began to ramble on about Evalina, a boring and dry-as-dust childhood adventure with very little point to it. John ceased to listen and began to look round the room, then caught the eye of the neighbour and withdrew, following the meaningful direction of the man’s gaze, into a corner recess. There was no one about, only some glasses of claret that had been left standing on the table.

“Very dull story, what?”

“Very. Do go on.”

The neighbour scratched his head. “Where was I?”

“You were just saying that Evalina had a bad attack of love. In fact you were on the point of telling me the identity of her lover.”

“Oh, what a point to leave off, dear boy. How very remiss of me. Well, it was…”

Here the poor fellow’s voice broke off and he stared aghast at the table of drinks. Very slowly and very deliberately an arm, an arm wreathed in veiling so it was utterly impossible to tell the sex of its owner, was emptying the contents of a small vial into one of the glasses. John felt utterly frozen as he watched, unable to shout or utter, merely to look. Then he was released from his catalepsy.

Another arm went out to pick up the glass and it was half way to its owner’s lips before the Apothecary could make a move. Then he shouted, “Don’t”, and at the same time sprang forward and tipped the contents onto the floor. The glass went flying and a very surprised Justin Bussell stared at him open-mouthed. But it was not too late. With an athletic move he hadn’t really expected to make again, John swung over the table and pursued someone he couldn’t even see but knew was ahead of him.

He chased through the crowd, still standing in reverential silence while the old chap mumbled on, and tore through the gathered onlookers. But he knew that with each passing second he was losing time. The man - or woman - he was after had hidden themselves amongst the people and was probably, even now, watching him as he fled frantically through the very heart of them.