Death in the Valley of Shadows (36 page)

“If you would be so good.” He held out his glass.

“I have some news for you,” she said, her back turned, busy with the decanter.

“What is that?” John asked, suddenly weary from all the day’s activities.

“I am going to marry Mr. Swann.”

And she turned to look at him. In her smile John saw immense future happiness for his old friend and also for Jocasta herself. He got to his feet.

“My very dear girl,” he said, and grubby and smelly that he was, he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

Chapter Twenty-Five

J
une came, that gentle month, and in the middle there was a sweet little wedding in St. Mary’s, Stoke d’Abemon. It was very quiet, only family and friends attending. John, who had started to think that the day would never come, willingly stood as bridegroom’s witness to his old and dear friend Samuel Swann. Old Mr. Swann, well in his seventies, attended, as did Sir Gabriel Kent, very fine in a suit of silver and black.

The bride, clad in crimson velvet, came up the aisle on the arm of Lieutenant Philip Mendoza and there, at the altar, the former Jocasta Rayner became Jocasta Swann. John, dashing a tear away, signed the register and then everyone repaired back to the great mansion, Foxfire Hall, to celebrate.

The first roses were out and the house looked at its best as the carriages rolled up outside and the guests disembarked. Within, the shadows were gone and all was jolly. And John and Emilia, with their baby Rose, who slept most of the time and made no trouble, drank toasts and then danced well into the night. Eventually, though, it was time for the ancient ceremony of preparing the bride and groom for the bedchamber. So, at last John got a few moments for talk with his great friend.

“My dear,” he said, “so you’ve done it at last.”

“Samuel nodded. I was thirty-one last month. I am sure you looked on me as a confirmed old bachelor.”

This he said with a great deal of joviality, expecting his friend to disagree. Which, politely, John did. But, in truth, he had begun to worry that all Samuel’s romances seemed doomed to failure and had half expected him to end on the shelf.

“So you took my advice and married someone a little more mature,” he said.

“Yes, I did. Jocasta is but a few months younger than I am. Yet she has the resolution of someone much older and the delightful side - not fully realised at present - of a girl.”

“Tell me, Samuel, in the minutes left to us before Philip and Spalding come, how has she reacted to all the death surrounding her?”

Instead of giving a bluff reply, Samuel sat silently for a moment, and the Apothecary secretly rejoiced that his friend was showing signs of maturity at long last.

“She has drawn a great deal of comfort from Louisa,” he said eventually. “Of course, the truth is out now. About Mrs. Trewellan being her sister’s mother-in-law and so on. And, strangely, Jocasta seemed to like the fact that there was additional family rather than less. They… we… have decided to share Foxfire Hall with them, strictly as a summer place. In the winter we are going to live in Curzon Street.”

John’s jaw dropped. “My, you’ve married well, Samuel.”

“I married for love,” said his old friend, so honestly that John could do nothing but clutch him to his heart in an embrace that seemed to sum up all their years together.

The door opened and the Lieutenant and his half-brother came in, slightly drunk but none the worse for it.

“Why, he’s not even undressed,” said Spalding, whose pimples had very nearly cleared up.

“Let’s to it,” answered Mendoza, and there was a lot of high- spirited horseplay in which John took some part.

Then the bride, demure in a white nightgown, was led in by the female guests and the couple were put to bed, amongst great merriment and further hilarity. Afterwards everyone went downstairs to drink their health, and there they continued to dance until the candles burned low.

At last the old house began to make the noises of a great place settling down. Wood creaked, fires gave a last crackle and burned out, the candle trees disappeared with the guests making their way to the bedchambers which had been prepared for them.

Emilia turned on the stairs. “You won’t be long, will you?”

“No, I’ll just finish my drink, then I’ll come.”

“Promise. This old place is full of shadows by night.”

“I promise.”

He stood for a while, gazing into the dying flames of the huge fire, then picked up his candle tree. But when he reached the top of the Grand Staircase his feet, almost as if they had a will of their own, turned towards the Long Gallery.

She was there, waiting for him, at the end. Lady Tewkesbury, her Tudor face shuttered and secretive as ever, watched every step he took as he approached her portrait.

“Well,” John said aloud, “you’ve seen a few things in your time, Madam.”

There was no reply but the dark eyes burned into his. Without really meaning to, John leant forward and tried to find the mechanism that led to the room beyond. But strive as he might, his fingers searched in vain and in the end he gave up and stepped back.

Emilia, sleepy and cosy, was in his bed, waiting for him, but still he lingered a second more.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he whispered to the portrait.

And was it a trick of the candlelight that her mouth momentarily curved into a smile.

Historical Note

John Rawlings, Apothecary, was a real person. He was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He was made Free of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13th March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho. This links him beyond question with H.D. Rawlings Ltd. who were based at the same address over a hundred years later. I think it is not too much to claim that John was the first person in this country to discover how to carbonate water. Rawlings were spruce and ginger beer manufacturers and also made soda and tonic waters. Their ancient soda syphons are now collectors items and can only be found in antique shops, or in Granny’s attic. If you find one, hang on to it. I own one, presented to me by Sylvie Leguil, my favourite French fan.

Sir John Fielding, who received his knighthood in 1761, was Principal Magistrate at the time of John Rawlings. He was blinded in an accident at the age of nineteen but continued to carve his place in history as the founder not only of the modern police force but also the Flying Squad, the two Brave Fellows ‘who have long been engaged for such purposes, and are always ready to set out to any part of this town or kingdom, on a quarter of an hour’s notice’.

Those were the days indeed.