Death in the Valley of Shadows (33 page)

The Apothecary sat in silence, listening to the horse, which had regained its breath and was now placidly cropping the turf. Then eventually John put his foot in the stirrup and started to descend the hill on the far side, wondering as he did so what further events could possibly befall him on this most fated of days.

At the bottom of the hill lay a village and in it a tavern. Glancing at his watch, John saw that it was past eleven and that he had been up several hours without his customary large breakfast. Determinedly turning Herring in the direction of the tavern which, on closer inspection, was smarter than the Apothecary had imagined, he tethered his horse near a water trough and went inside. Much to his surprise the place heaved with custom, people jostling elbows at the counter to get served. Wondering why such a small place in such a remote village should be so in demand, John waited patiently at the bar.

His question about popularity was answered almost straight away. Listening to a couple talking next to him, he learned that the Guildford stage had cast a wheel, thundering through the very village in which he now found himself, and those gathered in the hostelry were waiting for a repair.

Having secured himself a tankard of ale - breakfast was out of the question in view of the rush of custom - John made his way into a comer, complete with chair, and was just about to take a mouthful when a familiar voice greeted his ears.

“Is there anyone here with a trap? I want to get to Foxfire Hall actually.”

There was a mumbled answer from a yokel, the message of which John couldn’t hear.

“Oh jolly good,” came the reply. “I can wait an hour or so. Will you come to the door?”

Again the mumble, presumably agreeing. Taking a good swig, John stood up, grinning, though slightly puzzled for all that. “Samuel, over here,” he shouted.

The effect on his friend was extraordinary. The Goldsmith choked on his drink, then contrived to look embarrassed, guilty, and definitely as if he had something to hide. “John,” he said eventually.

“My dear boy,” said the Apothecary, instantly noting Samuel’s reaction. “How very nice to see you.”

“And you. And you,” the other man answered unenthusiastically.

It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask what Samuel was doing but he resisted, realising that the Goldsmith was obviously under some kind of strain.

“No, I’ll stand if you don’t mind. Caught the stage in London and have been up on the roof. Bit cramped.” Samuel laughed hollowly.

“Yes,” said John thoughtfully. He changed the subject. “What’s the name of this place?”

“Damned if I know. It wasn’t one of the stops. It’s just that we cast a wheel on some evil rut in the track. Now we’re having to wait.”

There was truth in the story but there was more to it than that, John thought. Then he remembered that whenever one was faced with a mystery it was always a good move to
cherchez la femme.
“Off to see Mrs. Rayner?” he asked innocently.

The effect on Samuel was quite amazing to see. First he went white, then two high spots of colour appeared in his cheeks. All this while desperately trying to assume an air of extreme nonchalance, sipping his glass of wine and laughing over-heartily.

“Damnable thing is, I left a pair of gloves - oh, and a hat - when I was last there. Thought I’d call in and retrieve them.”

John was flabbergasted, first that his friend should use such a feeble excuse and, second, that he should use it to him whom he had known most of his life. Guessing that the Goldsmith was yet again in love, he nodded encouragingly.

“I see. How wretched for you.”

Samuel looked at him suspiciously. “Yes, indeed,” he said slowly.

The Apothecary thought rapidly. Should he challenge his friend or remain silent, he wondered. He stole another look at Samuel’s face and decided that to say anything at this delicate stage might bring about a rift between them. He therefore composed his features and said, “Sam, I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Justin Bussell is dead. By his own hand. He left a note apologising to Evalina and begging her forgiveness.”

The relief on Samuel’s face was rapidly overtaken by a look of immense wonderment. “So we know who the killer is.”

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” John answered. “First of all it would appear that Greville was the leader, Justin merely followed. But, secondly, it is obvious that the boys did not kill their own parents, unless there are deeds so dark here that one can hardly bear to think of them. No, we have solved one set of murders but as to the others, the field remains open I fear.”

Samuel put down his glass and assumed such a serious expression that John had to fight to control a fit of laughter. “I see,” the Goldsmith said meaningfully. “But who?”

The Apothecary bit his lip. “Could be anyone,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

“Well, my money’s on Mendoza. A slimy bit of work if ever I saw one.”

“I doubt it,” John answered, and launched into the story that the Lieutenant had told him a few nights previously.

Samuel, clearly glad that the conversational topic had changed, sat in silence, listening, then eventually said, “So Mrs. Trewellan is his mother.”

“So it would seem.”

“Well, that certainly puts a different slant on things. Though still he could be…”

John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right somehow.”

Samuel considered. “Perhaps, it’s someone entirely different. Perhaps it’s an old enemy of the Bussells. Nobody connected with the Fenchurchs at all.”

Realising that he was skating on thin ice, John gave a small smile. “Yes, Sam, it could well be so.”

And there he rested his argument, talking generalities until the man with the trap came back, when the two men thankfully parted company, each going about their business.

As he rode back through the blustery afternoon, John reflected on friendship and thought how close he and Samuel had drawn to falling out.

“And all over a woman,” the Apothecary realised - and at that a train of ideas started that would not leave him alone until he had run them through his brain and come to rather a startling conclusion.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
here was only one thing for it, John thought, as The Onslow Arms came into view. He must get back to London and put his new idea to Sir John Fielding. And the more he considered the matter, the greater the urgency to return became. Going into the inn he paid his bill, changed into his travelling clothes and rode poor Herring back to her livery stables in Guildford, where he thanked the owner politely and dispensed with her services. Then, having been told that there was a stage from Portsmouth making a stop at The Angel in quarter of an hour, John ran through the dusk and squeezed onto the roof, where he sat, shivering and uncomfortable all the way to London, where he was put down at The Bald Stag in Southwark.

Pulling his watch from his pocket, John stared at it. It was after midnight and too late to wake the household in Nassau Street. Yawning and tired and scarcely able to move a muscle, the Apothecary booked himself a room in the hostelry and went straight to sleep.

He awoke much refreshed and immediately thought of the idea that had come to him yesterday. Whichever way he looked at it, it still made sense, and John determined to go to Bow Street as soon as he had breakfasted. This he did with tremendous appetite, realising that it had been a full twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Finally replete, he paid his dues and hired a hackney coach to take him to Bow Street.

The court was not yet in session, Sir John and Joe sitting downstairs in the room they used as a study, dealing with correspondence. They both looked up as John entered and Jago rose to his feet.

“Mr. Rawlings! What a surprise. We thought you were in West Clandon, Sir.”

“So I was till yesterday afternoon. But pray don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished.”

Sir John chuckled deep. “My friend, you would not have come here unless you believed the matter urgent. Indeed, I make out from your voice that you are quivering to tell us something of vital importance. So please, be seated and do so.”

There was a third chair before the desk and as the Apothecary sat down he thought for a minute of all the times he and Sir John had shared in the past, some of them in this very room. Then he felt Joe’s eyes on him, giving him a look so kindly, so well-intentioned, that his heart lifted in his chest.

“Well, gentlemen…” he said.

Thirty minutes later it was done. John had told them everything. He had also put to them his idea as to the identity of the murderer of Ariadne and Montague Bussell, an idea which they received in total silence.

“…so you see, Sir,” he concluded, “that willing though I am to return to West Clandon, I truly feel I could do with a little help.”

Sir John Fielding was very quiet, his hands folded over his stomach, his powerful features set and stem. Eventually he said, “I’m thinking,” then became silent once more. Joe, meanwhile, fixed John with his light blue eyes, one of which he slowly winked. He mouthed, “He’s not pleased,” but obviously not quietly enough.

“No, I am not,” said Sir John, raising his head. “I am not pleased because the whole idea confounds my theories. But never let it be said that I have grown small-minded. You are right, Mr. Rawlings, I feel it in my gut. So, go to. Back to West Clandon with you and make your claims. But you’ll have to wait a few days. The Brave Fellows are away on a case at present and are not expected back for some time.”

“I’m afraid I do not trust the person concerned. I think they might strike again, Sir.”

“Yes,” said the Beak, nodding slowly. “You may well have a point there. But what can I do? It is too dangerous for you to venture there alone.”

The Apothecary smiled crookedly. “Yes, I had rather thought so. That is why I came back.”

“I see.” There was another protracted silence, then Sir John said, “You and Jago could go, however.”

At this, Joe winked again and held up a large, knobbly thumb but did not risk saying a word.

“I imagine you two are grinning at one another,” said the Blind Beak, and rumbled his laugh. “Very well, be off with the pair of you. I shall have to do without my eyes for a day or two. Oh, and Jago…”

“Yes, Sir?”

“This time I want Greville Bussell brought in.”

Joe Jago stood up and bowed in the Magistrate’s direction. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve been anxious for a bit of adventure.”

“So I’ve noticed. Now, go. Straight there and two quiet arrests if you please. I don’t want any bloodshed.”

“None the less, Sir, I shall take the opportunity of being fully armed.”

“And you Mr. Rawlings? Are you armed?”

“Indeed I am, Sir,” said the Apothecary, and patted his pocket.

An hour later and it was done. Joe had slipped home to Seven Dials to pack a bag while John had waited for him in Will’s Coffee House. For some reason that he could not explain, not even to himself, he had not gone to Nassau Street nor, indeed, Shug Lane. He felt very strongly that a rush back, to be followed by another rush away again, would disrupt the entire household, even upset the implacable Nicholas. Yet there was another reason, another reason that John refused to admit. The simple truth was that he didn’t want to, that he wanted to stay anonymous and ready for the difficult task that lay before him.

A hackney to The Borough where John and Joe hired a flying coach in company with a mother and daughter who chattered all the way to Guildford, where they all disembarked.

“Do look us up when you are next in town, Sir.”

“I certainly will, Madam.”

Then with much bowing and general goodwill, they parted company.

The expression on the face of the livery stables’ owner was beyond belief.

“I thought you’d finished with my poor beast, Sir.”

John contrived his honest expression. “Would you believe that no sooner was I back in London than I received a message to return? So, if I may hire a horse once more and another for my friend.”

“Of course, Sir.”

It was not, the Apothecary considered, the best of stables. Poor Herring, looking rather weary, was led out, accompanied by a grey gelding named Finn, who plodded over the cobbles, head down. However, once mounted, the horse had a new lease of life and went away to West Clandon on the double, John fighting to keep up. Consequently, the pair clattered into the courtyard of The Onslow Arms in good time to dine, which they did in a small parlour reserved for the handful of guests. Fortunately there was no one in it beside themselves. They were completely alone to discuss tactics.

“You know, Sir,” said Joe thoughtfully, “we’ve done this a bit too quick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, whoever we arrest first, one of us must escort them back to London. That leaves the other one on their own again.”

John looked thoughtful. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “Oh well, we’ll just have to take a chance.”

“Ah Sir, there’s many a man as said that before he went to his death.”