Death in the Valley of Shadows

by Deryn Lake

  She glowered from beneath the hanging curtains of her hair. “Upstart, rogue. What are you doing in this house?”

  “I come about your late father’s business,” he answered magnificently, and swept out.

  At the bottom of the stairs Jocasta and Millicent waited anxiously.

  “How is she?” asked the older woman.

  “Play acting,” said John. “I shall definitely barb her drink for her. Then you will get some peace. But no mercy, mind.” He fixed the governess with a look. “I know you were called upon to be her mother, but do not give way. If she were smaller, she should be spanked. I am afraid. Miss Millicent, that in these dire circumstances you must be cruel to be kind. And now, ladies, with that advice I take my leave.”

  He bowed, then remembered the information that Sir John Fielding had wished him to obtain, rather spoiling his exit.

  “By the way, do either of you know the whereabouts of Mrs. Bussell, Mr. Fenchurch’s friend? She ordered some pills in my shop but forgot to leave her address.”

  Was it his imagination or did a silent ripple run between the two of them?

  “Mrs. Bussell lives in Grosvenor Square,” said Jocasta. “Number six, I believe.”

  “A very seemly address.”

  “Indeed it is. But then, of course, her husband is very, very rich so what else would you expect.”

  “Aha,” said Sir John Fielding. “It seems the Shadow lives most comfortably.”

  “So it would appear.”

  The Magistrate sighed. “I wonder at these husbands, truly I do. Was he aware of her affair and subsequent pursuit of her lover? Or is he merely an ignorant fool?”

  John shrugged and shook his head. “Who knows?”

  “Whatever the case, he has settled for keeping her into old age. Anyway, Mr. Rawlings, tomorrow you and Jago will ruffle her feathers. A woman like that needs to be called to order from time to time.”

  “Do you think she paid to have Aidan Fenchurch killed, Sir?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Sir John, sighing heavily. “The devil of it is going to be proving that she did so.”

  Chapter Four

  Having closed the shop for the night, John and his apprentice made their way home to discover that the post boy had brought a letter from Sir Gabriel with a postscript added by Emilia, assuring her husband of her improved health. The Apothecary read it through several times, the last reading being in bed before he blew out the candle and closed his eyes. But instead of falling asleep immediately he once more lived through the sequence of events precipitated by Aidan Fenchurch running into his shop hotly pursued by Mrs. Bussell.

  What, John wondered, had she wanted in particular that would have driven her to run after her quarry in such a way? What could have been so urgent that she must see him then and there? Or was she just a crazed indulged woman whose every whim must be granted as soon as she so much as thought of it. Probably the latter, he considered, and fell to conjecturing what Montague Bussell could possibly be like and whether he would be at home when John and Joe Jago called at Grosvenor Square in the morning.

  As it transpired, despite the earliness of the hour neither husband nor wife were in, a fact with which the representatives of the Public Office could not argue as no previous appointment had been made.

  “Who shall I say called, Sir?” asked a footman, looking at Joe as if he had crawled from beneath a damp stone.

  Sir John Fielding’s clerk and right hand man showed his steel. With a flourish of hard, somewhat dangerous-looking fingers, he produced a card from within his sensible worsted coat and thrust it beneath the arrogant servant’s nostrils.

  Startled, the man read it aloud. “Joseph R. Jago, clerk to Sir John Fielding, the Public Office, Bow Street.” He looked slightly taken aback. “And to what does this refer, Sir?”

  “Mind your business,” snapped Joe mightily. “I wish to see Mrs. Bussell and I shall return. My conversation with her is privy to the pair of us. Good day to you.” And he stamped down the stone steps to where John waited in the street below.

  “Upstart,” said the clerk, none too quietly.

  The Apothecary, who had grown accustomed to the ill manners of servants through years of calling on the sick, nodded sympathetically, then looked thoughtful. “D’ye know, he goes with his employer somehow.”

  “Is she of that ilk; rude and arrogant?”

  “Horribly so. But I’d wager a goodly sum that when we finally pin her down she’ll be in flirtatious mode, all grins, winks and teeth.”

  Joe shuddered. “Heaven forfend! I think I’d rather meet her aggressive.”

  “Are you sure about that?” said John, and burst into hilarious laughter, startling a passer-by.

  They had come in the coach used for Bow Street business and now had it at their disposal. “Do you want me to take you to the shop, Sir?” Joe asked as they climbed aboard.

  The Apothecary shook his head. “If it is no trouble to you, my friend, I would like to call at the mortuary. I have a feeling that I shall know more about Aidan Fenchurch’s death if I can see the extent of his injuries.”

  “He’s in a rough state, Sir. But then I have no need to warn you of that.”

  “I don’t relish the task but I know I won’t be allowed in without an official present so this will be my only chance to see him. What’s the ruling regarding the body, by the way?”

  “The coroner is due to release it to the family later today.”

  “Then we’d best make haste,” John answered, wondering why he had set himself this loathsome duty.

  The thing that he hated above all about mortuaries was the terrible smell of sweetness. Though the slabs were kept as cold as possible, still flesh had only one fate once the life force had left it and there was nothing that could be done about that. To counteract the stink of corruption and decay, herbs were scattered and rose water sprinkled by the mortuary keeper, but still the stench caught in the back of John’s throat as he made his way down the central aisle to where lay the last mortal remains of Aidan Fenchurch covered by a stark white shroud.

  That his skull had been split apart was obvious from the crude bandage that had been tied round what was left of his head. It was horrible, John thought, reminiscent of someone with violent toothache. The blood had long since been washed from the wounds but a pinkish seepage discoloured the bandage where it touched the skin, while the features of Aidan’s face, including his crab eyes, now closed, had been rearranged by the blows which had been rained upon him.

  John gulped, then braced himself. “Might I be allowed to examine the wounds?”

  “I can but ask,” Joe answered, attracting the attention of the keeper by a wave of his hand. “This is one of Sir John’s assistants,” he continued as the man approached. “He is an apothecary. Would it be possible for the bandage to be removed so that he can see the skull?”

  The mortuary keeper leant over the body. “It’s a terrible sight,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’m ready,” John answered.

  But he wasn’t, not quite. Brains oozed where there had once been a thatch of longish grey hair and the bones of Aidan’s skull were visible through the hanging flesh.

  “Christ!” said Joe, who clearly hadn’t seen the injuries before.

  John bent forward and somehow found the courage to raise his quizzing glass. “Whoever did this is worse than a savage.”

  “Can you see the work of two different hands?”

  “Yes, I think so. The blows are coming from different directions. God help the poor devil, he must have died the most terrible death.”

  Joe turned away. “It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve come across a few in my time.”

  “I would describe this as crude butchery.”

  “So would I, Sir.” The clerk shook his head. “What could the wretched fellow have done to deserve this? Was jigging Mrs. Bussell his only crime?”

  “It certainly makes one wonder,” answered John thoug
htfully. He straightened up, pulling the shroud back to cover the face. “Perhaps he made other enemies on his walk through life.”

  “Or perhaps,” answered Joe succinctly, “Mrs. Bussell was not his only woman.”

  They strolled in the park to clear the stench of death from their lungs, dodging the April showers beneath the trees and generally whiling away the time until it was three o’clock, an hour before the fashionable time to dine. Then they once more boarded the Bow Street coach and headed back for Grosvenor Square, certain that by now Mrs. Bussell would have returned to make a toilette. This time, just to confuse the issue, John rang the bell. The same superior servant answered.

  “Mrs. Bussell, if you please,” the Apothecary said crisply. “You may say that two representatives of the Public Office have called on the business of Sir John Fielding.”

  And with that the visitors presented their cards simultaneously and with a flourish.

  “I shall enquire,” the footman answered stiffly. “Kindly step within.”

  It was the type of self-conscious opulence that John would have imagined to be the taste of Mrs. Bussell, who clearly yearned to be associated with the arts. There were paintings and classical busts and pillars crowding the hall, together with an alcove devoted to chinoiserie, where horrible hangings depicting Chinese writing and nasty lanterns hung above vases of ugly twisted wood. Joe rolled an eye and raised a brow, while John sighed gustily.

  The servant, who had disappeared, returned. “Madam is not at home.”

  “Then we will wait,” announced Joe and sat down, folding his arms across his chest.

  “I cannot allow that, Sir.”

  “You not only can but you will. I am here representing the Principal Magistrate who is quite prepared to summon Mrs. Bussell to Bow Street if she refuses to be interviewed. Therefore, my man, I would suggest that you find your mistress and ask her once more whether she will see us.”

  “And hurry up about it,” John added for good measure.

  Shooting them a glance of pure poison, the footman departed, heading up the stairs with a purposeful tread. A few minutes later, surging like a sailcloth in a somewhat transparent negligee - a casual fashion which had started in France - Mrs. Bussell herself appeared on the staircase, smiling coyly at her visitors and flashing her conker-coloured eyes for all she was worth.

  “Prepare to be seduced,” John muttered in an undertone.

  “Heaven forbid,” Joe answered from the comer of his mouth.

  She was upon them in a flurry of frills and flounces, curtseying and smiling broadly. “Gentlemen, forgive my servant. He has been over-trained to protect me, don’t you know.” The Bath burr was very pronounced, so much so that the Apothecary presumed someone had once told Mrs. Bussell it was charming. “Now how may I help you? But I forget my manners. Pray come into the salon and have some sherry. Let us all be friendly.”

  Joe bowed, very deeply. “Madam, in other circumstances I would accept. But this matter is too serious to be treated frivolously. However, I would appreciate going where we may speak privately.”

  The brown eyes momentarily narrowed then grew over-wide as Mrs. Bussell fluttered her lashes. “La, Sir, what a fuss to be sure. What can I have done to merit such severity?”

  John cleared his throat and she turned the beam of her attention on him. “Do I know you, Sir?”

  “We met once, in my apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane. You were pursuing a Mr. Aidan Fenchurch at the time. Now that same man lies dead in the mortuary, the victim of a savage attack in the street, Sir John Fielding is not satisfied that the killing was the random work of footpads. He believes that assassins may have been hired by persons unknown. Further, Mr. Fenchurch left papers - papers now lodged in the Public Office - in which he named you, Madam, as his potential killer. Now what say you to that?”

  “Lies, all lies,” shrieked Mrs. Bussell, waving her arms in the air and releasing the stale odour of one who bathed infrequently.

  Joe took over. “This conversation really must be conducted privately, Madam. Of course, your husband can be present if you wish.”

  Her thoughts were as patent as if she had spoken them. She toyed with the idea of bluffing everything out and enjoying the protection of her husband’s presence. Then she cast this plan away as the danger of what John might reveal became apparent to her. The question as to how much Montague Bussell knew hung in the air between Joe and the Apothecary though neither of them uttered a word; instead both fixed her with a stare and waited.

  “He is asleep,” she said eventually. “He always has a rest before dining.” Once more she became arch. “I feel this is a brouhaha over nothing. Mr. Fenchurch and I were the best of friends. Why, I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of his head.”

  Remembering the shattered skull beneath its long grey mane, John shuddered. “That is not what he believed,” he said dryly, and followed her as she led the way into another affectedly artistic room that attempted a careless abandon as to its arrangement but succeeded only in looking contrived.

  Mrs. Bussell settled herself on a profusely embroidered square-backed sofa, then smiled largely. “Now then,” she said.

  Joe became the height of officialdom. “You did realise, did you not, that your friend, Mr. Fenchurch, was done to death in the street on the very day that you pursued him into Mr. Rawlings’s shop.”

  The conker eyes snapped. “I did not pursue him. I had an urgent message for Mr. Fenchurch and I thought I saw him go into your shop, Sir. But he was not there and, if I may say so, your manner towards me on that occasion was extremely offensive.”

  “And so was yours to me,” John answered nastily.

  Joe laughed, so suddenly that it was quite shocking. “The truth is, Mrs. Bussell, that he was cowering in the back of the shop on the point of tears. He also told Mr. Rawlings that he thought you would do for him one day, meaning that he believed you quite capable of killing him.”

  At last he had got through. The big mouth closed and the woman lowered her gaze. All pretence at flirtation ceased.

  “Are you accusing me? Because I have witnesses as to where I was that night. My husband was by my side from dusk till nightfall.”

  Joe made a derogatory sound. “Of course you couldn’t have killed him directly. I doubt that even a woman of your build…” She glared at him. “… could have hit him with the savagery that the poor devil endured. No, as I said, the deed was done by two men, supposedly cutpurses, but they took nothing, not even a ring from his finger. Now, what do you say to that?”

  Mrs. Bussell was silent for a moment, then she rallied. She looked up, hard-faced. “I say that I know nothing about it. If these men were paid to murder, then I did not hire them.”

  John’s heart sank. She would never break, not a woman of that stamp. The great grins and provocative eyes masked a creature hard as horseshoes.

  Joe must have felt something of this but still he fought on. “Are you prepared to come to Bow Street and swear that on oath?”

  Her chins rose. “Yes I am.”

  She was game, John had to give her her due. “How do you explain away Mr. Fenchurch’s written statement that if he were to die in suspicious circumstances then you would be responsible?” he asked.

  “Hallucinations,” she snarled, giving him a withering look. “The man was probably suffering from delusions.”

  “Were you once his mistress?” Joe put in. “And did you then become his Shadow, driving through the night to hurl things at his front door?”

  She did not reply, then she tightened her expression. “He did me wrong. He told me he loved me, deceived me cruelly. I became upset and might indeed have returned his love letters in anger.” Her big lips trembled and she started to weep loudly.

  “And what did your husband have to say about all this?” Joe asked bluntly.

  “He didn’t know about my affair. He was away at the time. I was in Aidan Fenchurch’s thrall. I couldn’t help myself. His power is so great.”
r />   “Was,” said John pointedly.

  She shot him a look but continued to cry and babble. “I loved him. I loved him. I couldn’t help myself. But he was a cruel bastard. He left me for someone else. Oh merciful heavens, my heart was fit to break, so it was.”

  Joe stood up. “Mr. Rawlings, I suggest we take our leave. We are clearly going to get no further sense from this lady, Madam, Sir John Fielding will no doubt be in touch with you. If you intend to leave London please be so kind as to let me know.”

  “Of course I intend to leave,” the weeping woman answered mutinously. “You have shorten my nerves to shreds with your horrid insinuations. I need the tranquillity of rural life in which to recover myself.”

  “And where and when do you plan to go?” Joe asked, pleasantly enough.

  “That,” said Mrs. Bussell, trembling violently, “is entirely my own affair.”

  * * *

  “Were the killers hired assassins and, if so, did she employ them?” asked the Apothecary as the coach rattled its way back to Bow Street.

  Joe’s trenchant profile, etched by the light spilling from the street, turned towards him. “I’ve never known robbers fail to rob, Sir, even if they were disturbed by the watch. So yes to the first part of your question. As to the second, I’m not sure. She’s not the kind of woman that I could take to personally, but whether that makes her a murderess is a different matter.”

  “You’re right, of course. She’s horrible but one can’t hang her for that. Yet why was Aidan so convinced that she would do for him?”

  “Because she’s crazy and capable of anything,” Joe answered succinctly. “But those facts alone do not prove her guilt.”

  “So what’s the way forward?”

  “I think Sir John should see her. If anyone can break her down, it will be him.”

  “Is that what you are going to tell him?”