by Deryn Lake
“Yes, Sir, it is. Now, I’ve an idea. Can I drop you at Bloomsbury Square, ostensibly to enquire after the health of the bereaved but also to find out where the Bussell woman might be likely to bolt to. For bolt she will, I feel it in my gut.”
“Of course you can. But would it be tactful? Aidan’s body might have arrived.”
“I doubt they’ll bring it before tomorrow morning. He has to be shrouded and coffined, remember.”
John shivered. “Oh, don’t remind me. Not a task I would relish.”
“Come now,” said Joe. “You’re a medical man and used to death.”
“Not like that I’m not.”
“No,” said Sir John Fielding’s clerk, and within the confines of the coach there was sudden stricken silence.
* * *
The physick had clearly worked for there were no screams from the upper floor of the house. In fact a deathly calm hung over the place. Feeling that he was truly trespassing, John handed his card to the footman almost apologetically.
“I simply called to see if any of the ladies required medical care. I have no wish to intrude.”
“Mrs. Rayner said that you might visit, Sir. She and Miss Millicent are in the drawing room. Please to step this way.”
They were speaking quietly together as John went in but two snatches of conversation were distinctly audible. Millicent was saying in that intense little voice of hers, “How could she? How could she? And with an upstart like Mendoza. The girl deserves to be whipped.”
“And so does he,” answered Jocasta. “Why, if Papa had still been alive I swear he would have done it.”
Millicent gave a loud sniff and it was at that moment that John walked into the room and all conversation ceased. Jocasta stood up.
“Mr. Rawlings, how very nice to see you. I thought you might come to visit us. Will you stay and dine?”
So poor Aidan’s shattered body had not yet returned home.
“It would be a pleasure.”
“It will only be very simple, in view of our mourning.”
“I would have eaten lightly had I gone back to Nassau Street.”
“You live alone?”
“Temporarily, yes. My wife is staying in Kensington with my father.”
“Oh,” said Jocasta.
Millicent spoke up, her eyes shining earnestly. “My dear Mama - before she was taken from us, of course - was a great believer in keeping up one’s strength through regular meals. This is not a time to neglect oneself. Would you not agree, Mr. Rawlings? - you being an apothecary and all.”
“I certainly do, Ma’am. I have always believed that a hearty breakfast is the only way to begin one’s day.”
“There, Jocasta, there,” Millicent said triumphantly. “You must do more than sip tea, dear.”
“Would you care for a sherry, Mr. Rawlings?” asked Jocasta, determinedly changing the subject.
“Are you ladies going to have one?”
“If you are,” they chorused.
John nodded and bowed and all three sat down to have a glass of the very finest vintage, presumably imported by the late Aidan Fenchurch himself.
“Such a pleasure to have your company,” said Millicent enthusiastically.
“Yes, it really is,” Jocasta added, and it suddenly struck the Apothecary that there had been a great deal of sadness in this household, even without the added sorrow of the brutal murder of its head.
“So,” said Sir John Fielding, guiding a cup of tea to his lips without spilling a drop, “Mrs. Bussell was defiant, was she?”
It was still only eight o’clock in the morning but already the Magistrate, John and Joe Jago were gathered round the great man’s breakfast table, eating the Apothecary’s favourite meal and discussing the murder of Aidan Fenchurch at the same time.
“I believe you’ll have to call her in to Bow Street, Sir John. But I don’t think you’ll break her, mind. She denies having anything to do with the murder and she won’t be budged.”
The Magistrate made an impatient sound. “That is farcical in view of the papers that the victim left behind him.”
“But it could just be true,” John put in.
“I wondered about his other woman,” ventured Joe. “Mrs. Tre … what was it?” He turned to the Apothecary.
“Trewellan. She who wouldn’t marry him because of her ghastly son.”
“It did occur to me,” Sir John’s clerk persisted, “that she might know something. Perhaps she and the victim had quarrelled recently. Perhaps she should be questioned.”
“Yes, yes.” Sir John waved a hand. “But my money is firmly on the Bussell woman. She sounds marvellously deranged to me.”
“She’s still in love with him. I’m sure of it,” the Apothecary answered.
Joe chuckled. “Then she’s sure to have had him put down. There’s nothing like a woman slighted to be full to the eyes with vengeance.”
“Hear, hear,” said the Magistrate. “I’ll send a Runner to request the pleasure of her company in the Public Office.”
“She might have left London,” John pointed out. “Apparently she has a place in Surrey, some ten miles or so from Aidan Fenchurch’s own abode.”
“Where? Do you know?”
“Mrs. Rayner said West Clandon. A house called Merrow Place.”
“And where did Fenchurch live?”
“A village with the grand title of Stoke d’Abemon. He has apparently left his middle daughter that property, while the eldest inherits the London house.”
“And the youngest?”
“I don’t know. There’s a mystery about her. She’s travelling at the moment and is, apparently, still unaware of her father’s death. All I can tell you about the girl is that she is called Louisa and is the most beautiful of the three according to her sister.”
“Um, an odd tale. Do you think she’s run away from home?” said Sir John thoughtfully.
The Apothecary considered the idea. “Probably, yes.”
“Another thread,” said Joe. “Had she fallen out with her father? Could it have been she who hired the killers?”
“Jago, you are impossible,” answered the Magistrate, swallowing down his food rather noisily. “Just for once we are presented with a case in which the murdered man has actually written down the name of his killer. But does this satisfy you? No. You must run round after other ideas like a bloodhound with six simultaneous scents. We have our principal suspect and she is the guilty party, mark my words.”
Joe stood his ground, despite his employer’s formidable reputation. “None the less, Sir John, would you object if I saw this Mrs. Trewellan and asked Mr. Rawlings to find out all he can about the disappearing daughter from the other ladies of the house?”
“Of course I wouldn’t object,” answered the Blind Beak, somewhat angrily John thought. “If you wish to waste your time, my dear Jago, please feel at liberty to do so.”
He was very truculent and, in a way, the Apothecary could see Sir John’s point of view. A man stalked by an unstable woman dies most violently, the apparent motive of robbery hardly credible. Papers which, in the event of his death, the victim asks to be delivered to Bow Street, appear to suggest a case that is open and shut but, for all that, the Magistrate’s clerk insists on pursuing loose ends. And yet, John thought, it was the Beak himself who had taught both him and Joe never to take anything at face value.
He spoke up. “I think I would like to discover more about Louisa, Sir. Just for my own interest.”
“Of course, of course. We might be able to help her sisters find the girl in time for the funeral. Go to it, Mr. Rawlings. And Joe…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I want Mrs. Bussell brought to Bow Street today. I am tired of this conjecture. Let the wretched female answer to me.”
And with that the Magistrate plucked his napkin from under his chin, threw it on the table, and with his cane tapping before him left the room.
Joe turned to John. “Oh, dear. We are n
ot in the finest of humours, are we?”
“No.” He looked the clerk straight in the eye. “Joe, do you think Mrs. Bussell is responsible for Aidan Fenchurch’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Then why bother to look further?”
“Just because,” said Joe Jago, and shook his head at his own foolishness.
Chapter Five
It was not far to walk from Shug Lane to Bloomsbury Square and having closed the shop for the night and sent Nicholas home to dine, John decided to make his way there to pay his respects, aware that Aidan Fenchurch’s body would have by now arrived home. Much as he had expected - for to attend lyings-in-state was the very height of fashion amongst the beau monde - as he approached the Square he saw that a queue had formed outside the house of the deceased, silently plodding forward to gain admittance. Aware that probably only half the people moving in this miserable parade had even known the dead man, the Apothecary joined on the end and made his way towards the house.
Signs of mourning were everywhere, all the curtains being drawn, a mute standing solitary and black at the door, sable cloth draping the walls, tallow candles lighting the hall, which John could dimly perceive as he shuffled forward. It was also clear that the house, being only of normal size, was not equipped to hold such numbers and mourners were literally waiting on the steps while one person was admitted and let out again for a second to enter. Eventually, it was the Apothecary’s turn and he removed his hat, simultaneously putting on a solemn expression.
The two sisters and their cousin, Millicent, stood at the bottom of the stairs shaking hands with the visitors and receiving their whispered condolences. Evalina, scorning any form of paint, looked terrible, her dark hair scraped back beneath a stark black cap, her port wine stain livid on her left cheek. Her jet-coloured eyes seemed to burn in their sockets as she looked at each caller malevolently, as if they had been personally responsible for the violent and early demise of her father.
John bowed before her and she literally hissed, “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to pay my respects,” he answered with great dignity and passed on to Jocasta, who was standing second in line.
“Mr. Rawlings, do stay for cake and claret,” she murmured. “We are serving to special visitors in the drawing room. If you would make your way there once you have seen my father.”
“Certainly. Thank you.”
“We cannot ask everyone, just look at the numbers.” She cast her eye nervously over the crowd outside the street door.
“Mr. Fenchurch was obviously a much loved man.”
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. “They have come for the sensationalism, you know it as well as I. Few here actually knew poor Papa.”
John smiled crookedly. “Fashion really does take the oddest forms. Are you hurt by it?”
“I have learned to live with it,” Jocasta Rayner answered very simply, and turned to the next arrival.
Aidan Fenchurch’s coffin was laid out in the largest salon in the house, supported by a trestle table, yellow candles flickering at its four corners. Further tapers had been lit in sconces round the walls but the beautiful candelabra that hung from the centre of the ceiling was in darkness. The entire effect was sombre and somehow slightly sinister for the coffin, contrary to custom, was closed and draped with a stark black cloth. Aidan’s injuries had obviously been considered too severe to be disguised by flowers and the lid had been ordered nailed down.
Because of the crush only two people were walking round at a time, John’s companion being a hatted, cloaked female figure whom he was sure he recognised as a person of high society known to attend lyings-in-state for a hobby.
“Good evening,” he ventured in an undertone.
“Good evening,” she replied in a sibilant whisper, ostentatiously bowing to the coffin. Somewhat amused, John had to straighten his features as he solemnly walked past the mortal remains of Aidan Fenchurch, a man who had made the mistake of loving unwisely and paid the highest price of all.
It would seem that as well as those who had come merely out of morbid curiosity, there was also a goodly number of genuine mourners, for the drawing room was full of people partaking of the customary claret and ale, biscuits and cake. Much to John’s delight and amazement, he saw that Joe Jago was present, respectfully dressed and wearing a wig which sat ill upon his foxy curls. “We meet again,” said the Apothecary, bowing politely.
Joe returned the salute. “Mr. Rawlings. I came representing the Public Office and Mrs. Rayner invited me to take refreshment, Sir, much has happened since I saw you this morning.”
“Oh? What?”
“The Beak, who was in ugly mood as you yourself observed, despatched Runner Munn to bring in Mrs. Bussell only to find that she had already flown the nest.”
“She’d left for Surrey?”
“I don’t think so. Her servants seemed to think she had gone to an address unknown. However, Sir John, nothing daunted, as soon as he has ascertained her whereabouts, is going to send the two Brave Fellows with instructions to fetch her back, by force if necessary.”
“Her actions are certainly those of someone guilty.”
“They are indeed.”
“What about Mr. Bussell? Where is he?”
“Gone with her.”
“I wonder just how involved he is. Perhaps he organised poor Fenchurch’s death in a frenzy of jealousy.”
“But why after all this time?”
John shook his head. “It makes no sense, I agree.”
“Nothing does, because the woman at the crux of the matter is totally without any. That’s why.”
John sipped his claret, deep in thought. Finally he said, “Do you remember my friends the de Vignolles?”
“You mean Comte Louis and his beautiful wife?”
“Yes I do.”
“How could anyone forget them?” Joe said. “I shall always think of her as the most outrageous and delightful gambler in London.”
“When she was the Masked Lady. Yes, those were the days.”
And the Apothecary thought back to the time when he had been in love with the elegant Serafina and how, many years later, he had delivered her second child for her, a boy now three years old.
“So what of them, Sir?”
“They have a country place in Surrey, not far, I believe, from West Clandon. I’m wondering whether to beg an invitation and see what I can find out about Mrs. Bussell and her entourage.”
“That, Sir,” said Joe enthusiastically, “sounds like a mighty good plan. One can discover more through neighbours’ gossip than ever one can through direct questioning.”
He would have said more but at that moment they were joined by an elderly couple, both very sad-faced and red-eyed.
“Dear Aidan,” said the woman. “I don’t know what we shall do without his expert guidance on fine wines.”
“A lamentable loss,” agreed her husband. “Fenchurch imported the most excellent port to be had in London. Would you not say so?”
It was easier to join in than explain their real reason for being there and by mutual, silent consent John and Joe allowed the conversation to dwell on wine and its merits rather than the loss of Fenchurch and their involvment in investigating his death. However, the elderly woman did give a sigh and say, “And to think he was killed by footpads. It is hardly safe to leave one’s house these days.”
“Indeed, Ma’am,” said Joe. “However Sir John Fielding and his fellows are doing their best to stem the tide of violence.”
“Unfortunately, a Runner is never there when you want one,” answered the old chap. “Why, d’ye know, I was sitting in my own house t’other night when I heard a cry of ‘Stop thief!’ A highwayman, would you believe, had attacked a post-chaise in Piccadilly and it was not yet eleven o’clock at night. Anyway, chase was given, but the wretch rode over the watchman, almost killing him, and escaped.”
“Did you report the matter to the Public Office?”
“No, Sir, I did not. I saw but little, having hurried to my street door rather too late.”
“Insufficient to describe the robber?”
“Alas, yes. Where will it all end?”
“On the gallows,” said Joe determinedly. “Such audacity as to rob in the very heart of town will bring him down eventually.”
The conversation was reaching the end of its course and John was just wondering how they could move away without causing offence when a sudden hush fell over the room. The two sisters and Cousin Millicent had finally come in. It would appear that the great queue of mourners had at last departed and only those who had been invited to stay on remained.
Millicent held up her hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, as the governess of the girls as well as their cousin, they have asked me to thank you all for coming to pay respects to poor dear Aidan. We have a gift of mourning gloves which we hope you will accept. Of course nothing can fit everybody - that is, we are all different in hand sizes are we not, if you follow my meaning. But for those of you who are exceptionally big or small -1 refer to your hands, of course, not your build…” She giggled nervously,”…we shall order special pairs to be made. After all, Shakespeare’s father was a glover, was he not,” she added completely inconsequentially. Somebody laughed, which seemed to make Millicent more anxious than ever. “Now, more claret and cake will be served, except for those who are drinking ale and eating biscuits, that is. Oh dear me, I do hope I have made myself clear.”
“Very,” said Joe Jago, and bowed deeply. “A good speech, Madam.”
Millicent went scarlet, then white, and sat down hurriedly in a comer. Meanwhile, Mrs. Rayner and Miss Fenchurch began to move round amongst their guests.
“I am so glad you came, Mr. Rawlings,” said Jocasta, arriving before him. She turned her eyes on Joe Jago. “How do you do, Sir.”
He kissed her hand very gallantly. “Jago, Madam. I am here representing Sir John Fielding.”
She grew very pale. “Of course, I keep forgetting. The Public Office believes that killers were hired to do my poor father to death.”
