by Deryn Lake
“There is much that would indicate so,” Joe answered, adding swiftly, “Of course, we have no evidence as to who could be behind such a terrible act.”
“It could only be a business rival,” Jocasta stated firmly.
“Dare I ask,” John said quietly, “if Mr. Fenchurch’s affections were ever engaged elsewhere after your mother’s death?”
She gave him a level look. “He courted a Mrs. Trewellan for a while, but she turned him down I believe. Papa and her son did not see eye to eye.”
“And that was all? There were no further alliances?”
Jocasta looked suddenly fraught. “Why do you ask? Do you believe a woman could be behind this terrible business?”
“It is possible,” John answered diffidently.
“But who? Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I know I shouldn’t gossip,” she said, taking a glass of claret from a passing tray, “but I always thought that that obnoxious Mrs. Bussell gave Father the eye.”
“Really?” said John, noticing that Joe had most discreetly removed himself so that she and the Apothecary could be absolutely private.
“Yes, but you wouldn’t know her, of course. She became a friend of the family shortly after my mother died and was always hurling herself at him, like a great marmalade cannonball.”
The description was so accurate that John’s crooked grin appeared briefly, then vanished. For this was the moment of decision. The most intelligent and well-disposed member of the family was telling him her observations. To dissemble with her would be a disservice indeed.
“Mrs. Rayner, do you remember me telling you that your father came into my shop in Shug Lane and told me he thought me an honest citizen?”
“Of course I do.”
“On that occasion he was being pursued by Mrs. Bussell and actually asked me to conceal his presence. I did so, hiding him in my compounding room at the back. Please don’t be shocked because a man is only a man when all is said and done…”
Why, he thought, had she suddenly gone rigid? What was it that made her momentarily appear elsewhere?
Jocasta collected herself. “Go on.”
“He admitted to me that he had briefly had an affair with her, when he was lonely and bereft, missing your mother desperately. He also told me that he ended the relationship, when Mrs. Trewellan came on the scene. It was then that Mrs. Bussell took to following him about, full of hatred and spite, making his life a misery.”
John hesitated, not wanting to make further trouble, but Jocasta was there before him. “Do you mean that she could be responsible…?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody does. But it is a path of enquiry that Sir John Fielding is most anxious to pursue.”
“What is John Fielding pursuing?” asked Millicent in her odd little voice, having left her comer and silently joined them.
“Nothing, dearest.”
“Did I hear Mrs. Bussell’s name? Such a jolly woman, is she not? Always laughing and joking and so very clever with her brushes. Of course, I paint a little but nothing in her field of endeavour.”
John looked round the room. “She is not here I see.”
“Oh you know her!” said Millicent, clapping her hands. “Is she not a wit?”
The agony of answering such a question was spared for it was at this moment that Evalina, having no doubt decided that people were relaxing too much, let out a spectacular howl and swooned, knocking a tray of wine from a passing servant’s hand. There was general uproar as glasses shattered, showering to the floor in tinkling pieces, and a deaf old gentleman yelped as his hand was cut and gouted blood. John and Joe exchanged a glance, then acted as professionally as they possibly could. The clerk administered salts and attempted to heave the fainting woman into a chair, no mean feat, while the Apothecary bound the old man’s wound with his handkerchief.
Millicent and Jocasta appeared, looking anxious.
“Oh Evalina,” her sister said impatiently. “How I wish that you would get a grip on yourself. Do the words respect for our visitors mean nothing to you?”
“There, there, Evie,” fluttered the cousin, patting Evalina’s large white hands. “Come on, dear. It’s the strain, you know,” she said to the group who had gathered round, staring at the prostrate form with a certain degree of malicious enjoyment. “She’s taken her father’s death very hard, haven’t you, pet?”
“We all have,” snapped Jocasta.
“Unfeeling, unfeeling,” moaned Evalina, then rolled her eyes up once more.
“I wouldn’t advise taking her to bed,” said the Apothecary very loudly. He turned to a hovering footman. “Could you get me some ice and water in a pail. That should do the trick.”
One of Evalina’s lids twitched slightly.
“Yes, in severe cases of the swoon my old master always held the patient’s head in a bucket of freezing water. Failing that, he threw it over them. Rough treatment admittedly, but most effective.”
“Drag her to one side of the room. I do not want the Turkey rug ruined,” said Jocasta, clearly delighted by the whole idea.
Evalina groaned and sat up, clutching her brow. “Oh the heat, it is too much for a body to bear.”
“Why not take a turn in the garden?” suggested Millicent kindly. “I’ll go with you.”
“Yes,” said Evalina, clambering to her feet and leaning heavily on her cousin, who buckled under the strain. “I must have air.”
The guests politely drew apart to make way for her and she was in the process of performing an extremely elaborate and wildly theatrical exit when from downstairs came a scream that far outshone anything Evalina could do. Indeed this scream held a note of genuine terror and despair and was so heart-rending that even the murmured conversation was hushed. Running feet could be heard on the stairs and then the door to the drawing room was flung open. A small girl with a mop of tossing red hair topped by a cheeky hat, stood in the entrance. Her terrified gaze swept round the company and finally came to rest on Jocasta.
“The coffin,” she said breathlessly. “Whose is it?”
“Father’s,” Mrs. Rayner answered briefly.
“Oh no, oh no,” the little thing gasped and reeled back into the arms of a dashing young soldier, all red coat and jet black curls and not a white wig in sight, who was coming into the room behind her.
Everybody stared and there was a moment of even more intense quiet, then Jocasta spoke once more. “Lieutenant Mendoza, I presume,” she said icily.
“At your service, Ma’am,” the young man responded, and clicked his heels and bowed with aplomb despite the fact that he was the only thing preventing a fainting girl from falling to the floor.
Everything considered, it had been a most interesting night, John thought as he finally entered the quiet of his own home and with a sigh of relief went into the library to sit down. To see the hysterical Evalina behaving just as badly when she was up and about as when she was bed-ridden had been quite a revelation, but to meet the missing Louisa in such circumstances had been even more fascinating. Though nobody had uttered a single word of explanation, it seemed apparent that the girl had either eloped with the dashing Lieutenant Mendoza or had been on the point of doing so. Whatever, there was yet another skeleton in the Fenchurch family cupboard that needed investigating.
And where, the Apothecary wondered, were the biggest skeletons of all: the Bussells, husband and wife? If they had not gone to their Surrey retreat, they were clearly hiding out somewhere else. But why? Was their absence a coincidence or had they deliberately left London to avoid Ariadne being questioned by Sir John Fielding? This brought him back to the question that puzzled him most of all. Did Montague Bussell know that his wife had indulged in an adulterous affair with the late Aidan Fenchurch? And, if so, was he aware of her subsequent obsessive shadowing of the dead man? Could it even be that Montague loved that most unlovable of creatures and was gamely trying to protect her from the processes of the law?
“Strange,” said John aloud, and picked up the newspaper. But his mind was roving, refusing to concentrate on the printed words before him. He closed his eyes, thinking that he might doze before supper, for it was too late to dine, so much time having been spent attending to the fainting women of the Fenchurch household. Millicent had been very competent throughout, he thought. She had removed Evalina, who had started to berate Louisa, shouting the word ‘slyboots’ over and over again, before she could scandalise the few remaining guests, hovering in the hope of hearing further gossip. Then she had returned and in her funny little way organised those family members who were not weeping or yelling into having a meal. They all owed her a lot, John considered. And he wondered whether she had secretly loved Aidan; a tradition for poor plain female relatives taken into the household out of pity, particularly if the head of the family were a man of powerful personality.
Considering deeply as he was, the Apothecary was abruptly dragged back to reality by the sound of Irish Tom’s voice in the hall.
“I know he’s reading but I’ve a letter from Mrs. Rawlings that he will want to see.”
The Apothecary got up and put his head round the library door. “I certainly will. Can you bring it in, Tom.”
“At once, Sir.”
“And how is she?”
“Round as a rosebud and just as blooming.”
“What a nice description.”
“But she won’t be coming home for a few days yet. Mrs. Alleyn has arrived and begs a while yet in the country before they both return to London for the birth.”
“Oh dear, I hope she doesn’t leave it too long. I was planning on going to Surrey and taking Emilia with me.”
The coachman frowned. “I don’t know about all this travelling, Sir. I think when Mrs. Rawlings gets home she ought to stay put until that child arrives.”
This was utterly beyond the bounds of polite conversation between employer and servant but the hulking Irish coachman, who had been given to John as part of his wedding present and who had shared several adventures with him, meant far more than an ordinary hired hand and was therefore accorded all the privileges of someone deeply trusted.
The Apothecary nodded. “You’re right, of course.”
“I take it the visit out of town might be connected with the Public Office.”
“You take it correctly.”
“Then why not go now, Sir? Before Mrs. Rawlings returns. In that way everybody will be satisfied and no harm done.”
John stroked his chin, an old habit when thinking. “You’re right as usual. There’s only one snag. I want to visit the Comte and Comtesse de Vignolles while I’m in Surrey but I’m completely unsure of their present whereabouts. I mean are they in town or country?”
“Should I go round to Hanover Square and make enquiries? I fancy a night in London to be honest with you and would like a good excuse.”
The Apothecary looked at the clock. “It is getting rather late but let me pen a swift note to the Comtesse which you can deliver if she is home. If not, I will write to her tomorrow, then follow up with a visit.”
“We mustn’t be away too long though, Sir. I reckon Mrs. Rawlings will be heading back very shortly now. I feel in my bones that that baby is anxious to enter the world.”
He left the room and John crossed to the writing desk, then paused a moment before he picked up his pen. Irish Tom’s words echoed in his head and he felt a sudden and exhilarating surge of excitement. His son or daughter was anxious to come into life, to know him and his friends, to be part of their circle and communicate with them as soon as he or she could. Swift tears came and he wept silently at the immense thought of the person, so very nearly born, who was coming to be part of all their futures and to take part in the great adventure that they were currently living.
Chapter Six
Nestling most improbably in the green Surrey countryside was a truly delightful Italian villa, Palladian in design, and which, though not large or pretentious, possessed its own small park, a lake like gleaming glass, formal gardens and meadowland, and an imposing, though short, drive. Fashionable to a degree, it could only belong to his friends the de Vignolles, John thought as Irish Tom clipped stylishly through the gates and made his way to the half-moon carriage sweep which lay directly below the two flights of steps leading to the front door. The Apothecary put his head out of the window to get a better look at the pretty little palace before he disembarked.
Though he had known the de Vignolles for many years, indeed since that time when he had stumbled across a body lying in the Dark Walk at Vaux Hall Pleasure Gardens, when he had also first met the Blind Beak - an unforgettable experience - their country home, Scottlea Park, was utterly new to John. But then, he considered, it has only been completed less than ten months ago and despite several invitations to inspect the new premises, the dates had not been convenient for him. But now he was here, uninvited, hoping that they would ask him to stay, hoping that from this base he could find out not only more about Mrs. Bussell but possibly the scandal surrounding Louisa and Lieutenant Mendoza. Joe, meanwhile, or so he had told John before they had parted company on the previous evening, was off to call on Mrs. Trewellan, who lived at a rather less fashionable address than her late suitor, namely in Liquorpond Street, Holbom, not so smart yet only a short walk from Bloomsbury Square down Theobalds Row and The Kings Way.
Irish Tom had returned from his visit to Hanover Square with the news that the Comte and Comtesse had left London for their country seat, and the Apothecary had made up his mind there and then that he must call on them on the following day, before Emilia came back to await the birth of her child. So early the next morning, after he had seen Nicholas leave to open the shop, he had written to Emilia telling her of his plan and asking her to join him at Nassau Street in four days time. Then he had set off, bag packed, hoping that he would be invited to stay in Surrey.
But there could be no doubt about that. The front door was flung open even as he was getting out of the coach and two small children, followed by their mother, came rushing down the steps to greet him.
“John,” said Serafina, “what a wonderful surprise. Have you come for several days? I do hope so.”
The Apothecary shot Irish Tom a brief grin. “Bring my bag into the house, would you.”
“Yes, Sorrh,” the coachman answered, leaping down from the box.
Italia, Serafina’s daughter, stretched up to her full height and pulled the Apothecary down to her level so that she could kiss him on the cheek, but the boy suddenly lost courage and hung back, clutching his mother’s hand, younger and shyer than his sister.
John bent down to him. “Well, little fellow, do I get a kiss as well?”
He was very solemn but very endearing, approaching cautiously, giving the Apothecary the cool dry kiss of childhood. Over the boy’s head, Serafina looked at John and smiled.
She was as stunning as ever, he thought, her tall, fine figure unaffected by childbearing, her unusual looks enhanced by maturity. Her hair swept up in the latest fashion still kept its rich hue, as yet unaffected by grey. But it was her mouth he had always adored, with its curving lips and slow spectacular smile. When she had been the Masked Lady, the most spoken-of gambler in town, hiding her features behind her customary covering, it had been her mouth he had fallen in love with. That and her husky voice. Now, when she spoke, he remembered those times with fondness, recalling the warmth that he had felt whenever he had been in her presence.
“John, my dear, this is such an unexpected pleasure. But where is Emilia? Surely you haven’t left her at a time like this.”
“She is in Kensington with my father and her mother. She will be back in four days time and after that I shall not leave her side until the baby is born. So now I am here for a few days holiday, if that is convenient to you.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You are sure there is no business involved? No little errand that you are running for Sir John Fieldin
g?”
He smiled crookedly. “Well, there might be.”
“I thought as much. Now, my dear, come in. Louis is out riding but will be back to dine. So when you have refreshed yourself we shall walk in the grounds a little. I know the children will want to show you their own small garden. Your godson, Jacques, is particularly keen on planting things and caring for them.”
“Jacques? Is that what you call him?”
Serafina laughed and slipped her arm through the Apothecary’s, pressing close to his side and making him feel immensely comfortable and at home.
“As you delivered the child into the world, we named him John, after you. But what with that and Sir John into the bargain, it all grew too confusing. So we called him Jack, which Louis insisted became Jacques. So there’s the story of your godson’s name.”
The little boy, who still held his mother’s hand while Italia, John’s other godchild, ran on ahead, looked up and spoke to Serafina in French.
“We have taught them both languages,” she said, smiling again. “Thank God that terrible war that has had the whole of Europe in uproar for the last seven years is over. So now travelling abroad will resume once more. Then to speak more than one language will be useful.”
“It is always useful,” John answered. “But I agree with you. I think visiting the Continent will become the height of fashion. I shall certainly go. I feel quite starved of travel.”
The Comtesse’s mouth curved up. “But you will be a family man, John. How will you manage? Will you take them all?”
He frowned. “Perhaps. I don’t know. I must confess that I hadn’t really thought about that.”
“How typical of a man. Well, you’ll have to start thinking, John. There are going to be three of you from now on.”
“Actually, I look forward to it. Rawlings and Son, Apothecaries.”
“And what if it is a girl?”
“There are no women apothecaries in England but that doesn’t prevent me teaching her all I know.”
