by Deryn Lake
“Why not start with your connection with the Fenchurch family. Were you and Louisa childhood sweethearts?”
“Hardly. My uncle brought me up with his children because my father died tragically at the age of nineteen. Anyway, uncle and Aidan were business rivals. We are Portuguese, by the way, though my father settled here when he was very young and I was born in this country. Be that as it may, rivalry brought about bad blood between the two families. Accusations were hurled about stealing customers, that sort of thing. Then my uncle started to lose money, rather suspiciously I thought.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The Lieutenant held out his glass for another brandy and John refilled it. “I could never prove it, of course, but I had the feeling that obstacles were deliberately put in his path.”
“I see,” said John, thinking that here was a possible motive for murder.
“Anyway, any hopes I had of following my uncle into the family business were firmly scotched. There was no business left to follow him in to! So I joined the army instead. Then, to pay the Fenchurchs back I started to court Louisa. I intended to seduce her and leave her; make them suffer a bit in return for all they had done to us. But you’ve seen the minx for yourself. The boot was on the other foot. She ran rings round me and I was hopelessly lost.”
The Apothecary burst out laughing. “I know the feeling.”
“It was she who decided to elope. Not the other way round.”
John chuckled.
“But the tale takes a nasty twist. Rumours are now being circulated, emanating from Evalina I imagine, that it was I who hired the assassins to kill the girls’ father. That I had planned some magnificent revenge which involved not only stealing the youngest daughter but murdering her parent, and that I put it into train, thereby inheriting Louisa’s share of the will into the bargain.”
“And did you?” asked John in a guileless voice.
“I resent that, Sir,” said Mendoza, standing up.
“Please don’t. It is my duty as an associate of Sir John Fielding to say that kind of thing. If he had been questioning you he would have asked the same.”
The Lieutenant sat down again. “The answer is no, quite definitely. It’s true that I did not like Aidan Fenchurch. But I most certainly would not have killed my sweetheart’s father. However, it seems that the number of people who believe that I would have done is growing. That is why I came to you for advice. Apparently you have the ear of the Magistrate. I wondered what I should do next.”
“Does Louisa believe you innocent?”
“She most certainly does. We were eloping at the very time he was killed. My mind was on other things and she knows it.” He laughed, somewhat harshly.
John looked thoughtful. “Tell me, did you know Mrs. Ariadne Bussell?”
“Aidan’s mistress? Yes, at one stage she was cultivating me. She told me that she collected people. I presume that I was to be added to the assortment.”
“What a terrible thought.”
“Isn’t it. I remember that she kissed me secretly, giggling the while. It was like being sucked by a codfish.”
“You know that she is dead?”
Lieutenant Mendoza looked astounded. “Is she? Good God! The last I saw of her was at the wake being taken away by those two men. Almost immediately afterwards I had to leave for London myself. But Louisa stayed behind to help her sisters.” His expression changed. “She’s a good girl despite her flighty appearance. A loyal heart who would do anything for me. But what of Bussell, how did she die?”
“I believe she was poisoned,” John answered slowly.
“This is deep,” said Mendoza, pinching his nostrils together and sighing out a breath. “Do you mean…”
“By a person unknown? Yes, I do. I cannot credit that it was an accident and nobody would choose such a ghastly suicide.”
“But who?”
“That is the question. At the moment nobody has an idea.”
“The husband,” said the Lieutenant. “He must have hated her for her infidelity and her public pursuit of Aidan.”
“So you know about that?”
“Everybody did. Well, perhaps not everyone. Evalina certainly. The only one who may have been in the dark was poor Millicent, who is so ingenuous that she tends to see the best in people.”
“How interesting. Thank you for telling me. I had rather thought Miss Millicent knew.”
“So what will happen next, regarding Montague, I mean?”
“He will be questioned by Sir John Fielding who, I presume, will try to get a confession out of him. If he doesn’t, it will be an almost impossible case to prove.”
“Why is that?”
“Because if the poisoning was done at the wake, the lethal substance could have been adminstered by anyone present. Unless someone actually witnessed Montague in the act of tipping something into his wife’s glass or onto her cake, then he will probably get away with it.”
“But that’s preposterous!” Mendoza said angrily.
“Preposterous but true. I’m afraid,” John answered, and had the sudden dread feeling that the circumstances he had predicted would shortly come true.
That afternoon a letter arrived from Bow Street. Reading it, the Apothecary was somewhat shocked to learn that Runners Raven and Ham had returned to London without Montague Bussell despite Sir John’s instructions sent by special messenger. It seemed that the recently widowed husband had thrown an apoplexy at the very suggestion and that the family physician had backed him up and ordered immediate bed-rest. The oafish sons had been forced to take over the funeral arrangements and the general running of the household, a fact which had gone down badly with both of them. As a result they were drinking too much and making a thorough nuisance of themselves in the village tavern, both by day and by night. It seemed that there was no alternative but for Joe Jago to travel to West Clandon and question Mr. Bussell in situ, as it were.
Sir John wants me to go too, John thought helplessly, but there is no way that he can persuade me to leave Emilia and Rose.
Then he realised that, as yet, nobody knew Rose had arrived, and so he spent the rest of that day writing letters to various friends and relations, especially Louis and Serafina, and his old and greatest friend, Samuel Swann the goldsmith. That done, he instructed Nicholas to lock up the shop and stepped out into the April evening.
It was fine, filled with a golden light only visible in spring. On the trees, green buds looked on the very point of bursting forth and there was a softness in the air that not even London’s most noxious smells could spoil. John filled his lungs and was just luxuriating in the splendour of the sunset when a sedan chair, held up by a slow-moving cart, drew to a halt alongside him. Without really meaning to, the Apothecary glanced towards it. A hand shot up to pull the little curtain over the small window - but not quite quickly enough. Hidden beneath his hat but visible for all that was the whiskery rodent face of the widower. Despite all statements to the contrary, Montague Bussell had returned to town.
John’s legs took control and started to pursue the chair, walking as fast as they could without drawing the attention of the chairmen to the fact that he was following them. Down The Hay Market they swept, then along Pall Mall, finally stopping outside a house in St. James’s Square where they set their passenger down. Glancing round furtively but fortunately not seeing John, who had flattened himself against a tree, Bussell paid them off then rang the bell and went within as soon as the door was answered. The Apothecary noted the number, then proceeded home, not wanting to delay his return any further and longing to cuddle both his wife and daughter, the two most beautiful females in the world, in his eyes anyway.
Emilia certainly looked rested and bright, the old sparkle back in her angel’s eyes, her skin returning to its former creamy texture. As for the baby, the Apothecary swore that she smiled at him, though her mother maintained that the child was flatulent.
“I don’t smile when I have wind,” Jo
hn protested.
“On the contrary, you glower.”
“There you are then. That proves the point.”
“Rubbish. John…”
“Yes?”
“Talk to me this evening. I am getting bored with my own company. Besides I am dying to hear the latest developments regarding Aidan Fenchurch. Tell me everything.”
So he sat beside her on the bed after he had dined with his father and mother-in-law, and told Emilia all that had taken place, right up to Lieutenant Mendoza’s visit to the shop and the sighting of the new principal suspect craftily visiting a house in St. James’s Square.
“How extraordinary it all is,” John’s wife remarked when he had finished.
“What?”
“Well, everything was so neat. It really seemed clear that Mrs. Bussell had ordered her former lover’s death, then all of a sudden she is killed as well and the blame shifts untidily to her husband.”
“Of course he could be innocent. It could have been anyone at the wake.”
“But why should one of them want to kill Aidan? He was the head of their household and they all seemed genuinely fond of him.”
“There were other people there as well.”
“Who for example?”
“Mrs. Trewellan and her spotty son.”
“They should be questioned, John. Suppose Spotty decided to remove his mother’s suitor and Aidan’s lady love just for good measure. My money is on him. Does he have a name, by the way?”
“No, just Spotty.”
She roared with laughter. “John Rawlings, you are incorrigible.”
“But I make good babies, don’t I?”
“You most certainly do.” And they both gazed fondly at the cradle in which Rose slumbered peacefully, occasionally giving her strange windy smile.
Shortly afterwards, Emilia grew tired and John went downstairs to compose an urgent letter to Sir John Fielding which he intended to take to Bow Street very early next morning. Now that Montague Bussell was back in town the ideal opportunity to question him had presented itself and the Apothecary was determined that the tat-like little man shouldn’t wriggle out of the net yet again.
He woke early and left the house shortly afterwards, heading for Bow Street, where he dropped off his letter. After that John made his way to Shug Lane and arrived just as Nicholas got there to open the shop. He turned to look at his apprentice.
“Well, my friend, your days of doing this are very nearly over. Next year I shall release you from your indentures. You will be free to open your own premises.”
Nicholas shook his head. “I can’t quite envisage that, Mr. Rawlings. But I have hopes.” And he winked a russet eye.
“Of what?”
“Of you opening a shop in Kensington and putting me in charge.”
John laughed. “Well, thank you for telling me. It’s nice to know that others have made plans on my behalf. But I suppose that now I have a dependant I should be thinking of expanding my business. I’ll consider it, Nick.”
“Considering will be fine for now,” the Muscovite answered cheerily, and went about his work whistling.
A reply to John’s letter arrived by midday, though, somewhat to his surprise, it said little other than to request his company at Bow Street on his way home that evening. So he was quite unprepared for the flowers, for the beautiful rattle of silver and coral, for the bottles of champagne that the Blind Beak and his family had waiting for him in their salon on the first floor.
“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Fielding, kissing the Apothecary on both cheeks. “What wonderful news. And you say she is to be called Rose. A delightful name if ever there was one.”
“To Miss Rose Rawlings,” said the Magistrate, moving deftly amongst them with a tray of champagne glasses, the contents of which he spilled very little.
Everyone took a glass. “Rose Rawlings,” they chorused.
“And her delightful mother,” Elizabeth added. “When may I call on her?”
“Any day,” John answered. “She is starting to get bored and would greatly appreciate a visit.”
“Then I shall make it tomorrow.”
“May I go too?” Mary Ann enquired.
“Provided you behave yourself,” her uncle, the Magistrate, answered automatically.
The girl was now sixteen and utterly beautiful, all her early potential having been realised. She was the sort of young woman who could not walk down the street without every head turning, without all who passed her, both male and female, staring after her. At the theatre, at the shops, in fact wherever she went, she was constantly surrounded by gallants declaring their love for her. Poems were dedicated to her, songs were written about her, she was the toast of London and had she been a member of the aristocracy would have secured one of the finest matches in the kingdom by now. And this, John felt certain, is what the girl was aiming at: a marriage that would give her all the privilege and position she desired. For this reason and this reason alone, he was sure, she kept herself to herself, scorning all suitors, waiting for that golden moment when the heir to a dukedom would lower himself to court the adopted daughter of the Principal Magistrate and she would graciously accept him. Meanwhile, she would continue to play cruel games of rejection with lesser mortals, bestowing smiles and occasional kisses but nothing further.
Feeling John look at her, Mary Ann gave him a dazzling glance. “So you’re a family man now, Mr. Rawlings.”
“And growing middle-aged, alas.”
“I think thirty is an interesting age, Sir.”
“Let us hope you continue to think so when you get there.”
“That time is a long way off,” Mary Ann answered serenely.
“Ladies,” boomed Sir John, “let me refill your glasses and finish this bottle. For we must not keep Mr. Rawlings from his duties. But before he goes I would like a word with him in private. If that is acceptable to you, my friend?”
“Provided I am not home late, it is, Sir.”
“How well trained you are,” said Mary Ann, but John ignored her.
They drained their glasses and the two women, after congratulating the Apothecary all over again, left the room.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” said Sir John. “Runners Raven and Ham went to the address in St. James’s Square this morning but found nobody at home. However, enquiries reveal that the house belongs to a Mr. Tobias White who, so it seems, went to school with Montague Bussell.”
“Do you think he intends to hide out there?”
“Probably. I imagine he feels the country is not safe, that the Runners will go back for him.”
“But he has to attend his wife’s funeral. Where and when is that to be held?”
“I have no idea. West Clandon, I imagine.”
“If those two louts are in charge they will do the thing that gives them least trouble.”
“Then West Clandon it is. Mr. Rawlings…” Sir John lowered his voice.
“Yes, Sir?”
“You are sure that the Shadow was poisoned?”
“As sure as I can be without an autopsy, yes.”
“And what do you think was used?”
“Not one of the Wolfsbanes. They make the tongue and lips swell. No, my guess - based on the violence of the symptoms - would be Water Hemlock. Easy to administer - it looks like parsley - it could be added to food or, chopped fine, put into a drink. I think it was given to Mrs. Bussell at the wake by a person unknown.”
“The husband?”
John made a slight face. “Not necessarily. Remember, all the family were there, to say nothing of Mrs. Trewellan and Spotty.”
“Who?” said the Blind Beak.
The Apothecary turned a laugh into a cough. “Her son. None of them liked Ariadne if you recall.”
And he repeated all that Lieutenant Mendoza had said, including the rumours that were being spread about the Lieutenant himself.
The Magistrate sat silently, then said, “Mr. Rawlings, may I ask a favou
r? In time that you would not be devoting to your wife and child would you go and see Mrs. Trewellan for me? I would not like it thought that we blamed Montague Bussell without enquiring further.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, Sir. I saw her at the funeral and thought her quite intriguing.”
“Why?”
“Because she was terribly similar to Ariadne in type; large and untidy and not particularly attractive.”
“The sort of woman poor Fenchurch went for, it would seem.”
“Yes.” John paused, then said, “I think you’re right to question others, Sir.”
“But you would agree that everything points to Bussell?”
“Yes, his being guilty makes total sense. He would have known all along that his wife was unfaithful but waited his moment to get rid of them, wife and lover, both in such very different ways. None the less, you are doing the right thing by asking further afield.”
“Can you see Mrs. Trewellan tomorrow?”
“Of course I can.”
“I can only express my gratitude, my friend.”
“And what of Mr. Bussell? How will you find him?”
“I’ll leave that to Jago and the Runners,” said the Blind Beak, and finished his glass of champagne with a certain satisfaction.
The minute he left Bow Street, hailing a chair so that he would not be late home, John had the strangest feeling that a weird chain of events had clicked into motion and that however hard he might try to escape them, he was going to get caught in the web. Yet when he stepped into his house all seemed quiet enough, other than for the laughter of Sir Gabriel and Maud Alleyn, surely the happiest pair of grandparents in the kingdom.
“I’m back,” he called, and his adoptive father stepped into the hall to greet him.
“You have a visitor, my dear.”
John raised his eyebrows. “Who?”
“A Mrs. Rayner. She said you knew her. I have shown her into the small parlour.” Sir Gabriel smiled. “She seemed surprised to see me. I think she was under the impression that you lived alone.”
“I doubt that. However, I was by myself when she called previously. She’s Aidan Fenchurch’s daughter,” he added by way of explanation, for his father still wore a slightly whimsical expression of amusement.
