by Deryn Lake
Jocasta’s back was turned as the Apothecary entered the room and he saw by the heave of her shoulders that she was crying. Instantly, he went to her.
“Mrs. Rayner, please don’t distress yourself. I know that you have been through a very difficult time but it’s over now. You must put the past behind you.”
“Is it though?” she asked in a low sibilant voice. “Is it over? I wonder.”
She turned to face him, her face bleached ice white, her black clothes accentuating the thinness of her spare frame.
“Jocasta,” he said, throwing convention aside, “what is the matter? Terrible things have happened recently, I know. But what in particular has upset you so much?”
She collapsed into a chair, weeping bitterly, quite unable to speak, and it was at that fraught moment that Sir Gabriel Kent put his head round the door. He gave John an extremely startled look and inwardly the Apothecary groaned.
“My dear Madam,” said the older man, hurrying to Jocasta’s side. “You are clearly unwell. What may I fetch you?”
She gazed at him piteously but still could not utter.
“A brandy,” said John shortly. “That should help.”
“Of course, of course.” Sir Gabriel paused in the doorway. “So sorry to interrupt but your wife is asking for you, my boy.”
Jocasta found her voice. “I am being a nuisance. It is best that I go.” She got to her feet.
John put out a restraining arm. “Please don’t leave. If you can just give me ten minutes to sort things out, you and I can have a long chat.”
She gave him a look in which lay concealed a hidden message.
“I will speak with you another time,” she murmured. “I have moved back to my house in Mayfair. This is my address.” She passed him a folded piece of paper.
John put it in his pocket without looking at it. “Please, Jocasta. Wait until you have recovered your spirits.”
She shook her head. “No, I have called most inconveniently. I know you mentioned a wife, Mr. Rawlings, but somehow or other I had formed the impression that you and she lived apart. But now I find you in the very bosom of your family. For me to arrive without an appointment was both inexcusable and inconsiderate.”
“I might do the same to you one day,” he answered, trying to raise a smile.
Jocasta looked him straight in the eye. “That would be different. I live alone,” she said, then swept into the hall and out through the front door.
“Oh dear,” said Sir Gabriel.
“Oh dear indeed,” answered John.
He drew the paper from his pocket, determined to call on the widow shortly and find out what it was that she wanted to say to him. Then he stared at the message for a moment before thrusting it back into his pocket. For no address had been written there: simply the words, ‘There is a poisoner in our midst’.
Chapter Ten
John truly knew what it was to feel on the horns of a dilemma. All his training at the hands of London’s Principal Magistrate, Sir John Fielding, cried out for him to speed up the road after Jocasta Rayner, to persuade her back to his house, and there to comfort and placate her until she told him what she had meant by the stark message written on the piece of paper she had handed to him. All his instincts as a husband and a new father, were to leap up the stairs to the main bedroom and there to cuddle and kiss his wife and play with Miss Rose Rawlings, that interesting and attractive new addition to his household.
“Oh God!” he said aloud.
His father overheard him. “What did that piece of paper say?”
“See for yourself,” and John handed it to him.
Sir Gabriel’s golden eyes grew wide. “How very interesting. I wonder what she means.”
“She must have seen something at the wake. Something that only now that Ariadne has died does she recognise as a poisoning. Oh ‘zounds, but I need to speak to that woman.”
“Obviously. But this is not the moment, John. She has trailed her coat cleverly but I do not think this is the right time to follow it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If she had been putting on an act - I repeat the word if- she could not have done so more adroitly. She has you thoroughly intrigued and ready to do anything to find out what she meant by that cryptic note.”
“That’s true enough.”
“Supposing she were bluffing. Have you thought of that?”
John stared at Sir Gabriel aghast. “No, I haven’t. What do you mean? How could she be bluffing?”
“Because she might be the poisoner, hiding herself in the depths of this fog that she has conjured up. Surely, is it not a ruse of the guilty party to arouse suspicion about another? Oh my dear boy, leave Mrs. Rayner to her own devices. She will come to you, sure as fate.”
Much as the Apothecary would love to have denied every word, liking Jocasta the best of Aidan’s daughters, there was a ring of reality about Sir Gabriel’s words that stopped him in his tracks. If Montague Bussell were innocent… But he dismissed this thought. The case against the man was strong indeed. He was the principal suspect and must be treated as such.
“Damnation,” said John loudly and at that moment, in the manner of a truly silly piece of theatre, the front door pealed.
Samuel Swann stood there, large as life, his features mobile, prepared to look joyful or serious depending on the mood within the house. In his arms he carried a large parcel, its paper breaking to reveal what appeared to be the head of a wooden horse. On top of this were flowers, above this again, Samuel’s grin as he saw that both Sir Gabriel and John were jolly.
“Is Miss Rawlings in?” he asked.
“Do you have an appointment with her?” asked John seriously. “I’m her father and I’ll have no unwanted suitors calling I’ll have you know.” Then he laughed and embraced his old friend, who came into the hall smelling of the April evening and quite pink in the cheeks with the excitement of it all.
They had known one another forever, or at least that was how it seemed to the Apothecary. Starting as neighbours, both the boys’ mothers dying young, they had been thrown together and had become the firmest of companions from then on. The same age, they had both attended the Reverend Mr. Johnson’s school for twenty pupils, situated in a house on the edge of Kensington village. But after that they had gone their different ways, John as an apprentice to Richard Purefoy, Apothecary of Evans Row; Samuel Swann to Edward Hall, Goldsmith of West Cheap. Yet they had remained as close as was possible and now John clasped his friend to him with a great deal of emotion.
“Champagne,” said Sir Gabriel, appearing with a bottle and with Mrs. Alleyn who was smiling profoundly.
“I’ll go upstairs and check on my ladies,” said John. “Then, when they are prepared, you will be allowed to visit them.”
“Splendid,” answered Samuel, and followed Sir Gabriel into the library, his arms still bulging with parcels, his face a moon of delight.
“Dear Samuel,” said Emilia, drawing him down and kissing him.
She was sitting up in bed, having prepared her face and hair and looking as angelic as the day that John had first set eyes on her. The wooden horse was now almost totally visible through its wrapping paper but both she and the Apothecary expressed great surprise and pleasure when it was fully revealed and put on the floor at the end of Rose’s cradle. Then they both wept a little at the sight of their large friend leaning over and extending a finger, which the infant promptly grabbed and put in its mouth.
“She’s beautiful,” Samuel said earnestly.
Neither Emilia nor John made jocular remarks about his turn next, knowing that the Goldsmith’s most recent romance with Christabel Witherspoon, sister of the famous artist Julius, had come to an end. It seemed that for such a totally loveable fellow, he was totally unlucky in love. And John wondered if that were part of the trouble. If Samuel were too nice and too kind, and that the majority of young women wanted something a little more challenging. But he kept his own counse
l and decided to wait until such time as they were private together before he expressed an opinion - and only then if he were asked for it.
Rose began to make hungry noises and Dorcas appeared. At that the two men departed and made their way downstairs, only to find that Sir Gabriel and Maud were celebrating further before dinner.
“Do stay and dine, my boy,” John’s father invited.
“I’d love to, Sir.”
“Then why don’t you two go into the parlour. John is involved in one of Sir John Fielding’s affairs at the moment. I’m sure he would love to discuss it with you.”
The Apothecary was feeling too benign to argue but inwardly he groaned a little. Samuel adored taking part in enquiries that stemmed from the Public Office, considering himself rather good at interviewing witnesses - a fact which couldn’t be further from the truth - and John was utterly sure that with an investigation as involved as this, Samuel would not hesitate to offer his services.
Sure enough, the Goldsmith said, “Consider me in,” when John had finished recounting the whole convoluted tale.
“Of course we’ll have to get Sir John’s permission first.”
“Of course. But he’s always welcomed me in the past. I think he has quite come to rely on me.”
John controlled his features admirably, more than aware that the Magistrate was too kind to rebuff Samuel out of hand but sometimes found it hard to give him a job that was virtually foolproof.
“Indeed,” he said noncommittally. “Now, how are things with you?” the Apothecary continued, anxious to change the subject.
Samuel looked gloomy. “My betrothal to Christabel Witherspoon is at an end.”
“I didn’t realise it had even begun.”
“It had not yet been formally announced, that is true. But promises had been made privately. However, after they moved back to London from Islington, and as her brother’s reputation as a painter continued to grow, she suddenly found herself the toast of the town.” Samuel gave a deep sigh. “It went to her head, I fear. I suppose by comparison I looked too plodding and dull, too ordinary a sort of chap.” He emptied his glass in a gulp. “And I am, John. That is my trouble. I am a plain, honest citizen and boring into the bargain. No woman will have me. Think of all the beautiful girls I have known, all of whom have passed me by as soon as they have got to know me. But what am I to do? How can I change?”
He was so kind and so loveable and so distressed that John could have wept. The Apothecary leant forward in his chair so that his face was close to his friend’s.
“I don’t think you should change, Sam. You are a true delight just as you are. The fault lies with the women, believe me. They are too young to realise your merits. They crave nothing but excitement and glamour, little realising that that plays out soon enough. Besides, you are not boring. Look at the works of art you create with your hands. Your reputation as one of the finest goldsmiths in London grows daily.”
“But that does not fill the empty comers of my life.”
John’s heart bled for his friend. Mankind’s cruel enemy loneliness was obviously no stranger to him.
“I hate to give unsolicited advice…”
“But John, I need it.”
“Then, my dear Samuel, I would suggest that you look amongst women of your own age or, maybe, even a little older. A more mature female will appreciate your qualities far more than a flibbertigibbet.”
“But I would like to have a family.”
“Oh ‘zounds, Sam!” said John crossly. “I said mature, not ancient. Now behave yourself.”
His friend cheered up. “Tomorrow I shall go and see Sir John. An investigation is just what I need to help me get over Christabel.”
“Yes,” answered the Apothecary resignedly. “I’m sure it is, my dear.”
It was a journey of memory to be returning to Liquorpond Street in Holbourn, for that was where the enigmatical Dr. Florence Hensey, whose path had crossed with John’s on more than one occasion, had lived before the web of intrigue, of which the physician had been the centre, had finally enmeshed him. Remembering how they had first met in a post-chaise heading towards the mysterious Romney Marsh, the Apothecary smiled. He had always liked the man, regardless of everything that had transpired, and nothing could ever erase the genuine concern that the doctor had felt for the suffering of others.
Strangely, Mrs. Trewellan lived but three doors away from Dr. Hensey’s old home, and John could not help but glance over his shoulder as he knocked vigorously, half-expecting to see the physician come walking up the street.
An elderly servant answered the door. “Yes, Sir?”
“Is Mrs. Trewellan in? I do not have an appointment but am calling on behalf of Sir John Fielding of the Public Office, Bow Street,” said John, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
“I will see if she is at home, Sir.”
He shuffled off only to be replaced by Mrs. Trewellan herself, looking like an unmade black bed in her mourning clothes. “Yes?” she asked in her tiny voice.
“John Rawlings, Ma’am. I represent Sir John Fielding and would like to ask you a few questions regarding the recent tragic events.”
She flapped a hand in front of her face as if she were fanning herself. “I don’t see how I can help, but do come in.”
She was indeed oddly like Mrs. Bussell in appearance, other than for the teeth which, in Mrs. Trewellan, appeared to be of normal size.
“Now, how may I help you?” she asked, when they were seated in the parlour.
“I believe that at one time you were considering marriage with the late Aidan Fenchurch. May I ask why you did not proceed?”
Mrs. Trewellan looked slightly annoyed. “Surely that is my business.”
John put on his sympathetic-but-call-of-duty face. “It is, of course, Ma’am. But the fact is that Mr. Fenchurch is dead and so is his former mistress. Therefore we at the Public Office are bound to ask questions. Some of them may appear not to have any bearing on the matter in hand but, believe me, when they are all added together they form a picture.”
Mrs. Trewellan emitted a tiny sigh. “Oh very well. I decided against marriage for several reasons. Mr. Fenchurch and my son Sperling…”
For one side-splitting second John had thought she was going to say Spotty and had hardly known where to look.
“…did not see eye to eye. Further, I am partial to the feline species and Aidan could not abide my little pets. Finally, I did not care for the omnipresent Mrs. Bussell. Oh, she pretended great friendship towards me but I was not at ease with her.”
“May I ask why?”
Another wee sigh. “I did not trust her. I feared she might do me an injury.”
“But you remained friends with Mr. Fenchurch.”
“Yes. He was kind enough in his way. I did not wish to fall out with him.”
“But you no longer regarded him as a marriage partner?”
Mrs. Trewellan actually simpered. “You seem a very understanding young man.”
“Thank you. Tell me, what was your reaction when he was killed? Please speak frankly.”
“I thought Mrs. Bussell had done it.”
“How interesting. Why?”
“Because I did not believe for one second that her feelings for him had gone away. I thought she was still dangerously entranced with him.”
“So what did you think when Ariadne herself was poisoned?”
Mrs. Trewellan looked horrified. “Poisoned, do you say? I was told by Evalina, who called on me yesterday to give me the news, that she died of natural causes.”
John shook his head. “We do not think so.”
The childish voice quavered. “Then she got what she deserved. Whoever did it rid the world of a horrid, horrid woman.”
Unmade bed or no, Mrs. Trewellan certainly did not lack the courage to voice her convictions.
“Have you any idea who that someone might be?” John asked, accepting the cup of tea which his hostess had been pouri
ng for him.
“No. It could have been anyone. She was not well liked.”
John nodded. “Perhaps you could clear up a point that has been bothering me. When I first met Mrs. Rayner she refused to believe that her father had an enemy in the world, yet later she said she recalled Mrs. Bussell’s infatuation with him. Recently, another party told me that the whole family were aware of Ariadne’s pursuit. What, in your opinion, is the truth?”
Mrs. Trewellan sipped her tea. “I think Jocasta might well dissemble. She, more than any of the other girls, put her father on a pedestal. She might well act a part rather than let his memory be besmirched.”
Remembering the piece of paper that Mrs. Rayner had handed to him, John asked, “Are you saying that Jocasta would lie in order to protect someone she loved?”
Yet another little sigh. “Lie is such a strong word. Let me say that all the truth might not be revealed.”
“I understand,” said John. He put his cup down. “Mrs. Trewellan, do you think Montague Bussell murdered his wife?”
“Quite likely,” she answered. “He knew all about Aidan and Ariadne, even though pretending not to helped preserve his amour propre. I find with those small smelly men, one can never be quite sure when they are going to explode into ill-temper. And that is what I believe must have happened. He had suddenly had enough of both of them. So he arranged for hired killers to do away with Aidan, then poisoned Ariadne himself.”
“But surely that would mean he would have to have knowledge of such things. Does he know about poisons, do you think?”
“Couldn’t he just have obtained some from the killers?”
“But why not ask them to do it? There’s something wrong here,” said John, thinking aloud.
“Perhaps he wanted the satisfaction of killing his faithless spouse personally,” said a voice from the door. Sperling Trewellan had entered the room.
