by Deryn Lake
It was then that he thought of the leaping soul and wondered, briefly, if this was the journey that it made, so that those who had known each other before might have a momentary glimpse of recognition before the instant passed. Then Sir Gabriel came in, tonight very beautifully dressed as he was escorting Maud to the playhouse, this being her last evening in London before she returned to her home in Chelsea, and the mood was broken. Nursemaids appeared; the child was taken away; a footman came in, stoked the fire, then brought a tray of refreshment. John and Joe were left alone to talk.
“Sir John tells me that the peachers could find no link between Mrs. Bussell and the attack on Aidan. Is that right?”
“Absolutely, Sir. None of the rough boyos were employed, that’s for sure. None’s that’s known, that is. Also, Mrs. Bussell had no large sums of money about her: banks are reluctant to give information but the name Sir John Fielding carries great weight.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Where indeed? At the moment it seems impossible to tie the first murder in with her.”
The Apothecary slapped his fingers to his forehead. “And we are mad even to try to do so. Now that she is dead it is obvious that another hand was behind it all.”
“Yes,” said Joe. “Yes.” And he sat silently.
“What are you thinking?” asked John.
“I don’t know yet, Sir. But there might be a web here. Supposing, just supposing, mind, that Mrs. Bussell had her lover murdered, and then somebody else murdered her out of spite.”
“’Zounds! Are you serious?”
“It’s as good a theory as any other.”
“Then where does Montague fit in?”
“Whoever took her out, took him as well for good measure.”
John sipped his wine. “It makes a certain kind of terrible sense.”
“I think it’s the answer, Sir.” Joe puffed on his pipe and looked at the Apothecary through the swirls of blue smoke.
“So, let me think it through. Ariadne hires two assassins and kills Aidan. Someone, probably a member of his family, finds out and wreaks a Jacobean revenge.”
“I don’t know about the last bit, Sir,” said Joe earnestly, “but the rest sounds right to me.”
“Then it’s back to the family, every last one of ‘em.”
“Including the recently wed Lieutenant.”
“Certainly including him. By his own admittance he had few prospects until he married a pretty little heiress.”
“How has the dead man’s property been devolved?”
“I could be wrong but I think Evalina has the Bloomsbury Square house, Jocasta Foxfire Hall, which she intends to share with Millicent. Louisa I’m not sure about.”
“She won’t be left poor in any event.”
“Joe, the dashing Lieutenant called into my shop earlier today, before the death of poor wretched Bussell, and said that he was being accused of hiring assassins to do away with Aidan Fenchurch.”
Jago’s face temporarily vanished in wreaths of smoke. “Urn. Interesting.”
“Do you think he did it to draw suspicion away from himself?”
“It’s possible.”
“But even if he did kill Fenchurch, for whom his family had no liking, why should he kill the Bussells? What grudge could he possibly have had against them?”
“None that we know of. No, I think I’m right. The late Ariadne arranged for Aidan to be killed. The other two deaths were acts of revenge for that first crime.”
“But you yourself said that there was nothing tangible to associate her with Fenchurch’s murder. So perhaps there is just one single person behind it all.”
“There’s only one thing certain about the whole affair,” said Joe thoughtfully.
“And that is?”
“That it is going to be well nigh impossible to solve,” answered the clerk, and puffed ferociously upon his pipe.
Churches are open to all and sundry and, with this in the mind, the Apothecary had written to Serafina de Vignolles asking her, if her social calendar so permitted, to attend the funeral of Ariadne Bussell and remark anything of interest that should take place there. So he was more than pleased when the day after the sad event a letter came by special messenger. It read as follows.
‘My Dear Friend,
Even though the Deceased was A Person of Obnoxious Ilk, the Occasion of her Burial was Indeed Sad. The Two Hulking Sons, as full of Sentiment as they are Devoid of Wit, seemed Wrung to their Veritable Withers by the Loss of Two Parents in So Short a Space of Time and Howled like Hounds at the Gravemouth…’
Reading this, John Rawlings did not know whether to laugh or cry.
‘… and Drank Themselves to Surly Stupor at the Wake, Madam Boscawen was Present, as were Several of The Onslows. The Fenchurchs presented a Formidable Front, Grim Faced and Silent. Miss Evalina Fainted with a Shriek, calling Out “Father How Could You?” as Mrs. Bussell’s Coffin was Lowered. Other than for the Usual Muted Disputes which Always Occur at Interments, there was Nothing of Particular Interest to Report. However, it Did Appear to Me that the Grief of the Two Sons was So Acute as to be Almost Unreal. Was it A Charade? I asked Myself. Or are They too Stupid to Enact such a Thing? Good Hunting in Your Search for the Villain.
I Have the Honour to Remain, Sir, Your Loyal Friend,
S. de Vignolles.’
John put the letter down, then sat in silent thought. Serafina had responded so quickly that he doubted if any present at the funeral had as yet returned to London, with the possible exception of Lieutenant Mendoza, whose army duties would not allow him freedom to roam. Yet he had no idea where the Lieutenant and his pretty wife were housed permanently, then remembered that they were staying with her sister in Curzon Street.
On the previous evening Joe had made one of his famous lists, setting out whom both of them should visit. At the top of the Apothecary’s had been the name of Jocasta Rayner. So, John thought, a call to the new development of Mayfair would seem the most sensible course of action. He drew out his watch and saw that it was still very early. None the less he felt an enormous need to take action of some kind, even if it was only to find out that everyone remained out of town. Calling out to Irish Tom to bring round the coach, John went upstairs to say goodbye to his wife and daughter.
“You look worried,” said Emilia.
“It’s this damnable case of bludgeoning and poisoning. Joe thinks there are two different hands behind it.”
“The first murder triggering off the other two?”
“Precisely. Then there’s Jocasta’s sinister note. ‘There is a poisoner in our midst’.”
“Um,” said Emilia thoughtfully. “I don’t trust that.”
“Why?”
“Because why say it? She can’t name a member of her family - unless she is very spiteful - so what is she trying to achieve?” She did not stop for an answer. “She is deflecting suspicion from herself in my view. She’s up to no good, mark my words.”
“You are very acute, Madam, for a woman who has just given birth.”
“For a woman who has just grown very bored,” she replied. “John, today I am going to get up. I feel I have gazed too long on this bedroom. Rose is allowed downstairs so why shouldn’t I go too?”
“No reason,” he said, and kissed her. “If I told you to rest you would only grow irritable. I long ago realised that I am just clay in your hands. Act as you will, Wife.”
She laughed and threw a pillow at him. “Don’t worry, Husband. I have every intention of so doing. Good day to you.”
“Good day,” he answered, and went downstairs to his awaiting carriage.
He could have walked to Curzon Street, in fact would have enjoyed doing so, but time was of the essence as Nicholas had already gone ahead to open the shop. Therefore John arrived at his destination shortly before nine o’clock. In the event, Tom was forced to draw up in a side street, where the Apothecary disembarked and proceeded the rest of the short distance on
foot. So it was that as he was approaching Jocasta Rayner’s house, the front door opened and Lieutenant Mendoza stepped out without seeing him. John was just about to call a greeting when the Lieutenant ran towards a hackney coach that was just dropping off a lady passenger. Having gallantly helped her out, the military man said quite distinctly, “Liquorpond Road, Holbourn, if you please.”
Every hackle rose as John was seized with the sudden conviction that another twist in the strange tale of Aidan Fenchurch and his associates was about to reveal itself. Running as fast as he could, the Apothecary hastened back to where Tom was edging his way through the carts and chairs.
“A change of plan,” he called up to the Irishman. “To Liquorpond Road.”
“Same number as the other day, Sir?”
“I don’t know at the moment but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
And sure enough, just as they entered the end of the street they saw the Lieutenant’s conveyance draw up outside Mrs. Trewellan’s house and the young man run up the steps. John got out of the coach with a jump and hurried up the road, hoping to catch any conversation that might take place.
Mrs. Trewellan, still resembling a big black bed, came to the door in the wake of the servant who answered it. Flattened behind a pillar, the Apothecary peeped round just in time to see her smile rapturously.
The tiny little voice was full of joy as it said, “Oh, my darling.”
“I’ve missed you so much,” answered the Lieutenant, and with their arms wrapped tightly round each other, the couple went into the house and closed the door.
Chapter Twelve
“What the hell,” said John Rawlings crossly, “do I do now?”
“Well, you can’t call in on ‘em, that’s for sure,” Irish Tom answered cheerfully, sinking a great mouthful of ale. “Not without some mighty good excuse.”
They were sitting in the taproom of The Three Cups, master and servant in discussion in a most democratic manner of which Sir Gabriel Kent would have thoroughly disapproved.
John drank a swig almost as large as Tom’s, then shook his head and sighed. “The most interesting development since Jocasta’s note and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“How about a letter?” said the coachman. “Could you not forge something and say you were delivering it on behalf of someone? You’ve got to get in there, Sir. Why, even now they could be rolling in bed together merry as fleas on an old dog’s chin.”
“Even if they are,” the Apothecary answered gloomily, “I can’t walk into a lady’s boudoir uninvited. Dear God, the fellow must be mad, Tom. That little Louisa’s a pretty doll, and a rich one into the bargain. What the devil’s he playing at?”
“Perhaps he likes ‘em big,” said the Irishman with relish. “I mean to say, she’s been a pretty woman in her day, but that day is long past. As for her voice, sure t’would be enough to frighten the little people themselves. Hey, Sir, do you think they are the murderers? Carrying on and plotting the whole thing behind the scenes?”
“I don’t know what I think any more.”
“But they could be,” said Tom, warming to his theme. “She could secretly have hated Mr. Fenchurch, as you say the Lieutenant did. So the two fellows who attack him are him - the army man - and Spotty. She poisons the rest.”
“A good theory but unfortunately Mendoza was in the process of eloping when Aidan was killed.”
The Irishman looked downcast. “Oh well.” He cheered up. “Why couldn’t I visit and say I was presenting her with a bottle of perfume with your compliments?”
“I could do that myself but I don’t happen to have any perfume about me.”
“True enough, but I could race back to the shop and get some.”
John looked doubtful. “By the time you returned, the Lieutenant would probably have gone.”
Irish Tom spread his hands. “Then we’re finished, Sir. I’ve no more ideas.”
John looked thoughtful. “I suppose I could call and ask if she has details of Montague Bussell’s funeral.”
“But why should she?”
“No reason at all. But at least it’s an excuse. Come on, Tom, let’s do it. Down your ale and get me there before I lose heart.”
It was only a quick journey to Liquorpond Street but even in that short space of time the Apothecary questioned whether he was doing the right thing in going. Yet the puzzle was so intriguing he felt he would have a seizure if he did not solve it. For what could a handsome newly-married man with a gorgeous and rich young bride be doing making amorous advances to Mrs. Trewellan, who, when all was said, might well appeal to the likes of Aidan Fenchurch but certainly not to the younger generation. Uneasy with such thoughts, the Apothecary reached his hand up to pull the street doorbell, then withdrew it again, then finally gave a short purposeful tug before he could change his mind.
A maid appeared. “Yes, Sir?”
“Mrs. Trewellan, if you please. My card.” The Apothecary produced one and thrust it under the girl’s nose.
She read it with some difficulty. “I believe Madam is resting, Sir.”
John’s mind cut capers at the images the words conjured up. “Then may I wait? The matter is somewhat urgent.”
“Mr. Sperling is here, Sir. He’s home early from his business.”
The Apothecary assumed an expression of delighted surprise. “Oh, how excellent. He and I are very friendly.”
The girl looked as if she did not believe him but none the less ushered him into a small parlour where Sperling, his spots on fire, sat, looking decidedly unwell. John bowed beautifully.
“My dear Sir, what a pleasure to see you again. I trust I find you in good health.”
Sperling rolled a somewhat yellowish eye. “No, Sir, you do not. I was sent home by my employers because the sight of my skin offends them. See here, how foul it grows.”
And he pointed with a slightly shaky finger at one of the more hideous eruptions. John produced a pair of magnifying spectacles from an inner pocket and, putting them on, bent close to Sperling’s face.
“May I?” The young man nodded and the Apothecary examined in silence. “Morphew,” he said eventually.
“What?”
“You have a severe form of the skin complaint known as morphew. But surely you have been told that before.”
“I have consulted the family physician, yes, but he prescribed some blasted product that turned my face bright green. Mr. Rawlings, I told you t’other day of my financial position. I have to work to help this household. So I hold a wretched post in a shipping office, clerking. Anyway, my work fellows despise me and are only too happy to deride my wretched condition. My verdant face was a subject of so much hilarity that I was forced to stop using the ointment.”
“And you tried nothing else?”
“No, I gave up. Which I suppose was rather feeble of me.”
“Yes, I’m afraid it was. I am going to prescribe a special mixture of my own. It consists of an infusion of Scurvy-Grass, of which you must take several doses a day, and the juice of Sheep’s Rampion which you must apply externally, again several times a day. This is a powerful combination and should cure you within two months. It may leave a few scars but better that than weeping sores.”
Sperling looked slightly doubtful. “You are an apothecary, aren’t you?”
John felt sufficiently sorry for him not to become irritated. “Yes. Now, Sir, would you like to call into my shop later this morning and we can have the medicaments ready for you. It is in Shug Lane, Piccadilly.” And he handed the young man a card.
Sperling read it and looked a little shame-faced. “I’m sorry I sounded doubtful. It is just that I had it in my mind that you were some kind of Runner.”
John smiled. “I suppose I am in a way. I have worked with Sir John Fielding on several occasions. As you know, he is blind. Because of this he likes to have around him sighted people he can trust. I happen to be one of them and I consider it a great honour.”
“I
ndeed.” Sperling rang a bell. “Will you join me in a sherry? I allow myself this luxury when I am not working.”
“Just one,” John answered. “I unfortunately have a great deal to do today.”
Sperling nodded, gave the order to the maid, then smiled at the Apothecary rather sadly. “You called to see Mama?”
“Yes. I wondered if she had any information regarding the funeral of Montague Bussell.”
The young man managed to look doleful and excited simultaneously. “I say, what a business. Is it true that he died in Bow Street?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Apparently he wanted to make a statement of some kind but never got that far. Whoever had poisoned him had done so shortly before he arrived, and he started to cast and have laxes, then died.”
Sperling clapped his hand over his mouth and widened his eyes. “’Zounds, what a disaster.”
“It was indeed.”
“Do you know I almost felt sorry for those two brutes at their mother’s funeral. To lose two parents to the poisoner’s juice within a matter of days must make them not only sad but uneasy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because they could be next.”
The girl returned with a decanter and two glasses, then left the room again.
“That had never occurred to me,” said John.
“What?”
“That this might be a vendetta against the Bussell family. But if it were, where would that place the killing of Aidan Fenchurch?”
Sperling shook his head. “I don’t know. Could have been a street robbery all along.”
John groaned aloud. “What a terrible affair this is. As soon as one settles into a theory another one comes along to displace it.”
Sperling looked sympathetic. “It must be awful for you.”
The Apothecary decided to change the subject before too much was said. “Is your mother within? I need to have the briefest of words with her.”
