by Deryn Lake
The young man pulled a face. “She has a visitor at present. I don’t know how long they will be.”
So he knew that Mendoza was in the house, John thought. But whatever excuse could the amorous woman have made?
“A little early for a call,” he ventured.
“But you came now,” Sperling replied pleasantly.
God’s wounds, thought the Apothecary, wondering where to turn next. But his dilemma was solved for him by a further clank of the doorbell.
“Another early caller,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Sperling and burst into violent laughter which seemed to the Apothecary to be quite inappropriate.
The maid appeared. “Mrs. Mendoza, Sir.”
John nearly fell clean out of his chair. So here was a can of worms. It would appear that the beautiful Louisa had discovered her husband’s infidelity and was on his trail. He shot a glance at Sperling who had gone very white beneath his pimples.
Seized by the horrid idea that the young man was going to send her away again, the Apothecary decided to intervene.
“Ah, dear Louisa,” he said, shooting to his feet. “Such a delightful girl. It will be a pleasure to have a glass of sherry with her.”
Sperling looked stricken. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice. “Mary, show her in.”
A second later there was a flouncing of skirts in the doorway and there stood the little beauty, radiant in deep blue and white, her red hair unpowdered and a mass of flying curls, a saucy concoction of feathers atop the lot.
“Charming,” said John, bowing and kissing her hand. “Mrs. Mendoza, we meet again.”
She looked blank, then recognition came. “Weren’t you at Father’s funeral?”
“Indeed I was, Madam. I am investigating his death on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, and have become quite friendly with your family in the meantime. I am apothecary by trade and was able to treat your sisters for shock and depression.”
“How kind of you,” Louisa said absently. She turned to her host. “Sperling, is my husband here? He flew out of the house in a veritable whirlwind but one of the servants thought he heard him direct a hackney to Liquorpond Street.”
Sperling gulped. “I think he must have been mistaken. The Lieutenant’s not here.”
Louisa frowned. “Oh, how strange. Well then. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Have a sherry,” said John, quite overstepping the bounds of polite behaviour in his desperation to keep her there.
Both she and Sperling looked utterly astonished but at least he had the good grace to mutter, “Yes, please do.”
John made much of drawing his watch from his pocket and staring at it.
“I wonder how much longer Mrs. Trewellan’s visitor will be,” he said loudly. “I really cannot leave my apprentice alone in the shop for another half hour.”
Louisa, who had taken both a seat and a glass, looked startled. “Your mother has a caller?” she asked Sperling.
“Er, yes. But he… she… shouldn’t be much longer. Hark…” he announced theatrically, “…I think I hear them going now.”
And there was indeed the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Ha, ha,” said John, looking quite insane as he once more shot to his feet and grabbed his hat. “I must be off. Indeed I must. Thank you, thank you, my friend, Madam, it has been a pleasure.”
And he flew through the door and into the hallway, startling the maid who was just showing the visitor out.
“I must leave,” the Apothecary told the terrified girl. “A matter of the uttermost urgency.”
And he grabbed the inner knob and hurled himself into the street.
The Lieutenant was already several strides ahead of him and John took to his heels in order to catch him up. At the sound of pounding feet, Mendoza whirled round.
“Mr. Rawlings!” he exclaimed in utter astonishment. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might well ask the same of you,” the Apothecary replied grimly.
A look of intense fury crossed the military man’s handsome Latin features. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I find it odd you should be whiling away an hour or two with a mature widowed lady while your pretty young wife is forced to come looking for you.”
“I don’t like your inference, Sir.”
“You must draw from it what you will.”
Lieutenant Mendoza appeared to explode with wrath. His face went red, his eyes bulged, a bead of sweat burst onto his forehead. “How dare you accuse me? You know nothing of the matter whatsoever. You should keep your nose out of other people’s affairs, you interfering little prick.”
“I do not think it is your place to insult me,” said John haughtity
“Place be damned,” shouted the Lieutenant, and crashed a hard-knuckled fist onto the Apothecary’s chin, swearing violently as he did so.
“Oh dear Lord,” groaned John with an air of resignation, as he slowly slithered to the ground, saw a wonderful flurry of stars, and then lost consciousness.
Chapter Thirteen
He awoke to find that he had been propped up against some railings and that Sperling and Louisa, together with Samuel Swann of all unlikely people, were administering to him in a somewhat ineffectual manner. With a groan of pain, the Apothecary reached into his pocket, found his bottle of salts, took an extremely hearty sniff and thus revived himself.
“My dear friend,” said Samuel loudly, clapping John on the shoulder and making him wince. “What happened to you? Were you set upon by footpads?”
The Apothecary gingerly fingered his chin. “No. I was crunched on the jaw by one extremely angry young man.”
“The blackguard. Who is he? I’ll knock his damnable block off.”
John was just about to open his mouth to say ‘Mendoza’ when Louisa’s charming little face came into his line of vision and he thought better of it. However Sperling, looking agitated beyond belief, caught the Apothecary’s eye then rapidly glanced away again as he guessed the truth.
Samuel was snorting like an angry horse. “It’s too bad, so it is. Hare and hounds, but a man can no longer safely walk the streets of his home city without fear of attack. We need more Runners, and that’s a fact.”
John grimaced as he started to heave himself to his feet. “Stop sounding so middle-aged and give me a hand up, will you. What are you doing here anyway?”
The Goldsmith looked mysterious, then winked slowly. “Private business,” he said.
If it hadn’t been so painful John would have laughed. It was crystal clear that Samuel had made good his plan to call on the Blind Beak and offer his services, and that Sir John had found him something relatively unimportant to do.
Sperling spoke. “You’d best come back into the house, Mr. Rawlings. I’m sure Mama will be ready to receive you by now.”
“Yes, I’m sure she will,” John answered with meaning. “Anyway, thank you all the same but my coachman should be somewhere near by and I really must get back to my shop. I will be perfectly all right, particularly if Mr. Swann would care to accompany me.”
Groggy though he was, the Apothecary managed to convey a note of mystery into the last few words which set Samuel sniffing the air like a hound catching a scent, an endearing characteristic of his which never failed to amuse John.
“I passed your coach on the way but the driver wasn’t there,” he said earnestly, then looked contrite as if he had betrayed a secret.
“He’ll be close by,” John assured him. With a heave the Apothecary managed to get on his feet.
Louisa looked anxious. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Rawlings?”
“Perfectly.” But for all that he was glad of Samuel’s strong arm as they made their farewells and walked slowly back to the deserted coach. As they approached, Irish Tom came panting up.
“I saw the affray and gave the villain chase, Sir. He wouldn’t stop and fight me like a man but for all that I gave him a goo
d trounce over the arse with me whip. Foreign devil.”
John smiled bleakly. “Thanks, Tom.”
“’Twas nothing, Sir. There’s nothing I like better than a good mill and I’d have had one if the coward hadn’t run like the hound of hell was in hot pursuit of him.”
“I think it was more likely his wife,” said John.
Tom looked very wise and nodded several times. “Ah now, that would explain it, so it would.”
“What on earth has been going on?” asked Samuel, as the coach made its way through the crowded streets towards Shug Lane.
“What hasn’t,” answered John, and caught his friend up with all the latest developments as the journey proceeded.
The Goldsmith looked aghast. “You mean to say that the man who hit you is having an affair of the heart with that full-blown friend of the late Mr. Fenchurch?”
“How colourfully put. But yes, is the answer. That is unless they have some other sort of connection.” He looked thoughtful.
“What could that be, though?”
“I have no idea. But as this case has more strands than any I have ever come across before, nothing at all would surprise me.”
Nicholas, pale but determined, had managed to cope with a rush of custom, all entering the shop together on the way home from a rout, while dealing with his personal anxiety as to the whereabouts of his Master, who appeared to have vanished without trace. And when John had finally come staggering out of his coach and made his way straight to the compounding room, looking far from well, he had risen to the occasion even more admirably. Without instruction a potion had been mixed, a cooling bandage soaked in lavender water, and tea had been prepared and poured. Gratefully accepting the Muscovite’s ministrations, John had thought to himself that here was a young man more than ready to take over a shop of his own.
“Well,” said Samuel, clearly thrilled to be in the thick of it, “what would you like me to do?”
“Did Sir John give you any particular instructions?”
“Merely to assist you. He told me to tell you that Jago is visiting Miss Evalina and Miss Millicent today and will confer with you later on. So, that message conveyed, I am yours to command.” He laughed merrily.
“Perhaps you could start by taking a letter to Bow Street. I must inform Sir John of this morning’s events.”
“Of course I will. Tell me, is this fellow Mendoza a bit of a rum cove?”
“He pretends to be very honest; confided that it was his original intention to ruin Louisa until he lost his heart to her.”
“I see.”
“But this latest turn of events puzzles me immeasurably. The choice between the dead man’s mistress and his exquisite daughter is too ludicrous to be taken seriously.”
Samuel nodded. “None the less, the Lieutenant did call at her house and something did take place this morning, even if it was only a conversation.”
The Apothecary had been writing while they spoke and now sealed his letter with a blob of wax which had warmed in one of the compounding room’s pans.
“There we are. And Samuel…”
“Yes?”
“…find out what you can about poor Bussell’s funeral. I feel I should attend.”
“If you are going, then so shall I,” said Samuel stoutly.
John looked at him fondly. “What would I do without you?” he said, and meant it.
“I do realise that I am of some help to you in these investigations,” the Goldsmith answered happily.
“Yes indeed,” lied John, and watched his friend go purposefully from the shop.
The two men were much amazed to see that Emilia, dressed in a loose robe admittedly but still up and about with brushed hair and painted face, awaited them in the library.
“I’ve been lying still too long,” she said as John bent over her chair to kiss her. “So, my dear, I have decided to join you for dinner.”
“How did you know I was coming?” asked Samuel, somewhat amazed.
“Irish Tom told me.” She looked at her husband narrowly. “He said that you were involved in some kind of fracas. Are you all right?”
He nodded. “A little the worse for wear but nothing serious, I assure you.”
“What happened?”
He told her and Emilia sat silently, nodding occasionally. “There’s bad blood in that family, John.”
“Which one? The Fenchurchs or the Bussells?”
“Both. Their deeds are dark and murderous.”
“Like a terrible, tragic play?”
“Indeed. And I have a feeling that it is not over yet.”
“What do you mean?”
Emilia shivered. “I’m not sure. But these black acts of revenge are far from played out. In Jacobean tragedies do not the pieces end with bodies all over the stage?”
“Good God!” said Samuel, clutching his throat. “Who do you think is going to be next?”
“Sperling Trewellan believes the brothers Bussell are in danger. Which reminds me, he called into the shop this afternoon and bought some medicaments for his morphew. He was very solicitous for my welfare and thought I should have gone straight home.”
“And so you should,” Samuel replied firmly. “What would you have done if I hadn’t happened to have been passing by?”
“What were you doing on that route anyway?”
“I was actually on my way to Bloomsbury Square with a letter for Mrs. Rayner from Sir John. I believe he wishes to speak to her about the Poisoner note.”
John nodded. “I don’t think you would have found her there. Apparently she has returned to her house in Curzon Street.” He paused. “Do you still have the letter?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s deliver it. Tonight. In person. After we have dined.” The Apothecary suddenly looked apologetic and turned to Emilia. “If that is agreeable to you, sweetheart.”
She nodded. “It is no trouble. I intend to retire to bed once we have eaten.”
There was a knock on the door and a maid appeared. “May I bring the baby in, Ma’am?”
“Of course. Let’s spend half an hour with the little thing.”
And so they did, playing and cuddling and talking to her.
Sitting on John’s lap, she gave him that windy smile of hers and he smiled back. “There, she smiled at me,” he exclaimed.
“Naturally,” said Emilia, and winked at Sam.
But he knew, quite definitely, that his daughter not only understood every word they were saying but had given him her secret sign of approval.
As soon as they knocked at the door they were allowed to enter the house and, further, it was only a moment or two before Jocasta Rayner came into the room to which they had been shown. Tonight, clad in merciless black from head to toe, she looked amazing. Thin to starvation point, the bones on her face gave her a sculpted look that was not quite of this world. John noticed with sadness that the eyes - he had never seen them looking quite so big - were filled with tears which had not brimmed. Samuel, standing up and clutching his hat, gulped audibly at the stark vision which had just entered the room. Jocasta gave him the briefest of glances and turned back to John.
“I trust you have forgiven me,” she said.
“For what?” he asked, surprised.
“For intruding on you as I did the other night.”
“Oh that. I have already forgotten it. Now, Madam, you have heard of poor Bussell’s death?” She nodded. “Then let us not waste any time. Who was it you meant when you wrote ‘There is a poisoner in our midst’?”
Jocasta paused momentarily, just long enough to give the game away. “Montague Bussell,” she said.
“Really?” asked John. He indicated the chair behind him. “May I sit down?”
“Of course. How rude of me. These terrible times make one forget oneself completely.” She rang a bell. “You’ll take some refreshment, of course.”
Without waiting for a reply she settled herself into a chair, keeping her face averted.
By the time she turned back to John her features were completely under control and her eyes had lost that vast luminosity.
“Yes?” she said.
“Could you explain that a little further,” John asked, as icily polite as she was being herself.
“About Montague?” The Apothecary nodded. “Well, I saw him, after my father’s funeral.”
“Doing what?”
“He was pouring something into Ariadne’s glass.”
“I see. Can you give a little more detail.”
“Certainly. The two glasses were side by side on a tray. Montague was leaning over and I saw him pour something into one of them. Then he picked them up, quite carefully, and handed her the one with something in it.”
“Why did you not raise the alarm? At the very least you could have knocked it from his hand and pretended it was an accident.”
Jocasta twisted her head away. “It was very difficult. I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, she had already taken a mouthful of it. I…”
But fortune was on her side. A footman entered and stood bowing before her. Jocasta took a deep breath.
“Ah, Jennings,” she said. “Brandy and port, both white and red.”
The man bowed and retired, as did the last of Jocasta’s deep breath.
“And that is all I have to say,” she concluded.
“I see,” said John. He steepled his fingers, feeling a thousand years old, wondering what the devil he should do next. But yet again he was to be thwarted. The servant reappeared, bearing a tray, and the Apothecary realised that it must have been standing immediately outside, even the number of glasses taken care of while he and Samuel had made their entrance.
“Excellent,” stated Jocasta heartily. “Now gentlemen, how may I serve you?”
She dismissed the servant and set about pouring, rather relieved to have something to do, it seemed to John. He decided to have one more go at her.
“Well, now…” he started, but too late. Samuel had joined the throng.
“A delightful home you have here, Mrs. Rayner. Is this one of Mr. Adam’s designs?”
She flashed Sam a look that would go down in the halls of fame. Intense gratitude together with just a flicker of interest, John thought.
