Death in the Valley of Shadows

by Deryn Lake

  John found himself once more with the forthright neighbours.

  “My dear Sir, how very nice to see you again. Though I suppose one shouldn’t use the word nice in these depressing circumstances. Oh dear, I don’t know what to think,” said the wife in a breathless rush.

  “Is it true,” said the man, cutting straight to the point, “that Evalina has been done away with?”

  “Do you mean murdered, Sir?”

  “Yes, I do, damme. Well, is it?”

  There was no reason why he shouldn’t be told, so the Apothecary came directly out with it. “Yes, it’s true enough. She was walking in the park and apparently met up with some ne’er-do-wells. Anyway, they attacked her and left her dead.”

  “And robbed?”

  “No,” said the Apothecary slowly, “she wasn’t robbed, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh, you’d have been told if she had. So, another one, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um.” The husband looked suddenly foxy. “Had she gone to meet anyone, do you know?”

  “Why do you ask? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.” The man touched the side of his nose and winked an eye. “Won’t say any more at present but I definitely have some information about poor Evalina. No looks at all. But money always attracts, don’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  “Oh Henry, you’re always speaking out of turn,” said the wife, loving every minute.

  “Nonsense, my dear. No the truth is, old fellow, she was having an affair with…”

  But silence was being called for and the neighbour, alongside everyone else in the room, was shutting his mouth out of respect.

  Jocasta spoke up. “My friends and family, thank you again for your support. I cannot tell you how much it means to me. Your help and love are worth more than money can buy at this time. I thank you with all my heart.”

  She then stood stiffly to one side while an old uncle began to ramble on about Evalina, a boring and dry-as-dust childhood adventure with very little point to it. John ceased to listen and began to look round the room, then caught the eye of the neighbour and withdrew, following the meaningful direction of the man’s gaze, into a corner recess. There was no one about, only some glasses of claret that had been left standing on the table.

  “Very dull story, what?”

  “Very. Do go on.”

  The neighbour scratched his head. “Where was I?”

  “You were just saying that Evalina had a bad attack of love. In fact you were on the point of telling me the identity of her lover.”

  “Oh, what a point to leave off, dear boy. How very remiss of me. Well, it was…”

  Here the poor fellow’s voice broke off and he stared aghast at the table of drinks. Very slowly and very deliberately an arm, an arm wreathed in veiling so it was utterly impossible to tell the sex of its owner, was emptying the contents of a small vial into one of the glasses. John felt utterly frozen as he watched, unable to shout or utter, merely to look. Then he was released from his catalepsy.

  Another arm went out to pick up the glass and it was half way to its owner’s lips before the Apothecary could make a move. Then he shouted, “Don’t”, and at the same time sprang forward and tipped the contents onto the floor. The glass went flying and a very surprised Justin Bussell stared at him open-mouthed. But it was not too late. With an athletic move he hadn’t really expected to make again, John swung over the table and pursued someone he couldn’t even see but knew was ahead of him.

  He chased through the crowd, still standing in reverential silence while the old chap mumbled on, and tore through the gathered onlookers. But he knew that with each passing second he was losing time. The man - or woman - he was after had hidden themselves amongst the people and was probably, even now, watching him as he fled frantically through the very heart of them.

  “…and Evalina, dear little soul, was saying, ‘That’s my boo- boo, Papa…’” the old man’s voice continued.

  John drew to a halt, knowing that the other person had won the day, for the time being at least. With a smile on his lips he picked up a cup of claret, and raised it. “To Evalina,” he said, then downed the wine in one draught.

  The chase had ruined the moment. By the time John had made his way back to the pair of gossips, Emilia and Samuel had joined him, and somehow the vital information became lost in the whirligig of introductions and pleasantries that were exchanged. And though he caught the old man’s eye and they exchanged a look, nothing further was said. Indeed, the conversation was mostly about the hunt for the missing person and who it could possibly have been.

  Justin, looking more than restored, in other words bordering on the state of being drunk, explained that it was somebody who wished him ill and that his very life had been saved by the gallant Mr. Rawlings. John, meanwhile, made light of the whole affair and said that it was a person playing a practical joke. An explanation that did not go down well with the other people who had come to see Evalina Fenchurch laid to rest. Anway, the matter was eventually allowed to drop, except for Justin who continued to thank John long after he had been quietly put in a comer, where he finally fell asleep and snored very loudly.

  “So,” said Emilia, “I think it is time we were leaving.”

  “High time,” answered her husband, and sent a servant for his cloak and those of his party.

  It was as they were going that Jocasta drew him to one side.

  “Mr. Rawlings, what did happen earlier?”

  “Nothing of any importance, Ma’am.”

  “Please don’t insult my intelligence. Tell me exactly what you saw and what you did about it.”

  “I saw an arm pour something into Justin Bussell’s glass. The next thing was that he had retrieved it and was about to drink. Everything made me suspect the action and give chase. But I did not find the offender. It was probably as I said - a practical joke.”

  She pulled a very serious face. “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean? That the poisoner was here?”

  “It would have been much easier than you realise.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is an old house, Sir. A house of many mysteries. One of which is a secret passage used by the priests when it became illegal to see them.”

  Despite the fact that Emilia and Samuel were standing at the doorway, looking thoroughly out of favour with him, John felt his interest quicken.

  “Really? I would love to see it.”

  “Come back tonight.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then come tomorrow. Towards evening. I don’t think it will be safe for you until then.”

  And before she could say another word, Jocasta had turned on her heel and gone.

  They rode back through the late afternoon in a desperate quiet. The weather of earlier that day seemed to have penetrated inside the smart equipage that housed the three of them, and even Irish Tom was silent as the grave. Everywhere was the hushed stillness of that hour of the day and Emilia, as much to protect herself from things seen and unseen, fell uncomfortably asleep, her head jolting to and fro as the coach proceeded on. Seeing his hostess unconscious, Samuel leant forward.

  “John?”

  “Yes,” the Apothecary answered tersely, his mind racing ahead down a million tracks towards a dimly spotted light in the distance.

  “What was it you saw again?”

  “How many more times? I saw somebody pour something into Justin’s glass. I gave chase but there was nobody there. That’s all I have to say.”

  He sounded more terse than he meant and saw Samuel’s face turn away. “I see. Sorry.”

  For once John did not do his best to pacify but instead attempted to lapse back into his silent reverie. But the mood was broken. Whatever thought he had been giving chase to had vanished. Irritably he stared out of the window.

  A mist had started to come up, a mist that spread its tendrils over and
under the coach in a kind of sea, a mist that John found it impossible to see through. Slowly he realised that Tom was driving more and more deliberately until, finally, he drew to a halt. John opened a window.

  “Everything all right, Tom?”

  “Can’t see a damned thing, Sir. I don’t know where in hell we are.”

  “Oh.” John turned to Samuel but saw that he, too, was now feigning sleep. “Wait a minute. I’ll get out.”

  “Give us a minute, Sir. Then I’ll be with you.”

  There were the faint sounds of a man making water, followed by a curse and a groan as Tom fell over something. Reckoning that it would be safe to join him, John stepped from the coach with care and stood very still.

  “Tom,” he called softly. Then louder, “Tom.”

  Nothing moved in the silence, nothing whatsoever. Then, suddenly, it was upon him. There was a rushing, as of wings, then a crunch. John had just time to say, “What…”, and the rest went dark.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Slowly, slowly he was regaining consciousness but because he was more comfortable, because he had no wish to come back suddenly and cruelly, John sat for a while, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of utter silence. He was alone, of that he was certain. For no other human could make so little sound. Yet, small questions were already beginning to nag at parts of his brain. Where were Irish Tom and Samuel? And even more importantly, in fact a great deal more importantly, where was Emilia? Where, in short, was everybody else that had been with him when the coach had slowed down completely and then come to a halt? Very gingerly and very slowly, John Rawlings opened first one eye, then the other.

  The answer as to where Tom had ventured to was immediately apparent. Lying across from him on the other side of the room was the Irishman, face down but just now showing signs of life. Very slowly, the Apothecary fiddled in his coat and there, hidden in an inner pocket but still viable to the touch, was his bottle of salts. With an enormous amount of difficulty he managed to pull it to the front and get it out. Then he sniffed and sniffed until his head cleared and with a little more effort, sat up. He had been dropped semi-upright by a wall and now he found his knees, weak though they were, and dragged himself into a kneeling position.

  He looked round and confirmed that he and Tom were the only two living creatures in the room, except for some mice - or worse - which scuttled in a comer. Still too weak to try standing, John crawled to where the coachman lay and applied copious amounts of his smelling salts to his nostrils.

  “What? What the hell?” said the Irishman, coming round.

  “Shush. We’re alone but I’ve no idea for how long or why. Where are the others? Do you know?”

  “No, Sir, I don’t. I’ve no idea. Last thing I remember was relieving myself. Then all thunder came at me.”

  “That must have been when I climbed out of the coach to look for you. Tom, where the devil are we?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. I truly do not.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening for any sound around them. Very distantly they could hear a faint whirring but what was the cause of it, neither had any idea. Other than for that, the faint scuttling in the corner was all they could hear.

  “I’m going to have a look round,” whispered John.

  “Careful, Sir. You don’t know who’s about.”

  “The only other thing is to sit and wait and I don’t feel quite up to that.”

  “Be very careful, then.”

  With this warning the Apothecary had to be content as he slowly got to his feet, weaving slightly as he went, crossed the room and pulled the door open a fraction. After quite a while spent peering through the crack, he opened it a little further and stood back, waiting. Nothing happened. Whoever had been put on guard duty had clearly got other fish to fry.

  Walking more easily, John returned to Tom’s side. “What’s on the other side of there? Do you know?”

  “I think there’s a staircase going up with a door at the top. I seem to recall coming round for a moment or two just before we were thrown into this hellhole.”

  “Good. As soon as you’re a bit better we’re going to run for it.”

  “No, you go, Sir. Don’t wait for me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Nonsense. We’ll rest here for half an hour and that should see you restored. Here, have another sniff of these.”

  They waited in the dubious light, watching it grow dimmer and dimmer, awaiting the arrival of their captor. But still there was nobody and soon Tom started to move his legs around.

  “I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be.”

  “Right. Here’s the plan. We climb the stairs, assault the man at the top - I’ll take him because I think I’m stronger - then we go home, wherever that might be.”

  Tom pulled a face. “Search me. I’ve no idea.”

  “Good. Then come on - and to hell with it.”

  They opened the door and climbed the staircase in total silence, making their way step by step. Tom dislodged a bit of brick which fell to the bottom making a small clatter as it went. But still there was nothing.

  Then at the very last minute there came sounds. Footsteps, only one set, were coming towards them. John motioned the coachman to remain exactly where he was, standing one step behind him on the narrow stairs. There was the sound of a key fumbling in the lock and then the door began to swing open. Suddenly rearing up, the Apothecary fetched their captor the most terrific blow over the back of his neck, a blow that splintered and crunched momentarily before the man began to fall down the stairs. Then he grabbed the coachman and they stepped outside.

  They were in a spruce courtyard, quite well-maintained, with a stable of a dozen or so horses in loose boxes. There was nobody about but not far away they could hear somebody singing to himself as he worked. Ahead of them, yet seeming a million miles away, was the path to their freedom: an archway through which carriages passed on their way in and out of the establishment. “Don’t run till we’re through it,” murmured John.

  And a second later was glad that he had made that remark. A stubby figure carrying a pail was coming towards them through the arch, whistling to himself as he walked.

  “Good evening,” the figure said.

  “Good evening,” John replied crisply, while Irish Tom muttered a greeting.

  They continued on their way, walking nonchalantly, then slowly disappeared through the arch. John waited a moment, turning his head slowly. From behind came a muffled shout and a cry. He grabbed Irish Tom.

  “This is it. We leg it as fast as we can. I’ve no idea where we are but just pray we hit a track soon.”

  With that he was off, Tom, heavier built, springing as fast as he could in the background. They crossed a bridge and went through some woods, though fairly open-plan, as if they were farmed. Then they crossed a meadow, still running, though both were starting to feel the strain. Eventually, they drew to a halt, gasping great lungfulls of air, unable to take another step. There was total silence, as if nobody else were alive but them.

  John looked at Tom. “We’ve made it - I think.”

  Tom motioned him to be quiet, then stood like that for several minutes. Eventually he nodded. “We’re safe, Sir. But where the devil are we?”

  “God knows.”

  They started to walk on, just following their feet - and then the strangest thing happened. They rounded a comer, or rather a bend in the track which had started about a quarter of a mile back, then both suddenly stopped. Before them in the distance burned several lights in what looked like a large dwelling. The strangest frisson ran through John even as he saw the place but he said nothing, denying to himself that he could possibly be right. But as he drew ever closer, he became more and more convinced that he was not wrong. He turned to Irish Tom.

  “Does that house look familiar to you?”

  “It certainly does, Sir.”

  John quickened his pace. “I’d swear that it’s Scottlea Park.”

  “So would I,
Sir.”

  They both stopped together and peered through the fitful moonlight. Then they saw it. John’s coach, his wedding present from Sir Gabriel, lay outside, slightly silvered by the beams. With a whoop the two men embraced one another, then broke into the final run for home.

  It was after midnight and yet everyone in the house was still awake. Louis had summoned the law - a glovemaker from West Clandon who had not been at all pleased at being awoken from his sleep. He stated he could do nothing until the morning and returned, grumpily, to his couch. Nothing daunted, the Frenchman had organised his own search party - a team of twenty-five men altogether - and had sent those out to comb the area. But now all were returned and a good jar of brandy being served in the kitchens to those who had taken part.

  It seemed that Samuel, too, had eventually stepped out of the coach and looked around, though by this time all had become quiet. His search had grown a little wider, then he had returned, in a panic, to Emilia. It had been half an hour before they decided to drive home, though at a snail’s pace, calling and calling, stopping every few minutes to scrutinise. Yet nothing had been revealed and eventually they had picked up speed and returned to Scottlea Park, where Emilia had hurried upstairs and fed her baby. But now the question was, where were John and Irish Tom - and who had taken them into captivity?

  “It is fairly obvious to me,” said Louis dryly.

  “You mean the Bussell brothers?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Justin was still asleep on the sofa when we left the house.”

  “Then it was Greville working alone,” Louis answered certainly.

  “You’re most likely right. He’s a vicious bastard.”

  And John recounted his story of Justin breaking down in church and the punch that had said it all. Louis looked reflective.