Death in the Valley of Shadows

by Deryn Lake

  Meanwhile, Lieutenant Mendoza sat laughing dryly to himself, though still with little humour.

  Rapidly John thought over everything the young man had told him, fitting the story in with the new information. It all made sense, of course. The boy brought up by his uncle, his real father dying at the age of nineteen, the redoubtable Mrs. Trewellan not mentioned, but then neither had there been any pretence. Who the Lieutenant’s actual mother was simply hadn’t been discussed.

  Still, the Apothecary felt deeply ashamed of himself. “Look, I’m terribly sorry to have made such a foolish mistake,” he said.

  “Nonsense, nonsense.” The Lieutenant was brushing the whole matter away with his hand. “I suppose it was easy enough. None the less, I would like to have been thought a little more selective. Not…” he added hastily, “… that there is anything wrong with my dear mama, but I would have considered her fractionally old.”

  “Oh yes, oh yes,” the Apothecary agreed. “Far too old.”

  It was only then that he realised how everything he was saying was making the situation worse. With an enormous effort of will, he changed the subject.

  “Tell me,” he said pleasantly, “what is it you actually wanted to see me about?”

  The Lieutenant’s smile vanished and he suddenly looked wary. “Someone suggested to me that I should talk to you.”

  “Someone who?”

  “Ah, that would be telling. I promised to keep their secret. No, it is just with all these murders going on that I felt I should apologise.”

  “Only that?”

  “That, together with a belief that you and I should see ourselves on the same side.”

  “Which is?”

  “That we’re tired of this carnage and believe that it should come to an end.”

  John had the inescapable feeling that the conversation was going round in circles. “Look,” he said, “how much do you know about Foxfire Hall?”

  Lieutenant Mondoza positively stared. “Very little,” he answered. “Why?”

  “No reason really, except that I believe our murderer has a certain knowledge of the place.”

  The Lieutenant gave him an odd glance. “Oh? Why is that?”

  The Apothecary decided on the side of discretion. “Just one or two things I have seen that is all. So, just to remind me, why did your mother turn Aidan Fenchurch down?”

  “Because of Sperling. He hated Aidan with a burning, childish hatred, probably caused by jealousy as much as anything. Anyway, she told Aidan that he would have to wait until Sperling was off her hands, then she would reconsider.”

  “But it never came to that.”

  “No,” said the Lieutenant, with something that resembled genuine sadness in his voice, “it never came to it.”

  John paused, wondering quite what he should say next, and at that moment Rose woke up and started to cry. It really was, the Apothecary thought on a whimsy, as if they were working together on this case. He turned to Lieutenant Mendoza and gave his second best bow.

  “My dear Sir, I see where my duty calls me. It has been a pleasure to catch up with you. Forgive me but my daughter insists that we go.”

  With that he bowed again and they parted company. Strangely, as soon as the Lieutenant was out of sight. Rose stopped crying and the journey home was conducted in harmony. That is until John went through the front door. Almost immediately a footman hovered by his elbow.

  “Sir, Mr. Jago is here to see you. I have shown him into the library.”

  “Excellent,” said John airily, and without further ado handed the bassinette to the footman and walked to his guest at double speed.

  Joe was standing by the window, the very droop of his shoulders telling a newcomer that all was not well in his world. However, hearing John come in he braced up and turned with a smile to greet his host.

  “My dear Sir, how are you? Have there been adventures since we last met?”

  “I should say so. Why don’t you sit down and let me tell you about them?”

  “I would like that very much, Mr. Rawlings.”

  He took a chair opposite that of the Apothecary and the next half hour was filled with tales of adventure, of secret passages, and of mysterious capturings and escapes. Added to which, of course, was the information that the Bussells had returned home.

  “I reckon they were just jinking about in London when we couldn’t find them. They are walking round their place quite openly. They’ve no idea they’re wanted men.”

  Joe frowned. “Damnation. The Flying Runners have set off for Winchester and the rest are hard stretched in London. Still, we’ll have to try and get someone down there to arrest them.” He paused, his blue eyes strained. “And are you any nearer to the murderer, Sir?”

  Reluctantly the Apothecary shook his head. “I fear not. Though, saying that, I think that Justin is Lancelot.”

  For the first time Joe looked surprised. “Surely not, an oafish creature like that.”

  “She was desperate for affection. Besides, who knows what his motives truly were.”

  “Very true, Sir. Anyway, our news ain’t good. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, the Governor’s very far from pleased. He says that every time there is a principal suspect they are promptly removed from the scene. Says it’s almost like tit for tat.”

  “Tit for tat,” repeated John thoughtfully. “You know, he has a point there.”

  “Aye, he has. But the question remains. Who is doing it?”

  “You know there could be several people involved in this.”

  “Oh, we came to that conclusion some while ago. One from each side as it were.”

  “Or more than one,” murmured John, so quietly that Joe did not hear, or did not appear to do so.

  “Anyway, we’ve not achieved any kind of solution and Sir John is wondering who will be next.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Yes, I am, Sir. Deadly serious.”

  “Surely he should take action.”

  “But what?” Joe held up a capable hand in front of his face. “Let us see who is still at large. First of all, there’s Mrs. Jocasta. Then there’s the Lieutenant, his missus, his mistress…”

  John interrupted with a brief laugh. “That’s all been explained to me. Mrs. Trewellan is his mother.”

  “His mother, did you say?”

  “I certainly did.”

  And as briefly as possible, yet leaving nothing out, John repeated all that had been told him.

  “I see. Well, it makes more sense, if you see what I mean.”

  “It definitely does. Anyway, you were saying.”

  Joe began to count off the people left. “Lieutenant Mendoza, his wife, Mrs. Trewellan, Mr. Sperling. That’s that lot. Miss Millicent; too timid in my view. Mrs. Rayner, of course. Then, on the other side, the two Bussell brothers. That’s it, unless you can think of anyone else.”

  “No, I can’t say that I can.”

  “Then, Sir, our murderers are hidden amongst them.”

  “I wonder if there is another person,” said John thoughtfully.

  “Who, Sir?”

  “Do you remember Mrs. Rayner’s husband, one Horatio. Wasn’t he poisoned accidentally?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think that that is something of a coincidence?”

  Joe looked thoughtful, pursing his lips. “Well, I suppose it could bear looking in to.”

  “I wonder if there is any point now. But it might be worth our while to establish who was in the house on that occasion.”

  “Yes, it might indeed,” answered Joe. “I shall put a Runner on to that. Mark you, there are bound to be the usual memory lapses after such an age.”

  “I wonder.”

  “I wonder too,” repeated the clerk meaningfully. His light eyes met the Apothecary’s and they gave each other a glance that spoke volumes though neither of them said a word.

  Eventually John broke the si
lence. “I’ve got to get back to the country, haven’t I? Our killer - or should it be killers - is waiting there.”

  Joe’s ragged face grew very still. “I reckon so, Sir. Yes, I do.”

  “But this time I must go alone. I won’t catch them otherwise.”

  The clerk hardly moved, then he said, “I’d rather that the Runners were with you.”

  “No, Joe, I insist on this. You mustn’t do anything to stop me.”

  “That I can’t do, Sir.”

  The Apothecary pulled a face. “You could take my place when it comes to telling Emilia that I’m off again.”

  Joe Jago allowed himself a humourless grin, then said, “I don’t envy you that, Sir. Truly I don’t.”

  “None the less, it must be done.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “Might I suggest, Sir, that this time you don’t stay with the Comte and Comtesse. In fact the quieter you can keep your visit, the wiser it might be. Put up at the inn if possible. That way you can go in and out as you desire.”

  John shivered. “You realise that at least one of the killers is mad, don’t you?”

  The clerk shook his head, almost sadly. “Yes, I know. The question is, who is he - or she?”

  “I can hazard a guess.”

  “A guess is no good, Sir. You have to be certain.”

  The light was starting to fade and noises of the household preparing for the hours of darkness suddenly began to filter in. Joe sighed deeply.

  “Let me come with you, Sir.”

  The answer was on John’s lips before he had time to think properly. “No, you must stay with the Blind Beak. I can take care of myself.”

  But after Joe had gone and he sat in the semi-darkness, preparing himself for what he thought was going to be his worst conversation to date with Emilia, John caught himself wondering if, in fact, he really could.

  That was how she found him, sitting in the gloaming, staring out of the window at what was left to see of the fast-retreating garden.

  “John?”

  He didn’t say anything but put out his hand and caught her wrist. “Emilia. I’m glad it’s you.”

  Very gently she released his hold and went to sit down opposite him, but, once there, she took hold of his hand again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He sighed. “Joe’s been.”

  “Yes, I know.” She was silent for a few moments, then added, “What did he say?”

  “Not much.” John sighed again.

  “Whatever it was has clearly affected you deeply.”

  “Yes, you can conclude that. Emilia…”

  “What’s the matter? Why do you sound so sad?”

  “Oh, just because. Emilia, he and I discussed the situation and I have to go back. Back to West Clandon, that is.”

  “I see,” she said very quietly - but she did not remove her hand.

  In the years ahead of him John would never forget that moment, how she said ‘I see’ but still held him handfast.

  “Don’t you mind?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I mind very much, very much indeed, but there is nothing I can do that will stop you.”

  “You could shout and scream.”

  Her fingers tensed beneath his. “That is not my way, John. You ought to know that.”

  “Yes, I know it.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I love you, Emilia,” he said.

  “And I love you. More than you will ever know.”

  He stood up and raised her to face him. Then he kissed her, full on the mouth and very deep.

  Emilia held herself back, at first, but suddenly gave in, overwhelmed by what they both were feeling. Then they left the library and made their way upstairs, to where the great bed lay waiting for them in all its ivory-clad splendour.

  Chapter Twenty

  He rose just after dawn and was met at the front door by Irish Tom. The two men said nothing, their minds set on what they had to do, and it wasn’t until they had left London well behind them and were on their way to Surrey that Tom spoke for the first time.

  “You said to Guildford, didn’t you, Sir?”

  “Yes, I want to hire a horse from a livery stable and make my way quietly to The Onslow Arms.”

  “And me, Sir?”

  “I want you to go back to London and support your mistress.”

  “But I had hoped…”

  “I’m sorry, Tom. Those are my orders.”

  The Irishman promptly plunged into gloom and did not speak again until the town of Guildford had been finally reached, and then it was with a bad grace that he toured the outskirts looking for a livery stable. Eventually, though, one was found and John put his head out of the window.

  “Drop me here. I’d rather go incognito.”

  “I don’t understand you, Sir. I truly don’t.”

  “Well, humour me then,” John answered shortly. He disembarked. “Now, Tom, I’ll be in touch as soon as this matter is resolved.”

  The coachman raised his brows but said nothing.

  “So wait for me to call you.”

  “If you ever do,” the Irishman muttered just below his breath.

  John ignored him. “Until next week then.”

  “Humph,” Tom answered, and climbing back onto the box, turned the coach and vanished from sight without a backward glance.

  A half hour later and John’s business was all done. He had hired a horse for a week, in return for a healthy deposit, and was just preparing to take her to West Clandon. His usual choice of dark uncertain horses had been thwarted and he had had to settle for the fastest the Livery had to offer, not at all up to standard in his book but, he told himself, beggars cannot be choosers. In the event, though, the mare, name of Herring, did her best and they clattered into the inn yard just as light was beginning to fade. Leading Herring round to the stables, John went inside to book a room.

  It seemed that luck was with him for there was no sign of recognition on the landlord’s part and he was given a small but serviceable room on the first floor without anyone saying a word about having seen him before. So, reasonably confident that they regarded him as a complete stranger, John wandered down at about six o’clock. Making for the taproom, the Apothecary disappeared into a corner with a newspaper, his purpose to be as inconspicuous as possible. Opening the paper up wide, John listened to the various voices.

  There was the usual hum of sound, out of which one in particular rose to meet his ears. It was Justin Bussell, drunk as usual, and complaining in a whining sort of way to anyone who would listen, which did not appear to be very many.

  “…it wasn’t love…” he was saying, “more a fondness. Yes, a fondness, that describes it. Utterly.”

  “Who was this?” somebody asked.

  “Oh, I can’t reveal her identity,” said Justin morosely. “Let me just say that that she lives about ten miles hence.” There was the sound of him supping which turned into a snorting kind of sob. “What do I mean, lives? I should say lived.”

  This story was obviously old news to his audience, who could be heard shifting their feet and making to move away. John sat behind his paper wondering whether to interrupt or let Justin drone on. But it would appear that his followers had gone somewhere else to get a free drink, for now there was the sound of subdued weeping accompanied by regular swigs of ale, but no ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. The Apothecary decided that the time had come. Folding up his newspaper and leaving it, he rose from his chair and walked round the edge of the bar.

  Justin certainly presented a pathetic sight. His shoulders were hunched over his tankard, his face was blotched and weary, in fact he seemed smaller, almost as if he had shrunk. Mustering as sympathetic an expression as he could, John approached.

  It was perfectly obvious from Justin’s response that he didn’t even realise that the Apothecary had returned to town and come back again. He looked up, startled, as John greeted him, then gave him a tremulous smile.

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t come riding
yet,” he said. “You must forgive me.”

  The Apothecary thought on his feet. “How about tomorrow?” he said. “I could come and call for you.”

  Justin nodded listlessly. “Yes, yes, that will do fine.” A small sob escaped. “You must forgive me, my friend, I am a little disturbed by recent events.”

  John looked kind. “I don’t know how you bore it. First your mother, then your father. It was more than human flesh and blood could tolerate.”

  Justin regarded him properly for the first time and John could see that there had been a great deterioration. In the short month that had elapsed, he had indeed lost weight, and his eyes, once so confident and dismissive, had sunken back in his head and had heavy circles beneath.

  Had this really been Evalina’s Lancelot? Had she loved him? And had he put out a hand to strike her down, as she smiled at him in her death dream? John stood silently, staring, saying not a word, waiting for Justin to make some sort of reply. Eventually, the other man spoke.

  “Of course there have been other things as well.”

  “Of course,” John replied soothingly.

  “Too many deaths,” said Justin.

  He looked on the point of tears again and John hesitated, wondering what to do next. Then, instinctively, he touched the other man’s arm and simply said his name. It was enough. Justin wept bitterly.

  Somehow John managed to catch the landlord’s eye and mouth the fact that Justin needed to be removed to a private parlour. But, unfortunately, there was no such thing. The Onslow Arms being but a small place, six guests at the most. However, the snug only had one man in it and he was fast asleep. So, clasping John’s arm, that is where Justin was taken, and once there, sobbed despairingly.

  The other man woke and shuffled out, giving the two men an extremely odd look as he did so. But at least they had the place to themselves. The Apothecary sat silently, waiting for Justin to quieten down, which, eventually, he did.

  “I’m so sorry,” he burbled, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes.

  “My dear Sir,” said John calmly. “Take your time. I have all the evening.”

  A bleary eye appeared round a comer of the spotted handkerchief, followed by a loud gulp. “I shall be perfectly recovered in a moment.”