by Deryn Lake
“And all over a woman,” the Apothecary realised - and at that a train of ideas started that would not leave him alone until he had run them through his brain and come to rather a startling conclusion.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was only one thing for it, John thought, as The Onslow Arms came into view. He must get back to London and put his new idea to Sir John Fielding. And the more he considered the matter, the greater the urgency to return became. Going into the inn he paid his bill, changed into his travelling clothes and rode poor Herring back to her livery stables in Guildford, where he thanked the owner politely and dispensed with her services. Then, having been told that there was a stage from Portsmouth making a stop at The Angel in quarter of an hour, John ran through the dusk and squeezed onto the roof, where he sat, shivering and uncomfortable all the way to London, where he was put down at The Bald Stag in Southwark.
Pulling his watch from his pocket, John stared at it. It was after midnight and too late to wake the household in Nassau Street. Yawning and tired and scarcely able to move a muscle, the Apothecary booked himself a room in the hostelry and went straight to sleep.
He awoke much refreshed and immediately thought of the idea that had come to him yesterday. Whichever way he looked at it, it still made sense, and John determined to go to Bow Street as soon as he had breakfasted. This he did with tremendous appetite, realising that it had been a full twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Finally replete, he paid his dues and hired a hackney coach to take him to Bow Street.
The court was not yet in session, Sir John and Joe sitting downstairs in the room they used as a study, dealing with correspondence. They both looked up as John entered and Jago rose to his feet.
“Mr. Rawlings! What a surprise. We thought you were in West Clandon, Sir.”
“So I was till yesterday afternoon. But pray don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished.”
Sir John chuckled deep. “My friend, you would not have come here unless you believed the matter urgent. Indeed, I make out from your voice that you are quivering to tell us something of vital importance. So please, be seated and do so.”
There was a third chair before the desk and as the Apothecary sat down he thought for a minute of all the times he and Sir John had shared in the past, some of them in this very room. Then he felt Joe’s eyes on him, giving him a look so kindly, so well-intentioned, that his heart lifted in his chest.
“Well, gentlemen…” he said.
Thirty minutes later it was done. John had told them everything. He had also put to them his idea as to the identity of the murderer of Ariadne and Montague Bussell, an idea which they received in total silence.
“…so you see, Sir,” he concluded, “that willing though I am to return to West Clandon, I truly feel I could do with a little help.”
Sir John Fielding was very quiet, his hands folded over his stomach, his powerful features set and stem. Eventually he said, “I’m thinking,” then became silent once more. Joe, meanwhile, fixed John with his light blue eyes, one of which he slowly winked. He mouthed, “He’s not pleased,” but obviously not quietly enough.
“No, I am not,” said Sir John, raising his head. “I am not pleased because the whole idea confounds my theories. But never let it be said that I have grown small-minded. You are right, Mr. Rawlings, I feel it in my gut. So, go to. Back to West Clandon with you and make your claims. But you’ll have to wait a few days. The Brave Fellows are away on a case at present and are not expected back for some time.”
“I’m afraid I do not trust the person concerned. I think they might strike again, Sir.”
“Yes,” said the Beak, nodding slowly. “You may well have a point there. But what can I do? It is too dangerous for you to venture there alone.”
The Apothecary smiled crookedly. “Yes, I had rather thought so. That is why I came back.”
“I see.” There was another protracted silence, then Sir John said, “You and Jago could go, however.”
At this, Joe winked again and held up a large, knobbly thumb but did not risk saying a word.
“I imagine you two are grinning at one another,” said the Blind Beak, and rumbled his laugh. “Very well, be off with the pair of you. I shall have to do without my eyes for a day or two. Oh, and Jago…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“This time I want Greville Bussell brought in.”
Joe Jago stood up and bowed in the Magistrate’s direction. “Thank you, Sir. I’ve been anxious for a bit of adventure.”
“So I’ve noticed. Now, go. Straight there and two quiet arrests if you please. I don’t want any bloodshed.”
“None the less, Sir, I shall take the opportunity of being fully armed.”
“And you Mr. Rawlings? Are you armed?”
“Indeed I am, Sir,” said the Apothecary, and patted his pocket.
An hour later and it was done. Joe had slipped home to Seven Dials to pack a bag while John had waited for him in Will’s Coffee House. For some reason that he could not explain, not even to himself, he had not gone to Nassau Street nor, indeed, Shug Lane. He felt very strongly that a rush back, to be followed by another rush away again, would disrupt the entire household, even upset the implacable Nicholas. Yet there was another reason, another reason that John refused to admit. The simple truth was that he didn’t want to, that he wanted to stay anonymous and ready for the difficult task that lay before him.
A hackney to The Borough where John and Joe hired a flying coach in company with a mother and daughter who chattered all the way to Guildford, where they all disembarked.
“Do look us up when you are next in town, Sir.”
“I certainly will, Madam.”
Then with much bowing and general goodwill, they parted company.
The expression on the face of the livery stables’ owner was beyond belief.
“I thought you’d finished with my poor beast, Sir.”
John contrived his honest expression. “Would you believe that no sooner was I back in London than I received a message to return? So, if I may hire a horse once more and another for my friend.”
“Of course, Sir.”
It was not, the Apothecary considered, the best of stables. Poor Herring, looking rather weary, was led out, accompanied by a grey gelding named Finn, who plodded over the cobbles, head down. However, once mounted, the horse had a new lease of life and went away to West Clandon on the double, John fighting to keep up. Consequently, the pair clattered into the courtyard of The Onslow Arms in good time to dine, which they did in a small parlour reserved for the handful of guests. Fortunately there was no one in it beside themselves. They were completely alone to discuss tactics.
“You know, Sir,” said Joe thoughtfully, “we’ve done this a bit too quick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, whoever we arrest first, one of us must escort them back to London. That leaves the other one on their own again.”
John looked thoughtful. “Yes, I see what you mean.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “Oh well, we’ll just have to take a chance.”
“Ah Sir, there’s many a man as said that before he went to his death.”
The Apothecary burst out laughing. “You’re damn cheerful company I must say. Anyway, shall we get Greville tonight?”
Joe fingered his chin. “No, tomorrow morning - early. Let’s catch the bastard while he’s abed.”
John shivered involuntarily, remembering the sight he had seen when last he called at Merrow Place early. “I wonder what’s happened to Justin’s body,” he said slowly.
“Well, it will have been removed, that’s for sure.”
“Should we arrest a man before his brother’s funeral?”
“We not only should, we will,” Joe replied forcefully. “That bastard. Think of Evalina. My God, her avenging is long overdue.”
“You’re right, of course. So tomorrow morning it is.”
“I’l
l drink to that,” said Joe, and clinked glasses with the Apothecary.
The next morning he woke abruptly. It was a grey dawn, promising rain, not light enough for a body to be stirring, but Jago was already up, half-dressed, and standing at the washbasin. He looked round and grinned as John bade him the best of the day.
“Ready to catch your fox?” he asked.
“Good and ready,” said the Apothecary, sitting up. He yawned and ran his head through his hair which, as usual, was in need of cutting.
“I won’t be long,” Joe added, turning away and applying a dangerous looking razor to his chin. “I told the girl to bring some more hot water.”
“Good.” John consulted his watch. “Great God! It’s only five o’clock.”
“I said we’d get our man early.”
“And early it is. We’ll probably miss breakfast.”
“Breakfast,” said Joe Jago firmly, “can wait.”
Somewhat against his better judgement, John found himself in the stable yard some thirty minutes later, struggling to saddle up Herring.
“Here, let me,” said Joe. And yet again revealed another facet of his amazing personality by getting the animal ready in a matter of minutes, all the time talking in a soft voice, using cant mixed in with English.
“You are truly incredible,” said John admiringly.
“Something I learned from my father,” answered Joe. And the Apothecary realised that never before had he mentioned a member of his family or, for that matter, discussed anything personal.
John felt he dared to ask a question. “Did your father come from London?”
“No, Sir,” answered Joe, and there he dropped the matter. “Well, we’d best get on our way. I’ve a feeling about this.”
“What sort of feeling?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ve most certainly got one.”
They trotted out of the stable yard, John leading the way, and after ten minutes came to the gates of Merrow Place, which were firmly closed. Joe descended rapidly and knocked at the door of the gatekeeper’s lodge.
“Open up at once,” he shouted. “I’m here on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, and here I stay until you let me in.”
A grizzled head appeared at a first floor window. “The master said…” it began.
Joe went perfectly white with anger and John realised that the man had been more affected by Evalina’s murder than he was admitting. He recalled the turned back and the furious pipe puffing, the infinitesimal pause before Jago had touched the dead woman.
“Now are you going to admit us or do I break your door down?” the clerk was bellowing.
The head muttered, “All right, all right,” and withdrew.
“I will not be denied entry,” said Joe furiously, more to himself than anyone else. And so he continued, muttering beneath his breath, until eventually the lodgekeeper appeared and the gates were swung open.
“So I should think,” the clerk said as he went through.
He cantered up the drive like a man possessed, John struggling to keep up, but reined in and proceeded quietly for the last few minutes.
“Is this where you and Irish Tom were kept prisoner?” he hissed over his shoulder at the Apothecary.
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. Look at the stables.” Joe followed the lines of John’s pointing finger. “There’s the archway. I’d remember it anywhere after an experience like that.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Joe grimly.
He dismounted and went to the front door, his anger only just under control, and there set up a thunderous knocking and bell pulling, fit to waken the dead, a thought that brought no comfort to John.
“Open up in the name of the law,” Jago shouted.
There was the sound of many bolts being pulled back and eventually the oily face of the same servant that had admitted John on that fateful morning - had it really only been two days ago? - appeared.
“Yes?” he said.
Joe produced a card from an inner pocket and thrust it under the footman’s nose. “I demand to come in now and see your master,” he said shortly.
The footman was very cool, John had to grant him that. Taking his time, he produced a pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose, then he slowly and laboriously read the card.
“Joseph R. Jago, clerk to Sir John Fielding, the Public Office, Bow Street, London,” he read laboriously. Then he licked his lips. “I see. You want the master, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
The servant’s eyes flickered over John. “I think I know you, Sir.”
“This is my assistant, John Rawlings,” Joe continued in the same harsh tones. “He goes where I go.”
“You’ve been here before, Sir.” The footman was addressing John direct. “On the day Master Justin died. I wanted to speak to you but you just left the house.”
“Well you may speak to me now,” John answered. “May we come in, please.”
“Yes,” the man answered. “You may.”
And he opened the front door wide and allowed them into the vast echoing wastes of the hall.
“The master is still abed,” the man continued. “If you will wait in here, gentlemen.”
He crossed the hall and ushered them into another huge room. Then he closed the door quietly behind them.
Not only were the curtains drawn but the shutters closed across the four huge windows which formed almost the whole of one wall. Just for a moment John and Joe were blinded, unable to see anything, then they slowly began to make out shapes. Furniture with white sheets over loomed like ghosts. Distantly, John noticed a sofa and several chairs, all closed beneath their pale drapes.
“Are we meant to sit down or what?” he asked Joe.
Then a voice spoke out of the darkness. “No, gentlemen, you are meant to remain standing.”
They froze, rooted to the spot, and John, narrowing his eyes, made out a dim shape sitting behind the desk. A shape which had remained so still that until this moment he had not even seen it.
“So, my dears, you thought you’d catch old Uncle Greville unawares, did you? Thought that by turning up here at this ungodly hour you’d find him napping. Well, my friends, your every move has been watched. I knew last night that you had returned to West Clandon, Mr. Rawlings, and that you had a henchman with you. So I reckoned that, being a creature of habit, you’d come for me almost as soon as it was light. Only you didn’t expect a reception committee, did you?”
Greville paused for breath and Joe Jago spoke into the brief silence.
“Mr. Greville Bussell, I have here a warrant for your arrest. I would suggest…”
“Suggest be damned,” replied the other man harshly. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to shoot the pair of you, then I’m taking off abroad for a long tour. By the time I come back your mysterious disappearance will be something that people tell their children about when they want them to go to bed.”
And in the darkness John heard a pistol cock. He had never been so frightened in his life and he spoke wildly, determined to get a little more time.
“It was you who killed Aidan Fenchurch and Evalina, wasn’t it? Why, for God’s sake?”
“Aidan had given my mother the runaround for enough miserable years. I was sick to the back teeth of him. As for the woman, she was in revenge for the deaths of my parents.”
Just for a moment there was the suspicion of a catch in his voice and the Apothecary caught himself thinking that perhaps there was some feeling in Greville after all.
“Why did you take me prisoner?” John asked. “What did you hope to gain by that?”
“You were getting too damned close on my trail, you bastard. I sensed it at the funeral. You would have vanished, you and your coachman, if you hadn’t managed to escape.”
“But what about Justin,” John went on, “surely he didn’t want to do those things?”
“Justin was sof
ter than I am, poor fool. But he went for Aidan right enough. We’d both had enough of my mother’s complaints. It was a pleasure to take him out.”
“It might have been for you. But Justin paid the penalty,” John said softly.
“Enough talking, goodbye my friends,” Greville answered.
And with that a pistol fired, twice, in the half-light. The figure behind the desk rose to its feet, staggered a few steps towards them, then fell back with a groan. Despite everything, John’s training came to the fore and he rushed forward.
“Careful,” said Joe Jago’s voice behind him, and the Apothecary, reluctantly, slowed down.
Walking past him, Jago knelt down beside the body while John, at last, hurried to the window and let in some much-needed light.
There lay Greville, shot through the head and the heart, steeped in his own blood.
John stared at Joe and thought he had never seen his face more ragged, his expression sterner.
“So die all of his sort,” Joe said shortly and, blowing the end of his smoking pistol, put it away in his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The temptation to leg it through the window was almost overwhelming but Joe gathered his dignity round him like a cloak.
“I am an officer of the law and the man resisted arrest,” he announced. “That is what happened.”
John, kneeling over the body, grinned wryly. “Yes, I suppose it did. Joe, how did you shoot him? He had the gun in his hand.”
“Let it just be said that I was quicker than he was.”
“But I never realised you were such an excellent shot.”
A humourless smile crossed Joe’s features. “Another hobby of mine. Now enough. I am going back to the hostelry to have some breakfast and a large brandy. Will you accompany me or do you intend to stay here and answer questions?”
“I’ll come with you.”
As luck would have it the hall was empty, the servants obviously at work in another part of the building. None the less, Joe Jago insisted on leaving a note. It simply said, ‘Your master lies dead in the large salon. He died resisting arrest. If any need to speak to me on this matter I shall be at The Onslow Arms for the next few days.’
