Death in the Valley of Shadows

by Deryn Lake

  “There, that’s done,” he said, and marched out of the front door.

  Never before, thought John, had he seen him in such a ruthless mood, nor quite so hard of purpose. Lost in wonderment, he followed on, almost blindly, to where the horses were tethered.

  “Joe?” he said, as Jago began to unloop the reins.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you really going to leave it like that?”

  “What?”

  “Greville. After all, the man is dead.”

  “Mr. Rawlings,” said Joe, suddenly earnest, “if he had not have died, we would. It was a case of him or us. I had spoken the words of arrest but he did not come quietly. Now, truly, that is all I have to say on the matter.”

  And with that the Apothecary was forced to be satisfied.

  The only sign of weakness that Joe Jago exhibited was to drink two big draughts with his breakfast. Then, whilst still consuming the third, he turned to John.

  “Well, Sir, do we head for Foxfire Hall?”

  “It’s still only nine o’clock, we’ll be there by mid morning. I think we should get it over, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “In fact the sooner we draw this wretched business to its conclusion the better it will be for all of us.”

  So, almost on the dot of half-past nine, the two riders set out in the direction of Stoke d’Abemon and the great house of shadows, as John now thought of it, that lay beyond. He shivered, remembering the first time he had driven there with Irish Tom on the box and how they had followed the River Wey’s meanderings until finally they had come to a track. Now he and Jago took the same route, passing through dense woodland as they did so.

  “How much longer?” asked Joe.

  “About another thirty minutes or so.”

  They rode on a mile or two and then the rain, which had been threatening since daybreak, arrived, drenching them.

  “I don’t care for this at all,” said Joe, pulling up in the shelter of some trees, and at that precise moment his mount cast a shoe. “Damnation!” he exclaimed, and slid from the saddle to have a look at Finn’s hoof. The shoe was almost completely off, sticking out at an angle and secured by only one nail. “I’ll have to get to a smithy,” he said. And at that proceeded to yank out the one remaining nail with the aid of a knife retrieved from his coat pocket.

  “There’s bound to be one in Stoke d’Abemon.”

  “Yes. I’ll get there as best I can.”

  They proceeded on slowly, scarcely able to see because of the driving rain. Then, at last, the spire of St. Mary’s appeared in the distance, recognisable because of its openwork wood beneath.

  “I’ll see you to the forge, then I’ll go on to the house,” said John.

  “Is that wise?”

  “Our poisoner won’t suspect me. I promise I’ll behave in a perfectly normal manner until you come.”

  “Very well, but take care. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  The forge was easy to find in that small, insular community. And there Joe Jago, still warning the Apothecary to take no risks, parted from him. Water streaming from his hat and running down his nose, John noticed fondly in a farewell look over his shoulder. With a feeling of portent, he trotted through the downpour towards Foxfire Hall.

  The lodge gates stood open, though the keeper was around in his garden, protected by a burly oilskin. In reply to a shouted question, he yelled back that the family were in residence and had visitors.

  “But you’ll be welcome, Sir.”

  I wonder, thought John. But he showed none of his fears and gave a salute as he passed up the drive.

  The house which in summer would be heavy with the scent of roses, looked dismal in the rain. Yet even despite the inclement weather nothing could take from its grandeur, nor from the mellowness of its brickwork. John paused a moment on the steps and sighed before he rang the bell. It was a loathsome task he had come to do, to drag out of the bosom of the family a well-loved member, accusing them of hideous crimes. Yet he knew that there was nothing he could do except this. That he must put a stop to the poisoner’s hand before it struck again. For the fact that the poisoner was totally insane he did not doubt for one moment.

  A footman admitted him to the Great Hall. “The family are showing the visitors the Valley of Shadows, Sir. A foolish caprice but one which they are fond of on wet days.” The man smiled benignly.

  “Quite so,” said John. “I shall wait in the parlour.”

  But no sooner was the servant out of view than the Apothecary, drawn against his will but for all that acting under a compulsion that refused to leave him, mounted the Grand Staircase and made his way to the Long Gallery. As ever, his eyes turned instantly to the portrait of Lady Tewkesbury which hung, dominating all, at the end. John found his feet turning in that direction, even though every instinct warned him not to do so.

  Once again he gazed into that secretive Tudor face, trying desperately to read its hidden message. But, as ever, she looked back at him inscrutably, refusing to be drawn. John’s eyes dropped to the monkey which stood, pathetically, in the background, forever captured in paint, as much a victim as the sitter herself. Then, before he could stop himself, his hand had reached out to the panelling below the portrait and had started to press. And this time, almost as if it were expecting him, the panel whirred back. John stared into the darkness beyond and then, quite slowly and deliberately, stepped into it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was a terrible sensation, stepping into the blackness. Yet he was aware that a room lay beyond, a room which would become familiar to him as soon as his eyes adjusted to the light. The Apothecary stayed absolutely still and a familiar whirring sound behind him told him that the panel had closed again. But then he realised that a candle was burning, admittedly very low but for all that casting a faint illumination. Mustering his wits as best he could, the Apothecary headed for it.

  It stood on the mantelpiece above the great fireplace, guttering in the airless room. Yet somebody had placed it there and not long ago at that, judging by the amount still left to bum. The Apothecary spoke.

  “Is there anybody there?”

  There was no answer, other than for a faint rustling which could have been a rat or mouse.

  “Who’s there?” he called.

  Again no answer but this time he distinctly heard a very faint giggle.

  “Look, I know you think this is funny, but I don’t. Show yourself, damn you.”

  The candle blew out suddenly and shockingly, leaving John peering into the shadows.

  “Where are you?” he said, and there, in the gloom, he felt his pistol in his pocket and drew it out silently.

  Again there came that unearthly giggle; an eerie, frightening sound which had every hackle on his body on end.

  “Come and find me,” whispered a voice that seemed neither of this world nor the next.

  “Where are you?” John answered tersely.

  But once more there was that disembodied laugh, followed by a very slight movement. John lunged in the direction from which he thought it came but there was nothing there.

  “Catch me,” said the murmuring voice and this time there was a stirring at the door leading to the corridor.

  So this was to be it. John was going to have to trap his victim. Holding his gun firmly, the Apothecary made for the passageway which lay beyond the room.

  But here he was forced to stop and take stock. As he knew from his earlier experience in this dread place, the corridor ran both right and left. But which way his quarry had gone was not at all clear. To his left lay the staircase and eventual freedom, to his right, dark and frightening, lay the other part of the corridor - and the unknown. Still the Apothecary hesitated and then, quite distinctly, he heard a noise. Without hesitation he plunged into the mysterious path on the right.

  He was ill-prepared for this venture, having no candle on him. Then he remembered his tinderbox and struck a tinder. He was given a momentary
glance of a winding passageway before it went out and he was thrust once more into blackness. Then as he stood still, blinking, a faint glow ahead of him told him everything. He was not only going in the right direction but he was gaining on his quarry - his giggling, faceless prey - and would soon catch up.

  A sense of elation mixed with his fear and took him forward towards the candlelight, creeping silently, his pistol still in his hand. Nearer and nearer he drew, the illumination getting ever brighter, till at last he made out that it came from a room leading off the corridor. Quietly, John drew level with the entrance and peered inside.

  He was reminded, instantly and vividly, of the den of a wizard of storybook fame. For there were retorts and alembics and copper pans, a pestle and mortar and knives. This room, which was a natural one formed by the rock, had many candles, either sticking onto the rock where natural shelves occurred, or also in elegant holders, quite at odds with the rest of their surroundings. Almost against his will, the Apothecary took a couple of steps inside.

  A voice spoke from the doorway. “Hello, Mr. Rawlings,” and he heard a pistol cock.

  What instinct made him throw himself flat he never afterwards could tell. But flat he went and the shot passed clean over his head. Turning, from where he lay, John aimed at the arm of the person in the doorway and fired. There was a scream and then the sound of someone falling to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, John hurried to the person, lifting them up in his arms. She was wounded but not badly.

  “Pass me that drink on the table, I beg you,” she gasped. “It will revive me.”

  “More likely kill you,” John answered tersely. “You’ve poisoned everyone. I can just see you, sidling in and out of society. Poor Miss Prim, the impoverished relation. And all the time you had murder in your heart. But why, in God’s name? Why?”

  She looked at him and gave the most wicked smile he had ever seen in his entire life. “Because I loved the three sisters. I wanted it just as it used to be. Just the four of us. That’s why I killed Horatio Rayner. He led my girl a merry dance with his philandering. Jocasta was always my favourite, you know. Oh, Mr. Rawlings, please pass me that drink.”

  He shook his head. “Go on.”

  “Then those wicked youths killed Aidan. So I poisoned Ariadne’s glass at the wake, then I invited Montague to tea and served him poisoned cake.”

  John shook his head in wonderment. “You are an expert, aren’t you? A mistress of venoms.”

  She giggled, high and slightly frantic. “I know a great deal, yes.”

  He lowered her gently to the floor. “Listen, I’ll tie up your wound then I’ll go and get help. I don’t think I can carry you out, even though you are no more than a featherweight. It’s very rough underfoot.”

  “Oh leave me be, Mr. Rawlings. You won’t be long. I’m certain of it.”

  He picked up a candle tree. “No, I won’t, I promise,” he said grimly.

  Then, having dressed her wound as best he could, John hurried down the corridor to the left and out into the open countryside, where he ran as fast as he could back towards Foxfire Hall.

  The same footman, looking frankly astonished to see him back at the front door, let him in and he was shown immediately into the Great Hall. But this time Jocasta was there in advance of him, surrounded by a jolly group of people. John saw Louisa, Lieutenant Mendoza, even Mrs. Trewellan and Sperling were among the merrymakers. Jocasta’s thin face turned towards him, then transformed itself with a wonderful smile.

  What a contrast, John thought, with the smile the poisoner had given him a mere thirty minutes ago.

  “Mr. Rawlings… John…” she began. “How lovely to see you.”

  He cut across her, hating himself for doing so. “I’m afraid there has been an accident,” he said. “One of your party has been shot.”

  Everyone, who had been buzzing with some strange excitement, suddenly went quiet.

  “An accident?” repeated Jocasta. “Shot, you say?”

  “Yes. I suppose you know who it is?”

  “No, I really can’t think.”

  Was it John’s imagination or had all their faces assumed a mask-like expression, as if they had closed ranks against him? In his mind’s eye they took a step towards him.

  And then, from the Grand Stairs came a trilling voice.

  “Cooee. Are you there?”

  Everyone turned, including John, and slowly, agonisingly slowly, Cousin Millicent came into view. She was covered in blood, which dripped from the wound in her arm, and she shambled rather than walked. Yet her face was smiling, quite radiantly.

  “Ah, there you all are,” she called, and tripped on the first stair, righting herself before anyone could make a move.

  John stood frozen, aware that Millicent had not only raised herself from the floor but that she had come back, presumably through the picture in the Gallery, and had made her way to the Grand Staircase. She was in a pitiable state, the skirt and bodice of her gown dyed red, but when she stumbled once more on the next step, he narrowed his eyes. Surely the wound alone would not make her that weak; surely some additional substance was causing her to be so unsteady. And then it came to him.

  In a flash John elbowed everyone else out of the way and raced up the stairs to where Millicent was struggling at the top of the third step.

  “What have you taken?” he said urgently. “Tell me, just tell me.

  She collapsed downwards, falling awkwardly into his arms. Then gave him another look, but this one not evil, merely peaceful.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, then she contorted, twisting sideways, and died.

  Why he wept, John had no idea. But cry he did, as he sat in the small parlour, comforted by everyone, which somehow made things worse.

  The entire story was relayed, in all its horror, even to the poisoning of Horatio Rayner.

  Jocasta went very white. “So she was responsible. My God! And to think the mushrooms were blamed. They, and the poor wretched cook.”

  John got a grip on himself. “She was quite insane, you know.”

  Jocasta nodded slowly. “Oh yes, it was all to do with obsession. She was utterly in love with my father. And I suppose she was happy just to be under the same roof as he was. But when Justin and Greville did for him, then they unleashed her in all her cruelty.”

  “Was it her you meant when you wrote ‘There is a Poisoner in our Midst’?”

  Jocasta flushed. “Yes. You see, I witnessed something at Father’s wake though at the time I thought nothing of it. I had seen Millicent - or rather, I thought I had - tip something into Mrs. Bussell’s glass. I don’t know why I told you, trying to help you I suppose. But when you faced me with it, I said Montague Bussell. I just couldn’t bring myself to name her. You see, despite all, I loved her.”

  It was a simple statement, yet said with great sincerity. So much so that John felt the spring in his eyes once more but deliberately forced them away. He cleared his throat.

  “Something kept nagging in my brain, something I knew I should connect. But it wasn’t until I thought of Horatio and the mushrooms and who was present at the time, that the veils finally fell.”

  Jocasta lowered her voice and looked the Apothecary straight in the eye. “Poor Horatio, he considered himself quite the ladies’ man, you know. Yet, in fact, he was treated by them as a figure of fun. Everyone felt so sorry for me but there was truly no need.”

  “Did you love him?” John asked.

  “No, I was fond of him,” she answered in the same even tones. She stood up from where she had been kneeling beside John. “May I get you another brandy?” she asked, speaking quite normally.

  “If you would be so good.” He held out his glass.

  “I have some news for you,” she said, her back turned, busy with the decanter.

  “What is that?” John asked, suddenly weary from all the day’s activities.

  “I am going to marry Mr. Swann.”

  And she turned to look at
him. In her smile John saw immense future happiness for his old friend and also for Jocasta herself. He got to his feet.

  “My very dear girl,” he said, and grubby and smelly that he was, he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  June came, that gentle month, and in the middle there was a sweet little wedding in St. Mary’s, Stoke d’Abemon. It was very quiet, only family and friends attending. John, who had started to think that the day would never come, willingly stood as bridegroom’s witness to his old and dear friend Samuel Swann. Old Mr. Swann, well in his seventies, attended, as did Sir Gabriel Kent, very fine in a suit of silver and black.

  The bride, clad in crimson velvet, came up the aisle on the arm of Lieutenant Philip Mendoza and there, at the altar, the former Jocasta Rayner became Jocasta Swann. John, dashing a tear away, signed the register and then everyone repaired back to the great mansion, Foxfire Hall, to celebrate.

  The first roses were out and the house looked at its best as the carriages rolled up outside and the guests disembarked. Within, the shadows were gone and all was jolly. And John and Emilia, with their baby Rose, who slept most of the time and made no trouble, drank toasts and then danced well into the night. Eventually, though, it was time for the ancient ceremony of preparing the bride and groom for the bedchamber. So, at last John got a few moments for talk with his great friend.

  “My dear,” he said, “so you’ve done it at last.”

  “Samuel nodded. I was thirty-one last month. I am sure you looked on me as a confirmed old bachelor.”

  This he said with a great deal of joviality, expecting his friend to disagree. Which, politely, John did. But, in truth, he had begun to worry that all Samuel’s romances seemed doomed to failure and had half expected him to end on the shelf.