Death in the Valley of Shadows

by Deryn Lake

  “If she wants to learn, that is.”

  “Of course.”

  Serafina laughed. “Don’t look so serious, John. Whether she is scholarly or whether she is a little gadfly, she will still be delightful.”

  “Provided she isn’t a boy.”

  “Oh stop it,” she said, and nudged him in the ribs.

  They walked round the lake, chattering and laughing, recalling old times and fond memories, the children running ahead of them. Eventually, though, the two adults sat down on a stone seat beneath a willow while the young people fed the swans with pieces of bread which they had brought with them especially.

  “Well, my dear,” said Serafina, her beautiful mouth smiling, “why are you really here?”

  He answered with another question. “You are only a few miles away from West Clandon. Do you know anyone who lives there?”

  “Of course. It’s no distance from us.”

  “And the people of Stoke d’Abemon village? Are you familiar with any of them?”

  Serafina narrowed her eyes. “This, I take it, is connected to the little errand for Sir John Fielding?”

  “You take correctly. The people I am interested in are the Bussells of Merrow Place and the Fenchurchs of Foxfire Hall, Stoke d’Abemon.”

  The Comtesse pursed her lips. “Strangely, the name Fenchurch is familiar. Did I not read in the newspaper that a merchant of that name had been done to death by footpads?”

  “You did.”

  Serafina was a jump ahead. “But the Public Office believe that there is more to it than that. That is why you are here.”

  “Utterly correct. There is evidence pointing to the fact that Fenchurch was killed by hired assassins. And there is other evidence linking Mrs. Bussell with the whole thing.”

  And then because he knew her so well and trusted completely both her integrity and ability to keep her own counsel, John told the Comtesse everything, even to the dramatic reappearance of Louisa and Lieutenant Mendoza at the lying-in-state of her father.

  “So the poor girl didn’t even know who was in the coffin?”

  “No.”

  “And had she eloped with the Lieutenant?”

  “I rather imagine so but didn’t have time to ascertain. There were bodies everywhere.” John grinned naughtily. “That remark sounds in very poor taste but truly there were fainting females as well as the deceased.”

  Serafina laughed, then frowned. “I’ve certainly heard of the Bussells. In fact I believe I was asked to dine by friends in West Clandon - the Onslows who live in Clandon House - and she was present. Is her name Ariadne and does she come from Bath?”

  “Yes to both. What did you make of her?”

  “I felt she wore two faces. One all smiles and laughs and another, much more ominous, lurking beneath. She’s not the type that I could make a friend of, or would want to for that matter.”

  “I think she’s highly dangerous.”

  “Did she murder her lover?”

  “Yes, I think so. But the point is that she has left town and appears to have gone into hiding, Sir John is mustard sharp to interview her personally. I think he is hoping to break her story down and get a confession.”

  “And will he?”

  John slowly shook his head. “I don’t believe so. For all her silly accent and big grins, she’s as tough as an old hunting saddle.”

  “Then she’ll get away with it?”

  “More than likely. If it cannot be proved that the killers were hired men and, if they were, who hired them, then there is no case to answer.”

  “I see. Well, my dear, we shall visit West Clandon tomorrow morning and take a good look round. We shall go in my carriage.”

  “Do you mind taking me there?”

  “On the contrary, I shall positively enjoy it,” said Serafina with relish.

  The evening was pleasant, passed in the company of two such dear friends as Comte Louis and his wife; though over dinner, the host made an alteration to the earlier plan.

  “I love to ride when I am out of town so shall you and I go to West Clandon on horseback, John? Serafina can follow in the coach.”

  “Serafina can do no such thing. I’ll ride with you,” his wife replied.

  This decided, they set off after an early breakfast, through the glades of Surrey that reached in an unbroken vista to the weald. To the east, in sweeps of woodland and copse, lay the downs and the villages of West and East Clandon, the de Vignolles’ residence being some five miles away. From the time of the Domesday survey, Clandon had always been two villages. the name coming from Clenedune, meaning clear of scrub. Thus, East Clandon had been Clenedune and West, Altera Clenedune. However, in the thirteenth century the names had changed to Clandon Abbatis for East and Clandon Regis for West, one being under the patronage of the church and the other under the patronage of the crown. Now, the two villages were simply West and East.

  As they climbed a small hill, Serafina pointed. “There, that’s Clandon House, where our friends the Onslows live.”

  “And Merrow Place?”

  “I presume it must be that other large house on the far side of the village.” Serafina shaded her eyes with her hand. “There’s someone at home. Look, there’s smoke rising from the chimneys.”

  “Yes,” said John, and sat very still for a moment, his horse not moving either, echoing his mood. Something, his instinct for trouble perhaps, told him that he was about to discover an important fact.

  “What is it?” asked Louis, sensing his friend’s change of mood.

  “I have the uncanny feeling that she’s there. Mrs. Bussell I mean. Lying low. Not letting herself be seen.”

  “Will you arrest her?”

  “Certainly not. I will simply report back to Sir John Fielding and let him take action.”

  “But how are you going to find out?” Serafina said. Both men silently turned to look at her. “Oh no,” she added.

  “Oh yes,” Louis replied. “Call and invite her to dine.”

  “She won’t fall into that trap. From what John says, she’s cunning as a vixen.”

  “But if you gain entry to the house there might be some giveaway sign. A pair of gloves tossed carelessly aside, an opened letter on a tray.”

  His wife let out peals of laughter. “You should write novels, my dear. Your imagination is running riot.”

  Louis looked as severe as only a Frenchman can. “That’s as may be. Now, will you call or won’t you?”

  “Very well. But what will you and John do in the meantime?”

  “We shall repair to the tavern.”

  “At this hour of the day?”

  “Yes,” said Louis grandly. “At this hour of the day indeed.”

  They trotted through the village, scaring the hens from the track, reining in outside the tavern. The Onslow Arms, where a gaffer sat on a stool, smoking a long pipe.

  “Is that Merrow Place?” asked John, pointing to the distant gates.

  “Aye, that’s the one. Nobody there, though.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “My daughter cleans up there. Only the servants in residence.”

  “There are a lot of fires burning,” Louis commented dryly.

  “Perhaps they like to keep warm,” answered the gaffer and wheezed with laughter, slapping his thigh and shaking his head.

  “Let me buy you some refreshment,” offered John, a great believer in using local information.

  The gaffer tugged his forelock and laughed again.

  “This, my darling,” Louis said to Serafina, “is where you brave it out.”

  She pulled the skirt of her riding habit out of the mud of the track, still churned up by the April showers, and adjusted her hat to an incisive angle. “Wish me luck.”

  “If she is there you will nose her out,” the Comte replied, and gallantly raising one of her hands to his lips, kissed it, then watched as she sped off, her back straight and strong, towards the gates of Merrow Place.

 
The gaffer turned out to be a wagonload of information. His daughter who cleaned at the big house knew much of the way of the rich folk, as he quaintly called them. Apparently, Montague and Ariadne did not share sleeping quarters, a fact which made John raise an eyebrow at Louis, who spoiled everything by laughing. But the truly interesting piece of news was that the couple had two sons, Justin and Greville, who frequently came to Surrey and lorded it round the place.

  “And how old might they be?” asked the Apothecary, refilling the old man’s ale pot.

  He scratched his head, a thick red thatch with very little grey in it. “Don’t know exactly. Both in their twenties would be my guess. They say that they have a contest between the pair of them as to how many village girls they can get into bed.”

  “At the same time, do you mean?”

  The gaffer wheezed another huge laugh. “Might be, for all I know. But I think they mean a list each. If you follow my meaning.”

  “And do these boys resemble their parents?”

  “No, big as blacksmiths, the pair of ‘em. Tis said their mother came from humble stock, from some place close by Bath, and that her father was a smith. So they’ve probably got their grandpa’s looks, hulking great brutes.”

  “How very interesting. Do they spend much time here?”

  “A fair bit. But they’ve got some other dwelling in London town where they gamble and womanise and live like the sons of a gentleman.”

  “They sound dreadful.”

  “I’ll say this for ‘em,” said the gaffer, “if they get a local girl in trouble they pay up and no questions asked.”

  “I suppose that’s a point in their favour,” Louis remarked dryly.

  “It certainly is, Sir. There’s a lot that don’t, you know.”

  The Comte, who had had quite a racy past before he settled down and made a success of his marriage, sighed. Perhaps at old memories, John thought.

  “So where are the lads at the moment? Are they in residence?”

  “Not they. I told you, there’s nobody there.”

  The Apothecary stared closely, trying to decide whether the old man was lying. “Well, when are the Bussells expected back? Surely your daughter must have some idea.”

  The gaffer gave them a very crafty look. “She only cleans up there. She’s not the housekeeper.”

  He was either much cleverer than he seemed, or else telling the simple truth, but it was hard to know which. John decided on one last attempt.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” he said, producing a handful of shillings. “But I am anxious to make contact with Mrs. Bussell so could you send word to me if she returns. I shall be at Scottlea Park for the next few days.” He held a guinea between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll offer this to the first person who brings me news of her.”

  The gaffer bent his head over his ale pot so that his expression was hidden. “Why so anxious, Sir?” he asked between swallows.

  “I have some business to discuss. London affairs,” the Apothecary answered smoothly.

  Louis came in. “If my friend has returned to town I shall be sure to pass any message on.”

  The gaffer squinted meaningfully. “But it may be before he goes,” he said, then finished his ale, held the pot out for a refill and refused to say any more.

  Serafina joined them thirty minutes later, sweeping into the tavern on her own, turning every head in the place.

  “Well?” said Louis.

  She indicated the gaffer by the merest inclination of her head. “My darling, I must return home. The children will be missing me.” Then, when nobody but her husband and John were looking, she slowly winked one eye. Sensing something positive, the Apothecary grinned.

  Once outside, though, Serafina said nothing. She allowed

  Louis to lift her into the saddle and immediately set off at a pace, not turning her head to look at the two men who cantered along behind.

  “She knows something,” shouted John with elation.

  The Comte grinned Gallicly. “She most certainly does. Come on, let’s overtake her.”

  But try as they would, Serafina, accomplished horsewoman that she clearly was, led them all the way and finally clattered into the stable yard ahead, lowering herself into the arms of the hostler, then hurrying into the house. By the time they had dismounted, she was nowhere to be seen.

  They found her in the drawing room, dressed in her riding clothes, her hat now at an extremely jaunty angle indeed. She raised a glass of champagne in their direction.

  “You saw her,” said Louis, pouring a glass for John and then one for himself.

  She smiled mischievously. “Not exactly, no.”

  “Mon Dieu, don’t torture us, Wife, I beg you. What happened?”

  Serafina drained her glass and sat down. “Well, I did not bother with the stables but went straight to the door, securing my horse to a pillar the meanwhile. This so disconcerted the servant who answered that I believe he took me for someone either mad or tipsy.”

  “Which you are, frequently - both.”

  The Comtesse ignored this and continued. “I presented my card, he ushered me into the hall. I said I had come to visit the lady of the house with an invitation to dine. He told me she was not at home. Then…”

  “Yes?” said John.

  “I heard the faintest scuffling, as if someone were still ascending the stairs, above my head, out of sight. And then…”

  Louis thrust his head into his hands. “For heaven’s sake, Serafina. I shall have a seizure in a minute.”

  “I smelt it.”

  “What?”

  “Her perfume. It came wafting down the stairwell on a cloud. There was no mistaking it. It is made by Charles Lillie and is sold to ladies of bon ton.”

  “Well, he made a mistake with her then,” said John, and laughed uproariously at his own joke.

  Serafina tutted disapproval. “Really, Mr. Rawlings, how could you interrupt thus?”

  “I beg your pardon. Pray continue.”

  “It is the sort of perfume that could not possibly be worn by a servant, however highly placed. No, she’s there all right, hiding out on the upper floors.”

  “Well, well,” said John. “I thought as much. I shall write to Sir John this very afternoon and Irish Tom can take the letter immediately to Bow Street. Then before the journey back he can call at Nassau Street and bring with him any messages.”

  “But what about Emilia? How will she get home from Kensington if Tom is here?”

  “As soon as I return I shall send him to fetch her. I don’t want her to delay a moment longer.”

  Louis looked thoughtful. “I wonder if the old gaffer knows that Mrs. Bussell is in hiding.”

  “I’m sure he does. He’ll probably be round for his guinea before nightfall.”

  “Crafty old devil.”

  “Enough of him,” said Serafina. “What about me? Have I helped your enquiries Mr. Rawlings?”

  “You will have assisted in bringing a villainess to justice. At least I hope that you will.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Serafina.

  “That even if Sir John Fielding frightens her to the best of his mighty ability, we have yet to see whether she will crack under the strain.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” asked Louis.

  “If she doesn’t, then she will get away with murder.”

  Chapter Seven

  Much as they had expected, just as the April evening fell, soft as a woman’s glove and full of the heady scent of flowers, the gaffer plodded up the drive in a dilapidated cart pulled by an old but serviceable horse. The three friends, who were sitting on the terrace, drinking in the gentle twilight, not saying a great deal but comfortable in one another’s company, exchanged cynical glances.

  “I thought as much,” Louis remarked, watching the old fellow draw to a halt and make his way to the back of the house.

  “He’s tempted by the guinea but I don’t think he’ll tell us everything,” John answer
ed. “He’ll want to keep in with the rich folk when all’s said and done.”

  And he was right. The gaffer, who refused to enter the main part of the house because of his boots, said nothing about Mrs. Bussell but did offer the information that Justin and Grenville had arrived from town that very evening.

  “They’re bucks of the first head, they two. They’re in the tavern now, sinking bumpers and playing bumble-puppy.”

  Serafina looked thoughtful. “I’ve a mind to invite them here for cards. Tomorrow night perhaps. What do you think, my dears?” She turned to the two men.

  “Excellent plan,” said John. “I imagine they’re the sort who’ll get drunk and grow loose-mouthed.”

  “As long as they behave themselves and don’t vomit,” answered Louis, “I have no objection.”

  The gaffer looked hopeful. “Have I told you enough, Sir?”

  “No,” said John, “you haven’t. I think the Bussells are in residence and that their sons have come to join them for a few days. I also think that you are a prime example of one who runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds. What’s your name?”

  “Rob, Sir.”

  “Well, Rob, here’s your guinea. You haven’t earned it, mind. But you might be of use to me in the future so I am going to give it to you out of the goodness of my heart. Now, keep your eyes open.”

  “I will, Sir. You can rely on me. Watchful, that’s what I am.” And after a great deal of forelock-tugging, he was gone.

  They returned to the terrace and watched the moon rise.

  “Tom will be back in London by now,” said Serafina, rather sleepily.

  “Yes, and drink all night with his Irish cronies but still be back here by noon. That man has the constitution of a dray horse.”

  “I wonder if he’ll have word of Emilia.”

  “I wonder,” John answered, and suddenly felt an urgent need to see his wife and tell her that all was well with him and that he would not leave her side again until the baby had been born.

  He didn’t know whether he was reassured or not when the coachman returned with a letter from her. Rather anxiously, John broke the seal.