by Deryn Lake
John bowed. “Madam, Sir, we meet again. The name is Rawlings, John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly.”
“Gilbert,” replied the other. “Henry Gilbert and my wife Martha.”
Everyone bowed once more. “You have known the family long?” John enquired politely.
“I was a childhood friend of Dorothy Millard, who married Aidan Fenchurch. Foxfire Hall was her home you know, but her father sold it to Aidan when his debts became too crippling, so the old place has stayed in the family. They were a bad lot the Millard brothers, inveterate gamblers and profligates, the pair of em.
“I see,” said John looking wise and thinking to himself that somewhere within these recollections there might lie a valuable bit of information.
“Anyway, Aidan was steady enough, restored the Hall where old Millard had let it fall into disrepair. The girls were here a lot when they were small.”
“So you know them well too?”
“Yes. Of course, little Louisa is my favourite…”
“That’s because she’s the prettiest,” interrupted Martha.
“But it seems she’s married another ne’er-do-well.”
“Lieutenant Mendoza? Is he a bad lot then?”
“Very poor family, so they say. Church mice. Anyway, Louisa will be a wealthy young woman now that her father is dead. I believe he left substantial amounts to all three girls, to say nothing of Foxfire and the London house. Rich pickings for someone.” He rubbed his hands together.
“You shouldn’t gossip, Henry,” Martha reprimanded. “We’re here to grieve not gabble.”
John decided on a direct approach. He looked musing. “So, many people stood to benefit from poor Mr. Fenchurch’s death it would appear.”
“Many indeed,” came the reply.
They were nearing the top of the queue and John saw Ariadne Bussell, conker eyes abrim with tears, step up to Evalina.
“Oh my dear,” she said, Bath accent rich.
The eldest of the three sisters flashed her father’s ex-mistress a dark, unfathomable look. “Mrs. Bussell,” she said between clenched teeth.
This day Evalina looked terrible, the port wine stain seeming redder and more noticeable than ever. If one added to this the redness of her eyes and the flush in her unblemished cheek, she looked like a study in crimson. Despite her penchant for swooning, John felt genuinely sorry for her.
Aidan’s Shadow seemed unable to realise the woman’s wretched state, however. “Know that you have all my sympathies,” she said loudly, as if delivering a speech to the rest of the room. “If ever you need a mother to talk to, then you may rely on me.
Evalina looked stricken but made no reply and it was left to Millicent to say, “How kind of you, Mrs. Bussell.”
Jocasta’s voice, sharp with suspicion, came in. “I know how close you were to my late father, Madam.”
She gave Mrs. Bussell what the Apothecary could only think of as a dark look from eyes that were so reminiscent of his except in their colour. Nor had she finished yet.
“Mr. Bussell, you must comfort your wife. Why, her grief is as profound as if she had lost a husband rather than a friend,” Jocasta continued.
John caught himself thinking that Mrs. Rayner might well have been lying. That she had always known of her father’s attachment to Mrs. Bussell.
Montague gave a silly laugh but the Apothecary could see he was put out by the remark.
“Grief affects us all differently,” he answered shortly.
“Indeed it does.”
They passed down the receiving line, Mrs. Bussell raising an eyeglass to inspect Lieutenant Mendoza more closely, then simpering at him before she returned to the body of the Hall where a footman served punch to those who had paid their respects. It was very strong, John thought, as he took a sip.
“So,” said Henry Gilbert, “a new chapter begins in the history of this great house. Who is to inherit, do you know?”
“I think Mrs. Rayner. She intends to live here with Miss Millicent, I believe.”
“That should liven the place up!” the old rogue said sarcastically.
“You are impossible!” his wife remonstrated. “Poor Mr. Rawlings.”
John spread his hands. “No, really, I…” But he got no further. There was a sudden commotion at the back of the Hall and in company with everyone else, all mingling and refreshing themselves by now, the family dutifully serving their guests to help out the servants, the Apothecary turned to see what had caused it.
He stared, his eyes, popping. Runners Dick Ham and Nick Raven, totally ignoring the two protesting footmen who were trying to stop them, had entered the Hall. Runner Raven, who was small and dark and totally suited to his surname, strode in and bowed to Evalina.
“Madam, is there a Mrs. Ariadne Bussell present?”
The poor woman went redder than ever and gasped out, “Yes, there,” and pointed a trembling finger.
Nick crossed the Great Hall, seemingly oblivious to all the staring faces. “Madam,” he said in ringing tones, “I must ask you to accompany me peacefully. I have the power of arrest but prefer not to use it.”
“What is all this?” she demanded furiously.
“Sir John Fielding wishes to see you at Bow Street. It is in connection with the death of Mr. Aidan Fenchurch.”
“My God,” said Ariadne and fell backwards onto her husband, who promptly lost his balance and crashed to the floor, where he lay, looking dazed.
“I’ll not accompany you anywhere,” she said contemptuously, glaring at the Runner from her supine position.
“Then I arrest you,” Nick answered calmly. “Madam, come with me.”
Chapter Eight
It was quite extraordinary, thought John. Walking into Serafina’s salon, lit by candles, all of which were reflected in the many gilt- edged mirrors that hung round the walls, it was as if the dramatic events of that afternoon had never taken place. For there, lounging back in chairs, trying to look like negligent young men about town and not quite succeeding, were what could only be Justin and Greville Bussell, totally unaware of their mother’s arrest and the subsequent undignified scene which had ensued. Slightly aghast, John walked up to the table.
Serafina looked up, saw who it was, and flashed the Apothecary a signal with her eyes. He signalled back that he must speak to her in private. She understood and got to her feet.
“Gentlemen, if we could halt play for a few minutes. Allow me to introduce my house guest, John Rawlings. John, may I present Justin and Greville Bussell.”
Neither of the brothers Bussell got to their feet, obviously considering themselves too versed in the ways of high society to bother with ordinary courtesies. They did, however, look up from the hand of cards that each was holding. Justin, John saw, was tall, with thick dark features and the same conker-coloured eyes as his mother. He gave a half-hearted smile in the direction of the new arrival and the Apothecary saw that he had also inherited the formidable teeth of his dam. Teeth which had positively gnashed the air as Mrs. Bussell had been manhandled, kicking and yelling, out of the Great Hall and into the waiting Bow Street coach.
Greville, on the other hand, was slightly smaller, though that didn’t say much. John guessed that the pair of lumpkins must both loom over six feet in height. But still the snapping eyes dominated; a family characteristic that John did not care for at all.
“How do?” said Justin lazily.
Greville tried a little harder. “A pleasure, Sir.”
The Apothecary was furious, so much so that he actually felt his heart beat speed up. He gave the most stylish bow in his repertoire, kissed his fingers into the air and said, “Gentlemen, your reputation precedes you. You are the toast of West Clandon. I salute you.”
They stared at him suspiciously, vividly reminding John of a pair of plough-pulling oxen, and not too bright into the bargain. He couldn’t help it. “Moo,” he added.
Serafina fluttered brightly. “John, my dear, pray step outsid
e a moment. I must find you a book. We are involved in whist but are due to have supper soon.”
It was a feeble excuse but it got them out of the room and into the passageway, beyond earshot.
“What happened?” she whispered. “Did you get to the funeral?”
“I did indeed. And, my dear, it was more than dramatic. The Runners arrived at the wake and arrested the mother of those two oafs - or is it oaves? - who was hauled off without further ado.”
Serafina’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands in excitement. “What did her husband do?”
“At first he looked like an astonished rodent.”
“I’ve never seen one of those,” interrupted Serafina with a smile.
“Now don’t start,” admonished the Apothecary. “Then he suffered some sort of change of heart and muttered ‘Nemesis’ beneath his breath, but loud enough for those closest to hear. After that he rallied and became the concerned husband, asking the Runners where they were taking his wife and whether he could accompany her.”
“What did they say?”
“No. But he was at liberty to follow them to Bow Street from whence he would be allowed to escort Mrs. Bussell home, providing Sir John Fielding saw fit.”
“Meaning?”
“That the Magistrate has the power to hold her in custody.”
“Gracious me. What happened next?”
“The wake turned into a near riot. Evalina swooned in style. Cousin Millicent quivered, Jocasta attempted to restore order with no success, and for no reason that I could see. Lieutenant Mendoza drew his sword. The rest drank as rapidly as they possibly could.”
Serafina suddenly looked serious. “What do we do about the sons? Tell them?”
John thought in silence, then said, “Best not. Let it come from their father. They’ve no idea of my connection with the case, have they?”
“None at all. I invited them here as a neighbourly gesture, saying that Louis and I would love to play cards with them.”
“Have you shown them your mettle yet?”
“I’ve held back but now they are beginning to bore me so after supper I shall concentrate.”
John laughed. “God help them. A mother under arrest, a father muttering ‘nemesis’, and you playing them at whist. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
Serafina did not smile. “I wonder what Bussell meant by that. Do you think it indicates that he knew all along about his wife’s affair with Aidan Lenchurch?”
“That was the impression I got, yes.”
“And does he think she had Lenchurch murdered?”
“That I couldn’t say.”
“What a strange affair it is,” said Serafina as they returned to the salon.
John sat apart while the others played on, ostensibly reading but in fact not seeing the words at all, turning the events of the wake over and over in his head. What had brought about the sudden change in Montague Bussell’s attitude? There was no doubt that momentarily the mask had slipped and the affable husband had been replaced by someone else; someone who considered that Ariadne deserved all she got. But did that extend to believing she had murdered the former object of her affections, John wondered. Deciding that somehow or other he must talk to the duped Mr. Bussell and find out more, the Apothecary attempted to concentrate.
Behind him he heard Serafina call out, “Gentlemen, let us pause for supper. If you would follow me…”
But she got no further. From the drive came the sound of horses hooves clattering at speed and a coach being driven recklessly towards the house.
Louis shot to his feet. “What the devil…?” And he hurried to the front door.
The brothers Bussell, roused at last from their act of blase young bucks, looked round in some surprise but still remained too lethargic to leave their chairs. John, sensing danger, left the room and joined Louis, standing with his footmen, watching the carriage hurl itself towards the entrance. As it drew nearer, with a shock he recognised it.
“It’s the Runners!” he exclaimed. “What in heaven’s name are they doing here? They should be half way to Bow Street by now.”
Louis shook his head, as startled as John, as the conveyance drew to a halt with a rear of horses and Runners Ham and Raven jumped down from the coachman’s box.
“What’s going on?” called John. A mad idea occurred to him. “Has she escaped?”
“It’s a bit worse than that, Sir,” said Dick, giving the briefest bow to John and Louis.
“Then what…?”
“She was taken ill on the way to town. And I mean seriously ill, gentlemen.”
With that he threw open the door of the carriage and the foul smell of vomit and excrement hit the nostrils like an evil gas.
“God’s grace,” said John. “What happened?”
“First of all she was violently sick. Repeatedly so. We tried to keep her head out of the window but she became too weak to stand. Then she lost control of her bowels and soiled herself.”
“All the while she was rolling in agony,” put in Dick Ham. “God’s life, Mr. Rawlings, but we had no alternative but to take the wretched woman home.”
“Is she there now?”
“Yes, we managed to get her into the hall but there she collapsed.”
“No doubt they’ll send for a physician but I’d better go to her meanwhile,” said John, already turning to race upstairs to fetch his medical bag.
“You can’t travel in the coach, Sir,” answered Nick Raven firmly. “It’s like a midden. Tomorrow, by daylight, we must swab it out and somehow try to make it sweet-smelling again.”
“Take it to the stables but stand it well away from the other carriages,” Louis ordered. “Then, gentlemen, make your way to the kitchens. I’ll see to it that you are given some good brandy. You look in need of something strong.”
John turned to him. “The sons. What do we tell them?”
“Simply that a messenger has come from the big house and that they are to return home immediately.”
“But won’t they find out?”
“It will be too late by then.” Louis gave a Frenchman’s shrug.
Serafina joined them in the hall. “What’s going on?”
“Fetch those two bumpkins,” her husband answered. “Mrs. Bussell was taken ill in the coach. John is going to her now. They must leave immediately.”
Hoping for a lift, the Apothecary’s wishes were dashed. On Louis’s instructions, two large horses were brought round and the brothers swung into the saddle and were off, with their customary lack of charm leaving John to sort out his own transport.
“I don’t feel like taking an unknown road in the darkness.”
“Could you drive a gig?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound too certain. I’ll send one of the servants with you.”
So it was that the Apothecary, in company with one of Louis’s stable boys, set off in the direction of Merrow Place, wondering what he would find there and what could possibly have caused Mrs. Ariadne Bussell’s sudden and violent attack of sickness.
As soon as he entered her bedroom, John knew that she was dying. She was drained of all colour and the snapping eyes were closed. The great mouth was open, however, and through it she was breathing in shallow gasps. Luckily for the Apothecary, the family physician had not yet been found and so he was able to make an examination for himself.
Very quickly, he drew back the bedclothes, recoiling at the smell of Ariadne’s napkin, a large version of the type put on babies. He spoke to her maid, more tersely than he meant to.
“Change this. Give the poor creature a little dignity.”
“But it’s such a struggle, Sir, and she’ll only fill it again.”
“I don’t think so. Change it and send for her sons.” A thought struck him. “Where is Mr. Bussell?”
“In his study.”
So he hadn’t gone to London in pursuit of his wife. Or had he seen the Runners’ coach turn round? Whatever, it
was as well that he was present.
John took Ariadne’s pulse and raised one eyelid. A conker eye regarded him glazedly. Then, as the maid turned her back, searching for fresh linen, he examined Mrs. Bussell’s lips and tongue. Neither were swollen. Yet though this ruled out any of the Wolfsbane venoms, John felt utterly convinced that this was not simply an attack of severe food poisoning. In fact he was sure that Ariadne had been deliberately poisoned. With a lurch of his heart, the Apothecary realised that the principal suspect in the case of the murder of Aidan Fenchurch was about to die herself, thus sending all their neat conclusions reeling. But there was no further time to think; the brothers, one on each side of their father, were coming into the room.
Justin eyed John suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“I am an apothecary, Mr. Bussell. I came to offer your mother any help I could give. But, alas, she is too far gone.”
“What do you mean by that? What are you saying?”
“That your mother is dying, Sir, and is beyond my skills.”
“But why?” asked Montague. “She was all right this morning.” He eyed John suspiciously. “Who are you anyway? Ain’t you something to do with that wretched Fielding fellow?”
“I assist Sir John occasionally,” John answered. “But this is not the moment to go down that path, Sir. Save your thoughts for your wife.”
Montague went to the bedside. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “What could cause this change to happen so suddenly?”
“I would imagine that something was administered to Mrs. Bussell. That, other than food poisoning, is the only explanation.”
The little man faced John truculently. “I think you’re a fraud and a fake, Sir. Out of my house, d’ye hear? Let’s get a physician to her at once.”
“Dr. Bowles has been sent for, Father. They’re out looking for him now.”
“Meanwhile, you are to leave at once.”
“Certainly, Sir,” answered John, and was just about to make a dignified exit when there was a huge gasp from Ariadne.