by Deryn Lake
The three men turned back to the bed, though John remained exactly where he was. But there was no need to examine her closely to see that the Shadow had breathed her last. With that final exhalation the dark eyes flew open and one hand, tense a second before, hung limply over the side of the bed. It would seem that from beyond the grave, Aidan Fenchurch had been avenged.
“Mon Dieu,” said Louis, shivering as John described the scene. “What happened then?”
“The boys looked suitably grim but did not cry. As for Bussell, he struck the maid.”
“He what?” exclaimed Serafina, shocked.
“He clouted the maid. Blamed her for not sending for help sooner. Said Ariadne would be alive but for her. Then he hit her again and walked out of the room. I think he would have struck me too but I managed to get out ahead of him.”
The Comtesse looked pensive. “That suggests to me that he has a very nasty streak. He probably poisoned her himself and thought that that was a clever way of deflecting the blame.”
“Strangely enough, my dear,” said John, downing a strong brandy, “that is exactly what I thought too.”
“I believe this case is simpler than we all reckoned,” Louis remarked, stretching his long legs towards the fire and placing his folded hands behind his head. “I think Bussell paid two assassins to remove his wife’s lover and then got rid of her by poisoning her food or drink.”
“That would suggest a certain amount of expert knowledge.”
Louis shrugged. “If he didn’t do it himself he probably paid someone else. He’s rich enough.”
John nodded. “You may well be right. It certainly makes a neat pattern. My God, there’s a lot to report to Sir John.”
“Will you leave tomorrow?” Serafina asked.
“Yes, bright and early. Much as I have enjoyed your delightful hospitality, I have been here too long as it is. I only hope that I get back before Emilia. She will not be best pleased if she and her mother return to an empty house.”
“No,” the Comtesse agreed, “she won’t. John, you must put her first from now on. I know you love solving mysteries for the Public Office but that is not the most important thing in your life any more.”
He nodded. “I know. Believe me, I am a reformed character. Once I have reported the latest turn of events to Sir John, I shall devote myself entirely to my family.”
“Yes,” said Louis, his voice suspiciously expressionless, “I’m absolutely sure you will.” Then he and Serafina exchanged a glance in which lay both fondness and exasperation.
“Will you be going to Bow Street first, Sir, or shall I take you straight home?” Irish Tom called down from the coachman’s box.
“Bow Street,” John answered. “The court should soon be rising for the dining hour. I’ll make my report to Sir John, then I can devote myself totally to home duties.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Rawlings is back yet.”
“I hope not. I want to be there to welcome her.”
“She’ll be very close to her time, won’t she.”
It was a statement not a question and John, hearing the words, felt such a thrill of apprehension that he almost countermanded his instruction to go to the Public Office. But then good sense prevailed. Better by far to get the last bit of business over so that all his time could be devoted to Emilia and the child that was to come.
The Blind Beak had just arrived in his first floor salon, the room that John knew and loved so well, and was allowing himself a preprandial glass of sherry. Elizabeth Fielding was in the chair opposite his but the precocious Mary Ann, their adopted daughter, was elsewhere, somewhat to the Apothecary’s relief. He did not find it easy to relate some of the more lurid details of a case in front of her, yet as a guest was not really in a position to suggest that she leave the room.
Sir John listened in his customary silence but Lady Fielding reacted amazingly, looking utterly astonished at the news that the principal suspect had died.
“Do you think she was poisoned?” the Magistrate finally asked.
“Yes, I do. No stomach complaint could manifest so quickly and claim a life, other than for genuine food poisoning, of course.”
“And you believe that impossible?”
“I can’t say for sure. I don’t know what she ate that day but I imagine that as they were going to a funeral both she and Mr. Bussell would have eaten lightly.”
“Um. Where are the Runners at present?”
“They have retired to the inn awaiting your instructions, Sir John.”
“I’ll get word to them straight away. I want them to check with the cook exactly what Mrs. Bussell consumed before she left for the funeral. But I tend to agree with Comte Louis.”
“In what regard?”
“I think that originally we went down the wrong track. In hindsight I believe that Montague Bussell seethed with jealousy, that he knew all about her affair with Mr. Fenchurch and her subsequent unrelenting pursuit of her victim. I think he is responsible for both their deaths.”
“But why poison Mrs. Bussell at the wake? For it must have been then if the timing of her falling sick is anything to go by.”
“To deflect suspicion from himself. Anybody could have tipped something into her glass or sprinkled a substance onto her food in that crush. You say that there was a goodly crowd present?”
John nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Then that will be his story, mark my words. That somebody with a grudge against his wife took it into their head to kill her.”
“As an act of revenge for Fenchurch’s death?”
“Precisely.”
It was John’s turn to become silent.
“You do not agree?” asked the Beak.
“It could have been just that, Sir. Any one of the family could have hated Ariadne sufficiently to want to see her off.”
“You have a point, Mr. Rawlings. But none of them would have wanted to kill their own father, now would they? No, this second murder points to one person and one person alone. My further instruction to the Runners will be to bring Bussell in for questioning.”
“You’re probably right,” said John.
And indeed the fact could not be argued against. Who else would want to kill both Aidan Fenchurch and Ariadne Bussell? One, perhaps, but not the other. Most certainly the entire focus of the enquiry had changed. Yet the Apothecary could not help but feel that there was some thread, some obscure fact, that he should have noticed by now but which at the moment lay beyond his grasp.
John had not requested a fast drive home but Irish Tom gave him one regardless of the fact. They positively sped through the streets, irritating several hackney coach drivers who shouted abuse. The Irishman ignored them and positively whirled up The Hay Market, then cut across various smaller alleys, a feat not achieved at quite such top speed, then clattered along Gerrard Street and turned left into Nassau Street with a thunder of wheels. He drew to a halt outside number two and John dismounted. But before he could cross the space leading to his house, the front door flew open. The Apothecary stared, for there stood the last person on earth he had expected to see, Sir Gabriel Kent had come to town.
“Father,” said John, running to him and hugging him. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking your place, my son. Where in heaven’s name have you been?”
“In Surrey actually…” He stopped explaining. “Where’s Emilia?”
“Within.”
The word was said solemnly and with much import and John felt his stomach heave. “Oh my God, is she all right?”
“She is very tired but other than for that she is well enough.”
“I must go to her at once.”
Sir Gabriel laid a restraining hand on his adopted son’s arm.”No, my boy, she is asleep. You will be doing her no favours by waking her up. However, there is another visitor here whom I would like you to meet. Come into the library.”
John felt a faint flicker of irritation. “What is going on? Visitors calling
and Emilia sound asleep. Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, it’s quite serious I assure you. Now follow me and sit down. You must be tired after your journey. Have you dined?”
“Not as yet.”
“Then let us have some champagne.” Sir Gabriel motioned John to a chair then rang the bellrope. “Some champagne and three glasses, if you please,” he asked the footman who answered. “And could you ask Mrs. Alleyn and Miss Rose to step this way.”
The servant grinned, quite broadly. “Certainly, Sir Gabriel.”
“Who’s Miss Rose?” John asked, then momentarily closed his eyes as the warmth of the fire combined with the early start to the day and the strain of the previous evening, made him suddenly overcome with exhaustion.
He opened them abruptly as what felt like a lace-trimmed cushion was placed on his lap. John looked downwards and a pair of bright blue eyes gazed back into his. He quite literally couldn’t believe what he was seeing. An infant lay on his knees, an infant quite newborn and yet with that look of ancient wisdom, of knowledge and understanding, that was almost shocking in its unexpectedness. Yet it was not to the baby’s knowing expression that John’s gaze was drawn, instead he looked at her hair. It was red and gold and curled round her head in whorls and spirals. It was the longest, thickest hair he had ever seen on a baby and this, together with her rosebud mouth and creamy skin, made her the prettiest infant he had ever seen.
John’s voice came out as a croak. “Is she mine?”
Sir Gabriel and Emilia’s mother, Maud Alleyn, laughed gently. “She is yours and Emilia’s.”
“When was she bom?”
“Yesterday. Just after daybreak. She came into the world like aspring flower. Her mother named her Maud Phyllida Rose because of it. Do you approve of that?”
“Rose Rawlings,” said John in wonderment. “She couldn’t be called anything more apt.”
He picked the child up in his two hands so that her face was on a level with his and they looked at one another long and hard for several minutes. Of course those who knew about such things would tell him later that the child merely twitched with a flatulent spasm, but John knew differently. There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that as they stared at one another, each one getting the measure of the other. Rose Rawlings quite deliberately winked at him, sweeping long dark lashes onto her snowdrop cheek.
That night the whole house seemed alive because of the presence of the newcomer: candles and fire burned more brightly, snatches of cheerful song came from the servants’ quarters, wine sparkled in goblets, laughter seemed to come from every room.
Emilia had woken much refreshed and had sat up to feed her child, somewhat alarmed at the prospect but greatly comforted by a decoction of leaves and roots of marsh mallow boiled in water with parsley and fennel and applied warm to her breasts. Nicholas, who had come home from the shop early, had compounded it himself and was delighted that his Master had sanctioned the mixture as fit to be used by Mrs. Rawlings. As for John, he could hardly bear to leave Rose for a second, amazed by her minute hands and feet, by her perfect little body, by the luxuriant growth of hair upon her head.
“I wonder where that colour comes from?” said Emilia, as the child suckled peacefully.
“Your father?”
“No, he was brown before he went white. I thought your mother perhaps.”
“No, she was dark. Midnight hair, Sir Gabriel used to call it.”
“Perhaps it is from your real father, John.”
“It could be. I know nothing of him at all, not even what he looked like.”
“Perhaps you’ll find him one day.”
“Do you know,” said John thoughtfully, “I used to care about that. But now that Rose is here I have a blood relative again and I no longer have the desire.”
“Do you like the name?” asked Emilia, snuggling into his arms where he sat beside her on the pillows, supporting her as she fed their child.
“I can think of nothing more appropriate. I know you chose Maud and Phyllida out of courtesy to the two grandmothers but please let her be known as Rose, by us at least.”
“Rose Rawlings it is,” said Emilia.
“Rose Rawlings,” echoed John, and knew with certainty that this was one of the turning points of his life.
Chapter Nine
John Rawlings woke suddenly, wondering as he lay in the darkness what the sound was that had broken his sleep. Then he heard it again. Somewhere in the house a baby was crying. Just for a moment he thought he was at Serafina’s Palladian villa in Surrey and that one of her children was in tears, then he realised that this was the cry of an infant, not an older offspring, and his memory returned. He was a father, Emilia had given birth, and it was Rose Rawlings herself who was shouting to be fed. Smiling, John lit a candle and got out of bed.
He was sleeping in a room no bigger than a box, usually reserved for the personal servant of a house guest, but for which he had volunteered in order that Emilia should get her much-needed rest. It was at the top of the house, close to the bedrooms of the regular staff, and as he started to pad downstairs in his nightshirt, a door opened and Dorcas, Emilia’s maid, appeared.
“I’ll see to the baby, Sir.” she whispered.
“No, I’ll do it. I’d like to. Go back to bed.”
“This is her feeding time, Sir. She wants her mama.”
“Then I’ll take her.”
“Very good, Mr. Rawlings.”
She yawned, gave him a look that was an exquisite mixture of resentment and gratitude, and went back to her room.
Very rich families with larger dwellings than number two, Nassau Street, had nursery suites staffed by servants whose sole job it was to care for the babies and children of the household. But John’s establishment being far too small to warrant such an arrangement. Rose lay in a cradle in the same room as her mother. As John went through the door, Emilia was just beginning to stir as the baby cried, but when he picked his daughter up she stopped wailing and his wife went back to sleep.
He realised with enormous pleasure that he wasn’t in the least afraid of his child. Most new fathers hardly dared touch the newborn for fear of dropping them but John felt utterly confident with her and wondered why. Then he realised that in the many years since he had become a fully-fledged apothecary, he had handled and treated so many children and infants that they no longer worried him.
“Rose Rawlings, you do not daunt me,” he said quietly.
She gave him that wise, knowing look of hers, then tested him by crying again. John carried the noisy bundle over to Emilia who sat up, still half-asleep, and started to feed her. Everything went quiet again.
“Do you like her?” Emilia whispered.
“No. I love her,” he whispered back. “Sweetheart…”
“Yes?”
“I apologise for not being in the house when she was born. Though other men may not care, I do. Very much indeed. But the case of Fenchurch and the Shadow has become even more convoluted and I truly could not leave Surrey until yesterday.”
Emilia nodded her head resignedly. “It was ever thus.”
“Don’t be angry with me, please darling.”
“What would be the point? I would have left you on honeymoon if I had allowed one of Sir John’s enquiries to come between us.”
“It is a ridiculous hobby for a man to have.”
Emilia shook her head. “No, not at all. It is public-spirited of you to help track down wrongdoers.”
“But I don’t do it for that. I do it because it is both exciting and challenging.”
She smiled and suddenly looked very tired indeed.
“Has she finished? Shall I remove her?” John asked.
“A few more minutes and then you can.”
“Would you mind if I took her down to the library for a while? I want to talk to her.”
Emilia gave her husband a loving smile. “You are quite mad and utterly sweet. Take her by all means.”
T
he library fire was almost out but John threw on another couple of logs and blew the embers with bellows, while Rose observed him with interest. Then they sat together and watched the flames flicker up. He felt that he had always known her and wondered if this was a belief common to all new parents. Then he decided that it was not, that it was especial to him and Rose, that they were friends of centuries standing. Finally they both fell asleep at the same time and did not wake until the fire went out again and the room grew cold. Holding her close, John tiptoed back upstairs and put her back in her cradle without waking Emilia. Then he retired to his box bedroom and lay awake, wondering again what it was about the deaths of Aidan Fenchurch and his mistress that he should be noticing but still had not yet managed to grasp.
After the high drama of the last few days it was reassuring to get back into the shop and work amongst all his familiar things. Compounding and mixing, crushing herbs into a paste, putting the ash of burnt vines into pots to sell as tooth whitener; all these things John found quite relaxing. Therefore he was somewhat taken aback when a voice from the shop called out, “Is Mr. Rawlings within?” and he left the back room to see that Lieutenant Mendoza, very dark and dashing without his wig, had come to visit him.
John wiped his hands on a towel. “My dear Sir, how nice of you to call.”
The Lieutenant lowered his voice. “I need to speak to you privately, Sir. There is much to tell.”
“Then come into the compounding room. Or would you prefer to go out somewhere?”
“Walls have ears,” said the Lieutenant. “Is your room utterly private?”
“Utterly. My apprentice will look after the shop and the door between can remain closed. But first, can I offer you some refreshment? Would you care for tea?”
The Lieutenant looked shifty. “Have you any brandy?”
“A little. I’ll pour you a draft.”
“Thanks. I feel I need it.” The Lieutenant took the proffered glass and downed it in one. “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, taking a seat at the wooden table.