by Deryn Lake
John nodded but said nothing, sipping his wine and lighting a pipe, the very picture of someone totally self-controlled. But within he was utterly alert, positive that never again would he get Justin in such a weak state of mind. Certain that if any kind of confession was going to come, it was now or never.
Justin gave another tortured swallow then removed the handkerchief, giving his eyes a final wipe. “My very dear Sir,” he said, his voice low, “how can you forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive,” John answered cheerfully. “We all get depressed from time to time.”
“Yes, but this was unusual.”
“Very. Don’t forget that I know you, Sir. Know your ways. I’m sure that to find you like this is a rarity.”
Justin nodded, starting to recover. “Yes, it is indeed.”
John recognising that the other man was beginning to sober up, said silkily, “But you’re short of a drink, my friend. Here, have some claret. I’ll order another bottle.”
Justin hesitated, then answered, “Why not?”
The Apothecary hastily poured a large glass and proposed a toast.
“To us, Sir. Who’s like us? And to the devil with anyone who thinks he is,” and threw back his glass rapidly.
Justin followed and said, “Damme, that’s better.”
John poured him another. “And now I’ll drink to you, Sir. A brave fellow if ever there was one.” He emptied his glass once more.
Over the rim he studied Justin carefully. The face was hardly at its best, but for all that it had the puffiness and slow blurring of features that only a life of dissipation could bring about. John wondered how old he was and came up with thirty, realising with a start that was his own age, at least for another few weeks. Suddenly and from nowhere he felt desperately sorry for the man, wondering what he, John, would have been like if he had been left to rot in the gutter alongside his begging mother, had Sir Gabriel Kent’s carriage gone on its way.
Justin, meanwhile, was still struggling to control himself, his lips quivering occasionally, his face a study in melancholy. The Apothecary decided that if he left it any longer the moment would pass and be gone. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Tell me, Justin, how well did you know Evalina Fenchurch?”
The young man shot him an involuntary look, his eyes startled, though a second later he dropped them to his lap.
“I knew her reasonably well,” he answered eventually.
“Wasn’t her death appalling?” John continued implacably.
“Horrible,” said Justin, and his voice shook.
“They say it was a robbery but I can assure you that nothing was taken from her.”
“Oh.” A pause, then, “How do you know?”
“Because I was summoned to examine the body.”
Justin swallowed hard. “Oh, I didn’t realise that.”
“Not many people do.”
“Is it true that…” Justin broke off abruptly.
“That she died smiling? Yes, perfectly true.”
“Oh God!” said the wretched young man, and plunged his face into his hands.
John was on his feet and beside him in a second. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he said, one hand on Justin’s shoulder.
A hail of sobs and, “I can’t. I mustn’t.”
“Who says so?”
“Greville, of course. Who do you think?”
“Greville,” repeated the Apothecary softly, and drew in his breath.
“The bastard, the bastard,” said Justin vehemently. He looked at John helplessly and at last broke his silence. “He made me send her a message to go to the park. Then, at the last minute, even while she was approaching, he told me his plan. She smiled at me, smiled for me. I ran away. I couldn’t have laid a hand on her. And that’s where he misjudged me, completely and utterly.” He relapsed into sobs.
“And her father?” John asked quietly.
Justin gave him a terrible look, a look that spoke for itself. In it the Apothecary read guilt and remorse in almost equal quantities. It was at that moment that he made up his mind.
“Look, go home now and get yourself in hand. Then, tomorrow morning, at six o’clock and not a second later, I want you to meet me outside the lodge, a little further down the road. Bring with you a bag containing a change of clothes, three shirts and anything you treasure. That’s all. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Now, good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The last glimpse the Apothecary had of Justin was shambling out into the courtyard, still weeping. Fortunately the horse he mounted knew its way home blindfold; in fact had done this journey many times before.
“Till the morning,” the Apothecary called from the doorway.
But Justin did not return his greeting and trotted off into the night.
Why John should sleep lightly after all the day’s activities was only something to be guessed at, but the fact was that he did not lapse into unconsciousness till gone one o’clock. So it was that he felt as if he had just closed his eyes when the girl banged on his door at five. In fact, the Apothecary shouted that he was up, then pulled the blankets up round his ears and slept once more.
When he next woke it was twenty to six. Uttering an oath, John leapt out of his bed and into his clothes in almost one movement. Shoving a brush through his hair he hastened down to the yard to find nobody about at all. Extra time was taken with saddling Herring, his hands slipping over the unfamiliar fastenings, but eventually he was ready and led the horse round to the mounting block. It was by now a quarter past six.
John literally thundered to his destination, driving Herring as fast as the wretched beast would go. But even as he drew near, he could see that the lodge and the gates beside them, to say nothing of the stretch of road leading up, were deserted. Drawing his watch from an inner pocket and cursing once more, John drew to a halt and waited.
Nobody came. A thin column of smoke rose from the lodge’s chimney but other than for that there was no sign of life at all.
“Oh hell!” said the Apothecary, then drew off the road at the sound of approaching hooves.
But it was no one of importance, merely a passing post girl. Rather a pretty one at that, John noticed. She smiled and wished him good morning, and he bowed from the saddle and did the same, forgetting, just for a moment, that he was a married man. He watched her as she turned into the lodge, then decided that as soon as she had gone, he would do likewise.
The girl reappeared and made off at speed up the drive. After a few moments, John left his place and followed her slowly to the imposing front door. A surly-looking individual answered, just the sort to be employed by the Bussells, John thought.
“Is Mr. Justin available?” he asked pleasantly.
The footman made something of a face. “No, Sir. It is only six- thirty, Sir.”
Horrible snot, thought the Apothecary. “We had an arrangement to go for an early ride,” he continued in the same affable tone.
“Well, Sir, I can assure you that Mr. Justin is still in his bed and will probably remain there most of the morning.”
“And what about Mr. Greville? Is he around?”
“Mr. Greville is away, Sir.”
“Oh, I see,” the Apothecary answered, slightly nonplussed.
“Will that be all, Sir? Who shall I say called?”
“Might I come in and leave a note?”
“Well, er…”
“I’m sure it will be in order,” John said, and was through the door before the footman could say another word.
As luck would have it, the servant limped slightly and the Apothecary made much of entering noisily and banging about before the man was upon him again. However, there was no responding stir from upstairs.
“Would you like paper and pen, Sir?” the footman asked, and turned to call another servant.
It was all the Apothecary needed. Moving rapidly he was halfway up the stairs before the footman, shouting
, “Stop it at once! Stop it I say!” had his foot upon the bottom step. Sprinting like a hare, the Apothecary sped down a corridor.
To his horror the room which he entered was the very room in which Ariadne had breathed her last. Blinds down, furniture shrouded in white, John could almost see her lying still upon the bed. Recoiling, he sped out and down a further passage which led off to his left, realising as he went that the upstairs was built in a semi-circle.
The footman had come up the stairs and was not far away, if his footsteps were anything to go by. Frantically, John dived into the very next room he came upon, and stood silently behind the door. Then his eye was caught by the reflection in the mirror which hung there. For Justin was also in the room, sitting motionless in an armchair. Slowly, slowly the Apothecary turned, his stomach heaving as he did so.
Justin was absolutely still, the room was totally quiet, nothing moved except for the hammering of John’s heart. For Justin only had half his head left, the other half sprayed across the room with the violence of the gunshot wound that had ended it all. Despite the wave of nausea which swept him, the Apothecary slowly made his way round the chair.
The gun had slipped to the floor but the fingers still curled into its shape. The eye that was left was open and John, despite the shaking of his hand, closed it. Then he noticed that on the table beside the corpse lay a scrawled note. Still with shaking hands, he picked it up and read it.
It said, very simply, ‘Evalina forgive me. We will meet again.’
Struck to the heart, the Apothecary turned to the window and stared out over the parkland as the footman, panting and cursing in the doorway, suddenly became silent at the sight that awaited him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Without a word, John turned and walked from the room, the footman making no attempt to stop him. Blindly, he descended the stairs, crossed the echoing emptiness of the hall, and left the house, looking to neither right nor left. What he had seen had struck him so hard that the Apothecary was in a state of shock.
“Are you all right, Sir?” asked the hostler, handing over the hired horse.
John muttered assurances as the man assisted him into the saddle, then, having taken one last long mournful look over his shoulder, he plodded off over the cobbles. But once away he urged Herring into a canter and thus sped off into the hinterland, as if, by riding fast, he could forget the last thirty minutes and the sight of Justin Bussell with half his head missing, spattered over the wall beside his chair.
He rode furiously on, trying to keep his mind clear, but thoughts came like daggers. First he considered that one of the murderers was now quite obvious. Justin and Greville, acting as a team, had removed Aidan Fenchurch from the world, then Evalina. But his thoughts sheered away from that last idea. He could see Justin, bribed or threatened into inveigling the poor wretched woman into the park, frozen in horror as the first blow was struck. Then turning, running, unable to betray his brother but unable to live with his conscience either. And with what an end indeed!
It slowly impinged on John’s consciousness that the horse was starting to labour beneath him and he reluctantly pulled Herring to a halt. Puffing and blowing, the horse stood gasping as John slipped from the saddle and looked round, gazing from this high point at hills and fields and vast expanses of cloud and sky. There had never been such a fine wild morning, he thought; such a day for sending the great white masses scudding across the heavens. Just for a moment the Apothecary felt exultant to be alive, then notions of death came crowding in and he sat down on a tree stump and plunged his head into his hands.
The murderer - or should he say murderers? - of the Fenchurch family were now totally clear. But who had killed Ariadne and Montague? Who of that doom-laden bunch of people had raised a hand against them?
John ran through the suspects. There was Jocasta Rayner; Mrs. Trewellan and her two sons, the elder of whom had fooled him completely into believing that he was the widow woman’s lover. Then there was Louisa, beautiful and vivacious, and Cousin Millicent, almost her opposite in every way. Which of them was it?
The Apothecary sat in silence, listening to the horse, which had regained its breath and was now placidly cropping the turf. Then eventually John put his foot in the stirrup and started to descend the hill on the far side, wondering as he did so what further events could possibly befall him on this most fated of days.
At the bottom of the hill lay a village and in it a tavern. Glancing at his watch, John saw that it was past eleven and that he had been up several hours without his customary large breakfast. Determinedly turning Herring in the direction of the tavern which, on closer inspection, was smarter than the Apothecary had imagined, he tethered his horse near a water trough and went inside. Much to his surprise the place heaved with custom, people jostling elbows at the counter to get served. Wondering why such a small place in such a remote village should be so in demand, John waited patiently at the bar.
His question about popularity was answered almost straight away. Listening to a couple talking next to him, he learned that the Guildford stage had cast a wheel, thundering through the very village in which he now found himself, and those gathered in the hostelry were waiting for a repair.
Having secured himself a tankard of ale - breakfast was out of the question in view of the rush of custom - John made his way into a comer, complete with chair, and was just about to take a mouthful when a familiar voice greeted his ears.
“Is there anyone here with a trap? I want to get to Foxfire Hall actually.”
There was a mumbled answer from a yokel, the message of which John couldn’t hear.
“Oh jolly good,” came the reply. “I can wait an hour or so. Will you come to the door?”
Again the mumble, presumably agreeing. Taking a good swig, John stood up, grinning, though slightly puzzled for all that. “Samuel, over here,” he shouted.
The effect on his friend was extraordinary. The Goldsmith choked on his drink, then contrived to look embarrassed, guilty, and definitely as if he had something to hide. “John,” he said eventually.
“My dear boy,” said the Apothecary, instantly noting Samuel’s reaction. “How very nice to see you.”
“And you. And you,” the other man answered unenthusiastically.
It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask what Samuel was doing but he resisted, realising that the Goldsmith was obviously under some kind of strain.
“No, I’ll stand if you don’t mind. Caught the stage in London and have been up on the roof. Bit cramped.” Samuel laughed hollowly.
“Yes,” said John thoughtfully. He changed the subject. “What’s the name of this place?”
“Damned if I know. It wasn’t one of the stops. It’s just that we cast a wheel on some evil rut in the track. Now we’re having to wait.”
There was truth in the story but there was more to it than that, John thought. Then he remembered that whenever one was faced with a mystery it was always a good move to cherchez la femme. “Off to see Mrs. Rayner?” he asked innocently.
The effect on Samuel was quite amazing to see. First he went white, then two high spots of colour appeared in his cheeks. All this while desperately trying to assume an air of extreme nonchalance, sipping his glass of wine and laughing over-heartily.
“Damnable thing is, I left a pair of gloves - oh, and a hat - when I was last there. Thought I’d call in and retrieve them.”
John was flabbergasted, first that his friend should use such a feeble excuse and, second, that he should use it to him whom he had known most of his life. Guessing that the Goldsmith was yet again in love, he nodded encouragingly.
“I see. How wretched for you.”
Samuel looked at him suspiciously. “Yes, indeed,” he said slowly.
The Apothecary thought rapidly. Should he challenge his friend or remain silent, he wondered. He stole another look at Samuel’s face and decided that to say anything at this delicate stage might bring about a rift between them. He there
fore composed his features and said, “Sam, I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
“Justin Bussell is dead. By his own hand. He left a note apologising to Evalina and begging her forgiveness.”
The relief on Samuel’s face was rapidly overtaken by a look of immense wonderment. “So we know who the killer is.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that,” John answered. “First of all it would appear that Greville was the leader, Justin merely followed. But, secondly, it is obvious that the boys did not kill their own parents, unless there are deeds so dark here that one can hardly bear to think of them. No, we have solved one set of murders but as to the others, the field remains open I fear.”
Samuel put down his glass and assumed such a serious expression that John had to fight to control a fit of laughter. “I see,” the Goldsmith said meaningfully. “But who?”
The Apothecary bit his lip. “Could be anyone,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.
“Well, my money’s on Mendoza. A slimy bit of work if ever I saw one.”
“I doubt it,” John answered, and launched into the story that the Lieutenant had told him a few nights previously.
Samuel, clearly glad that the conversational topic had changed, sat in silence, listening, then eventually said, “So Mrs. Trewellan is his mother.”
“So it would seem.”
“Well, that certainly puts a different slant on things. Though still he could be…”
John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right somehow.”
Samuel considered. “Perhaps, it’s someone entirely different. Perhaps it’s an old enemy of the Bussells. Nobody connected with the Fenchurchs at all.”
Realising that he was skating on thin ice, John gave a small smile. “Yes, Sam, it could well be so.”
And there he rested his argument, talking generalities until the man with the trap came back, when the two men thankfully parted company, each going about their business.
As he rode back through the blustery afternoon, John reflected on friendship and thought how close he and Samuel had drawn to falling out.