Read Online Death in the Valley of Shadows by Deryn Lake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deryn Lake
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discover more about Louisa, Sir. Just for my own interest.”
“Of course, of course. We might be able to help her sisters find the girl in time for the funeral. Go to it, Mr. Rawlings. And Joe…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I want Mrs. Bussell brought to Bow Street today. I am tired of this conjecture. Let the wretched female answer to me.”
And with that the Magistrate plucked his napkin from under his chin, threw it on the table, and with his cane tapping before him left the room.
Joe turned to John. “Oh, dear. We are not in the finest of humours, are we?”
“No.” He looked the clerk straight in the eye. “Joe, do you think Mrs. Bussell is responsible for Aidan Fenchurch’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Then why bother to look further?”
“Just because,” said Joe Jago, and shook his head at his own foolishness.
Chapter Five
I t was not far to walk from Shug Lane to Bloomsbury Square and having closed the shop for the night and sent Nicholas home to dine, John decided to make his way there to pay his respects, aware that Aidan Fenchurch’s body would have by now arrived home. Much as he had expected - for to attend lyings-in-state was the very height of fashion amongst the beau monde - as he approached the Square he saw that a queue had formed outside the house of the deceased, silently plodding forward to gain admittance. Aware that probably only half the people moving in this miserable parade had even known the dead man, the Apothecary joined on the end and made his way towards the house.
Signs of mourning were everywhere, all the curtains being drawn, a mute standing solitary and black at the door, sable cloth draping the walls, tallow candles lighting the hall, which John could dimly perceive as he shuffled forward. It was also clear that the house, being only of normal size, was not equipped to hold such numbers and mourners were literally waiting on the steps while one person was admitted and let out again for a second to enter. Eventually, it was the Apothecary’s turn and he removed his hat, simultaneously putting on a solemn expression.
The two sisters and their cousin, Millicent, stood at the bottom of the stairs shaking hands with the visitors and receiving their whispered condolences. Evalina, scorning any form of paint, looked terrible, her dark hair scraped back beneath a stark black cap, her port wine stain livid on her left cheek. Her jet-coloured eyes seemed to burn in their sockets as she looked at each caller malevolently, as if they had been personally responsible for the violent and early demise of her father.
John bowed before her and she literally hissed, “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to pay my respects,” he answered with great dignity and passed on to Jocasta, who was standing second in line.
“Mr. Rawlings, do stay for cake and claret,” she murmured. “We are serving to special visitors in the drawing room. If you would make your way there once you have seen my father.”
“Certainly. Thank you.”
“We cannot ask everyone, just look at the numbers.” She cast her eye nervously over the crowd outside the street door.
“Mr. Fenchurch was obviously a much loved man.”
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. “They have come for the sensationalism, you know it as well as I. Few here actually knew poor Papa.”
John smiled crookedly. “Fashion really does take the oddest forms. Are you hurt by it?”
“I have learned to live with it,” Jocasta Rayner answered very simply, and turned to the next arrival.
Aidan Fenchurch’s coffin was laid out in the largest salon in the house, supported by a trestle table, yellow candles flickering at its four corners. Further tapers had been lit in sconces round the walls but the beautiful candelabra that hung from the centre of the ceiling was in darkness. The entire effect was sombre and somehow slightly sinister for the coffin, contrary to custom, was closed and draped with a stark black cloth. Aidan’s
“Of course, of course. We might be able to help her sisters find the girl in time for the funeral. Go to it, Mr. Rawlings. And Joe…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“I want Mrs. Bussell brought to Bow Street today. I am tired of this conjecture. Let the wretched female answer to me.”
And with that the Magistrate plucked his napkin from under his chin, threw it on the table, and with his cane tapping before him left the room.
Joe turned to John. “Oh, dear. We are not in the finest of humours, are we?”
“No.” He looked the clerk straight in the eye. “Joe, do you think Mrs. Bussell is responsible for Aidan Fenchurch’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Then why bother to look further?”
“Just because,” said Joe Jago, and shook his head at his own foolishness.
Chapter Five
I t was not far to walk from Shug Lane to Bloomsbury Square and having closed the shop for the night and sent Nicholas home to dine, John decided to make his way there to pay his respects, aware that Aidan Fenchurch’s body would have by now arrived home. Much as he had expected - for to attend lyings-in-state was the very height of fashion amongst the beau monde - as he approached the Square he saw that a queue had formed outside the house of the deceased, silently plodding forward to gain admittance. Aware that probably only half the people moving in this miserable parade had even known the dead man, the Apothecary joined on the end and made his way towards the house.
Signs of mourning were everywhere, all the curtains being drawn, a mute standing solitary and black at the door, sable cloth draping the walls, tallow candles lighting the hall, which John could dimly perceive as he shuffled forward. It was also clear that the house, being only of normal size, was not equipped to hold such numbers and mourners were literally waiting on the steps while one person was admitted and let out again for a second to enter. Eventually, it was the Apothecary’s turn and he removed his hat, simultaneously putting on a solemn expression.
The two sisters and their cousin, Millicent, stood at the bottom of the stairs shaking hands with the visitors and receiving their whispered condolences. Evalina, scorning any form of paint, looked terrible, her dark hair scraped back beneath a stark black cap, her port wine stain livid on her left cheek. Her jet-coloured eyes seemed to burn in their sockets as she looked at each caller malevolently, as if they had been personally responsible for the violent and early demise of her father.
John bowed before her and she literally hissed, “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to pay my respects,” he answered with great dignity and passed on to Jocasta, who was standing second in line.
“Mr. Rawlings, do stay for cake and claret,” she murmured. “We are serving to special visitors in the drawing room. If you would make your way there once you have seen my father.”
“Certainly. Thank you.”
“We cannot ask everyone, just look at the numbers.” She cast her eye nervously over the crowd outside the street door.
“Mr. Fenchurch was obviously a much loved man.”
She gave him a genuinely warm smile. “They have come for the sensationalism, you know it as well as I. Few here actually knew poor Papa.”
John smiled crookedly. “Fashion really does take the oddest forms. Are you hurt by it?”
“I have learned to live with it,” Jocasta Rayner answered very simply, and turned to the next arrival.
Aidan Fenchurch’s coffin was laid out in the largest salon in the house, supported by a trestle table, yellow candles flickering at its four corners. Further tapers had been lit in sconces round the walls but the beautiful candelabra that hung from the centre of the ceiling was in darkness. The entire effect was sombre and somehow slightly sinister for the coffin, contrary to custom, was closed and draped with a stark black cloth. Aidan’s
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