Free Death in the Dark Walk by Deryn Lake

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, the Apothecary cautiously turned and made his way upstairs.
    He had guessed correctly. The first floor was laid out in exactly the same way as its lower counterpart, but once again a knock at the entry drew no audible response. Preparing, if there was no other alternative, to pick the locks, John decided to try his luck on the top storey, climbing the graceful stairway as silently as he could. Much to his astonishment, as he rounded the bend he saw that the inner door leading to the second floor apartment also stood slightly ajar. Carefully and quietly, John crossed over and peered inside.
    The suite consisted of three rooms: a parlour – into which John was now gazing – together with a dining room, which he could glimpse through yet another open door, a third room leading off it which the Apothecary took to be a bed chamber. Knocking politely, John called out, ‘Is there anyone at home?’ He was greeted only by an overwhelming silence. Feeling daunted and decidedly nervous, he took a few steps inside.
    The parlour was brightly though cheaply furnished in a mixture of styles without a cohesive theme. Looking around at the French tables and chairs, obviously obtained from immigrant craftsmen, and the old-fashioned Dutch walnut couch, which had plainly seen far better days, John guessed that whoever owned this lodging had been forced to buy mostly second-hand goods. Calling out as he went, John proceeded into the dining room.
    Here, someone had made a gallant effort to produce the Oriental look. The mania for Oriental furnishings and ornamentation had come to England with William and Mary, and now John found himself gazing at a black reproduction cabinet with lace-work panels, embellished candle stands and an ornate bedragoned fire screen. Crowning all this self-conscious Chinoiserie was a vivid Chinese wallpaper flaunting birds of every hue, complete with a rainbowed peacock glinting starry eyes. The total effect was garish and slightly repellent and smacked of a country girl let loose in London with a purse of money to spend, though obviously not a very large one. Looking round him, John Rawlings became convinced that he was standing in the rooms of the murder victim.
    The bedroom confirmed his suspicions. A large and old-fashioned bed, hung with scarlet and gold damask, had a mirror cunningly arranged to reveal its occupants. But it was the clothes in the marquetry press, most attractively decorated with a floral design and the finest piece of furniture in the apartments, that revealed all. Hanging in the cupboard were a selection of vivid gowns, their elegance and style declaring that they belonged to a slim and beautiful young woman. While in the drawers beneath were the petticoats and hoops, the small clothes, handkerchiefs and gloves, of a creature of fashion. The final proof lay in her perfume, for from all the garments wafted the faint but delicious smell of otto of roses and sandal, a scent that John remembered vividly lingering on the corpse, trained as he was to recognise such properties.
    â€˜Poor Elizabeth,’ he said aloud, and knew that he had found what he was looking for.
    The very drawers into which he was presently staring seemed as good a place as any to start searching for papers, and John went to the task with his usual elegant haste. Tipping the contents on to the bed, he riffled methodically, replacing the contents where he had found them after he had examined each item. However, other than a bottle of medicine which John put in his pocket to examine later, little of interest was revealed. Furthermore, there was something none too pleasant about the task, smacking as it did of violating a dead girl’s possessions. There was something else too, an eeriness in the fact that Elizabeth’s clothes and belongings were still in place, just as if she were due back at any moment. Indeed, so strong was this feeling that John caught himself listening to