Free Death in the Valley of Shadows by Deryn Lake

injuries had obviously been considered too severe to be disguised by flowers and the lid had been ordered nailed down.
    Because of the crush only two people were walking round at a time, John’s companion being a hatted, cloaked female figure whom he was sure he recognised as a person of high society known to attend lyings-in-state for a hobby.
    “Good evening,” he ventured in an undertone.
    “Good evening,” she replied in a sibilant whisper, ostentatiously bowing to the coffin. Somewhat amused, John had to straighten his features as he solemnly walked past the mortal remains of Aidan Fenchurch, a man who had made the mistake of loving unwisely and paid the highest price of all.
    It would seem that as well as those who had come merely out of morbid curiosity, there was also a goodly number of genuine mourners, for the drawing room was full of people partaking of the customary claret and ale, biscuits and cake. Much to John’s delight and amazement, he saw that Joe Jago was present, respectfully dressed and wearing a wig which sat ill upon his foxy curls. “We meet again,” said the Apothecary, bowing politely.
    Joe returned the salute. “Mr. Rawlings. I came representing the Public Office and Mrs. Rayner invited me to take refreshment, Sir, much has happened since I saw you this morning.”
    “Oh? What?”
    “The Beak, who was in ugly mood as you yourself observed, despatched Runner Munn to bring in Mrs. Bussell only to find that she had already flown the nest.”
    “She’d left for Surrey?”
    “I don’t think so. Her servants seemed to think she had gone to an address unknown. However, Sir John, nothing daunted, as soon as he has ascertained her whereabouts, is going to send the two Brave Fellows with instructions to fetch her back, by force if necessary.”
    “Her actions are certainly those of someone guilty.”
    “They are indeed.”
    “What about Mr. Bussell? Where is he?”
    “Gone with her.”
    “I wonder just how involved he is. Perhaps he organised poor Fenchurch’s death in a frenzy of jealousy.”
    “But why after all this time?”
    John shook his head. “It makes no sense, I agree.”
    “Nothing does, because the woman at the crux of the matter is totally without any. That’s why.”
    John sipped his claret, deep in thought. Finally he said, “Do you remember my friends the de Vignolles?”
    “You mean Comte Louis and his beautiful wife?”
    “Yes I do.”
    “How could anyone forget them?” Joe said. “I shall always think of her as the most outrageous and delightful gambler in London.”
    “When she was the Masked Lady. Yes, those were the days.”
    And the Apothecary thought back to the time when he had been in love with the elegant Serafina and how, many years later, he had delivered her second child for her, a boy now three years old.
    “So what of them, Sir?”
    “They have a country place in Surrey, not far, I believe, from West Clandon. I’m wondering whether to beg an invitation and see what I can find out about Mrs. Bussell and her entourage.”
    “That, Sir,” said Joe enthusiastically, “sounds like a mighty good plan. One can discover more through neighbours’ gossip than ever one can through direct questioning.”
    He would have said more but at that moment they were joined by an elderly couple, both very sad-faced and red-eyed.
    “Dear Aidan,” said the woman. “I don’t know what we shall do without his expert guidance on fine wines.”
    “A lamentable loss,” agreed her husband. “Fenchurch imported the most excellent port to be had in London. Would you not say so?”
    It was easier to join in than explain their real reason for being there and by mutual, silent consent John and Joe allowed the conversation to dwell on wine and its merits rather than the loss of Fenchurch and their involvment in investigating his death. However, the elderly woman did give a sigh and say, “And to think he was killed by footpads. It is hardly safe to leave one’s