Death in the Valley of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Goodbye, Sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”
    “It has been most interesting to meet you,” he said, and accompanied her into the street where he handed her inside her carriage before going within to read the last words that her father had ever written.

Chapter Three

    T he papers, which John read and re-read once his visitor had gone, revealed little new. They simply recounted the tale of Mrs. Bussell and her obsessive love for Aidan Fenchurch which had turned to a dangerous hatred. But had it, John wondered as he finally resealed the dead man’s statement. As he had said to the victim himself, it seemed to him that Ariadne was still besotted with the object of her affections. Would this, the Apothecary considered as he put on his nightshirt and got into bed, make her more or less likely to order an attack on her former lover.
    He recalled her face; how affable she had tried to look when she realised that her fury was getting her nowhere. Yet the smile flashed by the overpowering set of teeth had been entirely without humour or humanity. Yes, John thought, blowing out the bedside candle, that woman could be a truly dangerous member of her sex, capable of handing out hurt to anyone whom she believed either stood in her way or had rejected her.
    It seemed that Sir John Fielding was of a like mind. Having sat in total silence while his clerk, Joe Jago, read Aidan Fenchurch’s statement aloud, his first comment was, “Poor fellow. I would not care for a harpy of that stamp to shadow me.”
    “Do you think she hired ruffians to take care of him, as it were, Sir?”
    “If we are to believe all that he says, then yes, she would be prepared to do so if something upset her. But whether she did or not has yet to be discovered. However, on the evidence presented to us so far I would not hesitate to say that at the moment Ariadne Bussell is our principal suspect.”
    John spoke. “My offer to go and see her still stands.”
    The Magistrate drew in his breath, then relapsed into a further silence, clearly thinking things through. Finally he said, “I believe the only way to approach a woman like that is with bristling officialdom. I suggest, therefore, that you and Joe both go. If she refuses to cooperate, my clerk can order her to Bow Street where I will question her personally. Now, do we know where she lives?”
    “No. But today I have to call on Mrs. Rayner, the victim’s daughter, to take her some physick. She is bound to have her father’s friend’s address.”
    “Did you not say that she knows nothing of the scandal?”
    “Nothing at all, Sir John,” the Apothecary answered.
    The Magistrate leant back in his chair, folded his fingers over his chest and allowed himself a smile. “I will despatch Runners Ham and Raven to see the constable examining Mr. Fenchurch’s murder. They can offer their services in tracking down the assailants.”
    “Which they never will,” put in Joe Jago grimly. “Be they cut- purses or hired assassins, either way they will vanish into the shadows, never to be seen again.”
    “Our only hope is that one of the peachers knows who they are.”
    “Do you want me to ask around, Sir?”
    “If you would, Jago. Word is bound to be about by now.”
    It was an odd thing, John considered, that a man so mighty as Sir John Fielding, the principal upholder of the law in the teeming metropolis, should still use the peachers, those members of the criminal class prepared to inform upon their fellows, as sources of information. Yet he was realistic. Without the peachers - the term came from the word impeachment - there were certain cases that would not move forward at all. And this was one of them. Robbers or professional killers, whichever had ended Aidan Fenchurch’s life, were both members of the same delinquent brotherhood. Therefore, to track them down, enquiries must be made amongst that brotherhood. There was no other way.
    “I’ve a mind,” said Sir John Fielding, a propos of