Death in the Valley of Shadows by Deryn Lake Page A

will.”
    “What do you mean by that?” asked Serafina.
    “That even if Sir John Fielding frightens her to the best of his mighty ability, we have yet to see whether she will crack under the strain.”
    “And if she doesn’t?” asked Louis.
    “If she doesn’t, then she will get away with murder.”

Chapter Seven

    M uch as they had expected, just as the April evening fell, soft as a woman’s glove and full of the heady scent of flowers, the gaffer plodded up the drive in a dilapidated cart pulled by an old but serviceable horse. The three friends, who were sitting on the terrace, drinking in the gentle twilight, not saying a great deal but comfortable in one another’s company, exchanged cynical glances.
    “I thought as much,” Louis remarked, watching the old fellow draw to a halt and make his way to the back of the house.
    “He’s tempted by the guinea but I don’t think he’ll tell us everything,” John answered. “He’ll want to keep in with the rich folk when all’s said and done.”
    And he was right. The gaffer, who refused to enter the main part of the house because of his boots, said nothing about Mrs. Bussell but did offer the information that Justin and Grenville had arrived from town that very evening.
    “They’re bucks of the first head, they two. They’re in the tavern now, sinking bumpers and playing bumble-puppy.”
    Serafina looked thoughtful. “I’ve a mind to invite them here for cards. Tomorrow night perhaps. What do you think, my dears?” She turned to the two men.
    “Excellent plan,” said John. “I imagine they’re the sort who’ll get drunk and grow loose-mouthed.”
    “As long as they behave themselves and don’t vomit,” answered Louis, “I have no objection.”
    The gaffer looked hopeful. “Have I told you enough, Sir?”
    “No,” said John, “you haven’t. I think the Bussells are in residence and that their sons have come to join them for a few days. I also think that you are a prime example of one who runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds. What’s your name?”
    “Rob, Sir.”
    “Well, Rob, here’s your guinea. You haven’t earned it, mind. But you might be of use to me in the future so I am going to give it to you out of the goodness of my heart. Now, keep your eyes open.”
    “I will, Sir. You can rely on me. Watchful, that’s what I am.” And after a great deal of forelock-tugging, he was gone.
    They returned to the terrace and watched the moon rise.
    “Tom will be back in London by now,” said Serafina, rather sleepily.
    “Yes, and drink all night with his Irish cronies but still be back here by noon. That man has the constitution of a dray horse.”
    “I wonder if he’ll have word of Emilia.”
    “I wonder,” John answered, and suddenly felt an urgent need to see his wife and tell her that all was well with him and that he would not leave her side again until the baby had been born.
    He didn’t know whether he was reassured or not when the coachman returned with a letter from her. Rather anxiously, John broke the seal.

    My Dear and Loving Husband,

    Hoping that You are in Good Health as I Am at the Writing Thereof. Despite This, I am now so Heavy that Walking is Hugely Difficult for I do Believe That the Babe has Started to Move Downwards.
    For This Reason, and Also For the Reason that I Miss Your Company, I and My Good Mother shall Proceed to Nassau Street Within the next Two Days, There to Remain until I have Travailed.

    Your Loving and Affectionate Wife,
    Emilia Rawlings

    There was also another letter, a letter which brought the Apothecary to his feet, calling out for Tom, who was taking his ease in the servants quarters. It was from Jocasta Rayner, informing John that her late father was to be buried not in London but at Stoke d’Abemon church, by mutual decision of the family. Gazing at the date of the funeral, John realised that it was that very day at two in the afternoon. Obviously the letter had arrived on the