Death in the Valley of Shadows by Deryn Lake

make haste,” John answered, wondering why he had set himself this loathsome duty.
    The thing that he hated above all about mortuaries was the terrible smell of sweetness. Though the slabs were kept as cold as possible, still flesh had only one fate once the life force had left it and there was nothing that could be done about that. To counteract the stink of corruption and decay, herbs were scattered and rose water sprinkled by the mortuary keeper, but still the stench caught in the back of John’s throat as he made his way down the central aisle to where lay the last mortal remains of Aidan Fenchurch covered by a stark white shroud.
    That his skull had been split apart was obvious from the crude bandage that had been tied round what was left of his head. It was horrible, John thought, reminiscent of someone with violent toothache. The blood had long since been washed from the wounds but a pinkish seepage discoloured the bandage where it touched the skin, while the features of Aidan’s face, including his crab eyes, now closed, had been rearranged by the blows which had been rained upon him.
    John gulped, then braced himself. “Might I be allowed to examine the wounds?”
    “I can but ask,” Joe answered, attracting the attention of the keeper by a wave of his hand. “This is one of Sir John’s assistants,” he continued as the man approached. “He is an apothecary. Would it be possible for the bandage to be removed so that he can see the skull?”
    The mortuary keeper leant over the body. “It’s a terrible sight,” he said over his shoulder.
    “I’m ready,” John answered.
    But he wasn’t, not quite. Brains oozed where there had once been a thatch of longish grey hair and the bones of Aidan’s skull were visible through the hanging flesh.
    “Christ!” said Joe, who clearly hadn’t seen the injuries before.
    John bent forward and somehow found the courage to raise his quizzing glass. “Whoever did this is worse than a savage.”
    “Can you see the work of two different hands?”
    “Yes, I think so. The blows are coming from different directions. God help the poor devil, he must have died the most terrible death.”
    Joe turned away. “It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve come across a few in my time.”
    “I would describe this as crude butchery.”
    “So would I, Sir.” The clerk shook his head. “What could the wretched fellow have done to deserve this? Was jigging Mrs. Bussell his only crime?”
    “It certainly makes one wonder,” answered John thoughtfully. He straightened up, pulling the shroud back to cover the face. “Perhaps he made other enemies on his walk through life.”
    “Or perhaps,” answered Joe succinctly, “Mrs. Bussell was not his only woman.”

    They strolled in the park to clear the stench of death from their lungs, dodging the April showers beneath the trees and generally whiling away the time until it was three o’clock, an hour before the fashionable time to dine. Then they once more boarded the Bow Street coach and headed back for Grosvenor Square, certain that by now Mrs. Bussell would have returned to make a toilette. This time, just to confuse the issue, John rang the bell. The same superior servant answered.
    “Mrs. Bussell, if you please,” the Apothecary said crisply. “You may say that two representatives of the Public Office have called on the business of Sir John Fielding.”
    And with that the visitors presented their cards simultaneously and with a flourish.
    “I shall enquire,” the footman answered stiffly. “Kindly step within.”
    It was the type of self-conscious opulence that John would have imagined to be the taste of Mrs. Bussell, who clearly yearned to be associated with the arts. There were paintings and classical busts and pillars crowding the hall, together with an alcove devoted to chinoiserie, where horrible hangings depicting Chinese writing and nasty lanterns hung above vases of ugly twisted wood. Joe rolled an eye