and raised a brow, while John sighed gustily.
The servant, who had disappeared, returned. “Madam is not at home.”
“Then we will wait,” announced Joe and sat down, folding his arms across his chest.
“I cannot allow that, Sir.”
“You not only can but you will. I am here representing the Principal Magistrate who is quite prepared to summon Mrs. Bussell to Bow Street if she refuses to be interviewed. Therefore, my man, I would suggest that you find your mistress and ask her once more whether she will see us.”
“And hurry up about it,” John added for good measure.
Shooting them a glance of pure poison, the footman departed, heading up the stairs with a purposeful tread. A few minutes later, surging like a sailcloth in a somewhat transparent negligee - a casual fashion which had started in France - Mrs. Bussell herself appeared on the staircase, smiling coyly at her visitors and flashing her conker-coloured eyes for all she was worth.
“Prepare to be seduced,” John muttered in an undertone.
“Heaven forbid,” Joe answered from the comer of his mouth.
She was upon them in a flurry of frills and flounces, curtseying and smiling broadly. “Gentlemen, forgive my servant. He has been over-trained to protect me, don’t you know.” The Bath burr was very pronounced, so much so that the Apothecary presumed someone had once told Mrs. Bussell it was charming. “Now how may I help you? But I forget my manners. Pray come into the salon and have some sherry. Let us all be friendly.”
Joe bowed, very deeply. “Madam, in other circumstances I would accept. But this matter is too serious to be treated frivolously. However, I would appreciate going where we may speak privately.”
The brown eyes momentarily narrowed then grew over-wide as Mrs. Bussell fluttered her lashes. “La, Sir, what a fuss to be sure. What can I have done to merit such severity?”
John cleared his throat and she turned the beam of her attention on him. “Do I know you, Sir?”
“We met once, in my apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane. You were pursuing a Mr. Aidan Fenchurch at the time. Now that same man lies dead in the mortuary, the victim of a savage attack in the street, Sir John Fielding is not satisfied that the killing was the random work of footpads. He believes that assassins may have been hired by persons unknown. Further, Mr. Fenchurch left papers - papers now lodged in the Public Office - in which he named you, Madam, as his potential killer. Now what say you to that?”
“Lies, all lies,” shrieked Mrs. Bussell, waving her arms in the air and releasing the stale odour of one who bathed infrequently.
Joe took over. “This conversation really must be conducted privately, Madam. Of course, your husband can be present if you wish.”
Her thoughts were as patent as if she had spoken them. She toyed with the idea of bluffing everything out and enjoying the protection of her husband’s presence. Then she cast this plan away as the danger of what John might reveal became apparent to her. The question as to how much Montague Bussell knew hung in the air between Joe and the Apothecary though neither of them uttered a word; instead both fixed her with a stare and waited.
“He is asleep,” she said eventually. “He always has a rest before dining.” Once more she became arch. “I feel this is a brouhaha over nothing. Mr. Fenchurch and I were the best of friends. Why, I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of his head.”
Remembering the shattered skull beneath its long grey mane, John shuddered. “That is not what he believed,” he said dryly, and followed her as she led the way into another affectedly artistic room that attempted a careless abandon as to its arrangement but succeeded only in looking contrived.
Mrs. Bussell settled herself on a profusely embroidered square-backed sofa, then smiled largely. “Now then,” she said.
Joe became the height of officialdom. “You did realise, did you not, that your friend, Mr.
The servant, who had disappeared, returned. “Madam is not at home.”
“Then we will wait,” announced Joe and sat down, folding his arms across his chest.
“I cannot allow that, Sir.”
“You not only can but you will. I am here representing the Principal Magistrate who is quite prepared to summon Mrs. Bussell to Bow Street if she refuses to be interviewed. Therefore, my man, I would suggest that you find your mistress and ask her once more whether she will see us.”
“And hurry up about it,” John added for good measure.
Shooting them a glance of pure poison, the footman departed, heading up the stairs with a purposeful tread. A few minutes later, surging like a sailcloth in a somewhat transparent negligee - a casual fashion which had started in France - Mrs. Bussell herself appeared on the staircase, smiling coyly at her visitors and flashing her conker-coloured eyes for all she was worth.
“Prepare to be seduced,” John muttered in an undertone.
“Heaven forbid,” Joe answered from the comer of his mouth.
She was upon them in a flurry of frills and flounces, curtseying and smiling broadly. “Gentlemen, forgive my servant. He has been over-trained to protect me, don’t you know.” The Bath burr was very pronounced, so much so that the Apothecary presumed someone had once told Mrs. Bussell it was charming. “Now how may I help you? But I forget my manners. Pray come into the salon and have some sherry. Let us all be friendly.”
Joe bowed, very deeply. “Madam, in other circumstances I would accept. But this matter is too serious to be treated frivolously. However, I would appreciate going where we may speak privately.”
The brown eyes momentarily narrowed then grew over-wide as Mrs. Bussell fluttered her lashes. “La, Sir, what a fuss to be sure. What can I have done to merit such severity?”
John cleared his throat and she turned the beam of her attention on him. “Do I know you, Sir?”
“We met once, in my apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane. You were pursuing a Mr. Aidan Fenchurch at the time. Now that same man lies dead in the mortuary, the victim of a savage attack in the street, Sir John Fielding is not satisfied that the killing was the random work of footpads. He believes that assassins may have been hired by persons unknown. Further, Mr. Fenchurch left papers - papers now lodged in the Public Office - in which he named you, Madam, as his potential killer. Now what say you to that?”
“Lies, all lies,” shrieked Mrs. Bussell, waving her arms in the air and releasing the stale odour of one who bathed infrequently.
Joe took over. “This conversation really must be conducted privately, Madam. Of course, your husband can be present if you wish.”
Her thoughts were as patent as if she had spoken them. She toyed with the idea of bluffing everything out and enjoying the protection of her husband’s presence. Then she cast this plan away as the danger of what John might reveal became apparent to her. The question as to how much Montague Bussell knew hung in the air between Joe and the Apothecary though neither of them uttered a word; instead both fixed her with a stare and waited.
“He is asleep,” she said eventually. “He always has a rest before dining.” Once more she became arch. “I feel this is a brouhaha over nothing. Mr. Fenchurch and I were the best of friends. Why, I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of his head.”
Remembering the shattered skull beneath its long grey mane, John shuddered. “That is not what he believed,” he said dryly, and followed her as she led the way into another affectedly artistic room that attempted a careless abandon as to its arrangement but succeeded only in looking contrived.
Mrs. Bussell settled herself on a profusely embroidered square-backed sofa, then smiled largely. “Now then,” she said.
Joe became the height of officialdom. “You did realise, did you not, that your friend, Mr.
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