Fenchurch, was done to death in the street on the very day that you pursued him into Mr. Rawlings’s shop.”
The conker eyes snapped. “I did not pursue him. I had an urgent message for Mr. Fenchurch and I thought I saw him go into your shop, Sir. But he was not there and, if I may say so, your manner towards me on that occasion was extremely offensive.”
“And so was yours to me,” John answered nastily.
Joe laughed, so suddenly that it was quite shocking. “The truth is, Mrs. Bussell, that he was cowering in the back of the shop on the point of tears. He also told Mr. Rawlings that he thought you would do for him one day, meaning that he believed you quite capable of killing him.”
At last he had got through. The big mouth closed and the woman lowered her gaze. All pretence at flirtation ceased.
“Are you accusing me? Because I have witnesses as to where I was that night. My husband was by my side from dusk till nightfall.”
Joe made a derogatory sound. “Of course you couldn’t have killed him directly. I doubt that even a woman of your build…” She glared at him. “… could have hit him with the savagery that the poor devil endured. No, as I said, the deed was done by two men, supposedly cutpurses, but they took nothing, not even a ring from his finger. Now, what do you say to that?”
Mrs. Bussell was silent for a moment, then she rallied. She looked up, hard-faced. “I say that I know nothing about it. If these men were paid to murder, then I did not hire them.”
John’s heart sank. She would never break, not a woman of that stamp. The great grins and provocative eyes masked a creature hard as horseshoes.
Joe must have felt something of this but still he fought on. “Are you prepared to come to Bow Street and swear that on oath?”
Her chins rose. “Yes I am.”
She was game, John had to give her her due. “How do you explain away Mr. Fenchurch’s written statement that if he were to die in suspicious circumstances then you would be responsible?” he asked.
“Hallucinations,” she snarled, giving him a withering look. “The man was probably suffering from delusions.”
“Were you once his mistress?” Joe put in. “And did you then become his Shadow, driving through the night to hurl things at his front door?”
She did not reply, then she tightened her expression. “He did me wrong. He told me he loved me, deceived me cruelly. I became upset and might indeed have returned his love letters in anger.” Her big lips trembled and she started to weep loudly.
“And what did your husband have to say about all this?” Joe asked bluntly.
“He didn’t know about my affair. He was away at the time. I was in Aidan Fenchurch’s thrall. I couldn’t help myself. His power is so great.”
“Was,” said John pointedly.
She shot him a look but continued to cry and babble. “I loved him. I loved him. I couldn’t help myself. But he was a cruel bastard. He left me for someone else. Oh merciful heavens, my heart was fit to break, so it was.”
Joe stood up. “Mr. Rawlings, I suggest we take our leave. We are clearly going to get no further sense from this lady, Madam, Sir John Fielding will no doubt be in touch with you. If you intend to leave London please be so kind as to let me know.”
“Of course I intend to leave,” the weeping woman answered mutinously. “You have shorten my nerves to shreds with your horrid insinuations. I need the tranquillity of rural life in which to recover myself.”
“And where and when do you plan to go?” Joe asked, pleasantly enough.
“That,” said Mrs. Bussell, trembling violently, “is entirely my own affair.”
* * *
“Were the killers hired assassins and, if so, did she employ them?” asked the Apothecary as the coach rattled its way back to Bow Street.
Joe’s trenchant profile, etched by the light spilling from the street, turned towards him. “I’ve never known robbers fail to rob, Sir, even if they were disturbed by
The conker eyes snapped. “I did not pursue him. I had an urgent message for Mr. Fenchurch and I thought I saw him go into your shop, Sir. But he was not there and, if I may say so, your manner towards me on that occasion was extremely offensive.”
“And so was yours to me,” John answered nastily.
Joe laughed, so suddenly that it was quite shocking. “The truth is, Mrs. Bussell, that he was cowering in the back of the shop on the point of tears. He also told Mr. Rawlings that he thought you would do for him one day, meaning that he believed you quite capable of killing him.”
At last he had got through. The big mouth closed and the woman lowered her gaze. All pretence at flirtation ceased.
“Are you accusing me? Because I have witnesses as to where I was that night. My husband was by my side from dusk till nightfall.”
Joe made a derogatory sound. “Of course you couldn’t have killed him directly. I doubt that even a woman of your build…” She glared at him. “… could have hit him with the savagery that the poor devil endured. No, as I said, the deed was done by two men, supposedly cutpurses, but they took nothing, not even a ring from his finger. Now, what do you say to that?”
Mrs. Bussell was silent for a moment, then she rallied. She looked up, hard-faced. “I say that I know nothing about it. If these men were paid to murder, then I did not hire them.”
John’s heart sank. She would never break, not a woman of that stamp. The great grins and provocative eyes masked a creature hard as horseshoes.
Joe must have felt something of this but still he fought on. “Are you prepared to come to Bow Street and swear that on oath?”
Her chins rose. “Yes I am.”
She was game, John had to give her her due. “How do you explain away Mr. Fenchurch’s written statement that if he were to die in suspicious circumstances then you would be responsible?” he asked.
“Hallucinations,” she snarled, giving him a withering look. “The man was probably suffering from delusions.”
“Were you once his mistress?” Joe put in. “And did you then become his Shadow, driving through the night to hurl things at his front door?”
She did not reply, then she tightened her expression. “He did me wrong. He told me he loved me, deceived me cruelly. I became upset and might indeed have returned his love letters in anger.” Her big lips trembled and she started to weep loudly.
“And what did your husband have to say about all this?” Joe asked bluntly.
“He didn’t know about my affair. He was away at the time. I was in Aidan Fenchurch’s thrall. I couldn’t help myself. His power is so great.”
“Was,” said John pointedly.
She shot him a look but continued to cry and babble. “I loved him. I loved him. I couldn’t help myself. But he was a cruel bastard. He left me for someone else. Oh merciful heavens, my heart was fit to break, so it was.”
Joe stood up. “Mr. Rawlings, I suggest we take our leave. We are clearly going to get no further sense from this lady, Madam, Sir John Fielding will no doubt be in touch with you. If you intend to leave London please be so kind as to let me know.”
“Of course I intend to leave,” the weeping woman answered mutinously. “You have shorten my nerves to shreds with your horrid insinuations. I need the tranquillity of rural life in which to recover myself.”
“And where and when do you plan to go?” Joe asked, pleasantly enough.
“That,” said Mrs. Bussell, trembling violently, “is entirely my own affair.”
* * *
“Were the killers hired assassins and, if so, did she employ them?” asked the Apothecary as the coach rattled its way back to Bow Street.
Joe’s trenchant profile, etched by the light spilling from the street, turned towards him. “I’ve never known robbers fail to rob, Sir, even if they were disturbed by
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