Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  How long he had sat there he couldn’t tell but somewhere in the small hours there came a scrabbling at the door. They had provided him with half a candle and a pail for relief, that was all. Returning to full consciousness at the furtive noise, John saw that the candle was burning down and hastily blew it out to conserve it. Thus he sat in the darkness, listening. The scrabbling came again, followed by a faint voice saying, “John.”

  He went mad, thought he had been mistaken about Emilia’s death and that she was outside, trying to communicate with him. He rushed to the door, leaning close to it.

  “Emilia?” he managed to croak.

  There was a pause, then came the answering whisper. “It’s Priscilla. John, Emilia is dead.”

  “I know, I know,” he whispered back, and suddenly he was in tears again, weeping as though his heart had broken, which it had.

  There was the sound of a key in the lock and in the moonlight, which came through a high barred window, he saw the door open and a female enter the room. She crossed to his side and put her arms round him.

  “There, there,” she said.

  But John was uncontrollable, crying like a little boy, quite unable to stop himself. Eventually, though, he quietened, though his body still quivered with sobs.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he managed to murmur.

  “I know you didn’t,” she answered him. “John, listen to me.”

  “What?”

  “Emilia borrowed my red cloak. It was me the killer was after, don’t you see?”

  “My God,” said John, collapsing back onto the chair. “Oh my God.”

  The thought that his wife had died because she had borrowed another woman’s garment cut him to the quick, yet he could see the sense of it.

  “Why did she borrow your cloak?” he asked.

  “Heaven knows. She probably decided to take a turn in the grounds and couldn’t find her own. I don’t know the reason. All I know is that the killer’s knife was meant for me.”

  Priscilla shivered violently, her face drawn and haggard.

  “But who would want to kill you?”

  “Oh, as to that I keep my own counsel. But be assured there are several people.”

  John stood up and took her by the shoulders. “What are they planning to do with me?”

  “They will keep you here until they can hand you over to the Beak Runners. A rider is setting off for London tomorrow morning to tell Sir John Fielding.”

  “Then at least I’ll be fairly treated.”

  “But he is bound to arrest you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Princess Amelia believes you are guilty, Sir John would be flouting a royal command if he were to do otherwise.”

  “But you will speak up for me? Tell them about the cloak?”

  “You know I will. But it is a question of proof. You must admit you looked mighty guilty.”

  John sighed. “You’re right.” His voice changed. “Where is Emilia?”

  “They have brought her back to the house. She’s in a room close by.”

  “May I see her?”

  Priscilla hesitated. “I managed to find a key to fit the lock but should I let you out?”

  John said angrily, “In the name of heaven, Priscilla, you know I’m not guilty.”

  She relented. “Yes, I do. Come.”

  The Apothecary struck a tinder and relit the candle, handing it to her. In silence they left the room and John found himself in a rough brick corridor. He had clearly been taken to the cellar — as had his wife.

  She lay in another small brick room, this one entirely devoid of light. A hasty bier had been made from three large planks put together supported by a trestle beneath. They had covered her with a white sheet through which a small stain of blood had started to dry. With a hand that shook violently John pulled it back and gazed into her face.

  Like this, with no visible sign of violence, she looked as if she were asleep. Yet the face had lost its colour and was a snowy white against which the darkness of her lashes showed starkly. The Apothecary turned to Priscilla.

  “Leave us a minute, please. I beg you to do so.”

  She reluctantly set the candle down and headed for the door. “I’ll be right outside,” she said.

  He never knew why he pulled the rest of the sheet back, but pull it he did. Emilia’s wounded body lay exposed to his gaze. Fighting a terrible urge to shout aloud, the Apothecary examined her stabs.

  The killer had grabbed her from behind and struck three savage blows to her abdomen, then left her to bleed to death. At least that was how John read the situation from the position of the cuts.

  “My darling,” he whispered to the corpse, “I’ll find who did this to you and then I will kill him with my bare hands. I promise you that.”

  It seemed to him in the flickering light that she gave a little smile. John bent and kissed her hand, realising how stiff and cold it had become. Then he replaced the sheet, kissing Emilia on the mouth before he covered her face.

  Priscilla was not outside the door. In fact, Priscilla was nowhere to be seen. Candle in hand, John walked along the rough corridor, searching for her. And then it came to him. Perhaps she had deliberately made herself scarce in order to give him an opportunity to escape.

  He looked at his watch and saw that it was two in the morning. The entire household, with the exception of the night staff, would be asleep. Suddenly weak again, John sat on a rough stool and considered his options. If he remained in custody he would eventually be handed to the Runners who would escort him to Bow Street and into the custody of Sir John. If he escaped he could go to Sir Gabriel and explain what had happened, then give himself up to Sir John, hopefully in the company of Priscilla who could explain about the cloak and the mistaken identity. In short, there seemed little choice in the matter. It would be better by far to make his break for freedom while he had the chance.

  John crept along the corridor, his heart thudding and there, as he had been certain there would be, he found a door. Locked and bolted it was indeed but the keys were on the inside. Feeling hardly in control of himself, he raised a hand and slid back the top bolt which creaked and groaned as he pulled it back. He paused, his breathing coming in little gasps, and listened. Nothing stirred. Certain now that Priscilla had given him this opportunity, the Apothecary bent to the lower bolt and slid it back. It, too, made a noise but opened. Now all that was left was the key. Grabbing it with both hands, John turned it and the door swung ajar.

  The rush of cold air took his breath away, what was left of it. So much so that he stood gasping in the entrance, his thoughts whirling in his head. To summon Irish Tom, no doubt asleep in the stable block, would be sheer folly. For how could he in his blood-stained suit present himself to anyone who might still be on duty. But then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw in the distance that a coach was waiting near the gates of the house, a coach which he recognised as his own. John staggered forward and collapsed into the gigantic Irishman’s arms.

  “I knew you’d escape, Sorrh,” a voice whispered in his ear.

  “Did you hear about what happened?” John asked as Irish Tom carried him the rest of the way and deposited him inside the coach’s freezing interior.

  “I did, Mr. Rawlings. My deepest condolences to you.”

  “She was murdered by mistake, Tom. Poor Emilia borrowed a red cloak and that was her downfall.”

  He wept again, though he thought he had no more tears left in him. Very gently, Irish Tom wrapped him in a fur coverlet then climbed onto the coachman’s box.

  “Where to, Sorrh?” he asked.

  “Sir Gabriel’s,” was John’s answer as the motion of the coach finally lulled him into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  He woke in the cold light of dawning to see a friendless landscape. Tom had made what progress he could on the icy roads but the horses were tired and they were not much further forward than Turnham Green.

  “I’m making for the inn, S
ir …” Tom’s Irish accent had become more subdued. “… We could both do with a substantial meal.”

  John put his head out of the window. He was hatless, had left his greatcoat behind, and his beautiful suit was covered in blood. “What shall I wear?”

  Irish Tom called down, “There’s a bag on the seat opposite you.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “I don’t know. I stole it from another coach just before I went to wait for you.”

  John shook his head but opened the bag and found a suit of clothes, made for someone far smaller than he was, within. Pulling it out, he stripped off, not easy in the carriage’s swinging interior, and put the ensemble on. It was made of dark green worsted, a very sensible suit indeed. Furthermore the legs only came to just above his knees and the hose did not meet them, but it was clean and serviceable. With a sigh, John fastened on the cloak — there was no hat — and thought about Emilia.

  A few minutes later they stopped at the inn they had patronised on the way down. Irish Tom pulled into the courtyard and jumping down himself, helped John descend. The Apothecary, weak as a child, was glad of an arm to help him into the smoky interior. Once inside, despite the earliness of the hour, Irish Tom ordered a large brandy for his master and a small beer for himself. Then he sat in silence and waited for John to speak.

  He thought that he had never seen the Apothecary look so ill. He had lost his wig long ago and now his cinnamon hair hung lankly round his ears, while his face was so pale that his vivid eyes seemed twice the size. He seemed to have shrunk but, Tom thought, this was because he was walking slightly hunched, as if he could not stand upright and face the troubles of the world.

  “She was killed by mistake,” John repeated at last.

  And with that thought came a poignant memory of himself looking out of the window and seeing Emilia hurrying through the grounds in the borrowed red cloak. At the time he had thought it was Priscilla but now he wondered what his wife had been doing, hastening through the grounds in the gathering gloom.

  “Tell me about it, Sir,” Irish Tom answered quietly, and John considered that he had never realised the hulking Irishman had this kind and gentle side to his nature.

  “I saw her, Tom. I actually saw her. She was hurrying through the gardens in the red cloak. But I never realised it was Emilia — thought it was Priscilla who had worn the cloak during the masque. I wonder where she was going, what important errand she was running, and for whom?”

  “Perhaps she felt like a walk, Sir. Perhaps she was just taking a turn round the grounds.”

  John’s pictorial memory flashed up a picture of Emilia as he had seen her. She had definitely been in a hurry, not carrying herself like a woman going for a stroll.

  “No, Tom. She was about some business. But what in God’s holy name could it have been?”

  “Perhaps Miss Fleming will know.”

  John shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He sat silently. “Will the body be released soon?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t have the answer, Sir. I expect it will though.” The Apothecary put his head in his hands. “Dear Lord, what a mess. I have to tell Rose that she will never see her mother again. Tell the world that my wife is dead and that I stand accused of her murder.”

  “The sooner you get to Sir Gabriel’s the better, Sir. Now eat up, here comes a hearty breakfast. Once consumed, we can be on our way.”

  But John picked at his food, leaving nearly all of it on his plate.

  The coachman looked at him in despair. “You must keep your strength up, Mr. Rawlings. How will you be able to face what lies ahead if you’re weak?”

  For once his master took no notice and it was left to the Irishman to do justice to the severe breakfast which had been brought to them.

  John patted his pockets. “My money is in my suit, in the coach. Can you fetch it for me?”

  “Certainly, Sir.”

  While Irish Tom was gone, John ordered himself another brandy and sat close to the fire, thinking. It was not only Emilia who had been murdered but his unborn child as well. But that his wife, that innocent woman, should have been struck down at all was almost too much even to contemplate. Yet it had come as no shock to Priscilla who, apparently, had several secrets in her past which could have led to her being killed.

  She must bear witness for me, the Apothecary thought. Then, quite suddenly, he realised how his case must look to others. He had been caught red-handed, actually holding the knife with which Emilia had been slain. Small wonder that Lady Theydon, that unpleasant woman, had accused him of murder. His hopes of clearing his name were pinned on the fact that Priscilla would vouch for him to Sir John Fielding.

  The coachman came back in and paid the bill with John’s money.

  “We’d best be getting along, Sir. I won’t rest easy until I deliver you to Sir Gabriel.”

  John went to stand up but once again his legs buckled and it was left to Irish Tom to ferry him to his coach. As they left the inn the Apothecary was more than aware of the curious stare of the maid who actually followed them to the front door to have a final look.

  As luck would have it, Sir Gabriel Kent was just stepping forth from his house in Church Lane as John’s equipage rolled up. This day, almost as if he had had a premonition, he was dressed all in black, only the white frills of his shirt relieving the gloom. His smile of welcome changed dramatically as he saw the state of John Rawlings, creeping out of the coach, pale-faced and puffy-eyed.

  “My dear child, whatever has befallen you?” he called out. Then he hurried forward to assist Irish Tom bring John indoors.

  There, the sheer relief of being with his father caused the Apothecary to weep once more and it was left to the coachman to explain the circumstances of John’s sudden reappearance. He had never seen Sir Gabriel grow pale before, John thought, but now he saw his father’s skin become like parchment and his golden eyes fill with tears. It was a sobering sight, but after application of his handkerchief, Sir Gabriel became extremely business-like.

  “Now, my lad,” he said firmly, “the first thing you must do is go and have a rest. Then, tomorrow morning early, you must head for town and deliver yourself to Sir John Fielding. You will receive the best treatment possible at the great man’s hands.”

  “But Father,” John replied wearily, so exhausted with weeping that he could hardly concentrate, “I must get Priscilla to come with me.”

  “Then write her a short note which I will take with me when I go to see Princess Amelia.”

  “But why … ?”

  “My son, somebody must bring Emilia’s body back for burial. No doubt the Coroner will have been informed this morning but I am sure he will release her as soon as possible. She must be buried here in Kensington where you and I can tend the grave.”

  “Oh God’s life,” John answered wearily, “to think of Rose without a mother.”

  “Rose must be brought here to live with me for the time being. Until this confusion has been sorted out.”

  “Father,” said John seriously, “do you think Sir John will hold me in custody?”

  “I think, my son,” Sir Gabriel answered with equal severity, “he might have no choice but to do so.”

  “Then my future looks bleak.”

  “Until Miss Priscilla speaks up, yes. Now scrawl a note to her do. I must leave within the hour if I am to make Gunnersbury House before nightfall.”

  A quarter of an hour later it was done and John was climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He found a shawl of Emilia’s lying on the bed and when he picked it up to hold to his cheek he could smell her perfume still on it. Cradling it in his arms as if it were her, he lay down on the bed. But sleep would not come as over and over in his brain he ran the events of the previous evening. Eventually he got up and wandered downstairs where he found the house empty, Sir Gabriel and Tom having left for Gunnersbury. Going to his compounding room at the back of the house, John mixed himself half an ounce of the syrup obtained from t
he opium poppy. Then he sat in a chair and fell finally into a deep sleep.

  He was awoken by a sound. Struggling back to consciousness he identified it as someone knocking insistently at the door. The house was in total darkness but at that moment Sir Gabriel’s clock, removed from Nassau Street when he moved to Kensington, played

  The British Grenadiers for the half hour. Getting to his feet John felt his way to where he thought the candles were, found them by groping, and struck a tinder. Lighting a candle tree, he made his way to the front door.

  A figure stood outlined against the moonlit sky, a figure made even darker by the frosty night beyond. John was just able to discern a man’s cloak and hat but nothing further.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Bless you, Sir, don’t you know me?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ve just woken up. Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Rawlings,” and the man stepped forward into the light.

  It was Joe Jago.

  Chapter Eight

  It was with an overwhelming sense of relief that John Rawlings stood back to allow Joe Jago to come into the house. Then while his companion made himself at home the Apothecary hurtled round lighting all the candles. Next Sir Gabriel’s staff arrived, a footman and a cook, returned from shopping, and started to prepare dinner so that the pleasant smell of roasting meat filled the air. Half an hour later the Apothecary, having rapidly changed into a suit he had left behind in Kensington, and washed and shaved himself, came downstairs to greet his guest who was halfway through a bottle of claret.

  “Well, Sir,” said Joe comfortably, “would you like to tell me what happened?”