Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  “I tried to warn you,” John said, but got no reply other than for the vague swinging of a feeble fist in his direction.

  “I’ve a bloody good mind to leave you to it,” he continued, but his training was too strong and he clambered into the cart and attempted to lift the drunken man free. But Jacob, at dead weight, was heavier than he looked. Try as he might the Apothecary could not shift him. He had to satisfy himself with cleaning the head wound and binding it with a bit of cloth torn from Jacob’s shirt. Then he left him, sleeping in an upright position and covered with an old blanket. The pony, frightened and shivering with cold, standing in the stream as it was, John unhitched and led back to the farm where it was put in its stable and given some hay.

  The clock struck eleven as he entered the door and tiptoed up to his room. Undressing quickly, the Apothecary got into bed but for some reason did not sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Instead he was vaguely aware that something was worrying him but had no tangible idea what it was. Eventually he did sleep, only to have dreams and to wake again, feeling uneasy and sad, in the terrible blackness of the hour before dawn.

  As soon as it was light, he rose and crept from the house. Going back to the scene of the accident he saw that Jacob still slept, though not as deeply as he had on the previous night. Filling the bucket he had brought with him with icy water from the brook, John, with a great deal of satisfaction, emptied it over Jacob’s head. “What? Bastard! God almighty …”

  “You can stop that,” said John forcefully. “I ran after you yesterday to tell you the cart had a damaged wheel but off you sped to Brentford. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

  “You miserable little …” Jake began, attempting to get to his feet but falling over as he hadn’t taken into account the cart’s list.

  “Mind your head, for God’s sake,” the Apothecary continued. “You’ve a hell of a bump on it. Now do you want me to help you or not?”

  “Not,” Jake retorted. “I can manage on my own.” And he did, scrabbling to his feet, balancing precariously on the vehicle’s tipping floor, eventually heaving himself out and landing waist deep in the brook’s icy waters. John stood on the bank, arms folded, as Jake, cursing and swearing like a seaman, heaved himself out and up the side.

  The farmer’s son reached the top and stood glaring at him ferociously. “I saw something interesting in Brentford last night,” he said.

  With a sinking of his heart John knew what it was. The Wanted posters had reached the towns beyond the capital.

  “Oh? And what was that?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

  “It was a Wanted poster. It had on it a description of a man who sounded just like you. I copied it down.” He drew a soggy piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Go on.”

  Laboriously, Jake started to read. “Wanted, John Rawlings. One yard, two feet and seven inches high. An apothecary by trade. Wanted for the murder of his wife at Gunnersbury House last Christmas. A reward of One Guinea is offered for information leading to his arrest.” He laughed raucously. “That’s you, isn’t it, William Miller?”

  “Yes,” said John evenly. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Jacob looked decidedly crafty. “Well now, that depends.”

  “If you’re thinking of blackmailing me you can forget it. I’d rather give myself up. If you’re thinking of telling your father, I have already done so. Don’t forget, my dear Sir, that you are going to be horribly short-handed without my services.”

  “Farm labourers are easy to hire,” Jacob retorted.

  “That’s as may be. But where are you going to find one who will tend Mr. Bellow so closely as I do? Besides, what do you stand to gain by betraying me?”

  “A guinea, that’s what.”

  “Come back to the farm and we’ll discuss it,” John replied calmly, and set off down the track.

  Behind him he could hear the farmer’s son groaning as he walked and guessed that he had a head like a bear in a pit. He turned and grinned.

  “I pity you, Jacob, I truly do.”

  “I’ll give you pity, you little turd.”

  They reached the farmhouse and there John went straight up the stairs to where Hugh Bellow lay in bed. Swiftly the Apothecary made the room decent, removing the chamber pot and finding Hugh a crisp pillow before the sound of Jacob making his way upwards could be heard.

  John turned to the farmer. “Sir, your son has seen a Wanted poster offering one guinea for information leading to my arrest. I offer now to leave this house and not bother you again but I beg you to restrain him for a day.”

  Hugh’s jaw dropped. “What’s all this, Jake?”

  “Nothing that need concern you,” he mumbled.

  The farmer sat up in bed. “Right from the start Mr. Rawlings dealt straight with me. Admittedly it was him who was found with his wife’s body but he told me he didn’t kill her and that he’s come back to find who did. Stands to reason; why else would he return to be so dangerously close? If he was the killer he’d be at the other end of the country by now.”

  The truth of this obviously struck some kind of chord and Jacob nodded his damaged head slowly.

  “So if you betrays him you’ll get the rough end of my belt, by God you will.”

  Jake looked ugly but said nothing and John thought he ought to try and lighten the atmosphere.

  “Look, I’ll leave. But give me a few hours start.”

  “You’re not leaving,” Hugh stated ferociously. “Even with a crutch — which you promised to rig for me today — I’m going to be useless round the farm for some time to come. You can’t walk out on me now, John.”

  Jacob looked at his father meaningfully. “If he’s going to make you a crutch he’ll be no good to help me rescue the cart.” And with that he slung out of the room.

  Hugh looked at the Apothecary. “He won’t betray you. I’ll flay his hide.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I hope you’re right.”

  But as John followed Jake down the stairs he had the definite feeling that all was not well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later that day, an answer came to the letter he had written to Sir Gabriel Kent. Fortunately John, who was searching for a suitable bit of wood from which to make the crutch, saw the postboy turn down the track leading from the bridge and intercepted him. So he was able to creep round the back of the woodshed and read the correspondence in peace.

  My Dear Son,

  How Pleased I am that You have found Employment so near Gunnersbury House. I also Note that Others of Your Acquaintance are Near to You. I will not Put Their Names for fear this could Fall into the Wrong Hands. Your Daughter blooms like the Rose after which She is Named and seems Happy with Her Grandfather, though She often asks After both Her Parents. I Have said Nothing of the Truth to Her. I Leave this to You when You Return.

  I remain, My Dear John,

  Yr. Loving Father,

  G. Kent

  Post Script. I hear Tell that Jocasta and S. Swann have been Safely Delivered of a Son.

  John read the letter several times, then he hid it in a pocket of his coat and began to fashion the crutch. An hour later it was done and he spent the rest of that day teaching Hugh how to use it, concluding eventually that the farmer would be better off with a second one to aid his sense of balance.

  By the time he had made this it was growing dark and John realised that today he had seen no one at Gunnersbury House, Jacob deciding that the farmer’s boy should take the deliveries that morning. John, therefore, planned to make his way there after he had eaten and try to track down Joe Jago. So as soon as he had dined, he put on his greatcoat and went out.

  He had found time to rebandage Jake’s head, despite the voluble protests of the farmer’s son.

  “I don’t need no help. Go away.”

  “As you put it so nicely, I will. But I’ll send a note to the physician that he’s needed at Bellow’s Farm urgently. Take your choice.”

&nbs
p; He had started to walk away but Jacob had called him back.

  “Will, you may as well have a look. I don’t want no old doctor fiddling about with me.”

  The cut was deep, a horrible gash that should really have been stitched. The Apothecary bathed it clean, rubbed in an infusion of the boiled leaves of Adder’s Tongue which he had carried in his medical bag, and rebound it with clean bandage.

  “I’ll have to examine you daily for a week or so.”

  “All right,” Jacob had said. And John thought that that was the nearest he had ever come to being pleasant.

  He wondered, now, as he set off up the track towards the bridge, whether Jake was going to the Brentford constable about him. Perhaps he would in secret, John thought. Whatever, there was no point in worrying about it. He had far greater matters on his mind, the first and foremost of which was to find Emilia’s killer.

  He ran through the possibilities in his head. It could have been almost anyone in the cast of the masque or in the audience, with the exception of Princess Amelia. But why except her? Just because she had royal blood in her veins did not exempt her from wrongdoing. He thought back. Where had the others been? But try as he might he could not remember. Everyone had been present during the performance, of course, but afterwards it had been a melee, a great rainbow of people moving from place to place.

  Much as it hurt him, John forced himself to think of the last time he had seen Emilia alive. He had looked out of the window and seen a figure in a red cloak moving swiftly amongst the dark trees. At the time he had thought it was Priscilla but that notion was soon to be shattered. The only person who had remained in the room while he had watched her was the unpleasant pock-marked footman, Benedict. He, at least, could be cleared.

  It was as he was walking over the bridge and starting towards the house, that he heard footsteps and automatically froze behind a tree. To his amazement he saw that it was Lady Theydon and Michael O’Callaghan, a couple he would not have placed together if he had been asked for an opinion.

  “… but Michael, I have already loaned you five pounds,” the woman was saying.

  “But fairest lady, I have spent that on living in Brentford. And now I must return to London with empty pockets.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “But, dear sweet …”

  “Enough of your silvered tongue. I have listened to it too well and too often. You must make your own way in future.”

  The voice took on the husky timbre that John so admired. “I swear to you by all that’s holy that I will pay you back every last penny piece, so help me God.”

  “You have lived like a lordling. How else could you have squandered so much. I know what you’re up to, Michael. You want to win the heart of Georgiana and you are showering her with frills and furbelows. Well, she’s a married woman, my dear. And a married woman she will stay.”

  “Not while there’s breath in my body. I swear I’ll have her.”

  “And what of Lord Hope? Do you think he is conveniently going to vanish in the night?”

  “No, but Georgiana and I have plans.”

  “Which are?”

  The beautiful Irish voice dropped an octave. “Now that would be telling, my lady. Suffice it to say that our future is mapped out.”

  She became excessively glutinous. “Well, I think you both very foolish. I want to have nothing further to do with the matter. And you can’t have any more money. Good evening to you, Sir.”

  She had hardly got out of earshot when Michael started to curse volubly. “Oh, be Jasus, ’tis a miserable old bitch, so ’tis.”

  John stepped out of his hiding place. “Good evening to you, Sir.”

  The actor jumped. “Oh, I didn’t see you there. Good evening. Do I know you?”

  John took a chance and said, “No, Sir, though I’ve seen you around.”

  “Have you? That’s odd, for it’s staying in Brentford I am.

  “Ah,” John answered, sounding as rural as possible, “I’ve seen you of a night with a beauteous lady, here by the bridge.”

  Michael turned a glittering stare on him. “Oh, a peeping Tom are you?”

  John bowed, tugging at his forelock. “Oh no, Sir, not I. I just be about farm business, checking on the stock and so on. I couldn’t help but notice her because she’s so extremely fair.”

  The Irishman relaxed. “Aye, she’s that and more. Have you ever been in love, my man?”

  “Yes, I have. Very much so,” the Apothecary answered quietly.

  “What happened?”

  “She died,” John answered bitterly.

  For answer his arms were pinioned behind his back and the hat was knocked from his head with one deft blow.

  “I thought it was you, so I did. Though I’ll admit you had me guessing for a moment. By God, I’ve got the wanted man. Why the devil did you come back?”

  “To find Emilia’s murderer and to kill him,” John answered baldly.

  “So you’re maintaining your innocence?”

  “Of course I’m innocent. Why the hell should I kill the woman I was in love with? She was a good wife and a good mother, further she was expecting our second child. Logic alone should prove me free of guilt.” Michael gave him a knowing stare. “As a matter of fact, dear boy, I never thought you had done it. Oh, I know it looked bad, you covered in blood and holding the knife and all. But judging by our past relationship I had always thought you blameless.”

  “Well you were right.”

  “The Irish instinct.” The actor looked round. “It’s cold. Would it be safe, do you reckon, for you to step out to Brentford and have a drink with me?”

  “I should imagine so. But how will I get there?”

  “I’ve a conveyance waiting for me at the other side of the bridge. If you’d be kind enough to share it I’ve a mind to hear your side of the story.”

  They crossed the wooden footbridge and there, sure enough, was a man with a cart.

  “Not exactly a hackney but the best that the village had to offer,” said the Irishman with a grin.

  They sat opposite one another, saying little, until the cart rolled into The Butts and finally came to a halt outside The Red Lion. John looked round for a Wanted poster but failed to see one.

  “I’m staying here,” Michael O’Callaghan announced grandly, and led the way in.

  It was obvious from the greeting he received that he had already talked his way into the good books of most of the regulars. So much so that having exchanged greetings he and John were given a fairly private place at a table.

  “Now,” said the Irishman, downing a glass of wine in a swallow, “tell me everything.”

  This John proceeded to do, leaving out no detail, even relating the story of Hugh Bellow’s accident at the fair.

  “You were lucky to get that job.”

  “Yes, I was. Though I must admit that I’ve never worked so hard in all my life. But what worries me, Michael, is the fact that I can’t get into the house — well, hardly at all. For how in heaven’s name am I going to catch the killer, stranded, as I am, at a distance?”

  The actor sat silently, withdrawing a pipe from his pocket, lighting it and puffing. “Have you thought of a disguise?” he asked eventually.

  “Well, I’ve dyed my hair.”

  “Yes, but that alone is not enough. It’s your eyes that give you away. If you could hide those somehow …”

  “Perhaps I should wear a black bandage like the Blind Beak.”

  Michael removed the pipe and pointed the stem at John. “Wait, that’s given me an idea. How about an eye-patch and a limp? Could you not be a veteran of the recent war? Then all you need is for someone to introduce you into the Princess’s court and, by Jasus, you’re away.”

  Priscilla, John thought. She’d be willing to present him as a friend.

  “Would I have to increase my age at all?” he asked.

  “No, you could have been wounded young as old.”

  The Apothecary sat sile
ntly for a few minutes, toying with his wine glass. Then he said, “I’ll do it, by God.”

  “And what about the Bellows, father and son?”

  “I’ll ask them for a few days leave.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “Then I’ll have to rethink. I really can’t leave them in the lurch at a time like this. Just pray they’ll see fit to release me.”

  The Irishman shuffled in his seat then leant forward confidentially. “As a matter of fact I grew up on a farm.”

  “Oh yes?” said John, feeling he knew where this was leading.

  “Yes, till it failed. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind a week’s work. Fact of the matter is I’ve enough to pay my bill here then I’m clean out of money. I could do with a few shillings in my purse. What do you say? Will you ask them if I can have your job?”

  “You would rather do that than return to London and acting?”

  Michael O’Callaghan sighed. “Until my sweet girl goes back to town, I’d rather be here; however menial the task.”

  He said this with full theatrical weight and the Apothecary laughed aloud. “Right. Come to the farm tomorrow morning. I’ll put it to Hugh Bellow.”

  “You’re a gentleman, Sir.”

  “Quite so,” John answered, and laughed again.

  At first light the Apothecary rose and went to milk the cows. Then he let them out into the field. As ever his eyes were drawn to the spot where he had seen Emilia — or someone very like her — walk across his line of vision. But there was no one there and though he stood staring for several minutes, nothing happened, and he turned back towards the farm. It was at that moment John saw a familiar figure carrying a bag of luggage come striding down the track, and he waved with enthusiasm. Michael O’Callaghan had kept his part of the bargain and was arriving at Bellow’s Farm bright and early.

  Seating the actor in the kitchen John hurried up the stairs to sort out Hugh, and was astonished to find him hobbling round the room on his crutches.