Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  “Ma’am, thank you for your kind hospitality. Tonight has been strange indeed but momentarily putting aside the horror and revulsion that we all feel at this terrible circumstance, I would like to raise my glass to the principal Princess of England. Princess Amelia.”

  Everyone murmured her name and drank, though in far more restrained a manner than usual, John thought.

  “Have you come to any conclusion about leaving tomorrow, Ma’am?” he asked.

  “The day after, I have decided. Tomorrow I and my ladies must rest. The whole affair has been a terrible strain on our nerves.”

  “Have you informed Sir John Fielding of the sad occurrence?”

  “A rider has been despatched. I expect the Runners to appear some time tomorrow. That is partly why I have decided to stay.”

  The Apothecary’s heart sank. It had been inevitable that the Beak Runners would be informed but the thought of them appearing some time during the day meant that he must vanish before they came. He decided that tonight he would not go to bed but would spend the hours searching for clues and talking to as many people as possible. Which, he thought, would not be many judging by the number already suppressing yawns.

  “What will happen to Lord Hope’s remains?” he asked, realising even as he spoke that he had mentioned a subject not fit for the dining table.

  Lady Theydon fixed him with a glassy stare. “They will stay here until Lady Georgiana has them removed.”

  “Or until the Runners put them in the care of the Coroner.” There was a stony silence and John continued, “Has anyone thought to communicate with her family?”

  Princess Amelia gave a small sigh. “Kemp, will you see to it please.”

  “Certainly, Highness. They are based in Ireland, are they not?”

  “They are. Lady Georgiana’s father was that impoverished Irish peer, the Earl of Galloway. Her brother now has the title, I believe.”

  Ireland, thought John. Was it possible that Georgiana and Michael had known each other a long time? That he had courted her before she had been married to the man now lying in the cellar? Whatever, the way ahead was clear for them now.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten and the Princess stood up, at which signal everyone else got to their feet.

  “I am retiring,” she announced. “Ladies, attend me. Gentlemen, farewell. We shall meet in the morning.” The four women dutifully followed her from the door and yet again the Apothecary was reminded of the four Marys who had attended Mary, Queen of Scots. Priscilla, after smiling round the room, went out behind the others. John turned to the other two men.

  “Gentlemen, if you will forgive me. I have travelled a fair distance today and am feeling exhausted.”

  “Of course,” answered Dr. Phipps. “I shall turn in myself when I have finished my port.”

  The Honourable Gerald, quite red in the cheeks by now, said, “Well, I’m going to sit up a bit. I feel too damnably excited to go to bed yet. Might take a turn round the grounds before I do.”

  “It’s bitterly cold,” warned the doctor.

  “I’ll be splendid, thank you.”

  John left them arguing mildly and escorted by a footman with a candle tree, went up to the room on the first floor which had been designated as his. Once there, however, he took a glass of water to clear his head and as soon as all was quiet, went silently back down the stairs. His first task was to find Elizabeth and warn her of his presence.

  The staircase on which he found himself was not the private one used by Priscilla. In fact the Apothecary cursed as he followed the curve and found himself back in the main hall. A footman standing at the bottom, looked up.

  “Can I help you, Sir?”

  John put on his bluff hail-fellow-well-met face. “I’m a stranger to this house and thought I’d acquaint myself with its layout before I sleep. Can you tell me where the kitchens are?”

  “There’s no one in ‘em now, Sir. Can I fetch you something?”

  “No, that’s perfectly all right. Goodnight to you.”

  “Goodnight, Sir.”

  Horribly aware of the man’s curious gaze, John turned to the right, making his way through a dozen elegant rooms, now somewhat mysterious in the shadows thrown by his candles, until he found what he was looking for at last. At the back of the house, hidden behind a door, was the entrance to a steep spiral staircase. The tread of the stairs was so narrow that he wondered at the servants labouring up and down with food and cleaning equipment. Nevertheless, he started to climb as best he could, staying on the outside of each stair, circling round and round as he sought the top of the house. For this, surely, must be where the Marchesa slept. And it was imperative that he get word to her tonight that they were under the same roof once more.

  As he climbed ever upward the Apothecary considered the fact that she might share the bedroom with other serving women. Then he would just have to creep in and wake her, he decided. Though it was all very impractical it was the best he could come up with.

  Eventually, panting and somewhat out of breath, he reached the third floor. Here there was a long landing with doors leading off on either side. Cautiously, John opened one. The sound of stertorous breathing from within told him that this was one of the men’s rooms. Quietly closing it, he took to gently opening several and found that women slept to the left, men to the right.

  He stopped to think. If he went into one and Elizabeth were not there he would wake the entire population of the servants’ floor. Somehow he must identify which room she would be in. He remembered standing outside the house and looking up. At the end of the row on the top floor there had been a tiny window with obviously a tiny room behind it. Surely she as the most lowly member of staff might be incarcerated in such a place. Quietly, he opened the door at the far end of the corridor.

  He knew at once by the light, high breathing that a boy lay within, and without a sound closed it again. Tiptoeing down the corridor he tried the door at the far end and this time was rewarded. A shaft of frosty moon was coming through the uncurtained window and he could see in its light that Elizabeth lay there, her black hair spread like lace upon the pillow, her features pale as death in that unearthly light. Crossing to the bed — a mere footstep for him — he put his hand over her mouth and gently shook her shoulder.

  She woke at once and gazed at him, not terrified but calmly. Beneath his fingers he felt her mouth smile. “John,” she said in a muffled voice.

  He took his hand away and she sat up, curtained by black locks. “My dear, how are you?” she continued, then putting her arms round his neck, she kissed him.

  Just for a moment John forgot everything and returned the kiss, deeply, his tongue seeking hers. Then he remembered Emilia’s face as she died and he gently disentangled himself.

  “I’m well but I’ve a great deal to tell you.”

  And there, in the cold moonlight, he recounted the story, even down to the Honourable Gerald being too frightened to enter the Grotto.

  “I’ve yet to meet him. But your disguise as Colonel Melville? Is it working?”

  John raised his eye-patch. “It seems that this is helping enormously. Some people seem to think they’ve met me before somewhere but are not at all certain.”

  “But you say the Princess is leaving the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, that’s her intention. I’ve got to move fast.”

  “Yes, you certainly have. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Just stay close and run if you have to.”

  She leant her head back on the pillow. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nearby.” She smiled her enigmatic smile. “You know that Benedict has a passion for me.”

  “Yes, Joe Jago told me.”

  “It is purely one-sided.”

  “So I should hope, you witch.”

  She gave him a look from her dark eyes. “Who do you think is responsible for the latest murder?”

  “Whoever it was who killed Emilia. The wound was almost identical.” />
  “Then we must find out who visited the Grotto today.”

  “That,” answered John Rawlings with determination, “is exactly what I intend to do.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  He left her within the next five minutes, filled with the knowledge that the strange deep attraction she held for him was returning, in fact had probably never gone away, merely been dulled by the pain of losing Emilia so savagely. All the way down the creaking spiral, John thought of Elizabeth’s hauntingly ugly beauty and wished that he had spent longer with her, even the night itself. Then he took himself to task. There was much to do and very little time in which to do it. Every minute counted. Yet as he reached the bottom step he sighed deeply for the things that might have been which had not taken place.

  Leaving the house by a back door John headed for the stable block, thinking that he would have to wake Joe Jago up. But there was a dim light in the building and much to his surprise he found the clerk dozing, sitting up by a bale of hay, his eyes closed but obviously conscious for he said, “Is that you, Mr. Rawlings?”

  “It is. How did you know?”

  “By the way you walk, Sir.” Joe opened one eye which gleamed at the Apothecary brightly.

  Amused by his reaction, John sat down beside him. “I saw you go off with the mounted search party.”

  “Yes, and by the time we’d got back you’d found him in the Grotto.”

  “I want to talk to you about that.”

  Joe opened his other eye and sat upright. “I rather imagined you might. Tell me, Sir, was it the same killer?”

  “Without a doubt. He was knifed in the stomach then pushed into the pool to die. Now, I saw him go into the Grotto about eleven o’clock this morning. Is it possible that he was killed then and could have been there all day?”

  “It’s very possible. Remember that the water in the basin is cold and that the Princess uses it far more in the summer than the winter. It is more than likely that the place was not visited at all during the day.”

  “Then I think he went in to meet his murderer.”

  Joe produced a pencil and paper from his pocket. “We must list everyone who was present both at Christmas and this morning. Now then, starting at the top, there’s Princess Amelia.”

  “Oh surely not.”

  “You say that, Sir, but who is to say that she is not a homicidal Hanoverian?”

  John grinned. “Go on.”

  “There’s Lady Georgiana Hope, the Countess of Hampshire, Lady Theydon, Lady Featherstonehaugh, Lady Kemp and Miss Fleming. Any men?”

  “Michael O’Callaghan could have come over from the farm and lurked in the Grotto. He had motive enough.”

  “What about Benedict?”

  “Much as I dislike him,” John answered, “I don’t think so. He was serving me a drink when I saw Emilia through the window. Which reminds me; I found a piece of red material high up at the scene of her murder.”

  “What do you mean, high up?”

  “Snagged on a branch at standing height. As if someone had been waiting in the trees. You don’t think …” His voice died away as the full import of what he was saying struck him.

  “That there were two people in red cloaks?” Joe asked slowly.

  The Apothecary turned to stare at him. “Is it possible?”

  “It certainly is, Sir. What easier way to disguise oneself than to dress in an identical way to the victim.” John looked sick. “Then the person I saw hurrying through the trees might not have been Emilia.”

  “Who’s to say, Sir? Who’s to say? Now …” He rubbed his hands together. “Who else for the list?”

  “I can’t think of anyone. Joe, you know that Michael O’Callaghan and Georgiana Hope were planning to run away together.”

  “Yes, I do. Silly young fools. But it would certainly give both of them a motive.”

  “Indeed it would. But why kill Priscilla that first time? Because that’s who the murderer thought he was getting.”

  “Urn.” Joe stroked his chin.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, Sir. Just um.”

  “Well, tomorrow I’ve got to question all the ladies, somehow or other find out what they were doing at the appropriate time .” A thought struck John forcibly and he grabbed Joe’s arm. “But I forgot. The Runners are due here tomorrow. They’ll arrest me sure as fate.”

  “No, Sir, I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Joe flushed a little. “Mr. Rawlings, I haven’t been entirely straight with you.”

  The Apothecary turned on him a puzzled face. “I don’t understand.”

  “I wrote to Sir John shortly after you arrived here and begged him to give you time to solve the murder. He agreed to three weeks before he made an arrest. You have one more week to go.”

  John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You mean to say that my subterfuge has been for nothing?”

  “Not for nothing, no, Sir. You have managed to worm your way back in to Gunnersbury House. You are on the point of unravelling the mystery …”

  “Some hopes.”

  “As I was saying, you are on the point of solving the entire thing. Another week is all you will need.”

  “But the Princess intends to pack up tomorrow and go the next day.”

  “Perhaps she can be persuaded to stay.”

  “But how?”

  “I think, Sir, that you had better leave that to me,” Joe answered, and touched his nose with his finger.

  John’s earlier feelings of tiredness had now vanished. Leaving the stables, plunging into a freezing night, he felt more alert and awake than he had for an age. Deciding to take another look at the Grotto, hoping that a torch would have been left in there, he made his way through the darkness towards the folly.

  Despite the bitter weather the night was alive with sounds. The grass rustled with small wildlife and distantly he could hear the sonorous note of an owl. But another noise overrode these natural sounds. There was the crunching of feet on the frosty lawn as somebody approached. For some strange reason John’s blood ran cold and he hurried for the protection of the folly where he hid in the deepest shadow, hardly daring to breathe. Silently, he watched the figure approach.

  It was cloaked and it was difficult to tell at this distance whether it was male or female. Yet as it approached closer he could see that it was a woman who was drawing near to the place where he hid. Standing mute in the inky blackness, the Apothecary recognised the lugubrious features of Lady Theydon.

  She paused at the entrance to the Grotto and looked stealthily around. She was only a foot away from John who could quite easily have stretched out his arm and touched her. However, he remained utterly still and quiet.

  “Is there anybody there?” she asked nervously, her sticky voice tremulous.

  The Apothecary did not move a muscle despite an overwhelming urge to cough.

  She stared round a moment or two longer then decided that the coast was clear and entered the murder scene, from which a faint glow was still forthcoming. Dying to see what she was doing, John ventured forward a step, then another, until finally he was just able to peep within.

  She was searching for something, that much was clear. Looking up and down the walls of the interior, then bending over the basin, peering frantically. But whatever it was Lady Theydon sought, her search was unsuccessful. For after a further look round she headed for the doorway.

  The Apothecary drew back but not quite quickly enough. She had seen something.

  “Who is there?” she called.

  But he was off, haring up the hill to the garden behind, then racing through that in the direction of The Temple and Round Pond. She had seen him, of that much he was certain, but whether she had recognised him was a different matter. At least she had been too frightened to come in pursuit. Glancing over his shoulder, the Apothecary slowed his pace.

  It was so cold that the Pond had frozen over and John looked with pity
at the huddles of ducks and two solitary swans sleeping disconsolately on the shore. Suddenly he began to miss Rose, longing to show her sights like these, longing not to miss much more of her growing up. Determined that before the end of the week he would unmask the cruel murderer, John turned back to Gunnersbury House and the thought of a comfortable bed.

  He rose at six o’clock and having washed and dressed made his way back to the Grotto. It was one of those misty mornings with a heavy frost, the sun blood-red behind the vapour. Determined to try and find what it was Lady Theydon had sought so frantically the night before, John entered the place of death and looked round him.

  The torch in the wall-bracket had long since gone out and the place had a desolate air, the early morning light barely filling its corners. Not having an idea what it was he sought, the Apothecary began to repeat the search of the previous night. The walls revealed nothing except the bloodstain he had noticed earlier, so somewhat reluctantly the Apothecary turned his attention to the basin itself. It was certainly small, the water coming from a cascade, quite artificial, fed by a series of hidden pipes. Gingerly putting his hand in, John withdrew it again rapidly. It was freezing and only a fanatic would bathe in it of their own free will. Wondering whether Amelia organised a string of maids with boiling kettles to heat it up, John was just about to give up when he noticed something sparkle at the bottom of the basin. Hoicking up the sleeves of the Prince of Mecklenburg’s stout cape, John put his arm into the icy water and pulled out an earring.

  It was quite small, fashioned round a central stone, probably a topaz. Holding it up to what light there was, the Apothecary could see that it sparkled sufficiently to tell him that it was not cheap and had been made for a lady of quality. Which gives me the choice of any woman in the house, he thought. Sighing a little, he slipped it into his pocket and went out again.

  Breakfast was served at eight o’clock and John, making his way to the morning room, found himself following in the wake of the Ladies Kemp and Featherstonehaugh. Reminded vividly of his first visit to the house and his journey up the stairs when they had introduced themselves, he made sure that his eye-patch was in position before he spoke.