Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  “It might,” John answered lamely. “It just might.”

  “Well then, let us hope it triggers something off in your mind, Sir.”

  “I pray with all my heart that it does,” John answered as he made his way from the room.

  Sitting outside while Dr. Peter Phipps presented himself, he thought through the strange story that Priscilla had told him and decided that it could mean one of two things. Either an agent of the people who wished to keep the royal secret was present here at Princess Amelia’s court or they had sent someone in, someone who had vanished again afterwards, to make sure that Priscilla was silenced. But in that case who had killed Lord Hope? What had he to do with it all? Thoroughly puzzled, the Apothecary attempted to think logically.

  Emilia had been murdered because she had been confused with Priscilla, the mother of King George’s little bastard. But Lord Hope, as far as he knew, was totally unconnected with that affair. And then a terrible thought struck the Apothecary. Supposing he had been wrong all along. Supposing that a mad killer was on the loose, striking at whomsoever he, or she, pleased. Supposing that right from the start Emilia had been the intended victim. That there had been no motive for the crime but it had happened simply to fulfil the depraved lust of a maniac. In that case they must all be on their guard — for there was a lunatic in their midst.

  Somewhat shaken by his ideas the Apothecary made his way out, thinking that he must find Joe and discuss this latest turn of events with him. But he had not even got as far as the door leading to the garden when he heard a voice calling the name of the Colonel. Slowly he turned and saw Lady Hampshire waving her fingers at him and peeping coyly over her fan, which she was vigorously employing despite the freezing temperature. John made a deep bow.

  “My dear Colonel,” said the lady, remaining seated. “I’ve been sitting here thinking about you.”

  “Indeed, Madam?”

  “Yes, truly. How unfortunate that you should arrive at such a horrid time. What can you reckon to us all, I ask myself.”

  “It is indeed bad timing, my Lady, but one can hardly choose to have a murder at a convenient moment.”

  She patted the seat next to hers. “Can you spare me a minute, Sir? I would so love to have your opinion of things.”

  John bowed once more and took a seat opposite. She leant close to him. “Do tell me,” she said, and laughed shrilly.

  In her day she had been a great beauty, there was no doubt about it. Fine boned and with luxuriously lovely eyes, it was easy to imagine a much-married elderly aristocrat wanting to make her his wife. Unfortunately the rot of years had now set in and what had been a small vivacious chin had now vanished into a second, the eyes had puffy bags beneath, and John saw as she smiled that she was starting to lose her teeth. He imagined her age to be two years either way of fifty.

  She smiled winningly. “Go on.”

  John cleared his throat and tried hard to think himself into the role of the Colonel.

  “Well, Ma’am, it is very much as you say. Poor Lord Hope has been done away with and it is up to all of us to be vigilant and keep our eyes open.”

  Lady Hampshire gave an excited shudder. “Do you think the killer is one of us?”

  John paused, thinking. “It is certainly someone connected with Gunnersbury House in some capacity or other. Tell me in confidence, Lady Hampshire, do you have anyone you suspect?”

  “Well at the time of the first murder I thought it must be as they said. That it was the husband. But now I don’t see how that is possible. I mean, what connection is there between that nice little Emilia and Lord Hope? Unless, of course …”

  “What?”

  “Unless they were lovers.”

  For some reason this remark infuriated John but he managed to control himself. “I think that is pushing circumstance a little far, Ma’am. I should imagine that the only link between the two is their murderer,” he answered quietly.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was a relief to get outside, away from Gunnersbury House, the atmosphere of which had suddenly become oppressive. Walking resolutely in the direction of the stables, John was pleasantly surprised to see Elizabeth coming towards him. She curtseyed as they drew level.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” she said, and smiled, her scar harshly apparent in the morning light.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he answered and, lowering his eye patch, gave her a knowing wink.

  Her manner changed. “John, be careful for the love of God. We might be being watched.”

  “Then meet me in The Temple in ten minutes. I’ll go straight there. You follow.”

  And before she could argue or disagree he set off in the direction of the Round Pond.

  This morning was warmer and the recent ice that had covered the lake had melted, leaving it that mysterious deep blue that had so struck him when first he had seen the stretch of water. Now, having a few minutes to spare, he strolled round its circumference, glad to see the ducks and swans once more swimming upon its surface. He remembered then another occasion, close to another expanse of water. Remembered

  Emilia as she had looked that very first time he had seen her. She had been wearing a large black hat which all but hid the gold sheen of her hair. But beneath its brim she had gazed at him with those gorgeous eyes of hers and John had been instantly attracted to her. An attraction which had turned into love and which had resulted in the birth of Rose.

  John pulled himself up with a jerk. He had hardly thought of his daughter these past few days and now he felt a violent desire to see her again and hold her in his arms. With her mop of curling red hair and her wiry little body she was the nearest thing to Emilia left alive on earth. His urgent need to conclude this case and once more be restored to his family was like an actual physical pain which made him hurry the rest of his walk and enter the confines of The Temple at a brisk pace.

  He had last been inside it at night and now he paused in the entrance while his eyes got used to the dim light. He looked round at a rectangular structure clearly erected as a summerhouse. However provision had been made for the vagaries of the English weather, for a fireplace had been built in the wall facing him. There were various pieces of statuary about and John looked again on the plaster faun together with that of a swan and goldfish. He recalled the last occasion he had been within and the attack on Priscilla. Whoever was responsible for these killings and for that assault, he thought, was either extremely clever or extremely mad. Or could it be that they were both? Suddenly he shivered and was glad to hear Elizabeth’s light but determined step as she made her way inside.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I’ve questioned various people but I’m no further forward as to who went to the Grotto yesterday.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to discover that. Because whoever it was is going to lie to protect themselves.”

  “There is one thing, though.” And John told her about Lady Theydon’s fruitless search for the earring and his subsequent discovery of it.

  “Where is it now?” the Marchesa asked.

  “Here.” And John felt in the Prince’s cape, then turned the pocket out, fishing the earring from its depth.

  “And you say that Lady Theydon went searching for it last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then is she the murderer?”

  “It is certainly beginning to look that way.” Elizabeth was silent, staring out over the blue water, deep in thought. “There is no chance of her having known Emilia long ago, I suppose?”

  John, too, looked pensive. “I don’t think so but there’s always a possibility.” He sat down on one of the garden chairs. “Oh, I can’t wait to get this business over. It is the worst case I have ever had to deal with.” Elizabeth came to stand beside him. “That’s because you are investigating the murder of your wife. Now, stop brooding. There’s much to be done. You must get Lady Theydon alone.”

  “And then?”

  “Challenge her with be
ing in the Grotto. See how she reacts.”

  John looked up and smiled crookedly. “How easy you make it sound.”

  “Nothing is too difficult for you,” she replied, and turning on her heel she walked briskly away, out of The Temple and out of sight.

  With a sigh John stood up and stared around him, remembering how the last time he had been in here he had found Priscilla stretched out on the floor, the victim of an attacker. He bent down over the place where she had been lying but other than for a slight shifting of the dust there was no visible sign.

  Shaking his head, totally bewildered by everything, he once more removed the earring and stood silently staring at it, where it lay, glittering, in the palm of his hand.

  As he left the summerhouse and headed back he saw the Runners leaving in their coach, behind which was being drawn a small closed cart. Immediately he knew its purpose. The last mortal remains of Lord Hope lay within and were being taken to the nearest mortuary, there to be examined by a physician working, no doubt, for the coroner. John’s mercurial eyebrows rose at the sight and he hurried towards Gunnersbury House.

  As he reached the garden door it opened to reveal Princess Amelia, dressed warmly for the weather and just preparing to stride out, accompanied by Lady Hampshire.

  “Ah, Colonel Melville,” she said without preamble, “you will never guess what new disaster has struck. Eclipse has a cough and is confined to his stable. I simply cannot leave here with him in such a condition. So you are welcome to remain a day or two more.” John bowed. “I am most grateful, Highness. And how are you feeling?”

  “Terrible, thank you. Lord Hope’s body has been removed by those wretched court officials, Lady Georgiana is in a high hysteric because apparently the coroner has yet to release him for burial, and to cap it all my favourite horse is ill.”

  “Difficult times, Madam, difficult times.”

  The Princess let out a gusty sigh. “I have never known anything like it in my life. Sometimes recently I wonder if a curse has been put on this house.”

  “Oh no, surely not. Not a Christian household like yours,” John answered, attempting to look pious.

  “I hope you are right, Colonel. Now I am off to the stables to see Eclipse. Are you ready, Hampshire?”

  “Yes, Madam.” And the actress dropped a respectful curtsey before both women set off.

  Alone, John hurried into the house, determined to find Lady Theydon and get the horrible task of confronting her over and done. Purposefully he made his way to her apartments and there gave a confident knock — a confidence he was very far from feeling — on her door. Then he stood hopefully waiting while the silence surged all around him. He knocked again, but again there was no reply and putting his ear close he could hear total lack of movement within. Gingerly,

  262 almost fearfully, he put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door opened quietly, revealing spacious apartments beyond. John’s eyes rapidly roamed the room checking that nobody was present, then he slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

  The place was the height of vulgarity, decorated well enough but ruined by the thousand and one little knicks and knacks that Lady Theydon had dotted around the place. The Apothecary gazed with horror on a dozen little toy dogs, each with a tongue lolling out, placed on cushions round the place. These cushions in turn had awful cross-stitch sayings upon them. Messages like “Come Unto Me” and “For Ever Thine” met his startled gaze.

  Furthermore, the lady clearly had a fetish for tying ribbons, for bows of every shape and hue were affixed to practically everything. Over the mirror, gilded and adorned with fat cupids, frantically jostling one another in their fight to get to the top, a large bow of blue with ribbons attached, fluttered in the gentle breeze. John caught sight of his reflection, eyebrows ascending to his hairline, and almost laughed aloud.

  But this was not the moment for contemplation of the horrors which surrounded Lady Theydon, rather for searching for something, anything, which might link her to the deaths of Emilia and Lord Hope. Hating what he was doing but filled with an iron determination, the Apothecary started to explore the rooms.

  A bedroom led off the main chamber and after a moment’s hesitation he decided to start in there.

  Steeling himself he opened the clothes press and reeled back slightly at the odour that came from it. Stale, unwashed flesh mingled with a strong perfume which she always wore, presumably because she bathed little and was trying to disguise it. John wondered if she had ever used the Grotto for its actual purpose and plunged into the icy water. He rather doubted it.

  There were a great many dresses within, all over fussy and in rather poor taste. The Apothecary wondered about her husband, mentioned but never seen, and had a mental picture of him as rather elderly and preferring to remain solitary on his estates, wherever they might be. He went deeper into the press, rootling towards the back. And then he saw it and his heart skipped a beat. Thrown onto the floor, partially hidden by a hideous pink petticoat, was a red cloak. With trembling hands the Apothecary pulled it out and saw that it had a tear at the top, a tear which fitted the piece of material he had found perfectly. And down the length of the mantle, dried now but still recognisable, were patches of a dark sinister red. Inhaling deeply, John fought to bring his breathing under control but found that he was gasping like a child.

  Then he heard it. Quite distinctly footsteps were making their way along the corridor and coming towards the apartment he was currently searching. He looked round frantically as the door to the living room opened. There was only one thing for it and that was to dive under the bed. Grabbing the cloak and shutting the press, the Apothecary did just that and lay there, smelling the dust with which the floor was thickly covered.

  He was fairly certain it was Lady Theydon herself, for from a minute peephole between the bed cover and the ground he could see her shoes walking back and forth. Then there came a knock at the door and he definitely recognised her heavy voice saying, “Come.” The door opened and somebody entered the living room.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Lady Theydon, and rising from the chair into which she had sunk, she partially closed the bedroom door.

  Within his hiding place, John cursed silently. Any hope of identifying the visitor had just been firmly dashed.

  The voice said something and he heard Lady Theydon reply, “Stuff and nonsense, you really have to get a grip on yourself.”

  There was a remonstrance and John unsuccessfully strained his ears to hear whether it was a man or woman who spoke.

  “I’m sick and tired of you,” Milady went on. “I’ve covered for you and protected you at every turn. Why, I’ve even lied …” Here her voice dropped so low that the Apothecary could not catch the words, try though he might.

  The other voice rose slightly but not enough for John to hear it properly.

  “I’ve had enough of your schemes,” Lady Theydon answered firmly, standing up and starting to pace the room. “Why, if it weren’t for the …” Her voice faded

  265 again as she reached the far side of the chamber and delivered the rest of her speech there.

  The Apothecary cursed the fact that he was out of earshot, sure that whatever was being said was vitally important. Then he suddenly became still as the bedroom door was flung open fully.

  “Get out of my sight,” ordered Lady Theydon thickly from the entrance. “I can’t bear even to look at you.”

  There was the sound of marching feet crossing the living room and a loud bang as the door opened and closed. Then there was silence.

  “Oh, God’s holy blood,” Lady Theydon said to herself, “do I deserve to be involved with a person so odious.”

  John couldn’t help but think that anyone with such terrible taste in objets d’art definitely deserved all they got. None the less he felt slightly sorry for the woman.

  An urge to answer a call of nature was beginning to make itself felt and the Apothecary prayed that Lady Theydon wouldn’t remain much longer. As
if sent by heaven a bell rang loudly at that moment, making John jump, and Milady rose from the chair into which she had descended with a sigh.

  “Oh pox,” she exclaimed crossly. “It’s the Princess.”

  He heard her pause before the mirror and then, much to his relief, she stamped out of the room on heavy feet. Rising from his hiding place, the Apothecary brushed the dust from his clothes and hastened to the one and only water closet that the house contained.

  * * *

  That afternoon, just as the blood-red sun was starting to descend to the trees, the Apothecary walked to Bellow Bridge in order to clear his head and think. Once again there was a glittering frost which marked with white fingers everything it touched. The blades of grass were hard and harsh, the trees black and bleak, the sky filled with an icy veil which hung unmoving over the landscape. Only the little Bellow Brook tinkled over the stones that lay beneath the surface of the water. It seemed to John, then, that the whole world was silent, caught beneath the spell of this intensely cold winter, waiting and hoping for the return of spring.

  He was just going to cross the bridge when he heard low voices and knew by their very urgency that their conversation was private. Instinctively he stood still.

  Lady Georgiana was speaking, so low that the Apothecary could not catch what she said. But he heard the reply all right. The actor’s voice projected loud and clear.

  “Oh, darling, I can’t believe that he is dead.”

  “Can’t you?” she answered more clearly, and John’s heart sank at her tone.

  “Well, it’s an awful shock of course but we can’t pretend that it hasn’t removed an enormous obstacle from our path.”

  “Is that how you thought of Conrad? As an obstacle?”

  “Well, darling, he was.”

  “Michael,” she said, her tone as icy as the evening, “Conrad died a terrible death, stabbed in the stomach by someone or other then pushed into the bathing pool to drown. I won’t hear anyone run him down.”