Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  “I’m not running him down,” Michael O’Callaghan stated with a note of despair. “I’m merely saying that with his removal the path is now clear for us.”

  “Yes,” she answered, “suspiciously so.”

  “What do you mean by that, pray?”

  “You can take it any way you like.”

  “No, wait a minute,” the actor said, an edge in his voice, “are you suggesting that I had anything to do with it?”

  “If the cap fits,” she answered, and John could have wrung the silly girl’s neck.

  “I take exception to that accusation,” Michael said nastily.

  “So?”

  “Just a minute, young lady. I can assure you that I knew nothing about his death. I was safely in Bellow’s farm, working.”

  “At that hour of the morning you would have been in the far field,” she retorted with feeling. “And there would have been no one to see if you had slipped away for thirty minutes.”

  The truth of this remark struck John hard and he started to wonder at the Irishman’s furious self defence.

  “I’ll have you know, my Lady, that I worked hard all the morning, staying close to you instead of following my chosen profession on the stage.”

  “That was a matter entirely for you.”

  “No it wasn’t, by God. We decided to be together come what may, unless my memory is playing tricks. For that reason I stayed behind and got a job at the farm, and for my pains I’m accused of murder. Well, good evening to you, Madam. Now that you’re a wealthy widow I presume I am no longer good enough.” This was followed by the noise of Michael stamping off angrily into the frosty dusk.

  To give her her due, Lady Georgiana behaved with dignity and did not run after him. Instead she started to walk back slowly towards the house. Behaving nonchalantly, John fell into step just behind her. Hearing him she whirled round with a little scream.

  “Oh, Colonel Melville, you startled me. I wondered who it was.”

  John bowed elegantly. “Only myself, my Lady. May I offer you my sincerest condolences on the untimely death of your husband.”

  She turned to look at him, surveying him closely. “Are you sure we have never met?”

  “One cannot be sure of anything in this life. Perhaps somewhere in London our paths crossed. Who knows?” She stopped walking and laid her hand on his arm. “How long have you been at the bridge?”

  “If you are asking whether I overheard your conversation with Michael O’Callaghan, the answer is yes I did.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you sure that you really want to break with him? Is this not just a time of heightened emotion that has left you feeling uncertain.”

  “You are very presumptuous, Sir. In fact I would say that you’re downright saucy.”

  “I apologise,” John said, meaning it.

  “I accept your apology.” They walked on in silence, then she said, “I have something to tell you. Indeed I would like your advice.”

  “Please go on.”

  “You say that I was wrong to quarrel with Michael O’Callaghan but the fact is that I don’t altogether trust him.”

  John silently quivered. “Why is that?”

  “You know that my husband was murdered in the Princess’s Grotto?”

  “You will remember that it was I who found him.”

  “Of course you did. Well, early that morning — very early — I met Michael in that very place. It was a brief meeting but the fact was that I left first and he remained behind saying that he would follow me in a moment or two so as not to arouse suspicion.”

  She was being amazingly forthright with him and John wondered why.

  “To come directly to the point, Colonel, it would have been easy for him to loiter there and do away with my husband.”

  “Do you mean that they had an assignation?”

  In the light of the moon that was just beginning to rise she turned frantic eyes on him. “That had never occurred to me. But yes, they might.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “To talk about me, of course. What else?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Carte blanche!” Princess Amelia said triumphantly, and laid down her cards.

  John, who had hardly been able to concentrate on his hand, said, “Oh well done, Highness, well done,” and resumed his thoughts about the more pressing events of the day.

  He was making up a four at piquet and was effecting a poor showing of it, partly because his brain was buzzing with information and mostly because the Apothecary’s skills at gambling were limited to say the least of it.

  Princess Amelia, who had insisted on playing cards before supper, said irritatingly, “I pride myself on my skill, Colonel. In less stressful times I would gladly teach you.”

  “Your servant, Ma’am, as in everything. How is Eclipse, by the way?”

  “Still coughing a little. That nice ostler, Jago, has some special liniment which he is applying to his chest.”

  The third player, the Honourable Gerald Naill, said, “I always give my beasts a damn good dose of liquorice. That usually does the trick.”

  Lady Theydon rolled her brown eyes and remarked plummily, “Of course my dear husband is a wizard with all animals but in particular horses. He treats them all himself, you know.”

  “Yes, but he is not here, is he?” the Princess answered snappishly.

  “Where are your estates by the way?” This from John.

  “In Theydon Bois in Essex. Of course my husband spends most of his time there. He is somewhat older than I and prefers a quiet life.”

  John could not help but smile crookedly at his correct assessment. “How wise,” he remarked.

  She shot him a look but decided the comment was harmless and returned her attention to her cards.

  The Apothecary took the opportunity to marshal his thoughts.

  The conversation with Lady Georgiana had been most revealing. It would appear that she was one of those extremely beautiful young women whose emotions turned on a penny. Passionately in love with the Irish actor, presumably because he was difficult to secure, she had now turned violently against him and considered him capable of murder. But was he? Could her protests made with much anguish be an extremely clever cover for her own crime? Could she have waited in the bushes until she saw him depart and Lord Hope arrive, then gone in and killed him?

  John cast his mind back to the performance and the possibility of her having killed Emilia. In common with most of the other actors, she had been missing fora while before she had returned to the salon in which the masque had been enacted. She would certainly have had time to slip into the woods wearing the second red cloak and murder his wife. His thoughts went back to Lady Theydon. Whoever it was who had killed Emilia, she had been an accomplice after the event. By hiding the cloak for them she was implicated in the crime. Yet today she had tired of that game and rounded on the guilty party.

  The Apothecary thought back to those moments lying under the bed, surrounded by dust, and wished that he had been able to identify the person to whom Milady had been speaking. At least their sex would have helped. Yet really there was no male in the case other than the Irishman. He resolved to get to Bellow’s Farm and have a chat with Michael as soon as he could.

  Lady Theydon laid a card and looked at the Apothecary expectantly. He stared blankly at her and was just about to state that he had lost the thread when a servant called from the doorway, “Supper is served, Highness.”

  The Princess clapped her hands. “Ladies, gentlemen, let us go in. Leave your cards exactly as they are. We can return to the game afterwards.”

  John stood up, much relieved, and looked round the room. The only missing person was Lady Georgiana who, as was to be expected, had taken to her chamber. Lady Featherstonehaugh and Lady Kemp were playing with Dr. Phipps and Priscilla Fleming, the last looking extremely pretty in masses of pale pink. In fact she had quite caught the eye of the gallant doctor who was


  273 paying her marked attention which she was receiving all aflutter and much to the annoyance of Lady Hampshire, who was sitting on the sidelines occasionally putting the odd stitch into a somewhat tired-looking piece of embroidery.

  There was a general exodus following the Princess’s announcement, all with one intent. Princess Amelia purposefully headed for the one and only water closet, the gentlemen made their way out of doors, the ladies vanished to their rooms. Only the Apothecary, feeling no wish to relieve himself, stayed in the warmth of the salon and wished for the hundredth time that he was a little closer to solving the crime.

  Slowly the card players began to make their way back in, waiting for the Princess to lead them in to supper. John was not pleased to see Benedict standing waiting to serve the cold collation. Adjusting his eye-patch he walked straight past the fellow, following closely behind Princess Amelia, and offered his arm to Lady Featherstonehaugh. She turned to him.

  “My play is sadly lacking tonight,” she murmured. “Grim thoughts keep crowding in.”

  “That is my case also, Madam,” he answered. “I am finding it hard to concentrate.”

  She adjusted her features to their dourest expression. “I am starting to wonder whether this place is unlucky.”

  “I grant you that recent events have not been of the happiest.”

  “It is a pity about that wretched horse.” John stared at her blankly. “Getting a cough,” she continued with irritation. “Otherwise I know the Princess would have packed her bags and gone.”

  “Quite/‘ the Apothecary answered, feeling just a fraction guilty.

  They sat at the long dining table which despite the simplicity of the meal had been laid to overflowing. John found himself placed on the Princess’s left with an empty space on his other side, the Honourable Gerald Naill on the far side of that. Staring down the line of guests he realised that Lady Theydon was missing.

  Cold cuts of venison, beef, pork, together with various joints of ham, pies and game were busily being carved at the mighty dresser and passed to the guests. There was also a dish of ox tongues shaped into glazed arches nestling amongst the salads of celery, endive and chicory, together with a selection of pigeon pies easily identifiable by the spiky feet sprouting from the crust.

  The Princess had started to tuck in heartily when she suddenly looked up from her groaning plate and said, “Where is Theydon?”

  John glanced at the empty space beside him and said, “No doubt putting the finishing touches to her toilette.”

  “She should have done that hours ago. Benedict, be so good as to go and summon her.”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness.” And the footman bowed and made his way out.

  Lady Hampshire, who had been remarkably quiet as she had been excused from cards, said, “I daresay she is comforting Lady Georgiana.”

  Princess Amelia snorted. “I doubt it. Lady Georgiana will recover quite quickly from this shock, mark my words. A fine, strong, healthy girl like that will soon be looking around for another husband.”

  If anyone else had voiced this there would have been a shocked silence but as it came from royal lips there was a polite titter.

  “Quite right, Madam,” said Dr. Phipps. “No one should live alone too long. A year is the absolute maximum time that anyone should remain widowed.” There was a slightly uncomfortable silence as the Princess herself had never married, though she had indeed had several lovers, the most raffish of whom had been the married Duke of Grafton. However, the doctor noticed nothing and continued to attack his pigeon pie with relish. Nobody spoke and into this temporary lull in conversation could be heard the sound of some distant commotion; feet were running and a voice was raised. Everyone at the table looked up.

  “Vot is happening?” asked the Princess as the door to the dining room burst open and Benedict appeared, looking white and haggard.

  “Forgive me, Highness,” he panted, “but I think someone should come at once.”

  “Why, what’s happened?” asked John.

  “It’s Lady Theydon, Sir. She’s … dead.”

  Dr. Phipps and the Apothecary sat staring at one another then both rose to their feet simultaneously. John, remembering at the last minute his role as Colonel, said, “Do you mind if I accompany you, Sir? Army training.”

  “Of course,” the doctor answered as together they raced up the stairs, the Honourable Gerald, uninvited but determined to be in on any gory details, close behind.

  Hurrying along the corridor John inadvertently opened the wrong door and temporarily the three men had a vision of the Sleeping Beauty. Lady Georgiana Hope lay on top of her bed, fast asleep, her golden hair flowing loose about her shoulders, her angel’s profile etched against the faint light of candles. The gentle rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest showed that she slept naturally and deeply. Just for a second John lingered longer than he should have done. Then he closed the door quietly and they hastened on.

  As if in contrast to the picture they had just seen, Lady Theydon lay on her side on the floor, an expression of fear contracting her face into a silent scream. Her arms were outflung, her legs pulled up as if she had kicked her attacker in vain. The dress she was wearing was soaked with blood and she had hunched her body in an attempt to staunch the flow. She could not have been more of a contrast to the cool perfection of Lady Georgiana’s childlike repose.

  The large brown eyes were open and as Dr. Phipps drew back the folds of the dress to look at the wounds John went to close them, then remembered himself.

  “May I?” he asked the doctor, who nodded, too taken up with his examination to speak.

  Meanwhile Gerald was making revolting retching sounds in the background and the Apothecary turned on him a furious face.

  “Oh for goodness sake, Sir, do take your hideous noises elsewhere.”

  Gerald, who had gone a whiter shade of ashen, scurried out through the door, one hand clapped over his mouth, the other to his privy parts. Hoping that he would find a chamber pot in time, the Apothecary turned his attention back to the victim.

  She had been dead about twenty minutes, half an hour at the most, which would coincide exactly with the time when the assembled company had left the room. Thinking back, John recalled that they had all gone out, every single person present; even the good doctor.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Whoever killed Lord Hope did this as well. Look, exactly the same modus operandi. Fatal wounds delivered to the stomach, and with some force at that.”

  John thought back to this morning when he had lain under the victim’s bed. Yet again he cursed the fact he had not been able to identify the name or sex of Lady Theydon’s visitor because that was who her killer had been, he felt certain of it. Yet this information was not something he could share with Dr. Phipps.

  “Did a man or a woman inflict the blows?” he asked, a little hopelessly.

  Much as he had thought, the doctor replied, “Could have been either. A woman in a rage is capable of dealing a harsh blow, believe me.”

  “Oh, I do,” the Apothecary answered heavily, “I do.” Dr. Phipps straightened up. “Do you want to have a look?”

  “Yes, I’d like to.”

  The wounds were deep, slicing through the material of Lady Theydon’s robe and making a firm incision in the flesh below. There were three, one less than Lord Hope had received, but the same amount as inflicted on Emilia. Seeing them with fresh blood still present sickened John, reminding him only too vividly of the death of his wife.

  “We’ve got to catch this killer and catch him fast,” he said, looking up at the doctor.

  “You do realise that the murderer would have blood on him like as not.”

  “Yes, which should narrow the field.”

  “Except,” stated Dr. Phipps, noticing something and picking it up from the floor, “for this.”

  John stared. “What is it?”

  “A kind of coverall.” The doctor held it out and John, straightening up, took
it.

  “The killer put it on over their clothes?”

  “It would appear so. Look.” And Dr. Phipps pointed to a blood-stained, shapeless garment which resembled a white cloak complete with hood.

  “God’s holy wounds,” swore John with much feeling. “First a red cloak and now this. The bastard thinks of everything.”

  “Tell me, Colonel Melville, do you think the killer is amongst the card-playing company?”

  “Not necessarily. There’s a side staircase that leads to this landing. Very useful for smuggling lovers in and out. The murderer could have come in that way, done the deed, dropped his coverall and fled.”

  “But that is not necessarily what happened. The killer could be sitting downstairs at this very moment.” John nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Sitting and watching to see how much we know.”

  They went back to a scene of complete havoc. Lady Hampshire had thrown a spectacular and somewhat theatrical faint and was lying in a becoming pose on a nest of cushions. Priscilla had also been taken poorly and was currently weeping loudly and sipping brandy, attended to by Lady Kemp who was patting her hands to no avail. Looking ghastly in the corner was the Honourable Gerald, not quite as green as when the Apothecary had last seen him but for all that clutching his guts. Benedict, very white, was uselessly walking round with a tray, while the Princess and Lady Featherstonehaugh, appearing quite calm, were stolidly munching cake and drinking madeira.

  Dr. Phipps went to Milady, leaning over her and administering salts; John crossed to Priscilla’s place and sat down beside her. She looked at him tremulously.

  “Is … is Lady Theydon …” Her voice trailed away and she wept afresh.

  John said gently, “You must be brave, Priscilla. Your aunt is dead.”

  For answer the girl flung her arms round the Apothecary’s neck and wept uncontrollably.

  Feeling her snuggled so close to him, sobbing against his chest, John wondered at himself for remaining so aloof. Then he remembered the circumstances in which the two of them had met. Emilia had been alive then and Priscilla had been her great friend, so it was small wonder that he regarded the girl as nothing more than that. Yet it occurred to him that she might indeed harbour other feelings for him. She was clinging to him as if her very life depended on it and murmuring something inaudible in his ear. Very gently, he extricated himself.