Death in the Setting Sun

by Deryn Lake

  “I think you should consider remarrying,” she said. “Now that an arrest has been made and the investigation concluded it is time you thought of yourself.”

  “But, Your Highness, it is only two months since my wife died.”

  “You should regard your child, Mr. Rawlings. You cannot leave her motherless.”

  Wondering how the elderly lady knew about Rose, John answered, “I am sure that my father and I can bring her up satisfactorily.”

  “Well, I beg to differ. A little maiden needs a woman’s touch. Now may I suggest to you Miss Fleming. The poor girl cannot stay on in my household and I think it would be an ideal solution.”

  John thought how marvellous it must be to give orders and have them obeyed instantly, and reckoned it must be the habit of royalty’s lifetime to do so. He further reckoned that to refuse point blank would place him in trouble. He gave an evasive answer.

  “Madam, I will bear what you say in mind. Of course the welfare of my child must be paramount.”

  “Good. I am glad that you are seeing sense. I know that Priscilla is hoping to speak to you. I suggest you propose.”

  And if ever, the Apothecary thought, I should propose to anyone again it could only be Elizabeth. However, he smiled and nodded and wished desperately that he were away from Gunnersbury House with its intrigues and lies.

  Bowing his way out, rather magnificently, he found that most of the household had retired to bed, exhausted by recent events no doubt. But just as he was making his way towards the great staircase he saw that Priscilla was indeed hovering nervously, looking very sweet in a pale blue open robe. He went to her and kissed her hand and she gave him a nervous smile.

  “Oh, John, my dear, I do apologise for the Princess.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “She is such a foolish old romantic and heaven alone knows what she has been saying.”

  “Well . . “

  “Do you know,” Priscilla rushed on, “that King Frederick of Prussia, while he was still Crown Prince of course, was madly in love with her and that, to this day, she wears his miniature next to her heart.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. She intends to keep it there until she dies and then, I dare swear, it will not be removed but will be buried with her. So she is the most devoted of creatures and believes that everyone should be the same.”

  “I see.”

  Priscilla went very pink. “John, what did she say to you?”

  He sighed. “My dear, she suggested that you and I should marry, but . . “

  She turned away from him. “I think it is a good idea, John. Only as a business arrangement, of course. You wouldn’t have to pay for a governess for your child and you might grow to love me in time. I am utterly skilled in housewifery and would entertain your friends gladly.

  Oh, my dear soul, I do think I would make an excellent wife for you.”

  Just for a fleeting second it occurred to John that it might indeed be the answer to all his problems. And then he thought of riding free over the vast expanse of Devon’s wild country with a dark woman by his side, a dark woman who could outride him and outshoot him if necessary, and he knew the direction he wanted his future to go in.

  “Priscilla, it’s too soon for me to make any decision,” he said kindly.

  “But why is it?” she persisted. “Surely Rose needs a mother quickly.”

  He became aware at that moment that he wanted his daughter to grow up as an extraordinary woman too; a woman who could make her own decisions and be her own person. A woman who would not be as compliant and sweet as poor little Miss Fleming.

  “Rose will do well enough with my father for the time being. He will try to make her as good a person as possible.”

  Priscilla’s small eyes closed and her face crumpled into tragedy’s mask. She clung to John, collapsing in his arms.

  “Oh, why, why? I love you, John. I have for a long time now. Oh please, my darling. As a marriage of convenience only. I know you will grow to love me in time. I know it.”

  He forced her to look at him. “Priscilla, no. I could never love you. I still love Emilia. Can’t you understand that?”

  “No,” she wept, “I can’t.”

  He stood there helplessly, wishing himself anywhere but there, and then he was aware of a presence standing close by and watching him. Elizabeth di Lorenzi had just stepped out of the shadows.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  She smiled in the darkness and dropped them a deferential curtsey. “Pardon me, Sir and Madam. I didn’t realise you were there.”

  Priscilla rounded on her. “What are you doing above stairs? Your place is in the kitchens.”

  “I came to put the candles out, Madam.”

  “Surely that is a job for one of the footmen?”

  “The footmen are feeling a little unwell, Miss Fleming, after their mill with Michael O’Callaghan. I offered to take on their duties just for this evening.”

  “Oh very well. Get on with it then.”

  From the shadows John felt the acerbity of Elizabeth’s smile. “Very good, Milady.”

  He turned to her. “Thank you, Elizabeth. It was kind of you to step into the breach.”

  Priscilla straightened in his arms. “Oh my dear, I am suddenly tired and must be away to bed. Will you escort me to my room?”

  “I think I’ll take a turn in the grounds. Perhaps the servant would do so,” he replied most ungallantly.

  Elizabeth curtsied. “If Madam would like to come with me.”

  Miss Fleming shot them both a defeated glance. She had been manoeuvred into a position where she could do nothing but accept.

  “Very well. Lizzie, go ahead with the candelabra. I shall follow immediately.” She turned to John. “Good night, my dear. Promise to think about what I have said.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  He watched her ascending, thinking how short she looked behind Elizabeth’s long lean body. At the top of the staircase she turned and gave him a tremulous smile and a little wave, then vanished from sight. Glad to be away from her, John donned the Prince’s cape, which hung near the front door, and stepped outside.

  Uncomfortable though it was going to be, he intended to watch the Grotto all night. He had sent Michael back home, which was perhaps as well in view of certain ideas that the Apothecary had. So, devoid of assistance, it was up to him to keep vigil. Walking briskly, John found a place behind an all-covering bush and sat down on a cushion which he had brought with him from the house.

  He must have dropped off, despite the discomfort, for he was woken by a great deal of giggling — somewhat inebriated, he thought — and the sound of someone falling over. Despite his instinct to go and help, John remained exactly where he was and observed.

  A couple of ladies of the night — at least that is what he presumed from their garish ensembles — were staggering across the lawn, arms linked, shooshing one another for laughing so much. Yet as he watched them John could not help but think they looked familiar. He stared closely as the moon came out and recognised, through the mass of face paint, the features of Lady Kemp. Beside her, staggering slightly as she went, minced Lady Featherstonehaugh in outrageously high heels. The Apothecary was so amused that he laughed out loud.

  Lady Kemp drew to a halt. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “That noise. It sounded like somebody chuckling.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “That’s because you’re drunk, you bitch.”

  “Bitch yourself! So are you.”

  They put their heads together and cackled wildly, then wove their unsteady progress on in the direction of the side door.

  So that, thought John, was their guilty secret. In the darkness of night they dressed up as whores and went off, presumably to the rouge route of Brentford, to seek a bit of excitement. Well, good luck to ‘em, unless, of course, they had added murder to their need for thrills. Getting up in order to relieve himself, John tho
ught carefully about the snatched bit of conversation he had overheard but could find nothing in it except some vague reference to seeing something. He decided that next day he would question the two ladies more closely.

  Again he must have slept, for when he opened his eyes it was to see the first streaks of dawn threading the sky. An unbearable cramp seized his leg and he jumped up, unable to control himself, hopping about and rubbing the limb back to life. Then every hair on his neck rose and he crouched down again, staring at what he had seen through the branches of the bush.

  A figure was making its way across the lawn, heavy with morning dew. A figure that moved slowly, seeming to glide along. A figure hidden entirely in a long grey cloak with the hood raised and pulled across, so that from where he was observing it appeared to have no face. Despite all he knew about phantoms — which actually was very little — John was utterly terrified.

  He watched as the figure glided up to the Grotto, looked slyly over its shoulder to make sure it was unobserved, then slipped noiselessly inside. For a moment or two John remained petrified to the spot. Too frightened to move or make a sound. Then with an enormous effort of will he forced himself to cross the distance that separated him from the building, and enter.

  It was pitch dark within but the figure must have concealed a lanthorn in the folds of its cloak for, as John peered through the gloom, a tinder was struck and the lanthorn blazed into light. He watched from the doorway, as silent as the grave, while the hooded figure started to search along the walls and crevices of the grotto. Then, going down on its knees, a bare arm was extended and fished in the black waters of the bathing basin.

  John reached in his pocket and brought out the earring which he had removed from the drawer, turning it over in his hand so that its jewel caught the beams of the lanthorn and sparkled softly.

  “Looking for this?” he asked quietly.

  There was an intake of breath and the figure wheeled in fright. Then it lowered its hood and gave a tortured smile.

  “Why, John,” it said.

  It was Priscilla.

  He crossed the small distance between them and caught her bare arm in a hard grip. She winced but continued to smile at him.

  “John, my dear, whatever are you doing here?”

  “I might well ask the same of you.”

  “Me? Oh, I came for an early morning dip.”

  “In the same water in which Lord Hope breathed his last? I think not, Priscilla. I think you were looking for the partner to this.”

  And he held out the hand in which gleamed the earring.

  She stayed very cool. “Oh, yes. I knew that I had dropped it somewhere. Was it in here?”

  “You know damned well it was. Why try and hide it? You’ve been very clever so far in concealing your actions but you’ve just run out of time.”

  Still that ghastly smile lit her features. “Oh, John, darling, why do you sound so angry? I know it was against the Princess’s orders for anyone to use the pool but I so wanted to bathe.”

  “Stop playing games, Priscilla. Why don’t you admit what you’ve done?”

  For answer she turned away from him and when she turned back her eyes were sparkling. “Oh, you’re such an upright citizen, aren’t you. Haven’t you ever wanted anything so much that you were prepared to kill for it?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then more fool you. Oh, my sweetheart, if only you had an inkling of how much I love you. Together we could conquer the world, you and I. Do you know when it was I first fell in love with you?”

  He shook his head dumbly, afraid of spoiling her flow.

  “It was when I came into your shop in Shug Lane with a doctor’s note for physic for Princess Amelia. You don’t remember, do you? But I did. I can picture it now.” Priscilla squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I can conjure up every little detail. What you were wearing; the way you looked at me. That was when I knew that whatever happened I would have you for my husband one day.”

  “But I was married.”

  “So I found out. I made enquiries about you and discovered that I had been at school with Emilia Rawlings, nee Alleyn. So I wrote and was duly invited. But even if I hadn’t known her I would have found a way of getting into your household. I truly love you, you see.”

  John stared at her aghast, simply shaking his head. “Did you kill her?” he asked.

  Once again Priscilla smiled her ghastly smile. “I removed her from our path, that is all.”

  “But how in God’s name did you get her to go into the woods, on her own and in the dark?”

  Priscilla actually looked smug and John’s hand twitched, longing to wipe the smile from her face.

  “I told her that you were there. Said that you had slipped out at the end of the performance and had a surprise for her. Only it wasn’t the sort of surprise she had been expecting.” Priscilla giggled.

  He had sworn to put down the person who had attacked his wife but now he just stood there, gaping, unable to move a muscle.

  “But why Lord Hope?” he asked.

  She moved closer to him. “Do you remember me telling you about the child I bore?” John nodded. “Well, it was all true except the King was not the father.”

  “You mean Lord Hope … ?”

  “Yes, he. He sired my baby.”

  “And the attack on you in The Temple? You just lay on the ground and squeezed your own throat hard, didn’t you, you evil creature?”

  “Oh yes,” Priscilla answered guilelessly, “I had to. If you knew how much I wanted you to touch me. I had to do something, anything, to get you to put your arms round me. Oh darling, you’re frowning. Don’t be cross.”

  John ignored her. “And Lady Theydon?”

  “She refused to protect me any longer. She whispered as much one night, then threatened me in her room. She had to go before she betrayed me which, I believe, she was about to do.”

  “Poor woman,” said John. “I think she would have kept your secret for the rest of her days.”

  “How aptly put, my darling. Most amusing. But now you know my little pretence, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Priscilla Fleming, I am going to arrest you for the murder of Emilia Rawlings.”

  “But I killed for you, John. All I did, I did for love. Just marry me, my dearest, and let us forget all about these incidents.”

  “Incidents, you call them! Taking the lives of innocent people is nearer the truth. You bore Lord Hope a child years ago, so why kill him now? Lady Theydon had covered up for you to the best of her ability. But it was the murder of the woman who befriended you, the woman I adored, that is totally unforgivable. You are a monster, not a woman. Rather than love you, I loathe you.”

  She gave him a look of such sadness that momentarily he felt sorry for her, realising that she was crazy and that nothing he could say or do would penetrate her consciousness.

  “Oh my darling,” she sighed, then quick as a flash she produced a pistol from within the folds of the all-enveloping cloak.

  “Priscilla, be sensible,” John reasoned. “If you shoot me you are bound to be caught. You’ve done enough killing. Put the gun away.”

  “But you don’t love me, you’ve just said so. And you know all my secrets. I have to kill you.”

  Behind her, from the top entrance to the Grotto, John detected a faint movement. He deliberately did not look, terrified lest she should wheel round and face whoever stood there.

  “Well, if I must die, I must,” he said, playing for time.

  She came right up to him, so close that he could stare into those small blue eyes of hers. In their depths he saw madness but he also saw a great tenderness and, overriding all, terrible sadness.

  “Let me hold you as you die, my darling,” she whispered, and cocked the pistol.

  The fluttering in the entrance turned into a whirlwind as a great voice shouted, “No, Miss Priscilla, for the love of God,” and a figure hurled itself onto her, pulling her to the ground so that
the shot went into the roof.

  John went down instinctively so that his entire view was distorted. But wrestling on the floor like a pair of fighting dogs he perceived the saturnine footman Benedict and the girl who had just tried to shoot him. Realising that the servant was himself in danger, John reached into his pocket for a pistol but discovered it gone, looked round for a weapon, his eye alighting on a piece of wood. Scrambling towards it, he snatched it up and getting to his feet stood over the fighting couple.

  “Priscilla Fleming …” he shouted.

  She looked up at him, said, “Why couldn’t you love me, John?” then, putting the pistol against her head, fired a single shot and fell backwards into Benedict’s arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He had vowed to put down Emilia’s murderer and dance on their grave, but now that reality had come he could do nothing but stare at what was left of Priscilla’s head and weep uncontrollably. John wept the tears he had fought back so gallantly for so long. Sinking down once more, he sat on the Grotto floor and sobbed. Then he heard Benedict disengage himself from the dead woman’s embrace and scramble to his feet. “Come now, Sir, don’t take on so badly.”

  John looked at the footman, shaking his head and muttering, “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself.”

  “Best we leave here, with her so injured and all.” The Apothecary stole a glance and his stomach heaved. Half of Priscilla’s head had been blown to bits and had spattered itself on the floor and, ironically, was floating on the surface of the bathing basin. Staggering to his feet, he lurched to the door and inhaled the cold morning air to try and calm himself, then, almost automatically, John reached for his salts and took a good, deep sniff.

  Benedict appeared in the entrance. “Come on, Sir. Back to the house.”

  John set out, but strangely his legs were weak and it was somehow comforting to lean on the footman and be helped back.

  “I apologise. I never really liked you, more fool me.”