Death in the Setting Sun (12 page)

“Still I believe I’ll have to go back.”

Sir Clovelly looked astonished. “Why? What for?”

“To find Emilia’s killer. I know Joe Jago is on the trail but it’s not going to be easy for him. I have this notion that perhaps I could work undercover.”

“How would that transpire?”

“I could remain in hiding, perhaps don a disguise. I could hide out at a friend’s house, then go in search of the bastard who murdered her.”

Sir Clovelly chortled, a merry sound. “And how would you disguise yourself, pray? You’ve a very recognisable face, young man.”

“I don’t know how. Maybe dress as a curate or something.”

At that Sir Clovelly laughed all the more and John sat, feeling infinitely depressed, while his friend guffawed away cheerfully.

Eventually the noise died down and the little fat man wiped his eyes with his napkin. “Sorry, dear boy,” he said. “It was just the thought of you posing as a curate.” He gave another subdued giggle. “But I really shouldn’t laugh in the circumstances. Proper respect and all that.”

John nodded. “No need, Sir Clovelly. I know you mourn Emilia. The thing is you haven’t seen her for four years. But I …”

His voice died away as, yet again, he saw that figure, dying as the sun died also.

Sir Clovelly’s deep eyes glistened.

“… I found her. I saw her recognise me before she … she . .

John drained his cup of tea deeply, unable to continue.

Sir Clovelly rose from the table and went to John’s side where he laid a hand on the Apothecary’s shoulder. “There, my boy. Be easy. Why don’t you cry it out?”

But as John gave in to tears he felt a strong current inside him which said that this must be the last time, that he must not indulge this torrent of weeping again, that it was not fair on those left alive for him to do so. With this idea uppermost in his mind he brought himself under control and looked up to see the big jolly face looking anxiously at him.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I promise you I won’t do it again.”

“I could do with a brandy,” said his host. “And I think you should certainly have one.”

John nodded. “Thank you for being so patient.”

Sir Clovelly crossed to the sideboard, a fine piece in polished walnut, and poured from the decanter. John was amazed by the size of his portion but sipped it none the less.

“That’ll do you good,” said the older man, deeply imbibing. “Drink it down like a fine fellow.”

The Apothecary decided to be reckless and swallowed a great gulp and, strangely, did feel his spirits lift slightly, Sir Clovelly brought the decanter to the table and refilled John’s glass.

“Saw a friend of yours t’other day,” he remarked conversationally.

“Oh? Who was that?”

“The Marchesa di Lorenzi. Elizabeth.”

Even at the mention of her name the Apothecary felt himself grow hot. How could you, he chastised himself. Yet even with Emilia so newly dead, with the fact that four years had passed since he had last seen the Marchesa, he had suffered that reaction and was ashamed of it, Sir Clovelly, however, clearly noticed nothing because he continued to speak.

“She still lives by herself in that great place of hers overlooking the Exe, Sir Randolph Howarth came courting her and we all thought it would end in marriage but she refused him apparently. He was mighty upset and took himself off abroad.”

Why, the Apothecary thought wretchedly, should I be glad that she is still single? What difference does it make to me? I am a married man … Then he stopped short, gasping with shock, realising that Emilia had gone and that he was on his own once more.

. . of course,” Sir Clovelly was saying, “she wears well, I’ll give her that. She’s forty-six or thereabouts now but could be ten years less. I suppose that’s what comes of being thin.”

He patted his own stomach and chortled happily. John’s voice sounded strained. “Do give her my best wishes if you should see her again.”

“Better idea,” said the little fat man. “We’ll call on her. After all, it is still the festive season, Christmas time and all that. I’ll order the coach to be prepared.” And before John could say another word he had rung the bell.

“But I have nothing to wear,” the Apothecary protested. “I only possess the suit I stand up in.”

“That’ll do,” said Sir Clovelly. “After all, it’s not as if you’re trying to impress her.”

But for all his words of reassurance John felt uneasy in his grey worsted as they drove out of Exeter, following the line of the Exe for a way until the carriage began to climb upwards, the horses straining, to the high ground that lay above. It was bone-chillingly cold but here in Devon the snow had started to melt and lay gathered like lumps of wool in the corners of the fields. Then the house came into view, not changed in the four years since John had seen it last.

They passed by the lodge house, the coachman saluting the keeper with his whip, and continued to climb up the drive. Then they heard the beat of distant hooves and a rider atop a great black horse came into view, clearly visible from the carriage windows. He was going at a hell of a lick, John thought. Then his heart pounded as he realised that he was looking at her. That she was out exercising her mount, dressed in men’s clothes, as lithe and as exciting as when he had last seen her.

His stomach knotted painfully and yet again he felt ashamed of himself. He had loved Emilia with all his heart, no question about it, but Elizabeth di Lorenzi had once excited him — and her power had not weakened. With a feeling that his guts were made of iron, John proceeded inexorably on to the house.

She saw that she had visitors because she wheeled her horse round and cantered for home, waving as she did so.

“Ah, there’s Elizabeth,” said Sir Clovelly. He leant out of the window and waved in return. Recognising him, the Marchesa gestured for him to enter and vanished into the stable block. A few minutes later they were being shown into the huge reception hall, still painted pink, still with Britannia waving her spear above their heads. John gazed around him, remembering every detail, his stomach wretched within, his determination to appear calm paramount.

There was a noise behind them and, turning, they saw that Elizabeth di Lorenzi was coming in through a side entrance. Both men bowed, John deeply, Sir Clovelly as low as he could over his portly stomach. The Apothecary heard her sharp intake of breath, followed by a low laugh. Hoping that the flush in his face could be ascribed to the depth of his bow, he straightened.

She was, if anything, even more attractive than when he had last seen her. She had been riding and her colour was up, and this, together with the lustrous black hair, combined to give a stunning effect. He was aware that her dark eyes were sweeping over him and hated his sensible suit bitterly. He cleared his throat but it was Sir Clovelly Lovell who spoke.

“Forgive our intrusion, Ma’am, but I thought as ’twas Christmas time I would call on my neighbours. Truth to tell, Mr. Rawlings has had a terrible experience recently and I thought it would do him good to see you.”

Her scar, running from beneath her eye to her cheekbone and until that moment not noticeable, stood out as she lost colour. John met her gaze and knew that she had guessed something of what had befallen him already.

“Pray come in,” she said. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Sir Clovelly. Mr. Rawlings, I am sorry to hear you are in troubled times. You can tell me as much or as little as you like over refreshments.”

He bowed again formally. “Thank you, Madam.”

She led the way, the two men following at a respectful distance, into the Blue Drawing Room where she sat down on a small sofa, Sir Clovelly occupied another, while John sat in a chair opposite her seat.

Servants entered bringing wine and food, consisting of beef, ham, chicken, cheese and fruit.

“A cold collation,” she explained. “But do say you’ll dine with me. I would like that very much. I have some other guests but I think you will enjoy their company.”

Sir Clovelly caught John’s eye and silently asked a question. The Apothecary gave a slight nod.

“We’d be delighted, Ma’am. A great pleasure,” the fat man answered.

Elizabeth dismissed the servants, then rose and went to the claret jug. She poured out three glasses, passing one to Sir Clovelly, the other to John. Then she sat down again.

“Tell me your story, Mr. Rawlings.”

“My wife was contacted recently by an old school friend of hers, Priscilla Fleming. Priscilla invited Emilia to be in a theatrical production, the Masque of Christmas, which Miss Fleming had written. I should just explain that Priscilla is connected with the court of Princess Amelia in a minor capacity and it was for that court that the production was to be put on. Anyway, the Princess decided to spend her Christmas at Gunnersbury House outside London and Emilia duly made her way there.”

John paused, realising that the Marchesa was studying him intently. Then she said in that direct way of hers, “You look somewhat older than when I last saw you.”

He gave her a small smile. “That is because I am older. Pm thirty-two now.”

“And I am forty-seven.”

They were speaking as if Sir Clovelly was not present and John, realising this, hastily continued with his story.

“The performance took place on the twenty-second. During it Priscilla wore a bright red cloak. Later on I saw a woman I took to be Miss Fleming darting amongst the trees opposite the house. Anyway, the show was over but there was no sign of Emilia.”

He became conscious of the Marchesa’s breathing which had become somewhat shallow.

“So I went to look for her.”

“And you found her?”

“I found her, dressed in the red cloak. She was dying in the snow, alone and unaided. She had been stabbed in the stomach several times, then left.”

“How terrible!” gasped Elizabeth and one hand flew to her throat.

“She died in my arms, and I just sat with her; I don’t know for how long. Anyway a gang of people came from Gunnersbury House and accused me of killing her. They locked me up overnight but Priscilla let me escape. I went to Kensington where Joe Jago came to take me back to London. But he, too, told me to get out of town so I set off for the only place where I knew I had friends. That is how I come to be here.”

He had spoken calmly, even his voice under control, telling the story as clearly and coolly as was possible in the circumstances. Yet all the time he was aware of Elizabeth’s dark gaze on him, absorbing every detail of what he said, giving him every ounce of her attention.

There was a silence, into which she finally spoke quietly. “John, accept my sincere condolences. No man should have such a terrible thing happen to him. I never met Emilia but from all you said she was an honest and good person. I am so sorry.”

He looked directly at her, something he had been avoiding. “Thank you,” was all he said.

Sir Clovelly Lovell cleared his throat. “Well now, perhaps we should speak of jollier things.”

“That might be difficult,” said Elizabeth, getting to her feet. “When we have finished our cold collation why don’t John and I go for a ride? You, my dear Sir Clovelly, may stay here and rest until the evening’s activities.” She turned to the Apothecary. “Please say yes.”

Suddenly the thought of being on a fast horse, racing over the sweeping hills, seemed the most desirable thing in the world.

“I would love to,” he answered. “Would you mind, Sir?”

“Not at all, dear boy. It would do you good. I shall sleep awhile. I enjoy that after a good repast.” He folded his hands comfortably over his stomach and closed his eyes.

“Are you sure that you would like nothing further to eat, Sir Clovelly?”

He opened them again. “Perhaps one more of those delicious patties.” Having secured one, he munched cheerfully.

Elizabeth caught John’s eye and winked very slightly. Normally he would have winked back but today he was beyond such frivolities and merely smiled, then realised that this was the first time he had done so since finding Emilia dying.

She poured herself another glass of wine. “John, would you like some more?”

Suddenly he felt like getting drunk, like losing memory in the warm embrace of the bottle. He nodded. “Yes. Yes I would.” Realising how abrupt this sounded he added the word, “Please.”

He drained the glass and held it out for a refill but Elizabeth shook her head. “Wait till we come back. I want you in full control of the horse this afternoon.” He nodded, put the glass down and stood up. “Then let’s go while it’s still daylight.”

“Yes.”

They both looked toward Sir Clovelly but he had fallen asleep, still chewing, so they left the room silently and after giving orders for the servants, headed for the stables. Once there, a groom lead out two horses, one sable black, almost identical to the one Elizabeth had ridden earlier, the other a rich chestnut.

“I thought Jet for you,” she said, and allowed herself to be helped into the saddle, which she rode like a man, still dressed in men’s clothes and blissfully unaware of how attractive she looked in them.

John gazed at the mount appreciatively. “Is he mettlesome?”