Death in the Setting Sun (13 page)

“As much as you are,” she answered, and was off. John gazed at her departing back, then swung into the saddle and clattered out over the cobbles, feeling that first exhilarating rush of air as his mount gathered speed and sprinted off into the afternoon.

Chapter Ten

I
t was one of the most exciting rides of John’s life. He crashed through the bracken in hot pursuit of the Marchesa who led him by a quarter of a mile, never once turning to see whether he was catching her up. She seemed to be part of her mount, clearly as at ease in the saddle as she was walking around her home. Yet though the Apothecary urged his horse to go faster, always she led by that tantalising, never changing, gap.

Just for a moment he forgot the terrible circumstances that had brought him to Devon and relished the vast expanse of sky and moorland. He had forgotten the drama of Devon skies. Today’s was clear blue, that brightness that indicates deep winter, with a golden sphere of sun just starting to descend the heavens. A picture of deep red on snow came into his mind which with a mighty effort of will he forced away. Ahead of him Elizabeth cantered on, regardless — or so it seemed — of his presence behind her.

“Marchesa,” he called and, at last, she glanced over her shoulder, gave a bewitching smile, then continued her reckless press forward.

Around him the world looked huge, the Exe a small snake far below, the green downs, undulating and curvaceous as a woman, a few houses — tiny at this distance — scattered about. He wanted to shout, then; shout at the cruelty of Emilia’s death when there was such a lot of life yet to be lived, such a lot of wonderful country to explore. Yet again tears stung his eyes but he forced them away. He had done with crying. He would not cry again until the ruthless murderer, the destroyer of all he had held close to his heart, was dead. Briefly the thought made him breathless and he reined in his horse just to take in some air.

It was four years since he had travelled this path but he could have sworn that they were coming to that scrubbish terrain in which Wildtor Grange was situated. How well he remembered his visits there. Emilia had been with him on every occasion — except one visit, by night, when he and Elizabeth had been alone together.

Below him he could see her as she swooped out of the trees, still not looking backward. He careered down the hill after her, anxious to catch her up, afraid of losing his way now that he was deep in a wood But he emerged on the other side quite safely, his mount seeming to know its pathway through. There beneath him, diminished by the distance, lay the crumbling remains of the Grange, its spines bleak and raw against the fading winter sunshine. Of Elizabeth there was no sign.

How strange it was, almost like a slip in time, to tether his horse to a nearby tree and make his way on foot to that stark and crumbling ruin. Weather and time had undone it even further since his last visit, and he gazed upward to a mouldering east wing where, so legend had it. Lady Thorne had once been held prisoner. Stepping through a glassless window at ground level, John entered that dim house of memories.

Yet time had blurred his recollection of that huge entrance hall with its ghostly suites of rooms leading off it. Looking straight ahead John ran his eyes over that bleak, overpowering staircase rising like some monster to the upper floors. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on it he steadfastly made his way forward and put his foot on the bottom step.

Memories came of happier times. Of Emilia walking beside him, clinging to him in fright, of hiding in the clothes cupboard in Elizabeth’s private apartments, of him being forced into the role of voyeur, watching the Marchesa undress and despite all the outside influences, admiring her muscular body. Now, his footsteps faltering despite himself, John made his way, in the listening silence, towards the place where she dwelt.

As he went he marshalled his thoughts about her. Despite the fact that she had attracted him to the point where he had almost betrayed Emilia, that had been then. Now he wanted none of it. Yet, despite this, he still found her utterly charming, needed her friendship desperately. In fact, he considered Elizabeth di Lorenzi was very special to him in an utterly inexplicable way.

His feet echoed along the bare boards of the East Wing, past the dreary suites of rooms with their white-draped furniture. The atmosphere was stifling, horrid, almost tangible in its oppressiveness. Yet again he asked himself how anyone could bear to live here until, reaching the door at the end, he threw it open and stepped into opulent comfort, warmth and splendour, and knew that the Marchesa had been right to choose this extraordinary ruin for her secret habitat.

A fire had been started and Elizabeth had opened a bottle of wine and lit the candles, placed in wild profusion throughout the place. She looked up as he entered, turning from holding a taper to a sevenpronged candle tree.

“You were very slow,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, I probably was,” he answered, suddenly weary. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. Have a glass of wine.”

She had already poured it out and the Apothecary sank into the comfort of a fireside chair and picked up the glass. He raised it.

“To you, Elizabeth. Thank you for your friendship.” She flung herself into the chair opposite his. “So you have a child. What is she like?”

“Beautiful, intelligent, pleasant. In fact she’s every parent’s dream. Do you know I had to run from Kensington. I had to leave my father to cope with fetching Rose, leave him to tell her that she would never see her mother again. I couldn’t even say goodbye to her.”

Elizabeth looked at him levelly. “You can explain all that to her when you see her again, no doubt.”

“But when will that be?”

“That rather depends on you.”

John drained his wine and held his glass out for a refill. “What do you mean?”

“What I say. You are welcome to stay in Devon, you know that, but I think you should return to town.”

“And get arrested?”

“Not necessarily.”

The amount of wine he had had during the day was beginning to affect the Apothecary, who leant back in his chair. Staring at Elizabeth, noticing the way a strand of dark hair had come loose from the bun she wore for riding, he said, “You’re still very beautiful, you know.” She gave him a cynical smile. “I’m glad you think so. But let us talk of more important things. If you were to return and take lodgings somewhere near Gunnersbury House surely you could find out more about Emilia’s murder.”

“But I couldn’t go into the place. I would be recognised instantly.”

Elizabeth was silent, staring into the flames of the fire which had caught well and was now starting to throw out warmth. “What you need is someone working with you,” she said eventually.

The Apothecary became rigid, wondering whether he was interpreting what she was saying correctly. “Do you mean yourself?” he asked.

Her wonderful eyes, a deep topaz in colour, flashed in his direction. “Of course,” she said. “Who else would I be referring to?”

He sat in wonderment, amazed by her offer. “You mean that you would return with me — a wanted man — and ask the questions I need to know the answers to?”

“Yes,” she replied simply.

“But why?”

She stood up, a certain impatience in her manner, and walked round the room, examining the candles. “Because we are friends.”

“But that exceeds the bounds of friendship by far.” She stopped her pacing and turned to look at him. “Does it? I think not. I told you that I killed the man who stalked me. That was how I got this —“ Her fingers traced the outline of her disfiguring scar. “A woman capable of doing that is capable of asking a few questions to help a friend, surely.”

“Yes, but …”

She raised a hand and John fell silent. “Take it as done. Now, Mr. Rawlings, I would suggest that you stay here in Devon and regain your strength until Epiphany. Then, the day after, we will travel by my private coach to Brentford which, I believe, is near to Gunnersbury. Then I will go off in search of work near to or, indeed, in Gunnersbury House. After that we can confer again.” He stared at her blankly, overwhelmingly glad that someone else was temporarily in control of his life. For once he had no wish to make plans or do anything other than obey orders.

“If you think that would be best.”

“I do.” She laughed softly to herself. “How strange to see you so compliant.”

“I don’t have the energy for anything else.”

Elizabeth came and stood in front of him, leaning forward and brushing his hair lightly with her hand. “Time heals all things,” she said, then she abruptly turned on her heel and went to the window. “It’s starting to snow,” she remarked over her shoulder. “Time we were off.”

“Yes,” the Apothecary answered, getting to his feet. He put the fireguard in front of the fire and turned to her where she was snuffing out the candles.

“Can we take one of those down the stairs?”

“Why? Are you afraid of the dark?”

“In this house,” said John, “I am frankly terrified.”

They arrived back to find Sir Clovelly Lovell awake and moodily staring through the window.

“I thought you’d got lost,” he said and gave a laugh in the depths of which was a decidedly testy tone.

Elizabeth di Lorenzi handled him superbly. “Oh, my dear Sir, I do apologise for our late arrival. Truth to tell the horses went further than we had reckoned on. Please forgive my rudeness in not being here to offer you refreshment. But it won’t take a second to rectify that. A little sherry perhaps to revive you before the evening onslaught.”

He perked up. “Yes, that would be very nice. Mr. Rawlings, will you join me?”

“When I’ve washed myself, yes indeed. But at the moment I feel a little the worse for wear.”

“John, make full use of our closet and other facilities, do. May I offer you the suite in the West wing?”

“I’m afraid I only have the clothes I stand up in. I left my entire wardrobe behind in London.”

“You look splendid as you are. However, should you wish to change for dinner I can arrange for a suit to be brought to you.”

“Really?” said John, astonished.

“Really,” the Marchesa answered firmly, closing off any questions as to the suit’s original owner.

He bowed to her superior force, said, “I would be pleased to change, Marchesa. If you’ll forgive my further absence, Sir Clovelly,” and left the room to make his way upstairs.

Strangely, it was a part of the house he had never visited and now he revelled in its peacefulness, the gracious way in which it was decorated. The footman who was accompanying him bowed before one of the doors.

“This is the suite, Sir. If you would like to enter.”

Inside it had been fashioned in shades of green, all soft and soothing to the eye. John gazed round him at the plush wallpaper, so subtly made that it was difficult to tell whether the interior design was grey or merely a darker shade of green. The bed was a jubilation with a gilded headboard ornately carved, and two posts supporting the end. The Apothecary hazarded a guess that it had been designed by Chippendale. Wherever he looked there was understated luxury and his realisation that Elizabeth was a woman of wealth was reinstated at every turn.

John crossed to the washstand and stared at himself in the mirror above it. He had come without a wig and his hair was growing long, springing liberally in all directions. But it was to the face beneath that his eye was drawn. He looked slightly crazed, he thought. Haggard and wild-eyed, his mouth compressed tightly into an almost straight line. He also looked thin and pinched, as if finding Emilia dying had halved him in size. Half-heartedly he picked up the razor and brush, thoughtfully provided by his host, and soaped his chin.

There was a knock at the door which opened to reveal a servant carrying a suit. It, too, was dark green; velvet breeches and a satin skirted coat. It was not the latest fashion admittedly but the main thing was that it fitted. Gratefully, John put it on and went out into the corridor.

And then he saw Elizabeth, wearing a crimson open robe, proceeding towards the staircase in front of him. Hearing him, she turned and smiled.

“Ah, the suit becomes you.”

“Thank you.”

“It belonged to my son. He was more or less your build.”

Reminded then that she, too, had known the pain of loss, indeed twice in her life, the Apothecary made her a small bow, then offered her his arm.

“Madam, may I escort you downstairs?”

“Yes, Sir, indeed you may.”

And with that they proceeded to dinner together.

Chapter Eleven

W
ith a clatter of wheels over the cobbled yard the coach of Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi drew to a halt outside The Three Pigeons coaching inn in Brentford. The coachman pulled the two-horse team which had brought them from Devon to a panting stop, then climbed down from the box.

“Will this do, my Lady?”

She put her head out, the feathers on her hat swishing as she did so. “It will be perfectly adequate, thank you.”

“Right, Madam,” and with that Ruckley pulled down the step for Elizabeth to alight.