Death in the Setting Sun (16 page)

“Yes. Apparently the Princess was far too shocked by the murder to face the upheaval of moving. Then the poor creature went down with influenza and is now slowly recovering. Naturally everyone is hanging on for her to get better before the whole place packs up and goes back to London.”

“I see, yet …”

But John did not complete the sentence. The sound of another carriage approaching was audible. Without a word he dived into the hedge, pulling Elizabeth after him.

It was another member of the company of players, though one who had been relegated to a smaller part. Exquisite as a spring cloud, yet a cloud that was about to play a capricious trick on the world, for Lady Georgiana was frowning deeply, turning her head to look out, avoiding the gaze of the other occupant. Even without seeing him properly, John knew who it was. The tall, thin, somewhat elderly man who had kissed her hand.

He squeezed back into the hedge as Lady Georgiana’s gaze met his, lit by a sudden shaft of moonshine as he was. She stared but a second later the coach had passed on its way, leaving him with the impression that he had been seen.

“She saw us,” confirmed Elizabeth, emerging. “Who is she, do you know?”

“Lady Georgiana Hope. She had a minor role in the masque in which Emilia appeared.”

“And the man with her?”

“I don’t know. But judging by the look of him he is someone who lusts after her.”

“Is he attached to the court?”

John shook his head. “Again, I can’t answer.”

“I’ll find out,” Elizabeth answered in that determined way which once, in another life, had so appealed to John.

He turned to look at her, studying her intently in the moonlight. She had washed her face and was now devoid of any kind of paint. She was ugly, with her great scar being caught by the lunar beams, and yet in another way she was totally beautiful. In any other circumstances John’s heart would have quickened, yet now he was drained of any feeling, lacking all emotion. And Elizabeth, regarding him with a half-smile, seemed somehow to understand this and turned to leave.

“You’re going,” said John, and it was a statement not a question.

“Yes, there’s nothing further to report. I shall meet you tomorrow evening at the same time.”

“But not in the same place. Let’s meet just below the bridge. It might be more private there.”

She smiled. “Away from people in carriages with sharp eyes.”

“Precisely.” He took one of her hands. “Elizabeth, thank you for everything you’re doing. It far exceeds the bounds of friendship.”

“Nonsense. I was growing damnably bored. It’s given me something to do that has a purpose.”

“Even emptying chamber pots and lighting fires?”

A smile transformed her features. “And scrubbing out the kitchens, don’t forget.”

“I never will,” he answered.

“Good night,” came the reply, and with that she was gone.

John walked back through the darkness of the night, thinking to himself that less than a mile away his wife had breathed her last. A longing to see Rose suddenly possessed him, the child that she had brought into the world. Determined to write to Sir Gabriel the very next day, John entered the farmhouse and went straight to his room.

He rose an hour before dawn the next morning, shivering in the cold and the darkness. Directed into the fields by a surly Jacob Bellow, he fed the cattle and the sheep, putting food into their troughs and checking the water supply, then he turned back in the direction of the farm for breakfast just as dawn broke over the pasture land.

It was a dawn like no other he had ever seen. The sky turned pink for a few moments before the sun appeared, so that everywhere reflected that glorious roseate plumage, suffusing the clouds with an insidious, demanding shade. The Apothecary stood transfixed, letting his eyes enrich themselves with the colour, wishing for the thousandth time that Emilia was standing beside him, enjoying such a wonderful sight. Then he stared, startled by what he was looking at. For there, in the far field, etched black against the brilliant ball of the sun, she stood, gazing towards Gunnersbury House.

“Emilia,” he called, though his voice came out as a harsh rasp.

She half turned towards him, as if the sound had reached her ears. Then she turned back again and began slowly walking in the direction of the house.

“Emilia, wait,” he called again, and for a moment closed his eyes. When he opened them again she had gone; vanished completely. Shivering violently and only partially from the cold, John Rawlings made his way to the farmhouse.

“Hugh has agreed that you may stay until he is up again,” announced Hester Bellow, as she cut thick slices of bread and heaped them on the Apothecary’s plate.

“How very kind,” he muttered through a piece of cheese.

“Perhaps you’ll go and check on his welfare later,” she continued, cutting at ham and adding it to the collection on John’s trencher.

“Of course. Gladly.”

Jacob gave him a sour look. “We need to cut the reeds by the river bed today. So as soon as you’ve seen to Father you can go and get on with it.”

John tugged his forelock. “Yes, Sir.”

Hester remonstrated. “Jake, let the poor man eat his breakfast. He’s been out in the fields since five.”

“Five!” Jacob said with a loud snort. “I’m up at three when ’tis lambing time.”

“Well that ain’t yet,” she retorted, and in her anxiety put two more slices of meat on the Apothecary’s already overflowing plate.

“Please, Mrs. Bellow, I. have more than enough. No more, I insist.”

For since Emilia’s death his appetite had decreased enormously. True he was eating more normally than he had at first, but for all that great mountains of food now made him feel quite ill, therefore he left a great deal of his breakfast uneaten, much to Jacob’s disgust. In fact it was a relief to go upstairs and see his employer.

Hugh was lying comfortably enough, his strapped leg outside the bedclothes.

“Well, Sir, how are you this morning?” the Apothecary asked cheerfully.

“Much better, thanks to your good self. You’ve done a grand job. I don’t think it will be necessary to call the physician after all.”

“I think you should, Sir. He will be able to prescribe for you. The medicines I carry are very limited.”

Hugh looked thoughtful. “Indeed. Not quite what I had gathered. Tell me, lad, did you only do a year with an apothecary? How come you were able to break your indentures?”

John hesitated, thinking that to lie now would be dangerous. Eventually he took a breath and said, “Sir, I told you a falsehood. I actually am an apothecary but for personal reasons which I cannot discuss with you I am temporarily away from my shop.”

Hugh looked even more pensive, then said eventually, “Tell me, are you connected in any way with the recent affair at the big house?”

John sat down rather heavily on the edge of the bed but made no comment.

“We heard tell that a young apothecary’s wife was murdered up there and that he was guilty.”

“Then you heard wrong, Sir. I did not do it. I loved my wife with all my heart. I found her dying and sat with her. A gang came from the house and accused me but I managed to escape and now I have returned to find my wife’s murderer and hand him or her to the authorities.”

He thought it wise to keep to himself his intention of killing the guilty party when he finally discovered them.

Hugh sat silently, listening. Eventually he spoke. “I believe you and trust you. So it suits us both for you to work here for the time being.”

“Indeed it does, Mr. Bellow.”

“Well, you can go to the big house straight away, if you like. We deliver eggs, bread and milk there daily. Tell Jacob that I said I’d hand the task over to you.”

“But supposing I am recognised?”

“Take a big hat and pull it well down. Nobody will connect you with the respectable young man you must have been. Now go and get the cart loaded up.”

It seemed odd, thought John, trotting along Brentford Lane having crossed Bellow Bridge, to be going towards Gunnersbury House once more. His mind went back to his escape, at which Priscilla had so obviously connived, to say nothing of Irish Tom. What a pitiable creature he had been then, what a sobbing wreck. But he was determined that he would not shed another tear until the sad, sorry business had been brought to its conclusion. For somewhere inside the big house he felt certain that Emilia’s killer lurked, unseen, smiling at his — or her — apparent triumph.

“You wait,” said John, and realised he had spoken aloud.

To his left, across the lane, lay the kitchen gardens, orchards planted beyond. Everything looked very black and bleak at this time of year. In fact, other than for a rather sorry display of winter cabbages, there was no colour at all. On his right, however, rose the grand columns of Gunnersbury House. Feeling that even from this distance he might be noticed, John pulled the hat down and walked the cart round to the kitchens, where he dismounted.

A kitchen lad came strolling out. “Hello, have you brought the order from the farm?”

“Yes. Sorry I’m a bit late but Mr. Bellow has met with an accident and I’ve taken over some of his duties.”

The boy called over his shoulder. “Sir, come here, if you please. Mr. Bellow has had an accident.”

An older man appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What’s all this?”

“Mr. Bellow has broken his leg,” John answered, handing the man a basket containing four dozen eggs. “Oh dear. How’s that?”

“He was involved in an affray at Brentford yesterday. I’m the new farm hand, by the way. Name of Will. Where would you like your loaves put?”

“On the kitchen table, away from the eyes of the cook. He hates the fact that Princess Amelia prefers Mrs. Bellow’s bread to his. A very jealous man, he is.” For the first time since Emilia’s murder John entered Gunnersbury House, carrying a big basket, this one containing freshly-baked loaves, wrapped in cloths and still warm. He was just placing them on the table when he heard a commotion outside the door leading into the house and stopped what he was doing to look.

A woman flung herself into the opening and started to harangue the occupants of the kitchen.

“You lazy good-for-nothings. The Princess is upstairs demanding her breakfast and you tell me the bread has not yet arrived.”

“It’s here, Mam,” John muttered, pulling his hat well down.

“And about time too. You know that she likes a couple of fresh slices with her tea.” The woman paused. “Oh, you’re not Bellow.”

“No, Mam. The master is indisposed. I’m the new help.”

The woman drew nearer. “I see. And how long do you expect Bellow to be laid up?”

“A good month. Fact is, he’s broke his leg.”

John was putting on a rural drawl, hoping that his voice would be disguised. From under the brim of his hat, which good manners should have decreed he removed, he studied the woman, realising with a shock that he knew her. Plain as anything, the little porcine eyes gave it away. He was conversing with Priscilla herself.

“I do hope this doesn’t mean we can expect late deliveries?”

“On the contrary, Mam. I shall endeavour to be even earlier than he was in future.”

He was aware of her eyeing him up and down. “Has no one ever told you that it is polite to remove your hat when entering a house?”

“No, Mam.”

“Well, it is. Pray do so.”

Oh God, thought John, she’ll recognise me sure as fate. He did the only thing possible and turned away.

“Would someone give me a hand with the churns? I wouldn’t like to keep the Princess waiting.”

And he was out of the door and back at the cart before anybody had time to draw breath. Behind him he heard the woman say, “Impudent fellow. I shall ask for someone else to come in future,” but he was already heaving a churn from the back of the cart and being helped in with it by the kitchen lad.

The woman swept from the kitchen in a flounce of crackling skirts. But not before she had shot John one last searching look over her shoulder. Hoping against hope that Priscilla had not recognised him, the Apothecary busied himself with the churns.