Death in the Setting Sun (3 page)

“Well, I have written one or two stories to amuse my friends. And this year the Princess has asked me to organise the Christmas celebration.”

“Oh?” John was interested. “And what form will it take?”

Priscilla blushed again. “It is a masque and the cast will consist of the Princess’s court, together with a professional actor.”

“And where is he coming from?”

“From the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.”

John felt a slight plunging of his heart. The woman he had once loved to distraction, the celebrated Coralie Clive, was now taking all the leads at that very theatre. He covered the moment by asking another question.

“And where is the play to be performed?”

“That’s rather a delicate matter. You see, when I first envisaged it I set it in the large saloon at Gunnersbury House, which is absolutely ideal for the purpose. In fact I adapted the plot to suit the building. Then it was to be a summer extravaganza. But now the Princess has decided that it is to be done at Christmas so it will have to be in Curzon Street, which will not be as good.”

“Why must it be there?” asked Emilia.

“Because Princess Amelia winters in London. So that is that.”

“Could she not be persuaded to go to Gunnersbury?”

“The house will be freezing. Particularly in view of the current cold spell. I think it would take too much effort to remove the court and get Gunnersbury House warmed up.”

“None the less,” Emilia persisted, “it would be a shame to spoil the play. Perhaps you should speak to her.”

Priscilla looked downcast, an expression that temporarily enhanced her porcine cast of features. “I, personally, would not dare ask Her Royal Highness. It was through Lady Theydon that I was approached to write the masque in the first place.”

“Then let Lady Theydon be your messenger. Explain that in your opinion it would quite spoil the production if it were not performed where you originally intended.”

Priscilla appeared dubious. “Princess Amelia is a very determined woman. Once she has made her mind up nothing will shift her.”

“Well, you could at least try.”

“You’re right. I promise that I will ask Lady Theydon to speak on my behalf.” She turned to Emilia. “But, my dear friend, wherever it is to be performed, I shall try and get you to be a member of the audience. And you,- John, of course.”

Imagining himself wedged in amongst a great press of people, John made a mental note to be otherwise engaged should the invitation materialise. Emilia, however, brightened.

“I should enjoy that. Thank you.”

Priscilla glanced flirtatiously round. “My pleasure will be enhanced by your company.”

John paid particular attention to the grape he was peeling, thus avoiding her bright-eyed gaze.

It was as they were getting ready for bed that Emilia let out a sigh and said, “Poor Priscilla.”

“Why?” asked John, genuinely surprised.

“That is all a cover up, you know, about wishing to remain a spinster. I feel I should have invited someone else to partner her this evening. It would have pleased her enormously.”

“Who? Most of our friends are married.”

“Oh, I would have thought of someone,” Emilia answered vaguely. She snuggled into bed, pulling the clothes up under her chin. “Oh, it’s cold. Hurry up.”

John jumped in and pulled his wife close to him. “You like your new friend, don’t you?”

“She’s not new. I knew her for about five years. And, yes, I do. Why?”

“No reason,” he answered, and went to sleep.

The next morning a messenger came with a large display of flowers and a note from Priscilla, full of effusive thanks.

“She invites me to take tea with her in Curzon Street,” said Emilia, scanning it at breakfast.

“Then go, my darling. Enjoy yourself,” John answered, wiping his mouth and standing up.

Emilia glanced at him. “Are you off to work? Why so early?”

“Because I don’t trust Gideon to turn up on time. Until I can get it through his fat head to open up, I have to be there to watch him.”

Emilia sighed. “Oh, poor John. I do hope the boy is going to come up to snuff.”

“So do I,” her husband answered heavily.

A few minutes later he left the house and turned into Gerrard Street, his greatcoat pulled well round him, his hat firmly on his head. It was bitterly cold and he thrust his gloved hands deep into his pockets, gazing ahead of him, determined to get to Shug Lane as quickly as possible. As he walked he found his thoughts turning to last night’s guest.

The Apothecary reckoned her to be about thirty years of age and, despite her slightly piggy face, attractive enough to have caught the attention of several males. So the story of her waiting for the right man was probably true. John hoped for her sake that the man did not take too long to enter her life, particularly as Priscilla had mentioned having a family.

Deep in thought he turned into Shug Lane and made purposefully for his shop, which was situated about halfway up. Somewhat to his surprise he saw that Gideon had arrived and was busy sweeping out, prior to opening.

“Good morning,” he called cheerily, and tapped on the door.

Gideon looked up. “Good morning, Sir.”

While the boy unlocked, John studied him.

He was sixteen years old; a stocky, red-headed creature with eyes the colour of gooseberries and a great grin on him. In fact it was difficult, despite the overwhelming reasons to be annoyed, to get very angry. He had a winning way of looking alarmed and going pale, then smiling nervously, which completely disarmed John, however furious he was. Once, when he had been on the point of beating him, Gideon had given him that frightened smile and the Apothecary had ended up dropping the cane to the floor.

“Spoil the child, spare the rod,” Samuel had said, shortly after Gideon had signed his indentures.

“And how often do you beat your apprentice?”

“Once a week, regular as clockwork.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” John had answered, and Samuel had been forced to admit that once a year was nearer the truth.

Now Gideon gave his master a bright grin and said, “I was just about to take the covers off, Sir.”

“Then away you go. But Gideon …”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Be careful not to break anything. Lift them gently, there’s a good chap.”

“Very good, Sir.”

The apprentice then proceeded to lift the covers off as carefully as if they covered the crown jewels, each one being treated with exaggerated care.

“Not that carefully,” said John, slightly irritated.

“No, Sir,” Gideon answered, yanked at the next one and, sure enough, an alembic smashed to the floor in smithereens.

Shaking his head, John vanished into the compounding room to make himself a cup of tea.

The morning passed much like any other, ladies coming in for a variety of cures, everything from megrim to flux; elderly gentlemen concerned with gravel or gout; bucks and blades either buying condoms or urgently seeking a cure for the clap. However, remembering Gideon’s recent error, John insisted on serving everyone personally and had just bidden farewell to a regular customer, a winsome woman of fifty years ripe, seeking something to restore her faded youth, when the door burst open, setting the bell jangling. An elegant figure stood there, clad in a green and black striped coat, a silver waistcoat, green breeches and stockings of the same emerald hue.

The figure bowed and said in an Irish accent so broad that it sounded phoney, “Good morning to yeez. Would you be after having anything for a pain in my hypochondrium? I sustained a recent injury and it’s hurting me to hell.”

Gideon gave an audible gulp and it was left to the Apothecary to say, “Take a seat, Sir. Can you tell me how you came by this injury?”

The Irishman sank into the chair vacated by the lady, who had stopped in the doorway to gaze on the newcomer’s handsome face.

“Sure and it was on stage. We were fighting, d’ye see.”

“Ah, I take it this was a mock fight. Done in pursuit of your profession perhaps?”

The Irishman nodded wearily. “That is so. But, blessed saints, the other bugger hadn’t practised the moves and wasn’t I the one to suffer for it.”

“Would it be possible to examine you? You can step into the back for the sake of decency.”

“Decency be blowed. It’s only me chest.”

And with that the Irishman removed his cloak, ripped his shirt out of his breeches and hauled it upwards, displaying a great deal of muscular upper body. The Apothecary pressed and prodded gently, to the accompaniment of groans of varying strengths, finally saying, “Yes, Sir, you have sustained a broken rib in my view.”

“Great God, I’ll have the fellow’s neck, so I will.”

“It really isn’t anything to worry about. I’ll prescribe you a strong decoction of Madder. That will relieve the bruising both internal and outer.”

“But me rib, what should I do about that?”

“Nothing,” John answered calmly. “It will heal on its own. I wouldn’t recommend that you continue the stage fight, however.”

“Ah, there’s me job gone. I’ll be honest with you, Apothecary. I’m at the very early stages of my career, though one day I hope to play the leads, mark you. But the fact of the matter is that now I’m only employed to brawl and crowd, if you take my meaning. So, I’ll be hanging round the other theatres to see what they’ve got. Ah, ’tis a terrible life, so it is.”

He looked at John ruefully, his good-looking features creased into such a sad expression that the Apothecary found himself offering comfort.

“I take it you were at Drury Lane, my friend?”

“I was indeed, Sir. I was a fighting Capulet until last night.”

The next question was out before John could help it. “Do you know Miss Coralie Clive?”

“Not to speak to, no. However that has not stopped me worshipping from afar. But she is in the realm to which I aspire, mark my words.”

“Then why not go to David Garrick and explain that you are temporarily
hors de combat
and ask if you may just crowd for the time being?”

“He’s abroad at the moment and will continue to be so for some time.” The Irishman finished tucking his shirt back in and pulled his coat back into position. “Now, Sir, if you’ll give me the decoction I’ll be on my way.”

John searched along the counter until he found a bottle of the red liquid. “Take twice a day, but not at night, unless you want to be up and at your chamber pot.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The Irishman searched in his pocket until he found a card which he presented with a flourish. “My ticket.”

“Thank you.” John solemnly handed him a card in return. “That will be one shilling.”

“Expensive but worth it if it does the trick. Good day to yeez.”

And he was gone, cramming his tricorne on his head and leaving the shop with a further jingling of bells.

“Quite a character, Sir,” said Gideon, watching his retreating form through the window.

“Yes.”

John studied the card which read, “Michael O’Callaghan, Thespian and Artiste”. Beneath this bold inscription there was printed an address off Fleet Street. John suspected that it was probably somewhere rather seedy.

“Strange to think of him being on the same stage as Coralie,” he said to himself, then felt a rush of self-annoyance that such a thought should even have presented itself.

The next day found Emilia in a state of extreme nervousness. “John, before you go to work you must advise me on my wardrobe,” she announced at breakfast.

He looked up from The
Daily Courant.
“Wardrobe?” he asked.

“Yes. It is today that I go to take tea with Priscilla. I really am determined to cut a dash fashion-wise. Supposing I should run into Princess Amelia.”

“Why? Does she wear cutting styles?”

“I have no idea but one must be prepared. The train has made a comeback, you know. Do you think my open robe with the small train would be suitable? That is if I can get into it.”

John smiled at her, thinking how excitement became her, transforming her into someone far younger than her actual age. Indeed, Emilia almost looked childlike as she gazed at him earnestly.

“Let’s go upstairs and have a look at your selection,” he said, cramming a piece of beef into his mouth and chewing hastily.

“Oh good,” she said, clasped her hands together and practically ran up the flight in front of him.

Several of her favourite dresses were lying on the bed and before he could say a word Emilia had slipped off her night-rail and was trying the first one on. After fitting them all they eventually decided on a sacque-backed gown in heavy woven silk, trimmed with lace and flowers, the sacque falling in a slight train as fashion decreed. The stays beneath meant that it could be laced as tightly as ever.

“Phew,” said Emilia, holding her breath.

“You won’t get away with this much longer,” John remarked, noticing the flush in her cheeks.

“Nor would I wish to. I feel like an oyster crushed by its shell.”