Death in the Setting Sun (9 page)

“Oh God, no,” he shouted and sprinted over the snow to where the figure lay on its back, so still and so pale in the blood-red setting.

He reached her side and scooped her up in his arms, pulling back the hood so that he could see the face. It was Emilia, covered in blood, bleeding into the snow, adding her own redness to that provided by nature, the knife that was ending her life still buried deep in her gut.

“Oh, darling,” he said. “Speak to me.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, recognised him. Her lips tried to say something but he could not catch the words. Then she closed her eyes again and with a sigh her head fell to one side. Emilia had died in his arms as the Apothecary watched helplessly.

John knelt cradling her to his heart as round him darkness fell. He thought wildly, madly, that he had been a bad husband, that he had not come up to her expectations of him. He remembered everything with a terrible clarity, saw her again as she had first appeared to him, so beautiful and so fresh, close to Apothecaries’ Hall. Recalled with shame the time when he had almost been unfaithful to her. Remembered how he had not been in the house when Rose had been born.

Eventually, tears came and he sobbed aloud, holding her close, letting her blood flow over him. And so he was sitting, in the dark, holding his dead wife, when he became conscious of a noise. A party had come from the house to look for them. Flaming torches were carried high and he recognised people advancing towards him.

He did not move, staying where he was, never wanting to shift again. Crouching over Emilia, his instinct was to protect all that was left of her, to save her from the stares and curiosity of unwanted bystanders. Yet nothing could be done; the crowd, carrying lit flares, was advancing ever closer.

They stopped three feet away from him, forming a semicircle. John’s wild thoughts turned to a pagan ritual, come to fetch the human sacrifice. Slowly, very slowly, he stood up, realising that the knife was in his hand, that he must have pulled it from Emilia’s stomach without even realising he had done so.

Staring wildly into the depths of the crowd he picked out the face of Lady Theydon, her dark eyes fixed on him unblinkingly. He saw her tongue emerge like a snake and run over her moist lips. Then she let out a low shriek.

“Oh, murder, murder,” she cried. “What have you done, Sir?”

John tried to speak but no sound came out. He stood where he was, opening and closing his mouth silently.

Then, suddenly he realised how bad he must look, soaked in Emilia’s blood, the knife that killed her in his hand. He spoke at last.

“I found her like this, believe me.”

Lady Theydon gave him an expressionless look. “Well I, for one, don’t believe you. I believe you are a murderer.”

There was a groundswell of muttering amongst the people. John heard Michael O’Callaghan say, “Oh no, ’tis not possible,” then he saw two burly footmen advancing towards him.

Shouting, “No, I swear I am innocent,” the Apothecary stood, petrified, where he was.

Then the swarthy face of the pock-marked man thrust itself within an inch of his nose. “I’ll have to request you, Sir, to come with me,” the footman said.

And a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

Chapter Seven

H
e hadn’t wanted to leave her body, had wanted to stay with it as the last vestige of her on earth, but he had had little choice. His arms had been seized, one on either side, and he had been frogmarched back to the house, quite roughly. Once inside he had gone straight to the closet and had vomited violently before they had locked him in a small room by himself. It had been empty of furniture other than for a chair and into this the Apothecary had sunk, his legs entirely devoid of strength.

How long he had sat there he couldn’t tell but somewhere in the small hours there came a scrabbling at the door. They had provided him with half a candle and a pail for relief, that was all. Returning to full consciousness at the furtive noise, John saw that the candle was burning down and hastily blew it out to conserve it. Thus he sat in the darkness, listening. The scrabbling came again, followed by a faint voice saying, “John.”

He went mad, thought he had been mistaken about Emilia’s death and that she was outside, trying to communicate with him. He rushed to the door, leaning close to it.

“Emilia?” he managed to croak.

There was a pause, then came the answering whisper. “It’s Priscilla. John, Emilia is dead.”

“I know, I know,” he whispered back, and suddenly he was in tears again, weeping as though his heart had broken, which it had.

There was the sound of a key in the lock and in the moonlight, which came through a high barred window, he saw the door open and a female enter the room. She crossed to his side and put her arms round him.

“There, there,” she said.

But John was uncontrollable, crying like a little boy, quite unable to stop himself. Eventually, though, he quietened, though his body still quivered with sobs.

“I didn’t kill her,” he managed to murmur.

“I know you didn’t,” she answered him. “John, listen to me.”

“What?”

“Emilia borrowed my red cloak. It was me the killer was after, don’t you see?”

“My God,” said John, collapsing back onto the chair. “Oh my God.”

The thought that his wife had died because she had borrowed another woman’s garment cut him to the quick, yet he could see the sense of it.

“Why did she borrow your cloak?” he asked.

“Heaven knows. She probably decided to take a turn in the grounds and couldn’t find her own. I don’t know the reason. All I know is that the killer’s knife was meant for me.”

Priscilla shivered violently, her face drawn and haggard.

“But who would want to kill you?”

“Oh, as to that I keep my own counsel. But be assured there are several people.”

John stood up and took her by the shoulders. “What are they planning to do with me?”

“They will keep you here until they can hand you over to the Beak Runners. A rider is setting off for London tomorrow morning to tell Sir John Fielding.”

“Then at least I’ll be fairly treated.”

“But he is bound to arrest you.”

“Why?”

“Because Princess Amelia believes you are guilty, Sir John would be flouting a royal command if he were to do otherwise.”

“But you will speak up for me? Tell them about the cloak?”

“You know I will. But it is a question of proof. You must admit you looked mighty guilty.”

John sighed. “You’re right.” His voice changed. “Where is Emilia?”

“They have brought her back to the house. She’s in a room close by.”

“May I see her?”

Priscilla hesitated. “I managed to find a key to fit the lock but should I let you out?”

John said angrily, “In the name of heaven, Priscilla, you know I’m not guilty.”

She relented. “Yes, I do. Come.”

The Apothecary struck a tinder and relit the candle, handing it to her. In silence they left the room and John found himself in a rough brick corridor. He had clearly been taken to the cellar — as had his wife.

She lay in another small brick room, this one entirely devoid of light. A hasty bier had been made from three large planks put together supported by a trestle beneath. They had covered her with a white sheet through which a small stain of blood had started to dry. With a hand that shook violently John pulled it back and gazed into her face.

Like this, with no visible sign of violence, she looked as if she were asleep. Yet the face had lost its colour and was a snowy white against which the darkness of her lashes showed starkly. The Apothecary turned to Priscilla.

“Leave us a minute, please. I beg you to do so.”

She reluctantly set the candle down and headed for the door. “I’ll be right outside,” she said.

He never knew why he pulled the rest of the sheet back, but pull it he did. Emilia’s wounded body lay exposed to his gaze. Fighting a terrible urge to shout aloud, the Apothecary examined her stabs.

The killer had grabbed her from behind and struck three savage blows to her abdomen, then left her to bleed to death. At least that was how John read the situation from the position of the cuts.

“My darling,” he whispered to the corpse, “I’ll find who did this to you and then I will kill him with my bare hands. I promise you that.”

It seemed to him in the flickering light that she gave a little smile. John bent and kissed her hand, realising how stiff and cold it had become. Then he replaced the sheet, kissing Emilia on the mouth before he covered her face.

Priscilla was not outside the door. In fact, Priscilla was nowhere to be seen. Candle in hand, John walked along the rough corridor, searching for her. And then it came to him. Perhaps she had deliberately made herself scarce in order to give him an opportunity to escape.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was two in the morning. The entire household, with the exception of the night staff, would be asleep. Suddenly weak again, John sat on a rough stool and considered his options. If he remained in custody he would eventually be handed to the Runners who would escort him to Bow Street and into the custody of Sir John. If he escaped he could go to Sir Gabriel and explain what had happened, then give himself up to Sir John, hopefully in the company of Priscilla who could explain about the cloak and the mistaken identity. In short, there seemed little choice in the matter. It would be better by far to make his break for freedom while he had the chance.

John crept along the corridor, his heart thudding and there, as he had been certain there would be, he found a door. Locked and bolted it was indeed but the keys were on the inside. Feeling hardly in control of himself, he raised a hand and slid back the top bolt which creaked and groaned as he pulled it back. He paused, his breathing coming in little gasps, and listened. Nothing stirred. Certain now that Priscilla had given him this opportunity, the Apothecary bent to the lower bolt and slid it back. It, too, made a noise but opened. Now all that was left was the key. Grabbing it with both hands, John turned it and the door swung ajar.

The rush of cold air took his breath away, what was left of it. So much so that he stood gasping in the entrance, his thoughts whirling in his head. To summon Irish Tom, no doubt asleep in the stable block, would be sheer folly. For how could he in his blood-stained suit present himself to anyone who might still be on duty. But then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw in the distance that a coach was waiting near the gates of the house, a coach which he recognised as his own. John staggered forward and collapsed into the gigantic Irishman’s arms.

“I knew you’d escape, Sorrh,” a voice whispered in his ear.

“Did you hear about what happened?” John asked as Irish Tom carried him the rest of the way and deposited him inside the coach’s freezing interior.

“I did, Mr. Rawlings. My deepest condolences to you.”

“She was murdered by mistake, Tom. Poor Emilia borrowed a red cloak and that was her downfall.”

He wept again, though he thought he had no more tears left in him. Very gently, Irish Tom wrapped him in a fur coverlet then climbed onto the coachman’s box.

“Where to, Sorrh?” he asked.

“Sir Gabriel’s,” was John’s answer as the motion of the coach finally lulled him into a deep sleep.

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He woke in the cold light of dawning to see a friendless landscape. Tom had made what progress he could on the icy roads but the horses were tired and they were not much further forward than Turnham Green.

“I’m making for the inn, Sir …” Tom’s Irish accent had become more subdued. “… We could both do with a substantial meal.”

John put his head out of the window. He was hatless, had left his greatcoat behind, and his beautiful suit was covered in blood. “What shall I wear?”

Irish Tom called down, “There’s a bag on the seat opposite you.”

“Whose is it?”

“I don’t know. I stole it from another coach just before I went to wait for you.”

John shook his head but opened the bag and found a suit of clothes, made for someone far smaller than he was, within. Pulling it out, he stripped off, not easy in the carriage’s swinging interior, and put the ensemble on. It was made of dark green worsted, a very sensible suit indeed. Furthermore the legs only came to just above his knees and the hose did not meet them, but it was clean and serviceable. With a sigh, John fastened on the cloak — there was no hat — and thought about Emilia.

A few minutes later they stopped at the inn they had patronised on the way down. Irish Tom pulled into the courtyard and jumping down himself, helped John descend. The Apothecary, weak as a child, was glad of an arm to help him into the smoky interior. Once inside, despite the earliness of the hour, Irish Tom ordered a large brandy for his master and a small beer for himself. Then he sat in silence and waited for John to speak.

He thought that he had never seen the Apothecary look so ill. He had lost his wig long ago and now his cinnamon hair hung lankly round his ears, while his face was so pale that his vivid eyes seemed twice the size. He seemed to have shrunk but, Tom thought, this was because he was walking slightly hunched, as if he could not stand upright and face the troubles of the world.