Death in the Setting Sun Read online

  “Mr. Rawlings,” she said in a cultivated voice that had just the hint of another accent in its depths, “it is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

  As she moved, a strong waft of perfume came from her clothes which John found particularly appealing.

  “It certainly is, Miss Fleming,” he responded, “but, forgive me, I feel that we have met before somewhere.” Priscilla laughed lazily. “Of course we have. I have been in your shop several times, little realising who you were.”

  John raised his brows. “But surely Shug Lane is a long way from Curzon Street, where I presume you reside.”

  Priscilla continued to smile. “Ah, my dear Sir, there is a simple explanation, though one which I would desire you to keep confidential. Fact is that the Princess tried some of your Restoring Elixir and has sworn by it ever since. As one of the lesser servants I am sent to purchase same at regular intervals. So there’s the answer.”

  Emilia came in. “Good heavens, what a small world it is to be sure. To think you have seen John frequently but never knew who he was.”

  “Well, I do now,” Priscilla said, and laughed once more.

  She was very jolly and, considering everything, most attractive in her way. John found himself warming to her. Escorting the two ladies into the library, he poured them sherry and listened to them chattering.

  “Of course, the Princess bought Gunnersbury House three years ago but has done a great deal of restoration work. She has started work on a garden folly and is turning it into a Bath House. It is such fun, you really should see it.” Priscilla clasped her hands together. “Yes, dearest Emilia, you must come and visit me there. It would be a splendid opportunity for you to have a look at Gunnersbury which is really quite magnificent.”

  John turned. “But that wouldn’t be until the spring, surely?”

  Priscilla’s face continued to smile widely. “We often go there in the winter months to make sure that the servants are doing things properly. I shall invite you as soon as possible.” She looked at John. “Will you come, Sir?”

  “Certainly, if I can get time off from my shop.”

  “But surely you are your own master. After all, the place is yours, is it not?”

  “Yes, Madam, it is. But at the moment I have a new apprentice, not fit to be left in charge as yet. I’ll have to see how he shapes up.”

  “Oh, please allow yourself a day off.”

  “I’ll have to see.”

  Priscilla turned to Emilia. “But at least you can come, my dear friend. Gracious, I am so glad to have found you again. What a long time to have been apart.”

  “Yes, indeed it is. So tell me, Priscilla, do you have a beau?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause before her friend answered, “Oh, several. Princess Amelia keeps an open house and I have met one or two comely young men amongst her guests.”

  “But nothing serious, I take it?”

  “You take it correctly. I am a hawker when it comes to love. I take mortal pains to remain single, I’ll have you know.”

  John asked, “But surely that is just a phase you are going through?”

  The small eyes flashed in his direction. “Of course. When I meet the right man I promise you I shall settle down and become an exemplary wife.”

  Emilia laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, Priscilla. I can remember you saying much the same at school.”

  There was a toss of fair curls and the feathers on the hat bobbed in response. “Well, there you are then. Let us speak of something else.”

  John sat back silently, leaving the conversation to the two women, trying to recall exactly when he had first met Priscilla Fleming. He had a vague recollection of her coming into his shop some six months ago, hesitating, as he remembered, in the doorway. Then, as he had walked out of the compounding room, she had looked him up and down and broken into a wide-toothed smile. At the time he had thought her flirtatious but could see now that this was simply her manner, her way of conducting herself. In other words, she was an extremely confident young woman who refused to let anything stand in her way. He eyed her now, thinking how she had turned rather unappealing looks to her advantage.

  “… I find your little girl adorable,” Priscilla was saying, smiling charmingly.

  Emilia wrinkled her nose. “Yes, she’s remarkable, at least we believe so.” She leant forward confidentially. “Actually, I am expecting another child soon.”

  “Really? And when is the baby due?”

  “In June.”

  “How wonderful for you. Oh my dear Emilia, to find you so happy and so settled. It is all I could ever have wished for you.” She turned to John, eyes alight. “Thank you for making my friend so happy, Mr. Rawlings. You are clearly an ideal husband.”

  “I would hardly say that,” the Apothecary answered truthfully, thinking of the times he had left his wife to her own devices while he had gone in pursuit of villains and blackguards.

  “Nonsense,” Priscilla answered gaily. “You are everything that a woman could desire.”

  She was flirting with him, gently so, and John could not help but respond.

  “You flatter, Miss Fleming. I assure you that the reality is nothing like as good as you would have me. Is it, Emilia?”

  “No,” she answered honestly, “it can be pretty dreadful when he is involved in some skulduggery and leaves me alone.”

  The piggy face frowned. “Oh? What skulduggery is this?”

  Emilia immediately looked contrite, as if she had said too much. In fact she even went so far as to glance at her husband and say, “John?”

  “I occasionally assist Sir John Fielding,” he answered smoothly.

  The effect on Priscilla was astounding. She clasped her hands together, her cheeks went pink, the little eyes opened wide.

  “I vow and declare I adore a mystery,” she said. “Do you really work with the Blind Beak?”

  “Occasionally, yes.”

  “You must tell me all about it. I simply can’t wait to hear every detail.”

  Fortunately at that moment the door opened and a footman announced, “Dinner is served.” Miss Fleming stood up, removing her hat to reveal masses of golden curls. “Why, Emilia,” she said, “how like you to choose a truly exciting husband. I envy you, I really do.” Emilia smiled, somewhat nervously John thought. “Yes, he’s commendable in most things.”

  Priscilla linked her arm familiarly through the Apothecary’s. “You must tell me everything over dinner. Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise,” he said, and led her upstairs to the first floor dining room.

  Chapter Two

  The meal was a great success, most of the talking being done by Emilia’s long-lost friend. John felt by the end of it that he almost knew Princess Amelia and her entourage and that he could have found his way round Gunnersbury House without a guide, so vividly did Priscilla describe them. She certainly had a way with words and it occurred to the Apothecary that the girl might have some talent as a writer. So much so that he asked her outright. Priscilla blushed modestly.

  “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.”