Death in the Setting Sun Read online

  He was looking at a woman who had once been a beauty but had now grown stout, with something of a huddle about her stance and bearing. Her face had become full of chins, while her eyes, formerly so pretty, had grown heavy-lidded and baggy. Yet there was still a sparkle about her, an air of being important and privileged. She also seemed, unless her looks belied her, quite kindly. Dressed in an elaborate gown of lilac silk, heavily embroidered with a myriad of silver flowers with diamond sparklers at their centre, she most certainly glittered as she came into the room.

  Once, John was aware, she had been the chosen bride of Frederick II of Prussia, known as the Great, but though Frederick had pursued her with fervour, corresponding both with Amelia and her mother, his tyrannical father, who loathed his son, had refused to give his consent to the marriage. Eventually the disillusioned Frederick had been forced to marry a German Princess, Elizabeth-Christina, but he had never loved her and they did not produce an heir. Princess Amelia had never married but had had several affairs, the most notable of which had been with the married Duke of Grafton who, in fact, had two mistresses simultaneously, one the Princess, the other the wife of the Earl of Burlington. These ladies, together with his wife, had presumably worn him out because he had died some seven years ago in 1757. Gazing at her now, the Apothecary thought about her past and could not help but smile.

  The Princess clapped her hands together. “Good people,” she said, her accent quite English despite the fact she had been born in Hanover, “the performance will begin shortly. Meanwhile please enjoy yourselves.” At this she waddled forward, smiling and gracious, obviously only too happy to have her house full.

  Footmen bearing trays passed amongst the guests and John helped himself to a glass of champagne, stealing a glance at the watch Sir Gabriel had given him for his twenty-first birthday. It was half past two and the masque was due to start at three.

  “She’s so full of life,” said Lady Theydon, her moist lips creasing into a smile. “Of course as I said to my husband recently, we all look to the Princess for an example of how to grow old. She’s so lively and full of fun. Don’t you agree, ladies?”

  There was a general chorus of yeses.

  “It was quite a job to persuade her to come to Gunnersbury for Christmas but I managed it, with my dear husband. And I’m sure you’ll agree that it is a lovely setting and looks so romantic under snow. Don’t you think so?”

  Another chorus of agreement.

  John, excusing himself, crossed to the window leading onto the balcony he had seen from outside. The sun was at a low ebb, not yet tinting the snow pink but instead giving it a golden glow. The great trees of the park bore their white decorations with magnificence though the formal gardens, apparently very beautiful, lay hidden beneath their covering. The sky was grey, almost blending with the rest of the landscape and as if to echo its colour the two formal lakes had frozen, sending the swans and ducks to shelter on the land. It was a wonderful vista and the Apothecary found himself wishing again that he might one day own something like this.

  How long he stood staring he couldn’t tell but he was suddenly brought back to reality by a footman intoning, “Your Highness, my Lords, my Ladies, ladies and gentlemen, kindly take your seats. The Masque of Christmas is about to begin.”

  With a smile, John put down his glass and progressed through to the Great Saloon, taking his seat on a little gilt chair.

  There was a general bout of coughing and throat-clearing and then the small orchestra, consisting of a violin, a viola, a cello and a flute, started to play, the violinist conducting with his bow. During this overture people talked as was customary, a habit of which John did not approve, preferring to listen to the music. However, the experience was soon at an end and the handsome Mr. O’Callaghan, wearing tights and a draped shirt, appeared.

  “The Masque of Christmas,” he announced in a beautiful voice.

  There was rapturous applause from the ladies. The performance had begun.

  Chapter Six

  Michael O’Callaghan, having said his few words, made an exit and several children rushed on dressed as snowflakes. They sang a merry song, somewhat tunelessly, then whirled round and round in the open space beneath the great window which had been designated as the stage area. John found his eye wandering to the landscape outside, struck again by the ever-lengthening shadows and how they made dark, mysterious pools beneath the trees.

  The next scene brought his attention back to the masque for Emilia entered with the Irishman, declaring her undying love for him. She looked stunningly beautiful, he thought, her little face accentuated by theatrical make-up. She was also quite a good actress, speaking up loudly and clearly and remembering all her lines. Michael, on the other hand, had indeed the actor’s great voice but could not lose his Irish accent which, John had to admit, added a great deal of charm to his performance.

  He was extremely handsome, the Apothecary thought, with his strong, clearly defined features, his long black hair which, defying the fashion for white wigs, he wore tied back in a queue, together with his devastating green eyes. He would do well playing the role of a highwayman, perhaps Macheath, though this notion made John shudder, recalling the affair of The Beggar’s Opera and its dire consequences.

  The masque progressed, the basic story line being about the eternal triangle, represented by Emilia, Michael O’Callaghan and Priscilla. The snowflake children appeared again dressed as little cupids in pink tights and gold tops, firing make-believe arrows from golden bows. It was all very light-hearted and pleasant to look at but as to the writing, John did not care for it. Though to tell Emilia so would have been bad manners, he considered. The main theme seemed to be about a yule log brought into the house on Christmas Eve but nobody could find a fragment of last year’s log to kindle it. It was superficial but pleasant to watch was his summation.

  There was no interval, the whole thing lasting only an hour. Several people left the room during this time, gone to relieve themselves no doubt. But all were present as the piece drew to its close, Princess Amelia nodding and smiling and clearly delighted with the entire spectacle.

  The finale came. Priscilla made her entrance in a vivid red cloak, a colour that almost hurt the eyes it was so glorious to look at. She triumphed over Emilia who was sent away, looking sad and drooping about the shoulders. The Irishman sang of love in a pleasant light baritone voice; the children danced; then every member of the cast came on and performed a Merry Andrew, amongst their number Lady Georgiana who had been relegated to a minor role.

  John applauded wildly, thinking his wife to be the prettiest member of the ensemble, though run a close second by Milady, who really was exquisite. Blonde and blue-eyed, not dissimilar to Emilia in type, she looked a true member of the aristocracy with her perfect figure and upright bearing. In a highly individual style she had a blonde ringlet, just one, hanging over her left shoulder, which John thought an utterly captivating fashion.

  As the lady took her bow she caught the Apothecary looking at her and blushed in a most becoming manner, which he found quite delightful.

  Princess Amelia stood up and addressed the entire cast. “My Lady, ladies and gentleman, please join us in this room as soon as’you are ready. Refreshments will be served. I will retire for a few minutes. Ladies, attend me if you please.”

  Lady Theydon, Lady Kemp and Lady Featherstone- haugh immediately rose from their places and went to the Princess’s side. The Countess of Hampshire, as befitted her station no doubt, took slightly longer to walk the distance. As soon as they had all gathered, the Princess trundled from the room, smiling at all who caught her eye. John was instantly reminded of the four Marys who had served Mary, Queen of Scots, as the quartet of serving women, walking two abreast, demurely followed her out.

  No sooner had she gone than servants appeared, once more bearing trays. John took another glass of champagne and crossed to the great window, staring out into the gardens. From this observation place he had a fine view of t
he grounds, except where the trees grew thickly at some distance from the house. Nothing stirred below him but now the sun was blood-red and setting quite quickly. John turned away from the window but as he did so he saw Priscilla in her scarlet cloak run across the lawn and down the steps, past the ornamental lakes and into the shadow of the trees. Wondering what on earth she could be up to, John stared. Nothing moved anywhere. With a faint feeling of unease he turned away as he felt rather than saw someone bow before him.

  “More champagne, Sir?”

  It was a footman, a swarthy pock-marked fellow with a white wig which contrasted fiercely with his ravaged face. Even while not speaking his mouth moved constantly, giving the disconcerting impression that he was about to say more. John waited but nothing further came.

  “Thank you.” He took another glass and turned once more to the window. Yet again, there was no movement.

  Michael O’Callaghan appeared, panting and out of breath. Despite the chill of the day there were beads of perspiration on his brow.

  “Oh, there you are, Mr. Rawlings,” he said without any preamble. “Your delightful wife told me of the coincidence. Me going into your shop and all. By the way, my hypochondrium is much improved thanks to your physics.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Will you be returning to Drury Lane?”

  The actor flashed a great smile full of dazzling white teeth. “If they’ll have me, yes. Of course. However, they were less than sympathetic about my injury.”

  Any further discussion was made impossible by the arrival of the children, who came in in a bunch, all six of them, chattering like monkeys.

  John moved his head in their direction. “To whom do they belong?”

  “The royal servants have the honour. They’ve been little pests during rehearsals.”

  The actor wiped his brow, still beaded with sweat, though his breathing was back to normal.

  “In what way?”

  “In a children’s way. Making a noise and suchlike. I come from a family of eight and I can’t honestly say that the experience endeared younger people to me.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  The actor spread his hands, looking comical. “I can take ‘em or leave ‘em, if you follow me.”

  There was a noise from the doorway and the Apothecary saw that Lady Georgiana, her face fresh, her lustrous ringlet still in place, had come in.

  “A beautiful woman that,” he said. “A pity she didn’t have a larger part.”

  “Ah, she’s a bit of a fool when it comes to acting. She’s beautiful all right but not born for the stage. Priscilla was originally going to give her the character which your dear wife played. But Georgiana was not very good, so Emilia came in to help out.”

  “And thoroughly enjoyed herself,” John added with a smile.

  Lady Georgiana was looking round the room and gave a slight curtsey in the direction of the Apothecary and the actor. Then her face changed, becoming still and closed. Slowly, moving elegantly, she joined a tall, thin man, magnificently dressed and bewigged, who bowed before her then kissed her hand. John could not help but notice how stiffly she withdrew it from the embrace.

  Princess Amelia and her ladies came back in, still moving in their regimented lines, John was amused to observe. However, they instantly broke ranks and went to join the various people with whom they were acquainted, the Princess hurrying to the side of the Prince of Mecklenburg. It occurred to the Apothecary that maybe there was something between them, this idea enhanced by the way the Prince kissed the lady’s hand.

  Then there was a buzz in the doorway as Priscilla herself came in. She looked attractive but for all that the poor thing seemed frozen with cold. A fact which made her features set and somewhat hard-looking. However, having gone to the Princess first and received a royal kiss, she made her way to where John stood with Michael.

  “Oh, my dear Mr. Rawlings,” she said. “I saw you in the audience. I was so glad you managed to get through. I thought this terrible weather might have made the ways too foul to be negotiable.”

  John took her hand. It was like ice. “No, my dear Madam, I managed in two stages. I thought the performance went very well incidentally.”

  “Then that is all that matters,” she answered gaily. She turned to the Irishman. “You did well, Sir.”

  “Thank you, dear lady. I could say the same for you.” She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Well, it’s over and done, thank God.” She turned to John. “Now we can get on with normal life again.”

  “Yes. Where is Emilia by the way?”

  “I can’t think what’s keeping her. The last I saw of her she was in the room set aside for changing. She said she wouldn’t be long.”

  Every protective instinct in the Apothecary rose. He thought of his wife, fourteen weeks pregnant, suddenly feeling faint, on her own and helpless.

  “I think I’ll go and look for her,” he said. “If you could direct me to the changing-room.”

  Priscilla turned on him a wonderful smile. “It’s at the bottom of the grand stairs on the left. There are two rooms actually, one was occupied by the children.”

  “Thank you.” John bowed to the other two. “Excuse me.

  He hurried down the beautiful staircase and came to the room, full of abandoned costumes, obviously removed in a hurry as everybody hastened to the party. “Emilia,” he called.

  There was no reply. Fearing she might have lost consciousness, the Apothecary searched the place, even going so far as to lift piles of clothes to look beneath. There was no sign of his wife. He hurried into the other room but, yet again, the search proved fruitless. Now the first signs of panic assailed him and he went back into the hall, uncertain as to what he should do next.

  The great front door was closed but John knew that if Emilia had felt unwell she might well have stepped outside to get some air. With hands that shook very slightly, he pulled the door ajar.

  Outside the sun had nearly set, turning the snow the colour of blood. In the distance the dark trees beckoned in a formidable group, their branches glistening white in the dusk. John’s heart began to race and he called, “Emilia,” once more. There was no reply and suddenly the Apothecary knew that something was wrong. He hurried down the steps, icy now in the gloaming, and towards the trees.

  And then he saw it. There in the snow, her red cloak spread out round her, was Priscilla. Yet it couldn’t be: he had just left Priscilla in the warmth and gaiety of the saloon.

  “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 wan
ting 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

  He 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.