Death in the Setting Sun Read online

  “You know that Emilia is dead?”

  “Yes. An express rider came from Gunnersbury House today. He left at dawn apparently and made the journey by mid afternoon, though how he did it in view of the condition of the roads I’ll never know. Anyway, Mr. Rawlings, let me tell you how sorry I am. Words cannot describe how I feel. Your wife was a wonderful woman — and beautiful into the bargain. You must be completely devastated.”

  “To be honest, Joe, it hasn’t really sunk in. I’m still looking round for her. Expect her to come through the door at any moment.”

  “That will go on for a long time, Sir. You will turn to say something to her, then realise that she’s no longer there.”

  Yet again John felt tears sting his eyes but this time he fought them off. “It is going to be very hard on Rose.”

  “My little friend,” said Joe fondly. “But she’s her father’s daughter. She will cope.”

  “Joe,” said John, cutting to the quick, “am I going to be arrested?”

  “Well, Sir, we’ve already got sworn statements — though only written, so far — declaring that you were caught in the act. The most important of these is from Princess Amelia herself.”

  “But she wasn’t there.”

  “Apparently she was, sheltering amongst her ladies of course, but for all that there.”

  John switched his pictorial memory to the moment when Lady Theydon had accused him and had to admit that there had been a large anonymous figure standing behind her. A figure that could well have been the Princess.

  “So what is going to happen to me?”

  “Now, Sir, that’s the question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Rawlings, it pains me to ask you but tell me straightly. Are you guilty of this crime?”

  “No, Joe, I swear I didn’t do it. In fact, Priscilla believes that the killer’s knife was intended for her and that it was a case of mistaken identity.”

  And he proceeded to tell Sir John Fielding’s clerk the entire story, leaving out not a single detail.

  Joe listened in silence, sipping his claret and puffing on his pipe. Finally he said, “So it is her contention that Emilia slipped out, borrowed the nearest cloak, and thus met her death.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say Priscilla let you escape?”

  “It must have been deliberate, Joe. Unless she was called away somewhere. But I don’t think that would have been possible in the middle of the night.”

  “And what is Miss Fleming’s position in the royal household?”

  “She attends LadyTheydon who attends, in turn, the Princess.”

  “I see. And she was at school with …” Joe cleared his throat. “… Mrs. Rawlings.”

  “Yes. But Joe, she believes that people wish her dead. She is the one you should be examining.”

  The clerk spoke through wreaths of smoke. “Mr. Rawlings, you and I go back a long way. And because of that I am going to do something that would cost me my job if it were ever discovered.”

  John drenched in sweat at the words, which had a terrible ring to them.

  “When the rider arrived this afternoon,” Joe continued, “he said that you had escaped, had gone. But Sir John and I reckoned that you would be with Sir

  Gabriel. Because of that he sent me down in my own conveyance to bring you back to London. I’ll tell you straight, my friend, that you will be remanded in custody in Newgate. Even the Beak cannot escape the word of a Princess. Therefore Mr. Rawlings …”

  “Yes?”

  “I am advising you to get out, now.”

  The sweat had actually started to run on John’s back. “What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely.

  “What I say, Sir. If I tell Sir John that I arrived in Kensington too late, that the bird had flown the nest so to speak, then there’s no one but you and me to say otherwise.”

  The Apothecary raised the claret to his lips with a trembling hand. “But Joe, I can’t let you take such a risk for me. It would be the end of you if you were ever found out.”

  “Yes,” said the clerk matter-of-factly. “Now then, Sir, I’ve made you a fair offer. What do you say?”

  “That I can’t allow you to do so.”

  “You’re a very old friend and I believe what you tell me, Sir, Newgate is a terrible place, even with garnish. It’s not for the likes of you. Now, go for the love of God before I change my mind.”

  “But where?”

  “As far away as possible. You’ve got friends in Devon, why not go there?”

  John sat up straight. “But what about Emilia’s funeral? What about bringing Rose to Kensington? Who will see to that?”

  Joe waved the smoke away and looked John straight in the eye. “Mr. Rawlings, you have a straight choice. Either go or stay. Newgate or Devon? Which is it to be?”

  “And who will hunt for Emilia’s murderer in my absence?”

  “I will, Sir. I will track him or her down, never you fear.”

  “But what can I do? Devon is like another world it’s so far away.”

  “You can stay in touch with me by post. I will give you my private address in Seven Dials. Communicate with me there and there only. You are not to contact Bow Street.”

  The tears came again, tears of relief at the chance that had just been given to him. “Joe, how can I thank you. You are risking everything for me.”

  “What I am doing is against all I stand for. But what price that against our friendship?”

  John wept bitterly.

  “One day,” answered Joe Jago seriously, “I might call in the favour.”

  They dined together, it being too late for Joe to travel back. John, realising that he had eaten nothing since early that morning, ate as well as he could. But again and again a vision of the sun setting over the snow, dyeing it the colour of blood, and that red figure lying so still and so helpless, came to haunt him and he returned the food uneaten to his plate.

  Jago solemnly ate everything and helped himself to more. John, studying the rugged face, the bright blue eyes, the curling red hair — the clerk had long since removed his wig — thought of the risk the man was running for him and felt that he had never had a truer friend. Once, on catching the clerk’s eye, the Apothecary mouthed the words, “Thank you,” but Joe merely smiled and nodded by way of response.

  Eventually, the meal done, John offered Joe a bed for the night which the clerk refused.

  “No, Sir, I’ve already booked in at The Dun Cow, thank you all the same. If I arrived here to find you gone that is what I would have done. So that’s what I shall do.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Positive. Now, Mr. Rawlings, did you know that the London to Exeter stage stops at Brentford tomorrow night?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I suggest you get on it. How you proceed to Brentford I don’t know. I’ll give you a lift some of the way but I daren’t add too much to my journey, Sir John is expecting me back with my report.”

  “Joe, are you sure you want to go through with this? Wouldn’t it be easier if I just came with you?”

  “It would be easier, my friend, of course. But life is full of challenges and this is the greatest I have faced so far. Go to Devon — fast. Leave me to solve the crime.”

  “It means I will miss Emilia’s funeral.”

  “Her funeral will be in your heart, Mr. Rawlings,” Joe answered simply.

  Much struck by this remark, John lapsed into silence, wondering if anyone had felt as badly as he did at that particular moment.

  Uppermost in his thoughts was his sad little daughter. The poor child was going to be devoid not only of her mother, but her father as well. Crazy ideas of going to fetch her, of taking her with him, raced through his mind. But he knew that to accompany a man wanted for murder would be a hazard he was not prepared to inflict on her. Much as he missed Rose, much as he longed for her company, he was certain that she would be better living under Sir Gabriel’s calming in
fluence. Yet the thought of her made his chest grow tight with emotion and tears filled his eyes once more.

  Sleep would not come, much as he longed for it, and so he roused himself at five o’clock and washed and shaved again. The ill-fitting suit he had abandoned. His best suit, ruined by blood, he had left on the seat of his carriage. Thus he travelled very lightly with only a small bag borrowed from Sir Gabriel. But his training was so instilled in him that John went to his compounding room and there packed a few bottles of physic together with some pills before he waited for Joe’s arrival.

  Punctually at five thirty, while it was still dark, Joe trotted up in the carriage belonging to Bow Street, with a pair of sturdy horses in front, himself driving.

  “Ready, Sir?”

  “Ready.”

  And John climbed aboard, wondering when he would see the Kensington house again. The previous night, before he had gone to bed, he had written a long note to Sir Gabriel asking him to do several things. First was to fetch Rose from Nassau Street, second was to see that Emilia was laid to rest befittingly, third was to close the shop in Kensington and ask Nicholas Dawkins to take over in Shug Lane.

  “… my Beloved Father,” the note had ended, “Joe Jago has given me the chance to Escape to Devon. I will Contact you as soon as I arrive. Your Loving Son, John Rawlings. Post Script: Destroy this Letter as soon as You have Read It.”

  Then he and Joe had gone out beneath the stars, realising as they set off in the freezing air that it was Christmas Eve.

  “Happy Christmas, Joe,” John said bitterly.

  “Yours will be the unhappiest of your life, Sir. But this time next year all will be resolved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That the criminal will be dead and that you will look forward to spending the time with your little girl and with Sir Gabriel.”

  “You know that Emilia was pregnant when she died?”

  “Yes, I had heard from Sir John. What a tragedy.”

  “Yes,” the Apothecary answered shortly, “it was.”

  Joe dropped him off at the far end of Kensington High Street and shortly after John hitched a lift with a labourer driving a cart, taking some sheep further into the country. This journey ended at a farm close to the river. John hung about for ten minutes and then the next carter turned up driving a covered wagon. In this way he reached The Three Pigeons in Brentford as a frosty night drew in.

  The stagecoach, when it finally arrived almost an hour late, was packed with people desperate to get to Exeter for the Christmas festivities. Fortunately there was just room for John to squeeze into the luggage basket behind, where he almost went blue with cold. The first stop was at Thatcham, nearly six hours later, where they stopped for twenty minutes only before setting off for Marlborough, another three hours’ drive away.

  It was the most appalling journey of John’s life. The weather was terrible and at one point they got stuck in a snowdrift with every passenger having to get off while the coachman and the guard heaved the horses through. Consequently the coach became more and more delayed and John and the other disgruntled people spent their Christmas Day grumbling pettishly about their troubles.

  Afterwards, he never knew how he kept his patience that day. But he supposed that in a way the grumbling passengers helped him concentrate on something other than the death of his wife. Listening to their complaints, lists of various ailments, at the same time avoiding questions about himself, not only helped pass the time but kept him occupied. There were four others in the basket, all sitting on the luggage, all as uncomfortable as it was possible to be, and a strange camaraderie born of despair gripped the five of them, making them, when they finally disembarked at one in the morning of Boxing Day, arrange to meet again.

  They were set down outside The Half Moon where John had spent part of his honeymoon. The sight of the building, all dark and shuttered, reminded him vividly of Emilia, so much so that he could have sworn she was standing beside him in the darkened street. He could almost smell her perfume. And then some drunken people staggered down the alleyway and the illusion was gone. Not knowing quite what to do, John set off for Sir Clovelly Lovell’s house.

  He had some money on him. Not a fortune but as much as he had gathered for his journey to Gunnersbury House. He could afford an inn for a week perhaps. But still John carried on, past the cathedral and into The Close, moved by some desire to talk, to tell Sir Clovelly what fate had befallen him. Yet when he got there he couldn’t believe his eyes for the place still had candles burning and there was the noise of laughter coming from within. Emboldened by this, John rang the bell.

  A footman answered, looking suspicious. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Is Sir Clovelly Lovell within?”

  “I am not certain, Sir. May I ask who is calling?”

  “Could you tell him my name is Rawlings. He will remember me I feel sure.”

  “Very good, Sir. If you would wait where you are.” Not even allowed into the hall, the Apothecary thought, and felt wretched once more.

  There was a commotion within and then waddling into view came Sir Clovelly himself looking mighty put out.

  “What is it, Whistler?” he demanded.

  Whistler made an apologetic face. “There’s a person here who says he knows you, Sir.”

  “Knows me? Who . . “

  But at that moment John, ill-shaven and unkempt, stepped into the light of the hall, Sir Clovelly’s many chins wobbled as he looked angry, then surprised and finally overjoyed.

  “Rawlings!” he exclaimed. “My very dear chap. What brings you to Devon again? How delightful to see you. Come in, come in.”

  John took a step inside and the warmth and the general ambience hit him hard. He staggered very slightly, leaning heavily against the footman.

  “Are you all right, old fellow?” Sir Clovelly’s anxious moon face peered into his.

  “I’ve just had a difficult journey,” the Apothecary answered, smiling wanly.

  He sat down rather hard on the hall seat and put his head in his hands. Instantly Sir Clovelly, who had, if anything, gained weight since John had last seen him, ordered some wine to be brought into the hall.

  “My boy, I do believe you’re exhausted. Where are you staying? Or have you just arrived?”

  “I’ve just come, Sir. I journeyed by stagecoach and travelled in the basket. As you can imagine it was extremely chilly.”

  “What’s happened to your coach?”

  “I loaned it to my father.”

  “Dear Sir Gabriel,” said Sir Clovelly warmly. “How is he?”

  “As active as ever. Age has been no hindrance to him.”

  The wine arrived and was handed to John who drained the glass. The he turned to Sir Clovelly. “Sir, I’m going to ask the most enormous favour. As it is so late — the stage was very delayed because of the snow — I wonder if I might beg a bed for tonight. In the morning I’ll look for somewhere to stay but meanwhile I’m fit to drop.”

  “My dear fellow, of course. You can tell me all about your news in the morning. I’ve got some friends sitting down to whist but they won’t be staying much longer. However, as it’s Boxing Night one must make an effort. By the way, just in case Sir Gabriel forgot to tell you, I lost the wife recently. Happy release really.”

  John nodded. “Emilia died too. A few days ago. It was the unhappiest thing that has ever happened to me. You see, I miss her.”

  Chapter nine

  He had not been sure how much he should tell Sir Clovelly Lovell, but some warmth, some element of sympathy in the little fat man, made him recount his story in full, down to the detail of Joe Jago’s offer to him and the way he had caught the Exeter stage on Christmas Eve and endured the most agonising Christmas Day of his life.

  “Of course that particular service to Exeter is advertised for its speed,” Sir Clovelly had said, sighing over his sausages.

  “Does it not bother you, my friend, that you are breakfasting with a man on the run?” as
ked John, ignoring the last remark.

  “Hardly that, dear boy.” Sir Clovelly looked thoughtful. “I wonder what Sir John Fielding will do?”

  “He has little option but to put up Wanted posters. After all Princess Amelia herself swears that I am the guilty party. There’s bound to be a hue and cry.”

  “Yes, but how loud, that is the question.” Sir Clovelly’s jolly water rat eyes looked earnest. “Listen, old chap, you can stay here with me as long as you like. Don’t bother with an inn. They’ll all be full of

  Christmas visitors. Feel free to come and go as you please and treat this as your second home.”

  John laid down his knife and fork. “No, Sir, I couldn’t do so. I will be more anonymous in an hostelry. Besides, should there be recriminations I don’t want to involve you. I thank you kindly for your offer but it is one I must refuse.”

  “Oh. Oh, I was rather hoping for some company.”

  “I will call frequently.”

  “Then I will have to make do with that.” Sir Clovelly looked worried, which meant that his chins and his eyes practically vanished in folds of flesh. “The thing is, dear fellow, with what will you occupy yourself all day? Staying with me, now, would be one social whirl.” He looked contrite and his jolly eyes appeared once more. “Mark you, with yourself in mourning, you might not feel up to cards and such like.”

  John smiled. “To be honest with you, dear friend, I would rather take things quietly for the time being. My circumstances are so odd as to make me anti-social.” He looked at the fat man fondly, grateful that Sir Gabriel and he had become acquainted.

  He felt refreshed for the Apothecary had slept deeply on the previous night, and for many hours at that. As soon as his head had touched the pillow he had lost consciousness, and thus he had remained, with no dreams to bother him, until eleven o’clock this morning. Now he sat, toying with breakfast, still unable to eat properly, still having mental pictures of blood-red snow with a solitary figure lying so still on it.

  “Terrible business,” said Sir Clovelly, helping himself to toast and marmalade.

  John toyed with a grape. “Do you think I did the right thing to run away?”