Death in the Setting Sun (10 page)

“She was killed by mistake,” John repeated at last.

And with that thought came a poignant memory of himself looking out of the window and seeing Emilia hurrying through the grounds in the borrowed red cloak. At the time he had thought it was Priscilla but now he wondered what his wife had been doing, hastening through the grounds in the gathering gloom.

“Tell me about it, Sir,” Irish Tom answered quietly, and John considered that he had never realised the hulking Irishman had this kind and gentle side to his nature.

“I saw her, Tom. I actually saw her. She was hurrying through the gardens in the red cloak. But I never realised it was Emilia — thought it was Priscilla who had worn the cloak during the masque. I wonder where she was going, what important errand she was running, and for whom?”

“Perhaps she felt like a walk, Sir. Perhaps she was just taking a turn round the grounds.”

John’s pictorial memory flashed up a picture of Emilia as he had seen her. She had definitely been in a hurry, not carrying herself like a woman going for a stroll.

“No, Tom. She was about some business. But what in God’s holy name could it have been?”

“Perhaps Miss Fleming will know.”

John shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He sat silently. “Will the body be released soon?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t have the answer, Sir. I expect it will though.” The Apothecary put his head in his hands. “Dear Lord, what a mess. I have to tell Rose that she will never see her mother again. Tell the world that my wife is dead and that I stand accused of her murder.”

“The sooner you get to Sir Gabriel’s the better, Sir. Now eat up, here comes a hearty breakfast. Once consumed, we can be on our way.”

But John picked at his food, leaving nearly all of it on his plate.

The coachman looked at him in despair. “You must keep your strength up, Mr. Rawlings. How will you be able to face what lies ahead if you’re weak?”

For once his master took no notice and it was left to the Irishman to do justice to the severe breakfast which had been brought to them.

John patted his pockets. “My money is in my suit, in the coach. Can you fetch it for me?”

“Certainly, Sir.”

While Irish Tom was gone, John ordered himself another brandy and sat close to the fire, thinking. It was not only Emilia who had been murdered but his unborn child as well. But that his wife, that innocent woman, should have been struck down at all was almost too much even to contemplate. Yet it had come as no shock to Priscilla who, apparently, had several secrets in her past which could have led to her being killed.

She must bear witness for me, the Apothecary thought. Then, quite suddenly, he realised how his case must look to others. He had been caught red-handed, actually holding the knife with which Emilia had been slain. Small wonder that Lady Theydon, that unpleasant woman, had accused him of murder. His hopes of clearing his name were pinned on the fact that Priscilla would vouch for him to Sir John Fielding.

The coachman came back in and paid the bill with John’s money.

“We’d best be getting along, Sir. I won’t rest easy until I deliver you to Sir Gabriel.”

John went to stand up but once again his legs buckled and it was left to Irish Tom to ferry him to his coach. As they left the inn the Apothecary was more than aware of the curious stare of the maid who actually followed them to the front door to have a final look.

As luck would have it, Sir Gabriel Kent was just stepping forth from his house in Church Lane as John’s equipage rolled up. This day, almost as if he had had a premonition, he was dressed all in black, only the white frills of his shirt relieving the gloom. His smile of welcome changed dramatically as he saw the state of John Rawlings, creeping out of the coach, pale-faced and puffy-eyed.

“My dear child, whatever has befallen you?” he called out. Then he hurried forward to assist Irish Tom bring John indoors.

There, the sheer relief of being with his father caused the Apothecary to weep once more and it was left to the coachman to explain the circumstances of John’s sudden reappearance. He had never seen Sir Gabriel grow pale before, John thought, but now he saw his father’s skin become like parchment and his golden eyes fill with tears. It was a sobering sight, but after application of his handkerchief, Sir Gabriel became extremely business-like.

“Now, my lad,” he said firmly, “the first thing you must do is go and have a rest. Then, tomorrow morning early, you must head for town and deliver yourself to Sir John Fielding. You will receive the best treatment possible at the great man’s hands.”

“But Father,” John replied wearily, so exhausted with weeping that he could hardly concentrate, “I must get Priscilla to come with me.”

“Then write her a short note which I will take with me when I go to see Princess Amelia.”

“But why … ?”

“My son, somebody must bring Emilia’s body back for burial. No doubt the Coroner will have been informed this morning but I am sure he will release her as soon as possible. She must be buried here in Kensington where you and I can tend the grave.”

“Oh God’s life,” John answered wearily, “to think of Rose without a mother.”

“Rose must be brought here to live with me for the time being. Until this confusion has been sorted out.”

“Father,” said John seriously, “do you think Sir John will hold me in custody?”

“I think, my son,” Sir Gabriel answered with equal severity, “he might have no choice but to do so.”

“Then my future looks bleak.”

“Until Miss Priscilla speaks up, yes. Now scrawl a note to her do. I must leave within the hour if I am to make Gunnersbury House before nightfall.”

A quarter of an hour later it was done and John was climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He found a shawl of Emilia’s lying on the bed and when he picked it up to hold to his cheek he could smell her perfume still on it. Cradling it in his arms as if it were her, he lay down on the bed. But sleep would not come as over and over in his brain he ran the events of the previous evening. Eventually he got up and wandered downstairs where he found the house empty, Sir Gabriel and Tom having left for Gunnersbury. Going to his compounding room at the back of the house, John mixed himself half an ounce of the syrup obtained from the opium poppy. Then he sat in a chair and fell finally into a deep sleep.

He was awoken by a sound. Struggling back to consciousness he identified it as someone knocking insistently at the door. The house was in total darkness but at that moment Sir Gabriel’s clock, removed from Nassau Street when he moved to Kensington, played

The British Grenadiers for the half hour. Getting to his feet John felt his way to where he thought the candles were, found them by groping, and struck a tinder. Lighting a candle tree, he made his way to the front door.

A figure stood outlined against the moonlit sky, a figure made even darker by the frosty night beyond. John was just able to discern a man’s cloak and hat but nothing further.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bless you, Sir, don’t you know me?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve just woken up. Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mr. Rawlings,” and the man stepped forward into the light.

It was Joe Jago.

Chapter Eight

I
t was with an overwhelming sense of relief that John Rawlings stood back to allow Joe Jago to come into the house. Then while his companion made himself at home the Apothecary hurtled round lighting all the candles. Next Sir Gabriel’s staff arrived, a footman and a cook, returned from shopping, and started to prepare dinner so that the pleasant smell of roasting meat filled the air. Half an hour later the Apothecary, having rapidly changed into a suit he had left behind in Kensington, and washed and shaved himself, came downstairs to greet his guest who was halfway through a bottle of claret.

“Well, Sir,” said Joe comfortably, “would you like to tell me what happened?”

“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.”