Death in the Setting Sun (24 page)

The Honourable Gerald, who had been lolling in his chair, sat up. “Excuse me, Sir, but what right do you have to give orders?”

“My right, Sir, is my rank. Colonel Melville, late of His Majesty’s Guards.” As John said the words he was praying that nobody would question him.

“Oh.” The young fellow looked slightly chagrined. “I see. Well I volunteer to go on watch at once.”

There was no challenging that and John saw him depart with a certain amount of relief. He turned back to the Princess.

“And now, Ma’am, we really must send for a physician.”

The older man made a very deep bow and said, “Highness, I am actually a doctor, though retired for some years. Would it be in order for me to examine the body?”

“Of course, you are a doctor,” the Princess exclaimed, clasping her hands. “It had quite slipped my mind in all the excitement. Dr. Peter Phipps. Oh please do go and look, my dear Sir. It will save such a lot of effort. Then if you say poor Lord Hope may be moved, we can place him in a cool cellar.”

At this remark Lady Georgiana burst into copious tears, sobbing, “Oh my poor husband. Oh cruel fate. What shall I do now?”

John, who was growing thoroughly tired of such high drama was very tempted to say, “Send for Michael O’Callaghan, that’s what,” but bit back the words. Instead he turned to Dr. Phipps. “Sir, if I might accompany you?”

“Certainly, my dear chap. Let us proceed.”

Yet again the night had turned bitter and the Apothecary and the doctor both shivered as they left the house by the doors leading to the garden.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to murder Lord Hope?” Dr. Phipps asked as they walked towards the Grotto.

John, recalling the relationship between Georgiana and Michael, chose his words carefully.

“I don’t know that he was popular in all quarters, Sir.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not quite sure what I mean. But it was a vicious attack as you will see for yourself.”

The interior of the Grotto was filled with pools of shadow which assumed terrifying shapes in the darkness. John was amused to see that the Earl’s son had come outside and was gulping fresh air as if it were water.

“Did you touch anything?” he asked in a commanding voice.

“No, Sir. But I could have sworn that he moved. It frightened me totally.”

Dr. Phipps gave a half-smile and went inside, John following him closely.

The body was where he had left it, the head to one side, the terrible lips drawn back from the teeth in an evil grin, clearly visible in the torch’s flickering light. Very carefully John knelt by the corpse and turned it over. The physician squatted down beside him. “Stabbed in the guts, and viciously at that.”

“Then pushed into the basin to finish him off.”

“A cruel murder.”

“They’re all cruel,” John answered with a humourless smile.

“You sound as if you’ve experienced quite a few.”

“Army life,” the Apothecary stated.

“Quite so. Well, shall we take a look round before we go?”

“By all means. I’ll hold the torch.”

As best they could in that uncertain light they examined the walls surrounding the basin and, sure enough, there was a blood stain on one wall.

“So that was where he was stabbed,” said Dr. Phipps. He delicately felt the corpse, then looked at John. “He’s stiff now, though of course the extreme cold would certainly help.”

“Yes,” John exclaimed thoughtlessly. “At least twelve hours for rigor mortis. That would make his death earlier today.”

Dr. Phipps gave him a strange look but said nothing. “Tell me about this other murder that took place here. Round about Christmas, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir. I think the two are related.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

The Apothecary answered, “Because I feel they are, that is all.”

“Then there is a dangerous killer at large,” the physician stated soberly.

They walked back to the house in silence, leaving the Honourable Gerald Naill hovering in the entrance to the Grotto, too frightened to go in yet determined to appear brave.

A half hour later and it was over. Lord Hope had been carried back to the house on a makeshift stretcher and was presently lying in the very cellar in which John had last seen Emilia. The ladies, meanwhile, had stayed up with the exception of Lady Georgiana who had retired to her room to weep crocodile tears. Presently they were sitting at a simple supper table at which the three men joined them. Princess Amelia sat at the head and was, John noticed, very slightly inebriated.

“Oh my poor guests,” she said brightly. “What you have had to endure. But we couldn’t have managed without the help of the gallant gentlemen. I thank you, all three, most warmly.”

Gerald, who had completely recovered his equilibrium and was now tending to be boastful, raised his glass.

“Ma’am, thank you for your kind hospitality. Tonight has been strange indeed but momentarily putting aside the horror and revulsion that we all feel at this terrible circumstance, I would like to raise my glass to the principal Princess of England. Princess Amelia.”

Everyone murmured her name and drank, though in far more restrained a manner than usual, John thought.

“Have you come to any conclusion about leaving tomorrow, Ma’am?” he asked.

“The day after, I have decided. Tomorrow I and my ladies must rest. The whole affair has been a terrible strain on our nerves.”

“Have you informed Sir John Fielding of the sad occurrence?”

“A rider has been despatched. I expect the Runners to appear some time tomorrow. That is partly why I have decided to stay.”

The Apothecary’s heart sank. It had been inevitable that the Beak Runners would be informed but the thought of them appearing some time during the day meant that he must vanish before they came. He decided that tonight he would not go to bed but would spend the hours searching for clues and talking to as many people as possible. Which, he thought, would not be many judging by the number already suppressing yawns.

“What will happen to Lord Hope’s remains?” he asked, realising even as he spoke that he had mentioned a subject not fit for the dining table.

Lady Theydon fixed him with a glassy stare. “They will stay here until Lady Georgiana has them removed.”

“Or until the Runners put them in the care of the Coroner.” There was a stony silence and John continued, “Has anyone thought to communicate with her family?”

Princess Amelia gave a small sigh. “Kemp, will you see to it please.”

“Certainly, Highness. They are based in Ireland, are they not?”

“They are. Lady Georgiana’s father was that impoverished Irish peer, the Earl of Galloway. Her brother now has the title, I believe.”

Ireland, thought John. Was it possible that Georgiana and Michael had known each other a long time? That he had courted her before she had been married to the man now lying in the cellar? Whatever, the way ahead was clear for them now.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten and the Princess stood up, at which signal everyone else got to their feet.

“I am retiring,” she announced. “Ladies, attend me. Gentlemen, farewell. We shall meet in the morning.” The four women dutifully followed her from the door and yet again the Apothecary was reminded of the four Marys who had attended Mary, Queen of Scots. Priscilla, after smiling round the room, went out behind the others. John turned to the other two men.

“Gentlemen, if you will forgive me. I have travelled a fair distance today and am feeling exhausted.”

“Of course,” answered Dr. Phipps. “I shall turn in myself when I have finished my port.”

The Honourable Gerald, quite red in the cheeks by now, said, “Well, I’m going to sit up a bit. I feel too damnably excited to go to bed yet. Might take a turn round the grounds before I do.”

“It’s bitterly cold,” warned the doctor.

“I’ll be splendid, thank you.”

John left them arguing mildly and escorted by a footman with a candle tree, went up to the room on the first floor which had been designated as his. Once there, however, he took a glass of water to clear his head and as soon as all was quiet, went silently back down the stairs. His first task was to find Elizabeth and warn her of his presence.

The staircase on which he found himself was not the private one used by Priscilla. In fact the Apothecary cursed as he followed the curve and found himself back in the main hall. A footman standing at the bottom, looked up.

“Can I help you, Sir?”

John put on his bluff hail-fellow-well-met face. “I’m a stranger to this house and thought I’d acquaint myself with its layout before I sleep. Can you tell me where the kitchens are?”

“There’s no one in ‘em now, Sir. Can I fetch you something?”

“No, that’s perfectly all right. Goodnight to you.”

“Goodnight, Sir.”

Horribly aware of the man’s curious gaze, John turned to the right, making his way through a dozen elegant rooms, now somewhat mysterious in the shadows thrown by his candles, until he found what he was looking for at last. At the back of the house, hidden behind a door, was the entrance to a steep spiral staircase. The tread of the stairs was so narrow that he wondered at the servants labouring up and down with food and cleaning equipment. Nevertheless, he started to climb as best he could, staying on the outside of each stair, circling round and round as he sought the top of the house. For this, surely, must be where the Marchesa slept. And it was imperative that he get word to her tonight that they were under the same roof once more.

As he climbed ever upward the Apothecary considered the fact that she might share the bedroom with other serving women. Then he would just have to creep in and wake her, he decided. Though it was all very impractical it was the best he could come up with.

Eventually, panting and somewhat out of breath, he reached the third floor. Here there was a long landing with doors leading off on either side. Cautiously, John opened one. The sound of stertorous breathing from within told him that this was one of the men’s rooms. Quietly closing it, he took to gently opening several and found that women slept to the left, men to the right.

He stopped to think. If he went into one and Elizabeth were not there he would wake the entire population of the servants’ floor. Somehow he must identify which room she would be in. He remembered standing outside the house and looking up. At the end of the row on the top floor there had been a tiny window with obviously a tiny room behind it. Surely she as the most lowly member of staff might be incarcerated in such a place. Quietly, he opened the door at the far end of the corridor.

He knew at once by the light, high breathing that a boy lay within, and without a sound closed it again. Tiptoeing down the corridor he tried the door at the far end and this time was rewarded. A shaft of frosty moon was coming through the uncurtained window and he could see in its light that Elizabeth lay there, her black hair spread like lace upon the pillow, her features pale as death in that unearthly light. Crossing to the bed — a mere footstep for him — he put his hand over her mouth and gently shook her shoulder.

She woke at once and gazed at him, not terrified but calmly. Beneath his fingers he felt her mouth smile. “John,” she said in a muffled voice.

He took his hand away and she sat up, curtained by black locks. “My dear, how are you?” she continued, then putting her arms round his neck, she kissed him.

Just for a moment John forgot everything and returned the kiss, deeply, his tongue seeking hers. Then he remembered Emilia’s face as she died and he gently disentangled himself.

“I’m well but I’ve a great deal to tell you.”

And there, in the cold moonlight, he recounted the story, even down to the Honourable Gerald being too frightened to enter the Grotto.

“I’ve yet to meet him. But your disguise as Colonel Melville? Is it working?”

John raised his eye-patch. “It seems that this is helping enormously. Some people seem to think they’ve met me before somewhere but are not at all certain.”

“But you say the Princess is leaving the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes, that’s her intention. I’ve got to move fast.”

“Yes, you certainly have. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just stay close and run if you have to.”

She leant her head back on the pillow. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nearby.” She smiled her enigmatic smile. “You know that Benedict has a passion for me.”

“Yes, Joe Jago told me.”

“It is purely one-sided.”

“So I should hope, you witch.”

She gave him a look from her dark eyes. “Who do you think is responsible for the latest murder?”

“Whoever it was who killed Emilia. The wound was almost identical.”

“Then we must find out who visited the Grotto today.”

“That,” answered John Rawlings with determination, “is exactly what I intend to do.”

Chapter Nineteen

H
e left her within the next five minutes, filled with the knowledge that the strange deep attraction she held for him was returning, in fact had probably never gone away, merely been dulled by the pain of losing Emilia so savagely. All the way down the creaking spiral, John thought of Elizabeth’s hauntingly ugly beauty and wished that he had spent longer with her, even the night itself. Then he took himself to task. There was much to do and very little time in which to do it. Every minute counted. Yet as he reached the bottom step he sighed deeply for the things that might have been which had not taken place.