Death in the Setting Sun (30 page)

Now he sat with Dr. Phipps and drank brandy while Princess Amelia imbibed port.

“Tell me, Doctor, is there a lunatic killer amongst us?” she asked, her large frame hanging over the edges of the dining chair.

“It would certainly appear so, Madam.”

“Will the Runners find the villain and take him away?”

“Unless we find him first,” put in the Apothecary.

The Princess suddenly looked amazingly shrewd. “Is there a chance of that do you think?”

“There’s every chance.”

“Madam,” said Peter Phipps seriously, “I would take extra precautions until the villain is apprehended. Sleep with guards on your door I pray you.”

Princess Amelia raised her brows. “I certainly shall.” Then she let out a low laugh. “What a conundrum to be sure. I always suspected that poor girl’s husband and now it is proved not to be him at all.”

John literally shivered. If his disguise were to be penetrated now then heaven alone knew what a predicament he would be in. No doubt he would be accused of committing all three crimes and arrested.

“Well, I intend to sleep with a pistol under my pillow.”

“Here, here,” said the doctor.

This last remark was greeted with a distant groan and the three of them turned to see the Honourable Gerald Naill standing in the doorway.

“Highness, I had to go out for a breath of air and I must have lost consciousness,” he said.

“Well never mind, Sir. Come and sit down.”

“If you’ll forgive me I think I’d rather go to bed.”

“I’ll get one of the footmen to light your way.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

He reeled out of sight, a pathetic apparition.

The Princess turned back to her two guests. “Gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast. Here’s to the rapid discovery of the killer. And here’s to the profound wish that he does not strike again.”

“May he not strike again,” John echoed as he drank his brandy in a single swallow.

Chapter Twenty-Three

H
e awoke instantly and his hand was beneath the pillow reaching for his pistol before he was even fully conscious. There was nothing, total silence, and the Apothecary was on the point of thinking that what had woken him were his wild imaginings, when it came once more, a scrabbling at the door of his room and someone turning the handle. Slowly he sat upright, then lit a candle. The shadows of the great room filled his vision, sombre and dark and heavy, making him feel more nervous than he already was.

“Who’s there?” he called softly.

Nobody spoke but once more there came that faint scratching. With his spine crawling John Rawlings got out of bed and, pistol in hand, proceeded slowly to the door. Then he stood in the gloom and listened.

“Let me in,” whispered a voice, a voice he did not recognise.

“Who is it?” he asked again.

There was a faint sob, then came the word, “Priscilla.”

The Apothecary’s legs went weak with relief, then he felt annoyed that she should have woken him up. This was followed by a rapid sympathy for her. After all, it had been her aunt who had been murdered just a few hours ago. Nonetheless, it was with a certain reluctance that he turned the key in the lock and opened the door a fraction.

Her face appeared in the crack. “Oh, John, I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “I am so distraught. Poor Aunt Agnes. What am I going to do without her?”

“You’d better come in,” he said, and opened the door properly.

She entered the room, a handkerchief to her eyes. Somehow wanting to keep a distance between them, John went to the dressing table and retrieved his salts which he put beneath her nose. She took a delicate sniff, then turned on him a nervous glance.

“Forgive my coming here but I couldn’t think what else to do. Oh, John, with my aunt gone you are now my only true friend.”

For no particular reason he felt more than somewhat embarrassed by the situation.

“Oh, come now. What of the other ladies? What of Lady Georgiana? You and she are of an age.”

“I know but believe me I have less than nothing to do with her. I do not associate myself with husband killers.”

John stared at her. “What are you saying?”

“That she murdered Lord Hope. She was having an affair with Michael O’Callaghan. Everyone knew it except poor wretched Conrad. They both wanted to run away together and now Lord Hope has been removed they are free to do so.”

“Are you seriously accusing her of killing him?”

“Yes, I am,” Priscilla answered with a touch of defiance.

“But have you any proof?”

An unreadable expression crossed the girl’s face. “Yes, as a matter of fact I have.”

John sat down rather suddenly on the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Priscilla sat down next to him. “Because I wanted to be certain in my own mind that she was the guilty party.”

“And now you are?”

She turned a tear-stained face towards him. “Yes.” Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. “Not only that, she did for Lady Theydon as well.”

“What? But she was asleep. I looked in on her.”

“Yes, I know you might well have been deceived by that Sleeping Beauty act but I saw her walking down the corridor when I went upstairs during the break before supper. If only I had challenged her but she looked strange, as if she were in a dream. I realise now that she must have been heading for my aunt’s room. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Priscilla wept afresh, leaning against the Apothecary for support. Somewhat reluctantly he put his arm round her shoulders and she snuggled close to him, her strange smell filling his nostrils.

“Oh, John, what would I do without you.”

Ignoring this as best he could, he turned to look at her. “But Emilia’s death? What of that? Do you believe that she killed my wife as well?”

“I can only presume so. I have no proof. But I know that I saw her creep into the Grotto on the morning of Lord Hope’s death.”

“Did you see her come out?”

“Oh yes. I hid behind a tree. She was in there half an hour or so.”

“Was she covered in blood?”

Priscilla frowned. “No, I’m sure she wasn’t. But how could that be?”

“Perhaps she washed it off in the bathing basin.”

“Perhaps,” Priscilla answered with a cross between a laugh and a sob, “she even took a bath.”

A terrible picture had come into the Apothecary’s mind. A picture in which a cunning woman bathed naked in the bathing pool to remove the signs of a murder before leaving the Grotto and her dead husband behind her.

He turned to Priscilla. “Thank you for telling me.”

“She’ll deny it of course. But the evidence is too strong.”

“Indeed it is. I’ve asked you already but I’ll ask again — why did you not speak to me of this?”

“Because I intended to set a trap for her. Use myself as bait. But now the trap has been set by LadyTheydon herself, God rest her soul.”

John stood up. “Do you wish me to escort you back to your room?”

“Oh please do so. These corridors are so dark and ghostly at night.”

“Very well.” He picked up the candlestick and crossed to the door, waiting for her. She slowly rose from the bed and went to stand beside him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

At that moment, her face softened by the candlelight and wearing only her night shift, she looked young and vulnerable and in need of protection. John felt immensely sorry for her.

“Don’t worry, Priscilla,” he said, “I am sure that everything will turn out well for you.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “I do hope you’re right, Sir.”

It occurred to him at that moment that she might be more than a little in love with him. There was something about the way she was looking at him, something about her manner that planted the idea. Then he wondered if she were putting the wrong construction on seeing Lady Georgiana go into the Grotto. If perhaps the woman had gone there to speak with her husband and was in fact quite innocent of the crime. If these could be the ramblings of a grief-stricken girl.

He took her arm as they walked back along the corridor. From downstairs came the faint glow of candles but these threw little light on the stairs so that on the landing itself large shadows formed pools of darkness. Passing by the door behind which Lady Theydon lay dead, John saw light and realised that someone had left tall candles burning. The thought of the corpse lying so still and white with solemn light being thrown over it made him shudder. He would be so glad, he thought, when he could leave this doomed house behind him forever.

As if picking up his thoughts Priscilla said, “I think I will leave here soon. There is nothing to stay here for now that Lady Theydon has gone.”

He smiled at her. “Yes, I believe that would be for the best. But where will you go?”

Priscilla sighed. “I don’t know. Perhaps I shall find a place as a governess. Something like that.”

“Well don’t think about it now. You have been under a great strain. You must try and get some rest.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They had reached her room and Priscilla stopped at the door. “Goodnight, John — and thank you.”

He bowed. “Pm glad I was able to offer assistance.” And having said this he turned away, anxious to return to the comparative safety of his room.

The rest of the night passed peacefully and John slept, somewhat to his surprise, deeply and without dreams. But as he woke the next morning it was with a sense of foreboding. He knew that somehow he must tackle Lady Georgiana and discover what it was she did in the Grotto; murder or merely have a conversation. Yet before any of this he must speak to Joe Jago who was probably still unaware of Lady Theydon’s death. Accordingly, as soon as he was dressed he made his way outdoors and to the stables.

Jago was up and about, whistling to himself, a piece of straw in his mouth. He looked up as John approached.

“Good morning, Sir. I hear there was trouble in the big house last night.”

“You mean Lady Theydon?” Joe nodded. “She was stabbed in the stomach while everyone broke up from cards.”

And John proceeded to tell Joe the details, sparing nothing, and including Priscilla’s late night visit and her accusations against Lady Georgiana Hope. When he had finished speaking, the clerk looked thoughtful. “If it’s true, Sir, then your search is over.”

“Indeed it is. But somehow I doubt it. I looked into her bedroom just after the murder had been committed and there she was sleeping peacefully as a babe. Of course that could have been an act but somehow I don’t think so.”

“And there is no possibility that there could be two murderers?”

“If so, one is cleverly copying the other.”

“Which has not been unknown in the past, Mr. Rawlings.”

“Indeed not. But somehow I do not think that that is the case. I believe that this is the work of one person and I think that person is slightly deranged.”

“Urn.” Joe chewed slowly on the straw. “Either that or very clever.”

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

Jago nodded slowly but said nothing further and John continued, “So meanwhile what do you advise me to do about Lady Georgiana?”

“I’d ask her what she was doing in the Grotto, other than spooning with Michael O’Callaghan. Speak as the Colonel and go all officious-like. Say you have a witness who saw her going in and coming out.”

“And if she refuses to answer me?”

“Then I will have to drop my role as an ostler and speak to her as an official of the court. There’s nothing else for it.”

“You’re right. Joe, tell me …”

“Yes?”

“Have you learned much stuck here in the stables? Did your ruse succeed?”

“Surprisingly, yes. It’s amazing what gossip one learns round horses. Did you know that the Princess visits Eclipse almost daily and rides him twice a week? And who should she talk to when she is here but the friendly ostler. Oh yes, I have learned a great deal. And what of you, Sir? How is Colonel Melville getting along?”

“Quite well. No one has recognised me so far.”