Death in the Setting Sun (11 page)

“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 influence. 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

H
e 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?” asked 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?”

“Seems you had little choice. Being clapped up in Newgate would be no laughing matter.”

“Joe said that even with garnish it would be hard.”

“What’s garnish?” asked Sir Clovelly, cutting a hunk of pie, presumably having some odd comer to fill somewhere.

“A fee for the gaoler. The greater the garnish the better the treatment. But I still don’t think it would have been an easy time.”

“It would have been bloody hard and there’s an end to it.”