Death in the Setting Sun (14 page)

She was followed immediately by John Rawlings, looking slightly less haggard than when he had arrived in Devon but for all that quite thin and gaunt of feature. Together the two of them made their way into the dark and somewhat noisome interior of the coaching inn while the coachman led the animals round to the stables.

It had taken eight days to arrive, with the horses accomplishing twenty-two miles a day. Every night they had stayed at a coaching inn, while the creatures rested and fed. Then in the morning they had been harnessed up and gone again. It had been close to a nightmare but John, realising with every step that he was getting nearer to finding Emilia’s murderer, had made the best of it. However, he was running very short of money and now he turned to the Marchesa with an apologetic face.

“I’m sorry to ask but could you lend me enough to pay the bill?”

“Of course. Tomorrow we will get work. You can repay me when you’re in funds again.”

He loved her openness, her frank approach, but he merely answered, “Thank you.”

They had become rather formal with one another, partly to survive being together in a swaying coach for all those hours, partly for some other inexplicable reason which John couldn’t begin to explain. But the fact remained. In many ways he knew the Marchesa better than ever before; in others she was a complete stranger to him.

The landlord, a ruddy-faced country man if ever there was one, came hurrying to greet them.

“Good afternoon, Sir and Madam. How may I help you?”

Elizabeth rustled her magnificent hat. “We would like two rooms and a third place for my coachman. Will that be possible?”

“Certainly, Madam. If you would like to follow me.” She turned to John. “I personally am panting for a drink.” Then back to the landlord. “If you could take our luggage up to our rooms we can follow later. My coachman will head for the kitchens I dare swear. Please look after him well.”

And with that she swept into The Unicorn, one of the private rooms put aside for travellers. Once inside she pulled her hat from her head and her mass of dark hair tumbled round her shoulders.

“What a journey,” she said, fanning herself with its brim, “I thought we would never get here.”

John chuckled. “It was you insisting on keeping the same horses that caused the problem.”

“That and the fact that it gets dark so early. As it was we set off before dawn each day. Anyway, those beasts of mine are too fine to leave behind. They’re not old country nags, I’ll have you know.”

“Everything you possess is admirable,” John answered.

She gave him an unfathomable look and changed the subject. “Did you write to your father? And to Joe Jago?”

“I certainly did. I told them that I was returning to London and would shortly give them an address at which they could find me.”

“Good.”

A waiter came in and took their order at this point so nothing further was said until they were alone once more. Then the Apothecary sighed.

“I suppose Emilia’s funeral will have taken place by now. I wonder where she is laid to rest.”

“In St. Mary’s, Kensington, I feel certain. You will be able to go and visit her, John.”

He smiled without humour. “Tell me about your husband’s death. How did you feel?”

She put the hat down. “I’ve told you before. Luciano died in the street, a drawn sword in his hand. I was not with him. No one was with him except for his murderer, the man who for months had been following me. But my case was not like yours. I knew who had done the deed. So I sought my stalker out and killed him. Then I went on the run and came back to England.”

“I shall kill whoever murdered Emilia when I finally track them down.”

“Yes, and you will be justified in doing so. But be careful. First get them to confess in front of a reliable witness or you’ll find yourself swinging at Tyburn.”

She put her hand to her throat and stuck her tongue out, a sight so funny that John gave one of his rare laughs.

“I’m sorry but you looked rather amusing.”

“It’s good to hear you laugh again,” Elizabeth answered. “You don’t do it very often these days.”

“I’m sorry. I expect I’ve turned into a dour companion.”

“No, you could never be that. With all your troubles, with all your sorrow, you still possess that liveliness of spirit which is a vital part of your personality.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a short knock followed by the waiter coming in with their bottle of canary. John poured two glasses, then raised his.

“To you, Elizabeth. Thank you for everything you are doing.”

She looked at him levelly. “Don’t be too previous, my friend. You can toast me fully when we have achieved our objective.”

The Apothecary felt chastened. “Very well. To our success.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The Marchesa drained her glass. “Now, John, you mentioned a disguise. What are you thinking of?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could don some sort of garb. I’ve no idea really.”

“Um.” Elizabeth considered. “What work are you hoping to get?”

“Again, I don’t know. Perhaps as a labourer. As I told you, I won’t be able to get into the house so something nearby would suit.”

“There are farms scattered around. Perhaps in one of those. Red hair!” she exclaimed suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“If I can get hold of some henna dye I could lighten your hair colour. That should do the trick.”

“Yes, I’m game. You think that would disguise me sufficiently?”

“Yes, if it’s bright enough. You would be thought of as a redhead. Now where could I purchase some?” John smiled. “You could try the local apothecary.” Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “I’ll send the coachman. I don’t want to be seen around the place, it being the shopping area and market that would serve the big house. You see my plan is to infiltrate Gunnersbury House itself. I shall get a job as a servant.”

John looked shocked. “You couldn’t possibly. It would kill you.”

The Marchesa shook her head. “How wrong you are. I have been as poor as a mouse during my life and have worked accordingly. I’m not afraid of scrubbing floors.” The Apothecary couldn’t answer, lost in admiration for this most remarkable of women.

“So let’s finish the bottle and then I’ll see Ruckley and arrange for him to go to the apothecary’s shop. I’m sending him home tomorrow, by the way.”

“But what will you do without your coach?”

“Walk,” said Elizabeth shortly, and smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

That night they dyed his hair, leaving the henna paste on a long time. When John eventually washed it off, his locks — normally the shade of cinnamon — had lightened several tones and were now the colour of copper. He looked at himself wryly in the mirror.

“I don’t think anyone would know me.”

“That was the general idea,” Elizabeth answered, her own dark hair falling about the place.

They were in her chamber, crouching over the washstand, where the rinsing water had turned the colour of blood. Seeing it, John was once again reminded vividly of Emilia’s stab wounds but thrust the thought away. Yet something in his manner must have revealed what he was thinking because Elizabeth said quickly, “I’ll empty this into the slop pail and take it downstairs. We don’t want to give the maid nightmares.”

And before he could argue she had emptied out the water, scrubbed round the basin and, tucking up her skirts, gone away with the bucket.

Waiting for his hair to dry, John sat before the mirror and tried to formulate a plan. There were several farms surrounding the Gunnersbury House estate, two of which he had noticed on his fateful drive there, though what their names were he didn’t know. A job at either of those would suit him well. Yet this was the time of year when farmers were laying men off rather than taking them on. Casual work, like hay-making and apple-picking, were strictly seasonal. Still, he might be lucky and find something. Hoping that both he and Elizabeth would have good fortune, he sat and watched his hair dry.

It was even brighter than he had originally thought. In fact, in a shaft of the fading January sun it looked as if his head had caught fire. Brushing it forward over his brow the Apothecary stared at himself in the mirror. With his eyes shaded by curls only his nose and mouth were clearly visible and these would hardly give him away. Satisfied that it would take someone peering at him closely to recognise him, John waited for Elizabeth to return.

They set off early the next morning, bidding farewell to Ruckley, who headed his team off on the route taken by the Exeter stage. Then having breakfasted — a meal during which the serving girl stared fixedly at John’s hair — they paid the bill and left The Three Pigeons, starting the walk to Gunnersbury House.

Elizabeth was unrecognisable. She had darkened her skin tone and brushed her long black hair loose, so that she looked a regular working woman. She wore a dark skirt, darned here and there, a white blouse and a red shawl. On her feet she had a pair of old red shoes. “Tell my fortune,” John said impulsively.

“Is that how I appear? A gypsy woman?”

“You could be.”

“I’d better whiten my skin, else I’ll never get employment.”

“You can wash it in a pond somewhere. There are plenty of springs on the way.”

They were approaching The Butts, a shady square of red-brick houses, in the centre of which was a market. Booths had been erected selling goods as varied as gloves and firkins of wine, with every conceivable kind of item — wool, cradles, clothes — in between. Added to this, the local farmers had brought produce — hens, ducks, even sheep — together with winter vegetables and eggs for sale.

John could not help but notice, with a certain wry amusement, that Elizabeth had adopted the gait of the woman she was supposed to be and was walking with a definite swing to her hips.

They passed by stalls and trestles on which were laid country clothes, woven by the women while their men worked the fields. Elizabeth paused, picking up a sheepskin and leather jerkin.

“I think you should have this …” she started to say, then stopped as a beefy young man, also thumbing his way through the goods, was suddenly seized from behind and lifted bodily into the air.

“ ‘ere,” he remonstrated.

“I know you,” came the reply. “You’re Tom Thatcher — and you’re a thief.”

“I ain’t,” the other answered, but got no further as a fist flew through the air and landed on his lip, dislodging a rotting tooth which he spat onto the ground.

Almost instantly there was a ruckus as people took sides, some quite violently. Pushing Elizabeth behind him, John attempted to move away but without a chance. On every hand men were fighting and he saw that he was going to have to defend himself, like it or not. As a young giant with a mop of blond hair took a swing at him, the Apothecary ducked and landed his aggressor a blow in the guts which doubled him over. Hastily chopping him on the back of the neck, John Rawlings turned to see who he should fight next.

A man of about fifty, weatherbeaten as a birdscarer and somewhat resembling a haystack, caught his eye. But before either could exchange blows the newcomer was beaten over the head with a mallet and fell, twisting his leg agonisingly beneath him. Lying right in the path of the melee as he was, John grabbed him under the arms and succeeded in lugging the man between two stalls, out of harm’s way.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, had climbed onto a vacant stool and was watching the fracas with an interested eye.

“There’s a gang at work,” she called to John. “See them stealing from the stalls.”

And sure enough men and women were shifting goods into their pockets at the speed of lightning. Thinking that the entire fight had been deliberately started with theft as its main objective, the Apothecary bent over his patient who had recovered consciousness and was starting to sweat with pain.

“My leg,” he groaned. “I think it’s broken. Get me to a physician.”

John almost said “I’m an apothecary” but thought better of it. “I know a little,” he ventured, and amidst the man’s screams of agony, straightened the leg. It was fractured in two places, below the hip and above the ankle, that much was obvious. He looked up at Elizabeth.

“Fetch me a long stick, as quickly as you can.”

She got down from the stool and disappeared amongst the stalls, returning eventually with a shepherd’s crook which she had obtained by some means or other.