Death in the Setting Sun (20 page)

Reluctantly John did so, standing in what he hoped was a gardener pose, shuffling his feet and desperately trying to look out of place.

“Did you see anyone, fellow?” Lady Theydon’s glutinous voice continued.

“No, Mam,” he answered, his accent richly bucolic, “I just heard Miss Priscilla crying out and ran to her aid, like. Nobody come past me.”

“Do you think that lunatic man — the one that Sir John Fielding has dismally failed to catch — can be on the loose again?”

“I don’t know, my Lady,” Priscilla answered nervously. “Why should it be him?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Lady Theydon said with heat. “I think I had better report this matter to the Princess.”

“Oh no, Ma’am, I beg you not. She has been so ill and news of this might make her worse. It was probably totally unrelated to that other most unfortunate incident.”

“Incident?” exclaimed Lady Theydon in high dudgeon. “You call that foul murder an incident? I tell you I can’t sleep easy in my bed with that madman still at large.”

Priscilla giggled nervously and John cleared his throat.

“But I do take your point about the poor Princess. Let us say nothing at present.” She turned her full attention on John, who, at that moment, wished that the floor would open up and deposit him by the side door through which he had entered.

“You say you saw no one?”

“No, Mam,” he mumbled.

“Well, you’re to keep a look out, d’ye hear. Note any suspicious characters hanging round the place. You are to particularly look out for a well set-up young fellow who dresses above his station. Says he’s an apothecary and therefore will have medical knowledge. Keep your eyes open. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mam.”

“Very well, you may go. Priscilla, you are to go straight to bed.”

“Yes, Lady Theydon.”

She curtseyed and John gave an oafish bow. Then they left the room, he heading for the stairs, she to a door along the passageway.

“This is my bedroom if you want me,” she whispered.

John looked at her, wondering if she realised what she had just said. But Priscilla did no more than give him a blown kiss before she vanished into the room.

The Apothecary stood hesitating, debating whether to snoop round and see who else might be about. But the decision was taken from him by the side door opening once more and Lady Hampshire appearing with a young man in tow. She looked round surreptitiously and put her finger to her lips, motioning him to be quiet. Their very attitude told John that they were up to no good and he flattened himself behind a pillar.

“Come on, lovely boy,” said the woman. “Come along.”

“You can be assured I will,” answered the youth, who was twenty-five at the most and clearly hoping for the best.

“My chamber lies in the west wing but this entrance is the one used for little secrets,” Lady Hampshire said gushingly.

“Madam, I can scarce control myself,” answered her lover, and planted a kiss on her rather unpleasant little mouth.

In his place of hiding John winced.

“No, indeed I cannot,” the young man continued, and plunged a hand straight down the bosom of her gown.

“How forward,” she said, tapping him with her fan and clearly adoring every minute.

“Shall I take you here, on the stairs?”

“No, indeed not, Sir. Let us be private at all costs. Now hurry along, do.” And removing his hand — quite slowly, John noticed — she scuttled along a bend in the corridor, her gallant in hot pursuit, and vanished from view. The Apothecary, sighing, went down the stairs and out into the chilly night.

*
 
*
 
*

It was as he reached the little wooden structure that bore the name Bellow Bridge that John saw the cart lying on its side, half-immersed in the fast-flowing stream. So it had presumably got as far as Brentford and collapsed on the return journey, judging by its position, which was facing towards the farm rather than away.

“Jacob?” he called tentatively.

A loud groan was the only reply.

Cursing his luck, the Apothecary strode into the icy water and peered into the depths of the vehicle. Jacob, clearly the worse for drink, had hit his head, which was bleeding profusely, and was lying in a heap on the cart’s tipped-up floor.

“I tried to warn you,” John said, but got no reply other than for the vague swinging of a feeble fist in his direction.

“I’ve a bloody good mind to leave you to it,” he continued, but his training was too strong and he clambered into the cart and attempted to lift the drunken man free. But Jacob, at dead weight, was heavier than he looked. Try as he might the Apothecary could not shift him. He had to satisfy himself with cleaning the head wound and binding it with a bit of cloth torn from Jacob’s shirt. Then he left him, sleeping in an upright position and covered with an old blanket. The pony, frightened and shivering with cold, standing in the stream as it was, John unhitched and led back to the farm where it was put in its stable and given some hay.

The clock struck eleven as he entered the door and tiptoed up to his room. Undressing quickly, the Apothecary got into bed but for some reason did not sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Instead he was vaguely aware that something was worrying him but had no tangible idea what it was. Eventually he did sleep, only to have dreams and to wake again, feeling uneasy and sad, in the terrible blackness of the hour before dawn.

As soon as it was light, he rose and crept from the house. Going back to the scene of the accident he saw that Jacob still slept, though not as deeply as he had on the previous night. Filling the bucket he had brought with him with icy water from the brook, John, with a great deal of satisfaction, emptied it over Jacob’s head. “What? Bastard! God almighty …”

“You can stop that,” said John forcefully. “I ran after you yesterday to tell you the cart had a damaged wheel but off you sped to Brentford. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

“You miserable little …” Jake began, attempting to get to his feet but falling over as he hadn’t taken into account the cart’s list.

“Mind your head, for God’s sake,” the Apothecary continued. “You’ve a hell of a bump on it. Now do you want me to help you or not?”

“Not,” Jake retorted. “I can manage on my own.” And he did, scrabbling to his feet, balancing precariously on the vehicle’s tipping floor, eventually heaving himself out and landing waist deep in the brook’s icy waters. John stood on the bank, arms folded, as Jake, cursing and swearing like a seaman, heaved himself out and up the side.

The farmer’s son reached the top and stood glaring at him ferociously. “I saw something interesting in Brentford last night,” he said.

With a sinking of his heart John knew what it was. The Wanted posters had reached the towns beyond the capital.

“Oh? And what was that?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.

“It was a Wanted poster. It had on it a description of a man who sounded just like you. I copied it down.” He drew a soggy piece of paper from his pocket.

“Go on.”

Laboriously, Jake started to read. “Wanted, John Rawlings. One yard, two feet and seven inches high. An apothecary by trade. Wanted for the murder of his wife at Gunnersbury House last Christmas. A reward of One Guinea is offered for information leading to his arrest.” He laughed raucously. “That’s you, isn’t it, William Miller?”

“Yes,” said John evenly. “What are you going to do about it?”

Jacob looked decidedly crafty. “Well now, that depends.”

“If you’re thinking of blackmailing me you can forget it. I’d rather give myself up. If you’re thinking of telling your father, I have already done so. Don’t forget, my dear Sir, that you are going to be horribly short-handed without my services.”

“Farm labourers are easy to hire,” Jacob retorted.
 

“That’s as may be. But where are you going to find one who will tend Mr. Bellow so closely as I do? Besides, what do you stand to gain by betraying me?”

“A guinea, that’s what.”

“Come back to the farm and we’ll discuss it,” John replied calmly, and set off down the track.

Behind him he could hear the farmer’s son groaning as he walked and guessed that he had a head like a bear in a pit. He turned and grinned.

“I pity you, Jacob, I truly do.”

“I’ll give you pity, you little turd.”

They reached the farmhouse and there John went straight up the stairs to where Hugh Bellow lay in bed. Swiftly the Apothecary made the room decent, removing the chamber pot and finding Hugh a crisp pillow before the sound of Jacob making his way upwards could be heard.

John turned to the farmer. “Sir, your son has seen a Wanted poster offering one guinea for information leading to my arrest. I offer now to leave this house and not bother you again but I beg you to restrain him for a day.”

Hugh’s jaw dropped. “What’s all this, Jake?”

“Nothing that need concern you,” he mumbled.

The farmer sat up in bed. “Right from the start Mr. Rawlings dealt straight with me. Admittedly it was him who was found with his wife’s body but he told me he didn’t kill her and that he’s come back to find who did. Stands to reason; why else would he return to be so dangerously close? If he was the killer he’d be at the other end of the country by now.”

The truth of this obviously struck some kind of chord and Jacob nodded his damaged head slowly.

“So if you betrays him you’ll get the rough end of my belt, by God you will.”

Jake looked ugly but said nothing and John thought he ought to try and lighten the atmosphere.

“Look, I’ll leave. But give me a few hours start.”

“You’re not leaving,” Hugh stated ferociously. “Even with a crutch — which you promised to rig for me today — I’m going to be useless round the farm for some time to come. You can’t walk out on me now, John.”

Jacob looked at his father meaningfully. “If he’s going to make you a crutch he’ll be no good to help me rescue the cart.” And with that he slung out of the room.

Hugh looked at the Apothecary. “He won’t betray you. I’ll flay his hide.”

“Thank you, Sir. I hope you’re right.”

But as John followed Jake down the stairs he had the definite feeling that all was not well.

Chapter Sixteen

L
ater that day, an answer came to the letter he had written to Sir Gabriel Kent. Fortunately John, who was searching for a suitable bit of wood from which to make the crutch, saw the postboy turn down the track leading from the bridge and intercepted him. So he was able to creep round the back of the woodshed and read the correspondence in peace.

My Dear Son,

How Pleased I am that You have found Employment so near Gunnersbury House. I also Note that Others of Your Acquaintance are Near to You. I will not Put Their Names for fear this could Fall into the Wrong Hands. Your Daughter blooms like the Rose after which She is Named and seems Happy with Her Grandfather, though She often asks After both Her Parents. I Have said Nothing of the Truth to Her. I Leave this to You when You Return.

I remain, My Dear John,

Yr. Loving Father,

G. Kent

Post Script. I hear Tell that Jocasta and S. Swann have been Safely Delivered of a Son.

John read the letter several times, then he hid it in a pocket of his coat and began to fashion the crutch. An hour later it was done and he spent the rest of that day teaching Hugh how to use it, concluding eventually that the farmer would be better off with a second one to aid his sense of balance.

By the time he had made this it was growing dark and John realised that today he had seen no one at Gunnersbury House, Jacob deciding that the farmer’s boy should take the deliveries that morning. John, therefore, planned to make his way there after he had eaten and try to track down Joe Jago. So as soon as he had dined, he put on his greatcoat and went out.

He had found time to rebandage Jake’s head, despite the voluble protests of the farmer’s son.

“I don’t need no help. Go away.”

“As you put it so nicely, I will. But I’ll send a note to the physician that he’s needed at Bellow’s Farm urgently. Take your choice.”

He had started to walk away but Jacob had called him back.

“Will, you may as well have a look. I don’t want no old doctor fiddling about with me.”

The cut was deep, a horrible gash that should really have been stitched. The Apothecary bathed it clean, rubbed in an infusion of the boiled leaves of Adder’s Tongue which he had carried in his medical bag, and rebound it with clean bandage.

“I’ll have to examine you daily for a week or so.”

“All right,” Jacob had said. And John thought that that was the nearest he had ever come to being pleasant.

He wondered, now, as he set off up the track towards the bridge, whether Jake was going to the Brentford constable about him. Perhaps he would in secret, John thought. Whatever, there was no point in worrying about it. He had far greater matters on his mind, the first and foremost of which was to find Emilia’s killer.