Death in the Setting Sun (23 page)

This night the Princess gleamed in silver with a necklace of large diamonds, but clearly her mood did not match her clothes. She looked up listlessly as Georgiana, John and Priscilla processed into the room, which had been set up for card play, several small tables having been erected and placed round.

She glared at John moodily and, just for a second, he saw a spark in her eye and thought he had been recognised. But then the look passed away and she stared at him blankly.

“Ma’am, may I present Colonel Richard Melville, a cousin of Priscilla Fleming.”

John let rip with the most extravagant bow in his repertoire. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, his tone sufficiently awestruck.

“And what brings you to Gunnersbury, Colonel Melville?” the Princess asked, her accent slightly Germanic.

“I had a message for Miss Fleming, Ma’am. It was from my mama and was sufficiently urgent to ensure that I travel forthwith.”

“Do you play cards?” she asked unexpectedly.

“A little, Ma’am.”

“That is good. Tell me, have you seen recent service?”

“I was wounded at the Battle of Torgau, Ma’am,” the Apothecary replied slickly. “After that I came home and spent the rest of the war in administration.”

It was as good a story as any and Princess Amelia obviously approved because she nodded her head several times.

“Excellent. I like to meet fighting men. Where are you staying?”

“Probably in Brentford, Ma’am. I have booked nowhere as yet.”

“Then allow me to put you up for tonight. On condition that you aid the search for Lord Hope. He went out shooting today and has not returned. But perhaps Lady Georgiana has told you of it?”

“She has, Highness, and I was about to volunteer my services.”

“Then do set forth at once. Then when you have found him you may return and tell me more of the recent war. I am particularly interested in it.”

“I am yours to command, Ma’am,” and John bowed fulsomely once more.

Priscilla caught his arm on the way out. “Well done,” she mouthed.

“At least I’m staying tonight,” John murmured back. “This way, gentlemen,” called a man the Apothecary did not know. “Let us organise ourselves into little groups.”

A bevy of males, mostly servants armed with flaming torches, were waiting outside plus one or two house guests. John, vividly reminded of the posse who had come searching for him, gritted his teeth at the memory and thought hard about how Colonel Melville would react.

“Where do you intend to look?” he asked, lowering his voice slightly.

“That’s just the point, Sir,” said the mystery man, whom John thought was more than likely the Princess’s steward. “Where indeed? Lord Hope spent hours in the saddle. He could have fallen and be lying anywhere.”

“Then why don’t I take some men and search the grounds while you and the others ride out and look for him?”

There was a murmur of agreement and another house guest stepped forward. “Good idea. I’ll take a party of horsemen and ride east. You others can go in the opposite direction.”

There was a general shift towards the stables and John found himself left with half a dozen men, one of whom, he was alarmed to see, was the unpleasant Benedict.

“Right. We’ll divide into groups of two and search the grounds thoroughly. You two take the woods, you can do the area which includes The Temple and Round Pond. You and I” — he grabbed a rather elderly footman by the arm — “will search the east of the estate.”

They set off, the servant carrying a flaming torch, John, still limping a little, following in his wake. Searching painstakingly they covered every inch of the gardens, rural and ornamental, till at last they had reached the south wall of the man-made terrace. Here lay the folly known as the Grotto. With nothing to light it the place assumed a dark and foreboding aspect and John was suddenly reminded that he had seen Lord Hope enter it that very morning.

“We’ll look in here,” he commanded.

“I’m a bit shaky on me pins, Sir,” the elderly footman confided. “Here’s the torch, Sir. Will you forgive me if I don’t accompany you?”

“Of course, my good man,” answered John in a colonel’s voice, and stepped into the blackened interior.

The torch threw amazing shadows on the walls which danced and grew to enormous size as John raised it higher over his head to see more distinctly.

At his feet was a slate-lined basin in which one could bathe, water for this being provided by a lion’s head spout which gurgled and gushed even as the Apothecary looked at it. Drainage from the basin was presumably provided by a hidden culvert for he could distantly hear the flow of water from beneath the surface. Yet it was to none of those things that John’s eye was drawn, but instead to something far more sinister. For sprawled in the basin, lying face down, his cloak spread round him like a grotesque pair of wings, was the man he sought. He had found Lord Hope, and he had found him absolutely dead.

Chapter Eighteen

L
eaving Lord Hope exactly where he was, John stepped outside the Grotto and said quietly, “I’ve found Milord and he is dead. I’m afraid I will need you to hold the torch while I examine him.”

“Examine him, Sir? But surely . . “

“We military men are used to such things,” the Apothecary answered firmly. “Now come along, my good fellow, be of stout heart.”

He re-entered the Grotto, the footman standing well back, holding the flambeau in trembling fingers. Kneeling down by the basin, John attempted to heave the body out but had not considered the weight of water.

“Can you give me a hand?” he said over his shoulder. “Oh, Sir, it’s my pins. I’m getting on in years. I only do light duties round the house,” the poor old fellow quavered.

“Very well. You stay here and guard the body. I’ll go and get help.”

“But Sir …”

“No arguments. I order you not to leave your post,” John answered militarily, and stepped outside.

Once there he ran as fast as he could to the house, just in time to see Benedict going in.

“I’ve found him,” he gasped. “You’re to come with me and give me assistance.”

Benedict paused and looked him fully in the face. “Don’t I know you, Sir?”

“We may have met somewhere,” John answered vaguely, “but that’s not the issue. Lord Hope is in the Grotto, lying face down in the water. Are you coming to help me or aren’t you?”

The footman gave a sarcastic smile and said, “Of course, Sir,” then followed John, who limped magnificently back to the folly.

The sight that awaited them would have been hilarious in other circumstances. The old footman, obviously having ventured a step or two forward to take a closer look, had lost his footing and toppled into the basin on top of Lord Hope. Here he thrashed violently, uttering shrill cries, and getting himself into difficulties. Fortunately Benedict carried a torch which he now placed in a wall-ring, presumably put there for the benefit of those who wished to bathe at night. Then he knelt down, John doing likewise, and they heaved at the old man — the Apothecary seizing him unceremoniously by the seat of his trousers — and pulled him from the water, gasping for air.

“Back to the house with you,” Benedict said sternly. “Get some dry things on before you catch your death.” The old man’s teeth — which John suspected were not his own — chattered violently in his head but he nodded and hastened from the folly without a backward glance.

“Right,” said John, “now for this poor soul.” Together they pulled at the dead man’s cloak which rose like a billow beneath their grasp. Feeling beneath it, the Apothecary located the man’s coat and gave a tremendous tug which succeeded in half-turning him in the water. John gazed into features pale and grinning, the lips drawn back from the teeth in a terrible snarl. “Come on, Benedict. Heave hard.”

They did and succeeded in lifting him out of the water. John looked down at the saturnine Lord Hope and saw that he was whiter than a shroud, his lips a shade of vivid purplish blue.

Crouching down beside the body, John pulled the cloak and coat to one side and realised at once what had caused the man’s death. He had been stabbed in the stomach then pushed into the pool to drown. And, differing from Emilia’s case, the knife was no longer there. Other than that, it was an identical killing. It seemed Emilia’s murderer had struck again.

He straightened up and stared into Benedict’s dark eyes.

“I’m leaving you to guard the body. You can remain outside if you like. I’ll go back to the house and inform them. A physician had better be called.”

“Very good,” the footman replied, then added, “Sir.”

A few minutes later John walked into a scene of controlled chaos. The return of the old footman, dripping wet, bleating out his hysterical story, had been enough. Georgiana had gone into a spectacular faint, while the four ladies who attended Princess Amelia were busy administering to their charge, who was taking brandy for medicinal purposes only.

Without thinking John approached the royal presence and took her pulse, then remembered himself.

“Forgive me, Ma’am. Force of habit. We army men are used to acting so. It’s how we’re trained.”

She revived. “Oh really? Do tell me about it.” Then she frowned. “But this would hardly be the time, would it? With poor Lord Hope drowned.”

John cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s slightly worse than that, Ma’am. Lord Hope was stabbed before he fell into the basin. To put it bluntly, there is a murderer lurking somewhere here.”

The Princess’s hand flew to her neck. “Oh, mein Gott! How terrible. So whoever killed poor Mrs. Rawlings is back.”

Lady Theydon weighed in. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew that lunatic fellow would return and take another victim. We are none of us safe in our beds. None of us.” She rolled her large brown eyes in her doughy face and sighed dramatically.

“I shall leave for London tomorrow,” the Princess put in. “Johnson, make the necessary arrangements.”

“Very good, Ma’am,” said the fellow whom John had thought to be the steward, and bowing left the room.

The Apothecary’s heart sank. With the entire court removed he could make no progress whatsoever. He tried a last ditch stand.

“Do you think that wise, Highness?” he asked.

“Vise?” In her confusion Amelia’s Germanic accent had become more noticeable. “Vise? Of course it is. Vy not?”

“It’s just that I feel we ought to have a little longer to consider the evidence and to make the necessary arrangements. Surely another twenty-four hours could make little difference?”

“It will make all the difference in the world,” she retorted with feeling.

Georgiana recovered from her faint. “Oh, Madam,” she said pleadingly, “please allow me to stay. I must remain with poor Conrad until he is laid to rest.”

“And someone,” said John, “should ride to Sir John Fielding’s house in Bow Street.”

Lady Kemp and Lady Featherstonehaugh made a simultaneous sound of contempt. “Huh! A great deal of good that wretch has been. Put up a few Wanted posters and that’s that. Why, if he had acted more efficiently Lord Hope might well be still alive.”

Georgiana rolled her eyes upward. “Oh, I’m going again.”

John couldn’t help himself. Pulling his salts from the pocket of the much taken-in trousers of the Prince of Mecklenburg, he duly administered them.

Georgiana opened an eye and looked at him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Salts to cure swoons, Madam. They never fail.”

She peered into his face which at that moment was quite close to hers. “Do I know you, Sir?”

“We may have met in London, Lady Georgiana. It is possible, indeed probable.”

“Yes, that must be it.” She sat up and turned towards Princess Amelia. “Oh, dearest Highness. I beg you to let us stay here a day more. A day in which to collect ourselves.”

“Meanwhile,” said John, “I suggest that a physician is sent for forthwith. Lord Hope really should be examined before he is moved.”

The Countess of Hampshire, who had left the room briefly, returned with, of all things, a bowl of grapes which she handed to the Princess. John, taking a long hard look at her, decided that she had definitely been an actress in the early stages of her career. He tried to remember whether her husband was still alive and presumed as she was not called Dowager that he must be.

Priscilla spoke. “I think the rest of the party are returning. I wonder what the other gentlemen will think.”

It appeared that the Princess had two other male house guests. One, a handsome man of advanced years with bright wise eyes; the other a fellow for whom John did not altogether care, being young and loud and somewhat full of himself. After their being informed of the news that Lord Hope had been found, John was invited to describe the scene, which he proceeded to do as precisely as possible.

The younger man, who turned out to be the Honourable Gerald Naill, third son of the Earl of Grimsdale, immediately put in, “I must go and have a look. Dam’me, what a turn up. Old Hope dead, eh? Hare and hounds, whatever next?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to go, Sir,” John answered. “You might move things around. Which reminds me, Benedict is there on his own.” He turned back to the Princess. “Ma’am, may I suggest that the footmen stand watch in pairs until the physician has been. It is rather eerie down there.”