Death in the Setting Sun (29 page)

273 paying her marked attention which she was receiving all aflutter and much to the annoyance of Lady Hampshire, who was sitting on the sidelines occasionally putting the odd stitch into a somewhat tired-looking piece of embroidery.

There was a general exodus following the Princess’s announcement, all with one intent. Princess Amelia purposefully headed for the one and only water closet, the gentlemen made their way out of doors, the ladies vanished to their rooms. Only the Apothecary, feeling no wish to relieve himself, stayed in the warmth of the salon and wished for the hundredth time that he was a little closer to solving the crime.

Slowly the card players began to make their way back in, waiting for the Princess to lead them in to supper. John was not pleased to see Benedict standing waiting to serve the cold collation. Adjusting his eye-patch he walked straight past the fellow, following closely behind Princess Amelia, and offered his arm to Lady Featherstonehaugh. She turned to him.

“My play is sadly lacking tonight,” she murmured. “Grim thoughts keep crowding in.”

“That is my case also, Madam,” he answered. “I am finding it hard to concentrate.”

She adjusted her features to their dourest expression. “I am starting to wonder whether this place is unlucky.”

“I grant you that recent events have not been of the happiest.”

“It is a pity about that wretched horse.” John stared at her blankly. “Getting a cough,” she continued with irritation. “Otherwise I know the Princess would have packed her bags and gone.”

“Quite/‘ the Apothecary answered, feeling just a fraction guilty.

They sat at the long dining table which despite the simplicity of the meal had been laid to overflowing. John found himself placed on the Princess’s left with an empty space on his other side, the Honourable Gerald Naill on the far side of that. Staring down the line of guests he realised that Lady Theydon was missing.

Cold cuts of venison, beef, pork, together with various joints of ham, pies and game were busily being carved at the mighty dresser and passed to the guests. There was also a dish of ox tongues shaped into glazed arches nestling amongst the salads of celery, endive and chicory, together with a selection of pigeon pies easily identifiable by the spiky feet sprouting from the crust.

The Princess had started to tuck in heartily when she suddenly looked up from her groaning plate and said, “Where is Theydon?”

John glanced at the empty space beside him and said, “No doubt putting the finishing touches to her toilette.”

“She should have done that hours ago. Benedict, be so good as to go and summon her.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” And the footman bowed and made his way out.

Lady Hampshire, who had been remarkably quiet as she had been excused from cards, said, “I daresay she is comforting Lady Georgiana.”

Princess Amelia snorted. “I doubt it. Lady Georgiana will recover quite quickly from this shock, mark my words. A fine, strong, healthy girl like that will soon be looking around for another husband.”

If anyone else had voiced this there would have been a shocked silence but as it came from royal lips there was a polite titter.

“Quite right, Madam,” said Dr. Phipps. “No one should live alone too long. A year is the absolute maximum time that anyone should remain widowed.” There was a slightly uncomfortable silence as the Princess herself had never married, though she had indeed had several lovers, the most raffish of whom had been the married Duke of Grafton. However, the doctor noticed nothing and continued to attack his pigeon pie with relish. Nobody spoke and into this temporary lull in conversation could be heard the sound of some distant commotion; feet were running and a voice was raised. Everyone at the table looked up.

“Vot is happening?” asked the Princess as the door to the dining room burst open and Benedict appeared, looking white and haggard.

“Forgive me, Highness,” he panted, “but I think someone should come at once.”

“Why, what’s happened?” asked John.

“It’s Lady Theydon, Sir. She’s … dead.”

Dr. Phipps and the Apothecary sat staring at one another then both rose to their feet simultaneously. John, remembering at the last minute his role as Colonel, said, “Do you mind if I accompany you, Sir? Army training.”

“Of course,” the doctor answered as together they raced up the stairs, the Honourable Gerald, uninvited but determined to be in on any gory details, close behind.

Hurrying along the corridor John inadvertently opened the wrong door and temporarily the three men had a vision of the Sleeping Beauty. Lady Georgiana Hope lay on top of her bed, fast asleep, her golden hair flowing loose about her shoulders, her angel’s profile etched against the faint light of candles. The gentle rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest showed that she slept naturally and deeply. Just for a second John lingered longer than he should have done. Then he closed the door quietly and they hastened on.

As if in contrast to the picture they had just seen, Lady Theydon lay on her side on the floor, an expression of fear contracting her face into a silent scream. Her arms were outflung, her legs pulled up as if she had kicked her attacker in vain. The dress she was wearing was soaked with blood and she had hunched her body in an attempt to staunch the flow. She could not have been more of a contrast to the cool perfection of Lady Georgiana’s childlike repose.

The large brown eyes were open and as Dr. Phipps drew back the folds of the dress to look at the wounds John went to close them, then remembered himself.

“May I?” he asked the doctor, who nodded, too taken up with his examination to speak.

Meanwhile Gerald was making revolting retching sounds in the background and the Apothecary turned on him a furious face.

“Oh for goodness sake, Sir, do take your hideous noises elsewhere.”

Gerald, who had gone a whiter shade of ashen, scurried out through the door, one hand clapped over his mouth, the other to his privy parts. Hoping that he would find a chamber pot in time, the Apothecary turned his attention back to the victim.

She had been dead about twenty minutes, half an hour at the most, which would coincide exactly with the time when the assembled company had left the room. Thinking back, John recalled that they had all gone out, every single person present; even the good doctor.

“Well?” he said.

“Whoever killed Lord Hope did this as well. Look, exactly the same modus operandi. Fatal wounds delivered to the stomach, and with some force at that.”

John thought back to this morning when he had lain under the victim’s bed. Yet again he cursed the fact he had not been able to identify the name or sex of Lady Theydon’s visitor because that was who her killer had been, he felt certain of it. Yet this information was not something he could share with Dr. Phipps.

“Did a man or a woman inflict the blows?” he asked, a little hopelessly.

Much as he had thought, the doctor replied, “Could have been either. A woman in a rage is capable of dealing a harsh blow, believe me.”

“Oh, I do,” the Apothecary answered heavily, “I do.” Dr. Phipps straightened up. “Do you want to have a look?”

“Yes, I’d like to.”

The wounds were deep, slicing through the material of Lady Theydon’s robe and making a firm incision in the flesh below. There were three, one less than Lord Hope had received, but the same amount as inflicted on Emilia. Seeing them with fresh blood still present sickened John, reminding him only too vividly of the death of his wife.

“We’ve got to catch this killer and catch him fast,” he said, looking up at the doctor.

“You do realise that the murderer would have blood on him like as not.”

“Yes, which should narrow the field.”

“Except,” stated Dr. Phipps, noticing something and picking it up from the floor, “for this.”

John stared. “What is it?”

“A kind of coverall.” The doctor held it out and John, straightening up, took it.

“The killer put it on over their clothes?”

“It would appear so. Look.” And Dr. Phipps pointed to a blood-stained, shapeless garment which resembled a white cloak complete with hood.

“God’s holy wounds,” swore John with much feeling. “First a red cloak and now this. The bastard thinks of everything.”

“Tell me, Colonel Melville, do you think the killer is amongst the card-playing company?”

“Not necessarily. There’s a side staircase that leads to this landing. Very useful for smuggling lovers in and out. The murderer could have come in that way, done the deed, dropped his coverall and fled.”

“But that is not necessarily what happened. The killer could be sitting downstairs at this very moment.” John nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Sitting and watching to see how much we know.”

They went back to a scene of complete havoc. Lady Hampshire had thrown a spectacular and somewhat theatrical faint and was lying in a becoming pose on a nest of cushions. Priscilla had also been taken poorly and was currently weeping loudly and sipping brandy, attended to by Lady Kemp who was patting her hands to no avail. Looking ghastly in the corner was the Honourable Gerald, not quite as green as when the Apothecary had last seen him but for all that clutching his guts. Benedict, very white, was uselessly walking round with a tray, while the Princess and Lady Featherstonehaugh, appearing quite calm, were stolidly munching cake and drinking madeira.

Dr. Phipps went to Milady, leaning over her and administering salts; John crossed to Priscilla’s place and sat down beside her. She looked at him tremulously.

“Is … is Lady Theydon …” Her voice trailed away and she wept afresh.

John said gently, “You must be brave, Priscilla. Your aunt is dead.”

For answer the girl flung her arms round the Apothecary’s neck and wept uncontrollably.

Feeling her snuggled so close to him, sobbing against his chest, John wondered at himself for remaining so aloof. Then he remembered the circumstances in which the two of them had met. Emilia had been alive then and Priscilla had been her great friend, so it was small wonder that he regarded the girl as nothing more than that. Yet it occurred to him that she might indeed harbour other feelings for him. She was clinging to him as if her very life depended on it and murmuring something inaudible in his ear. Very gently, he extricated himself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She turned a tear-stained face towards him. “Wretched beyond belief. Oh, John, who could have done such a terrible thing? Poor Aunt Agnes.” She sat upright. “I must go to her.”

“No, I don’t think you should.”

She stood up. “But I must. Who else will tend her body?”

“It should be left for the time being. Until the Runners have been informed.”

“Runners?” Priscilla looked alarmed. “Why? How did my aunt die?”

The Apothecary realised with a jolt that no one had yet told the company exactly how Lady Theydon had met her end.

“She was stabbed,” he said quietly.

Priscilla let out an eldritch shriek. “Oh no, oh no. I can’t bear it.”

Every head, except for that of Lady Hampshire who was clearly enjoying being tended by Dr. Phipps, turned.

Princess Amelia was the first to speak. “Miss Fleming, control yourself. What is the matter?”

“Lady Theydon died at a murderer’s hand,” Priscilla answered dramatically.

The royal lady fixed the Apothecary with a basilisk stare. “Is this true?” she demanded.

“Perfectly,” John answered. “Whoever killed Mrs. Rawlings and Lord Hope has struck again. Lady Theydon died of stab wounds to the stomach.”

“Are you trying to tell me that the husband was not guilty?” the Princess went on.

“Clearly he was not.”

“Then he has been greatly wronged.” The royal lady stood up and turned to the doctor. “Dr. Phipps, what should we do?”

“Yet again a rider must be sent to Bow Street, Madam. There’s no help for it.”

“Odds my life!” Princess Amelia answered. “Was ever a woman as unfortunate as I?”

“I rather think, Madam, that Lady Theydon might not agree with that statement,” John answered drily.

An hour later some semblance of order had been restored. Benedict had been despatched to lock the door of the murdered woman’s room and had given the key into the safe-keeping of the steward. The ladies had been escorted to their various chambers with the exception of Priscilla, who had declared herself too nervous to sleep in a room which connected to the scene of the murder by a communicating door. She had therefore been given a little-used room in the guest suite to which John had accompanied her.

She had flung her arms round him and held him tightly. “Oh, my dear friend I don’t know how I would have got through this evening without you.”

“But I’ve done nothing,” he had protested.

“On the contrary, you have been my rock. I shall always be grateful to you.”

“Priscilla, I only did what any human being would have done.”

She had smiled at him slowly. “But, my darling, it was the way that you did it that counted.”

And with that remark she had left him, standing in her doorway, watching him as he made his way back down the corridor.