Death in the Setting Sun (36 page)

Again he must have slept, for when he opened his eyes it was to see the first streaks of dawn threading the sky. An unbearable cramp seized his leg and he jumped up, unable to control himself, hopping about and rubbing the limb back to life. Then every hair on his neck rose and he crouched down again, staring at what he had seen through the branches of the bush.

A figure was making its way across the lawn, heavy with morning dew. A figure that moved slowly, seeming to glide along. A figure hidden entirely in a long grey cloak with the hood raised and pulled across, so that from where he was observing it appeared to have no face. Despite all he knew about phantoms — which actually was very little — John was utterly terrified.

He watched as the figure glided up to the Grotto, looked slyly over its shoulder to make sure it was unobserved, then slipped noiselessly inside. For a moment or two John remained petrified to the spot. Too frightened to move or make a sound. Then with an enormous effort of will he forced himself to cross the distance that separated him from the building, and enter.

It was pitch dark within but the figure must have concealed a lanthorn in the folds of its cloak for, as John peered through the gloom, a tinder was struck and the lanthorn blazed into light. He watched from the doorway, as silent as the grave, while the hooded figure started to search along the walls and crevices of the grotto. Then, going down on its knees, a bare arm was extended and fished in the black waters of the bathing basin.

John reached in his pocket and brought out the earring which he had removed from the drawer, turning it over in his hand so that its jewel caught the beams of the lanthorn and sparkled softly.

“Looking for this?” he asked quietly.

There was an intake of breath and the figure wheeled in fright. Then it lowered its hood and gave a tortured smile.

“Why, John,” it said.

It was Priscilla.

He crossed the small distance between them and caught her bare arm in a hard grip. She winced but continued to smile at him.

“John, my dear, whatever are you doing here?”

“I might well ask the same of you.”

“Me? Oh, I came for an early morning dip.”

“In the same water in which Lord Hope breathed his last? I think not, Priscilla. I think you were looking for the partner to this.”

And he held out the hand in which gleamed the earring.

She stayed very cool. “Oh, yes. I knew that I had dropped it somewhere. Was it in here?”

“You know damned well it was. Why try and hide it? You’ve been very clever so far in concealing your actions but you’ve just run out of time.”

Still that ghastly smile lit her features. “Oh, John, darling, why do you sound so angry? I know it was against the Princess’s orders for anyone to use the pool but I so wanted to bathe.”

“Stop playing games, Priscilla. Why don’t you admit what you’ve done?”

For answer she turned away from him and when she turned back her eyes were sparkling. “Oh, you’re such an upright citizen, aren’t you. Haven’t you ever wanted anything so much that you were prepared to kill for it?”

“No, never.”

“Then more fool you. Oh, my sweetheart, if only you had an inkling of how much I love you. Together we could conquer the world, you and I. Do you know when it was I first fell in love with you?”

He shook his head dumbly, afraid of spoiling her flow.

“It was when I came into your shop in Shug Lane with a doctor’s note for physic for Princess Amelia. You don’t remember, do you? But I did. I can picture it now.” Priscilla squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I can conjure up every little detail. What you were wearing; the way you looked at me. That was when I knew that whatever happened I would have you for my husband one day.”

“But I was married.”

“So I found out. I made enquiries about you and discovered that I had been at school with Emilia Rawlings, nee Alleyn. So I wrote and was duly invited. But even if I hadn’t known her I would have found a way of getting into your household. I truly love you, you see.”

John stared at her aghast, simply shaking his head. “Did you kill her?” he asked.

Once again Priscilla smiled her ghastly smile. “I removed her from our path, that is all.”

“But how in God’s name did you get her to go into the woods, on her own and in the dark?”

Priscilla actually looked smug and John’s hand twitched, longing to wipe the smile from her face.

“I told her that you were there. Said that you had slipped out at the end of the performance and had a surprise for her. Only it wasn’t the sort of surprise she had been expecting.” Priscilla giggled.

He had sworn to put down the person who had attacked his wife but now he just stood there, gaping, unable to move a muscle.

“But why Lord Hope?” he asked.

She moved closer to him. “Do you remember me telling you about the child I bore?” John nodded. “Well, it was all true except the King was not the father.”

“You mean Lord Hope … ?”

“Yes, he. He sired my baby.”

“And the attack on you in The Temple? You just lay on the ground and squeezed your own throat hard, didn’t you, you evil creature?”

“Oh yes,” Priscilla answered guilelessly, “I had to. If you knew how much I wanted you to touch me. I had to do something, anything, to get you to put your arms round me. Oh darling, you’re frowning. Don’t be cross.”

John ignored her. “And Lady Theydon?”

“She refused to protect me any longer. She whispered as much one night, then threatened me in her room. She had to go before she betrayed me which, I believe, she was about to do.”

“Poor woman,” said John. “I think she would have kept your secret for the rest of her days.”

“How aptly put, my darling. Most amusing. But now you know my little pretence, what am I going to do with you?”

“Priscilla Fleming, I am going to arrest you for the murder of Emilia Rawlings.”

“But I killed for you, John. All I did, I did for love. Just marry me, my dearest, and let us forget all about these incidents.”

“Incidents, you call them! Taking the lives of innocent people is nearer the truth. You bore Lord Hope a child years ago, so why kill him now? Lady Theydon had covered up for you to the best of her ability. But it was the murder of the woman who befriended you, the woman I adored, that is totally unforgivable. You are a monster, not a woman. Rather than love you, I loathe you.”

She gave him a look of such sadness that momentarily he felt sorry for her, realising that she was crazy and that nothing he could say or do would penetrate her consciousness.

“Oh my darling,” she sighed, then quick as a flash she produced a pistol from within the folds of the all-enveloping cloak.

“Priscilla, be sensible,” John reasoned. “If you shoot me you are bound to be caught. You’ve done enough killing. Put the gun away.”

“But you don’t love me, you’ve just said so. And you know all my secrets. I have to kill you.”

Behind her, from the top entrance to the Grotto, John detected a faint movement. He deliberately did not look, terrified lest she should wheel round and face whoever stood there.

“Well, if I must die, I must,” he said, playing for time.

She came right up to him, so close that he could stare into those small blue eyes of hers. In their depths he saw madness but he also saw a great tenderness and, overriding all, terrible sadness.

“Let me hold you as you die, my darling,” she whispered, and cocked the pistol.

The fluttering in the entrance turned into a whirlwind as a great voice shouted, “No, Miss Priscilla, for the love of God,” and a figure hurled itself onto her, pulling her to the ground so that the shot went into the roof.

John went down instinctively so that his entire view was distorted. But wrestling on the floor like a pair of fighting dogs he perceived the saturnine footman Benedict and the girl who had just tried to shoot him. Realising that the servant was himself in danger, John reached into his pocket for a pistol but discovered it gone, looked round for a weapon, his eye alighting on a piece of wood. Scrambling towards it, he snatched it up and getting to his feet stood over the fighting couple.

“Priscilla Fleming …” he shouted.

She looked up at him, said, “Why couldn’t you love me, John?” then, putting the pistol against her head, fired a single shot and fell backwards into Benedict’s arms.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

H
e had vowed to put down Emilia’s murderer and dance on their grave, but now that reality had come he could do nothing but stare at what was left of Priscilla’s head and weep uncontrollably. John wept the tears he had fought back so gallantly for so long. Sinking down once more, he sat on the Grotto floor and sobbed. Then he heard Benedict disengage himself from the dead woman’s embrace and scramble to his feet. “Come now, Sir, don’t take on so badly.”

John looked at the footman, shaking his head and muttering, “I’m sorry. I can’t help myself.”

“Best we leave here, with her so injured and all.” The Apothecary stole a glance and his stomach heaved. Half of Priscilla’s head had been blown to bits and had spattered itself on the floor and, ironically, was floating on the surface of the bathing basin. Staggering to his feet, he lurched to the door and inhaled the cold morning air to try and calm himself, then, almost automatically, John reached for his salts and took a good, deep sniff.

Benedict appeared in the entrance. “Come on, Sir. Back to the house.”

John set out, but strangely his legs were weak and it was somehow comforting to lean on the footman and be helped back.

“I apologise. I never really liked you, more fool me.”

“It’s understandable, Mr. Rawlings. I am the Princess’s spy — unofficially, you comprehend. I make it my business to know everybody else’s, if you follow me.

“I do. But why does she need such a person?”

“I don’t really know. Perhaps she likes to feel secure in her life devoted to pleasure.”

“Yes,” the Apothecary answered shakily, “I suppose you must be right.”

“But she is a good woman, Sir, despite the fact that when she was young she was fairly free with her affections.”

“As I imagine we all are,” John answered, and gave the hint of a smile.

So, supported by Benedict, he made his way towards the house and the great explanation that lay ahead of him.

Almost as if it were a state occasion, Princess Amelia had surrounded herself with her women. Clustered around her chair were the Ladies Hampshire, Featherstonehaugh and Kemp. Not such a stunning gathering as when Lady Theydon had been one of their number and they had represented the Four Marys, John thought.

He had told his story simply and from the beginning, omitting certain details about the three women for the sake of diplomacy. Benedict, obviously a well-loved servant, had joined him and provided the rest of the information.

“But what about Lady Georgiana?” Princess Amelia asked. “How is she faring?”

“It is my opinion that she and Joe Jago were acting in collusion,” John answered.

“Do you mean to say that she went through with the arrest as a kind of charade?”

“Yes, I do. Jago spent some time alone with her and I think he persuaded her to cooperate. She is probably lodging in some expensive coaching inn in London at this very minute.”

“And what of her future I ask?”

“Madam,” John replied, “that is a matter between her and Michael O’Callaghan.”

“Who is Priscilla Fleming’s cousin by the way,” put in Benedict. “There were three sisters in Ireland. One did well for herself and married Lord Theydon, the other two remained penniless and never left. O’Callaghan is the child of one, Miss Fleming the child of the other.”

“And to think the wretched girl killed her own aunt. Vicked, vicked.”

“She was mad, Highness,” said John.

“Obviously. But a good actress.”

The Apothecary looked at the footman. “Yes, she was a very good actress,” he said quietly.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T
he following day Princess Amelia packed up the house and left for London. The Runners had come and removed the body of Priscilla Fleming, and the Princess — being a woman of strong stomach and stout heart — had ordered workmen into the Grotto to enlarge it and make it ready for the summer.