Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake

door. “I’ll be right outside,” she said.
    He never knew why he pulled the rest of the sheet back, but pull it he did. Emilia’s wounded body lay exposed to his gaze. Fighting a terrible urge to shout aloud, the Apothecary examined her stabs.
    The killer had grabbed her from behind and struck three savage blows to her abdomen, then left her to bleed to death. At least that was how John read the situation from the position of the cuts.
    “My darling,” he whispered to the corpse, “I’ll find who did this to you and then I will kill him with my bare hands. I promise you that.”
    It seemed to him in the flickering light that she gave a little smile. John bent and kissed her hand, realising how stiff and cold it had become. Then he replaced the sheet, kissing Emilia on the mouth before he covered her face.
    Priscilla was not outside the door. In fact, Priscilla was nowhere to be seen. Candle in hand, John walked along the rough corridor, searching for her. And then it came to him. Perhaps she had deliberately made herself scarce in order to give him an opportunity to escape.
    He looked at his watch and saw that it was two in the morning. The entire household, with the exception of the night staff, would be asleep. Suddenly weak again, John sat on a rough stool and considered his options. If he remained in custody he would eventually be handed to the Runners who would escort him to Bow Street and into the custody of Sir John. If he escaped he could go to Sir Gabriel and explain what had happened, then give himself up to Sir John, hopefully in the company of Priscilla who could explain about the cloak and the mistaken identity. In short, there seemed little choice in the matter. It would be better by far to make his break for freedom while he had the chance.
    John crept along the corridor, his heart thudding and there, as he had been certain there would be, he found a door. Locked and bolted it was indeed but the keys were on the inside. Feeling hardly in control of himself, he raised a hand and slid back the top bolt which creaked and groaned as he pulled it back. He paused, his breathing coming in little gasps, and listened. Nothing stirred. Certain now that Priscilla had given him this opportunity, the Apothecary bent to the lower bolt and slid it back. It, too, made a noise but opened. Now all that was left was the key. Grabbing it with both hands, John turned it and the door swung ajar.
    The rush of cold air took his breath away, what was left of it. So much so that he stood gasping in the entrance, his thoughts whirling in his head. To summon Irish Tom, no doubt asleep in the stable block, would be sheer folly. For how could he in his blood-stained suit present himself to anyone who might still be on duty. But then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw in the distance that a coach was waiting near the gates of the house, a coach which he recognised as his own. John staggered forward and collapsed into the gigantic Irishman’s arms.
    “I knew you’d escape, Sorrh,” a voice whispered in his ear.
    “Did you hear about what happened?” John asked as Irish Tom carried him the rest of the way and deposited him inside the coach’s freezing interior.
    “I did, Mr. Rawlings. My deepest condolences to you.”
    “She was murdered by mistake, Tom. Poor Emilia borrowed a red cloak and that was her downfall.”
    He wept again, though he thought he had no more tears left in him. Very gently, Irish Tom wrapped him in a fur coverlet then climbed onto the coachman’s box.
    “Where to, Sorrh?” he asked.
    “Sir Gabriel’s,” was John’s answer as the motion of the coach finally lulled him into a deep sleep.

    *   *   *

    He woke in the cold light of dawning to see a friendless landscape. Tom had made what progress he could on the icy roads but the horses were tired and they were not much further forward than Turnham Green.
    “I’m making for the inn, Sir …” Tom’s Irish accent had become more subdued.