Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake Page A

“… We could both do with a substantial meal.”
    John put his head out of the window. He was hatless, had left his greatcoat behind, and his beautiful suit was covered in blood. “What shall I wear?”
    Irish Tom called down, “There’s a bag on the seat opposite you.”
    “Whose is it?”
    “I don’t know. I stole it from another coach just before I went to wait for you.”
    John shook his head but opened the bag and found a suit of clothes, made for someone far smaller than he was, within. Pulling it out, he stripped off, not easy in the carriage’s swinging interior, and put the ensemble on. It was made of dark green worsted, a very sensible suit indeed. Furthermore the legs only came to just above his knees and the hose did not meet them, but it was clean and serviceable. With a sigh, John fastened on the cloak — there was no hat — and thought about Emilia.
    A few minutes later they stopped at the inn they had patronised on the way down. Irish Tom pulled into the courtyard and jumping down himself, helped John descend. The Apothecary, weak as a child, was glad of an arm to help him into the smoky interior. Once inside, despite the earliness of the hour, Irish Tom ordered a large brandy for his master and a small beer for himself. Then he sat in silence and waited for John to speak.
    He thought that he had never seen the Apothecary look so ill. He had lost his wig long ago and now his cinnamon hair hung lankly round his ears, while his face was so pale that his vivid eyes seemed twice the size. He seemed to have shrunk but, Tom thought, this was because he was walking slightly hunched, as if he could not stand upright and face the troubles of the world.
    “She was killed by mistake,” John repeated at last.
    And with that thought came a poignant memory of himself looking out of the window and seeing Emilia hurrying through the grounds in the borrowed red cloak. At the time he had thought it was Priscilla but now he wondered what his wife had been doing, hastening through the grounds in the gathering gloom.
    “Tell me about it, Sir,” Irish Tom answered quietly, and John considered that he had never realised the hulking Irishman had this kind and gentle side to his nature.
    “I saw her, Tom. I actually saw her. She was hurrying through the gardens in the red cloak. But I never realised it was Emilia — thought it was Priscilla who had worn the cloak during the masque. I wonder where she was going, what important errand she was running, and for whom?”
    “Perhaps she felt like a walk, Sir. Perhaps she was just taking a turn round the grounds.”
    John’s pictorial memory flashed up a picture of Emilia as he had seen her. She had definitely been in a hurry, not carrying herself like a woman going for a stroll.
    “No, Tom. She was about some business. But what in God’s holy name could it have been?”
    “Perhaps Miss Fleming will know.”
    John shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He sat silently. “Will the body be released soon?” he asked quietly.
    “I don’t have the answer, Sir. I expect it will though.” The Apothecary put his head in his hands. “Dear Lord, what a mess. I have to tell Rose that she will never see her mother again. Tell the world that my wife is dead and that I stand accused of her murder.”
    “The sooner you get to Sir Gabriel’s the better, Sir. Now eat up, here comes a hearty breakfast. Once consumed, we can be on our way.”
    But John picked at his food, leaving nearly all of it on his plate.
    The coachman looked at him in despair. “You must keep your strength up, Mr. Rawlings. How will you be able to face what lies ahead if you’re weak?”
    For once his master took no notice and it was left to the Irishman to do justice to the severe breakfast which had been brought to them.
    John patted his pockets. “My money is in my suit, in the coach. Can you fetch it for me?”
    “Certainly, Sir.”
    While Irish Tom was gone, John ordered himself another brandy