Free Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake Page A

Priscilla. Yet it couldn’t be: he had just left Priscilla in the warmth and gaiety of the saloon.
    “Oh God, no,” he shouted and sprinted over the snow to where the figure lay on its back, so still and so pale in the blood-red setting.
    He reached her side and scooped her up in his arms, pulling back the hood so that he could see the face. It was Emilia, covered in blood, bleeding into the snow, adding her own redness to that provided by nature, the knife that was ending her life still buried deep in her gut.
    “Oh, darling,” he said. “Speak to me.”
    She opened her eyes and looked up at him, recognised him. Her lips tried to say something but he could not catch the words. Then she closed her eyes again and with a sigh her head fell to one side. Emilia had died in his arms as the Apothecary watched helplessly.
    John knelt cradling her to his heart as round him darkness fell. He thought wildly, madly, that he had been a bad husband, that he had not come up to her expectations of him. He remembered everything with a terrible clarity, saw her again as she had first appeared to him, so beautiful and so fresh, close to Apothecaries’ Hall. Recalled with shame the time when he had almost been unfaithful to her. Remembered how he had not been in the house when Rose had been born.
    Eventually, tears came and he sobbed aloud, holding her close, letting her blood flow over him. And so he was sitting, in the dark, holding his dead wife, when he became conscious of a noise. A party had come from the house to look for them. Flaming torches were carried high and he recognised people advancing towards him.
    He did not move, staying where he was, never wanting to shift again. Crouching over Emilia, his instinct was to protect all that was left of her, to save her from the stares and curiosity of unwanted bystanders. Yet nothing could be done; the crowd, carrying lit flares, was advancing ever closer.
    They stopped three feet away from him, forming a semicircle. John’s wild thoughts turned to a pagan ritual, come to fetch the human sacrifice. Slowly, very slowly, he stood up, realising that the knife was in his hand, that he must have pulled it from Emilia’s stomach without even realising he had done so.
    Staring wildly into the depths of the crowd he picked out the face of Lady Theydon, her dark eyes fixed on him unblinkingly. He saw her tongue emerge like a snake and run over her moist lips. Then she let out a low shriek.
    “Oh, murder, murder,” she cried. “What have you done, Sir?”
    John tried to speak but no sound came out. He stood where he was, opening and closing his mouth silently.
    Then, suddenly he realised how bad he must look, soaked in Emilia’s blood, the knife that killed her in his hand. He spoke at last.
    “I found her like this, believe me.”
    Lady Theydon gave him an expressionless look. “Well I, for one, don’t believe you. I believe you are a murderer.”
    There was a groundswell of muttering amongst the people. John heard Michael O’Callaghan say, “Oh no, ’tis not possible,” then he saw two burly footmen advancing towards him.
    Shouting, “No, I swear I am innocent,” the Apothecary stood, petrified, where he was.
    Then the swarthy face of the pock-marked man thrust itself within an inch of his nose. “I’ll have to request you, Sir, to come with me,” the footman said.
    And a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

Chapter Seven

    H e hadn’t wanted to leave her body, had wanted to stay with it as the last vestige of her on earth, but he had had little choice. His arms had been seized, one on either side, and he had been frogmarched back to the house, quite roughly. Once inside he had gone straight to the closet and had vomited violently before they had locked him in a small room by himself. It had been empty of furniture other than for a chair and into this the Apothecary had sunk, his legs entirely devoid of strength.
    How long he had sat there he couldn’t tell but somewhere