Free Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake Page B

in the small hours there came a scrabbling at the door. They had provided him with half a candle and a pail for relief, that was all. Returning to full consciousness at the furtive noise, John saw that the candle was burning down and hastily blew it out to conserve it. Thus he sat in the darkness, listening. The scrabbling came again, followed by a faint voice saying, “John.”
    He went mad, thought he had been mistaken about Emilia’s death and that she was outside, trying to communicate with him. He rushed to the door, leaning close to it.
    “Emilia?” he managed to croak.
    There was a pause, then came the answering whisper. “It’s Priscilla. John, Emilia is dead.”
    “I know, I know,” he whispered back, and suddenly he was in tears again, weeping as though his heart had broken, which it had.
    There was the sound of a key in the lock and in the moonlight, which came through a high barred window, he saw the door open and a female enter the room. She crossed to his side and put her arms round him.
    “There, there,” she said.
    But John was uncontrollable, crying like a little boy, quite unable to stop himself. Eventually, though, he quietened, though his body still quivered with sobs.
    “I didn’t kill her,” he managed to murmur.
    “I know you didn’t,” she answered him. “John, listen to me.”
    “What?”
    “Emilia borrowed my red cloak. It was me the killer was after, don’t you see?”
    “My God,” said John, collapsing back onto the chair. “Oh my God.”
    The thought that his wife had died because she had borrowed another woman’s garment cut him to the quick, yet he could see the sense of it.
    “Why did she borrow your cloak?” he asked.
    “Heaven knows. She probably decided to take a turn in the grounds and couldn’t find her own. I don’t know the reason. All I know is that the killer’s knife was meant for me.”
    Priscilla shivered violently, her face drawn and haggard.
    “But who would want to kill you?”
    “Oh, as to that I keep my own counsel. But be assured there are several people.”
    John stood up and took her by the shoulders. “What are they planning to do with me?”
    “They will keep you here until they can hand you over to the Beak Runners. A rider is setting off for London tomorrow morning to tell Sir John Fielding.”
    “Then at least I’ll be fairly treated.”
    “But he is bound to arrest you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Princess Amelia believes you are guilty, Sir John would be flouting a royal command if he were to do otherwise.”
    “But you will speak up for me? Tell them about the cloak?”
    “You know I will. But it is a question of proof. You must admit you looked mighty guilty.”
    John sighed. “You’re right.” His voice changed. “Where is Emilia?”
    “They have brought her back to the house. She’s in a room close by.”
    “May I see her?”
    Priscilla hesitated. “I managed to find a key to fit the lock but should I let you out?”
    John said angrily, “In the name of heaven, Priscilla, you know I’m not guilty.”
    She relented. “Yes, I do. Come.”
    The Apothecary struck a tinder and relit the candle, handing it to her. In silence they left the room and John found himself in a rough brick corridor. He had clearly been taken to the cellar — as had his wife.
    She lay in another small brick room, this one entirely devoid of light. A hasty bier had been made from three large planks put together supported by a trestle beneath. They had covered her with a white sheet through which a small stain of blood had started to dry. With a hand that shook violently John pulled it back and gazed into her face.
    Like this, with no visible sign of violence, she looked as if she were asleep. Yet the face had lost its colour and was a snowy white against which the darkness of her lashes showed starkly. The Apothecary turned to Priscilla.
    “Leave us a minute, please. I beg you to do so.”
    She reluctantly set the candle down and headed for the