Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake

about for ten minutes and then the next carter turned up driving a covered wagon. In this way he reached The Three Pigeons in Brentford as a frosty night drew in.
    The stagecoach, when it finally arrived almost an hour late, was packed with people desperate to get to Exeter for the Christmas festivities. Fortunately there was just room for John to squeeze into the luggage basket behind, where he almost went blue with cold. The first stop was at Thatcham, nearly six hours later, where they stopped for twenty minutes only before setting off for Marlborough, another three hours’ drive away.
    It was the most appalling journey of John’s life. The weather was terrible and at one point they got stuck in a snowdrift with every passenger having to get off while the coachman and the guard heaved the horses through. Consequently the coach became more and more delayed and John and the other disgruntled people spent their Christmas Day grumbling pettishly about their troubles.
    Afterwards, he never knew how he kept his patience that day. But he supposed that in a way the grumbling passengers helped him concentrate on something other than the death of his wife. Listening to their complaints, lists of various ailments, at the same time avoiding questions about himself, not only helped pass the time but kept him occupied. There were four others in the basket, all sitting on the luggage, all as uncomfortable as it was possible to be, and a strange camaraderie born of despair gripped the five of them, making them, when they finally disembarked at one in the morning of Boxing Day, arrange to meet again.
    They were set down outside The Half Moon where John had spent part of his honeymoon. The sight of the building, all dark and shuttered, reminded him vividly of Emilia, so much so that he could have sworn she was standing beside him in the darkened street. He could almost smell her perfume. And then some drunken people staggered down the alleyway and the illusion was gone. Not knowing quite what to do, John set off for Sir Clovelly Lovell’s house.
    He had some money on him. Not a fortune but as much as he had gathered for his journey to Gunnersbury House. He could afford an inn for a week perhaps. But still John carried on, past the cathedral and into The Close, moved by some desire to talk, to tell Sir Clovelly what fate had befallen him. Yet when he got there he couldn’t believe his eyes for the place still had candles burning and there was the noise of laughter coming from within. Emboldened by this, John rang the bell.
    A footman answered, looking suspicious. “Yes, Sir?”
    “Is Sir Clovelly Lovell within?”
    “I am not certain, Sir. May I ask who is calling?”
    “Could you tell him my name is Rawlings. He will remember me I feel sure.”
    “Very good, Sir. If you would wait where you are.” Not even allowed into the hall, the Apothecary thought, and felt wretched once more.
    There was a commotion within and then waddling into view came Sir Clovelly himself looking mighty put out.
    “What is it, Whistler?” he demanded.
    Whistler made an apologetic face. “There’s a person here who says he knows you, Sir.”
    “Knows me? Who . . “
    But at that moment John, ill-shaven and unkempt, stepped into the light of the hall, Sir Clovelly’s many chins wobbled as he looked angry, then surprised and finally overjoyed.
    “Rawlings!” he exclaimed. “My very dear chap. What brings you to Devon again? How delightful to see you. Come in, come in.”
    John took a step inside and the warmth and the general ambience hit him hard. He staggered very slightly, leaning heavily against the footman.
    “Are you all right, old fellow?” Sir Clovelly’s anxious moon face peered into his.
    “I’ve just had a difficult journey,” the Apothecary answered, smiling wanly.
    He sat down rather hard on the hall seat and put his head in his hands. Instantly Sir Clovelly, who had, if anything, gained weight since John had last seen him, ordered