some wine to be brought into the hall.
“My boy, I do believe you’re exhausted. Where are you staying? Or have you just arrived?”
“I’ve just come, Sir. I journeyed by stagecoach and travelled in the basket. As you can imagine it was extremely chilly.”
“What’s happened to your coach?”
“I loaned it to my father.”
“Dear Sir Gabriel,” said Sir Clovelly warmly. “How is he?”
“As active as ever. Age has been no hindrance to him.”
The wine arrived and was handed to John who drained the glass. The he turned to Sir Clovelly. “Sir, I’m going to ask the most enormous favour. As it is so late — the stage was very delayed because of the snow — I wonder if I might beg a bed for tonight. In the morning I’ll look for somewhere to stay but meanwhile I’m fit to drop.”
“My dear fellow, of course. You can tell me all about your news in the morning. I’ve got some friends sitting down to whist but they won’t be staying much longer. However, as it’s Boxing Night one must make an effort. By the way, just in case Sir Gabriel forgot to tell you, I lost the wife recently. Happy release really.”
John nodded. “Emilia died too. A few days ago. It was the unhappiest thing that has ever happened to me. You see, I miss her.”
Chapter nine
H e had not been sure how much he should tell Sir Clovelly Lovell, but some warmth, some element of sympathy in the little fat man, made him recount his story in full, down to the detail of Joe Jago’s offer to him and the way he had caught the Exeter stage on Christmas Eve and endured the most agonising Christmas Day of his life.
“Of course that particular service to Exeter is advertised for its speed,” Sir Clovelly had said, sighing over his sausages.
“Does it not bother you, my friend, that you are breakfasting with a man on the run?” asked John, ignoring the last remark.
“Hardly that, dear boy.” Sir Clovelly looked thoughtful. “I wonder what Sir John Fielding will do?”
“He has little option but to put up Wanted posters. After all Princess Amelia herself swears that I am the guilty party. There’s bound to be a hue and cry.”
“Yes, but how loud, that is the question.” Sir Clovelly’s jolly water rat eyes looked earnest. “Listen, old chap, you can stay here with me as long as you like. Don’t bother with an inn. They’ll all be full of
Christmas visitors. Feel free to come and go as you please and treat this as your second home.”
John laid down his knife and fork. “No, Sir, I couldn’t do so. I will be more anonymous in an hostelry. Besides, should there be recriminations I don’t want to involve you. I thank you kindly for your offer but it is one I must refuse.”
“Oh. Oh, I was rather hoping for some company.”
“I will call frequently.”
“Then I will have to make do with that.” Sir Clovelly looked worried, which meant that his chins and his eyes practically vanished in folds of flesh. “The thing is, dear fellow, with what will you occupy yourself all day? Staying with me, now, would be one social whirl.” He looked contrite and his jolly eyes appeared once more. “Mark you, with yourself in mourning, you might not feel up to cards and such like.”
John smiled. “To be honest with you, dear friend, I would rather take things quietly for the time being. My circumstances are so odd as to make me anti-social.” He looked at the fat man fondly, grateful that Sir Gabriel and he had become acquainted.
He felt refreshed for the Apothecary had slept deeply on the previous night, and for many hours at that. As soon as his head had touched the pillow he had lost consciousness, and thus he had remained, with no dreams to bother him, until eleven o’clock this morning. Now he sat, toying with breakfast, still unable to eat properly, still having mental pictures of blood-red snow with a solitary figure lying so still on it.
“Terrible business,” said Sir Clovelly, helping himself to toast and
“My boy, I do believe you’re exhausted. Where are you staying? Or have you just arrived?”
“I’ve just come, Sir. I journeyed by stagecoach and travelled in the basket. As you can imagine it was extremely chilly.”
“What’s happened to your coach?”
“I loaned it to my father.”
“Dear Sir Gabriel,” said Sir Clovelly warmly. “How is he?”
“As active as ever. Age has been no hindrance to him.”
The wine arrived and was handed to John who drained the glass. The he turned to Sir Clovelly. “Sir, I’m going to ask the most enormous favour. As it is so late — the stage was very delayed because of the snow — I wonder if I might beg a bed for tonight. In the morning I’ll look for somewhere to stay but meanwhile I’m fit to drop.”
“My dear fellow, of course. You can tell me all about your news in the morning. I’ve got some friends sitting down to whist but they won’t be staying much longer. However, as it’s Boxing Night one must make an effort. By the way, just in case Sir Gabriel forgot to tell you, I lost the wife recently. Happy release really.”
John nodded. “Emilia died too. A few days ago. It was the unhappiest thing that has ever happened to me. You see, I miss her.”
Chapter nine
H e had not been sure how much he should tell Sir Clovelly Lovell, but some warmth, some element of sympathy in the little fat man, made him recount his story in full, down to the detail of Joe Jago’s offer to him and the way he had caught the Exeter stage on Christmas Eve and endured the most agonising Christmas Day of his life.
“Of course that particular service to Exeter is advertised for its speed,” Sir Clovelly had said, sighing over his sausages.
“Does it not bother you, my friend, that you are breakfasting with a man on the run?” asked John, ignoring the last remark.
“Hardly that, dear boy.” Sir Clovelly looked thoughtful. “I wonder what Sir John Fielding will do?”
“He has little option but to put up Wanted posters. After all Princess Amelia herself swears that I am the guilty party. There’s bound to be a hue and cry.”
“Yes, but how loud, that is the question.” Sir Clovelly’s jolly water rat eyes looked earnest. “Listen, old chap, you can stay here with me as long as you like. Don’t bother with an inn. They’ll all be full of
Christmas visitors. Feel free to come and go as you please and treat this as your second home.”
John laid down his knife and fork. “No, Sir, I couldn’t do so. I will be more anonymous in an hostelry. Besides, should there be recriminations I don’t want to involve you. I thank you kindly for your offer but it is one I must refuse.”
“Oh. Oh, I was rather hoping for some company.”
“I will call frequently.”
“Then I will have to make do with that.” Sir Clovelly looked worried, which meant that his chins and his eyes practically vanished in folds of flesh. “The thing is, dear fellow, with what will you occupy yourself all day? Staying with me, now, would be one social whirl.” He looked contrite and his jolly eyes appeared once more. “Mark you, with yourself in mourning, you might not feel up to cards and such like.”
John smiled. “To be honest with you, dear friend, I would rather take things quietly for the time being. My circumstances are so odd as to make me anti-social.” He looked at the fat man fondly, grateful that Sir Gabriel and he had become acquainted.
He felt refreshed for the Apothecary had slept deeply on the previous night, and for many hours at that. As soon as his head had touched the pillow he had lost consciousness, and thus he had remained, with no dreams to bother him, until eleven o’clock this morning. Now he sat, toying with breakfast, still unable to eat properly, still having mental pictures of blood-red snow with a solitary figure lying so still on it.
“Terrible business,” said Sir Clovelly, helping himself to toast and
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