marmalade.
John toyed with a grape. “Do you think I did the right thing to run away?”
“Seems you had little choice. Being clapped up in Newgate would be no laughing matter.”
“Joe said that even with garnish it would be hard.”
“What’s garnish?” asked Sir Clovelly, cutting a hunk of pie, presumably having some odd comer to fill somewhere.
“A fee for the gaoler. The greater the garnish the better the treatment. But I still don’t think it would have been an easy time.”
“It would have been bloody hard and there’s an end to it.”
“Still I believe I’ll have to go back.”
Sir Clovelly looked astonished. “Why? What for?”
“To find Emilia’s killer. I know Joe Jago is on the trail but it’s not going to be easy for him. I have this notion that perhaps I could work undercover.”
“How would that transpire?”
“I could remain in hiding, perhaps don a disguise. I could hide out at a friend’s house, then go in search of the bastard who murdered her.”
Sir Clovelly chortled, a merry sound. “And how would you disguise yourself, pray? You’ve a very recognisable face, young man.”
“I don’t know how. Maybe dress as a curate or something.”
At that Sir Clovelly laughed all the more and John sat, feeling infinitely depressed, while his friend guffawed away cheerfully.
Eventually the noise died down and the little fat man wiped his eyes with his napkin. “Sorry, dear boy,” he said. “It was just the thought of you posing as a curate.” He gave another subdued giggle. “But I really shouldn’t laugh in the circumstances. Proper respect and all that.”
John nodded. “No need, Sir Clovelly. I know you mourn Emilia. The thing is you haven’t seen her for four years. But I …”
His voice died away as, yet again, he saw that figure, dying as the sun died also.
Sir Clovelly’s deep eyes glistened.
“… I found her. I saw her recognise me before she … she . .
John drained his cup of tea deeply, unable to continue.
Sir Clovelly rose from the table and went to John’s side where he laid a hand on the Apothecary’s shoulder. “There, my boy. Be easy. Why don’t you cry it out?”
But as John gave in to tears he felt a strong current inside him which said that this must be the last time, that he must not indulge this torrent of weeping again, that it was not fair on those left alive for him to do so. With this idea uppermost in his mind he brought himself under control and looked up to see the big jolly face looking anxiously at him.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I promise you I won’t do it again.”
“I could do with a brandy,” said his host. “And I think you should certainly have one.”
John nodded. “Thank you for being so patient.”
Sir Clovelly crossed to the sideboard, a fine piece in polished walnut, and poured from the decanter. John was amazed by the size of his portion but sipped it none the less.
“That’ll do you good,” said the older man, deeply imbibing. “Drink it down like a fine fellow.”
The Apothecary decided to be reckless and swallowed a great gulp and, strangely, did feel his spirits lift slightly, Sir Clovelly brought the decanter to the table and refilled John’s glass.
“Saw a friend of yours t’other day,” he remarked conversationally.
“Oh? Who was that?”
“The Marchesa di Lorenzi. Elizabeth.”
Even at the mention of her name the Apothecary felt himself grow hot. How could you, he chastised himself. Yet even with Emilia so newly dead, with the fact that four years had passed since he had last seen the Marchesa, he had suffered that reaction and was ashamed of it, Sir Clovelly, however, clearly noticed nothing because he continued to speak.
“She still lives by herself in that great place of hers overlooking the Exe, Sir Randolph Howarth came courting her and we all thought it would end in marriage but she refused him apparently. He was mighty upset and took himself off abroad.”
Why, the Apothecary
John toyed with a grape. “Do you think I did the right thing to run away?”
“Seems you had little choice. Being clapped up in Newgate would be no laughing matter.”
“Joe said that even with garnish it would be hard.”
“What’s garnish?” asked Sir Clovelly, cutting a hunk of pie, presumably having some odd comer to fill somewhere.
“A fee for the gaoler. The greater the garnish the better the treatment. But I still don’t think it would have been an easy time.”
“It would have been bloody hard and there’s an end to it.”
“Still I believe I’ll have to go back.”
Sir Clovelly looked astonished. “Why? What for?”
“To find Emilia’s killer. I know Joe Jago is on the trail but it’s not going to be easy for him. I have this notion that perhaps I could work undercover.”
“How would that transpire?”
“I could remain in hiding, perhaps don a disguise. I could hide out at a friend’s house, then go in search of the bastard who murdered her.”
Sir Clovelly chortled, a merry sound. “And how would you disguise yourself, pray? You’ve a very recognisable face, young man.”
“I don’t know how. Maybe dress as a curate or something.”
At that Sir Clovelly laughed all the more and John sat, feeling infinitely depressed, while his friend guffawed away cheerfully.
Eventually the noise died down and the little fat man wiped his eyes with his napkin. “Sorry, dear boy,” he said. “It was just the thought of you posing as a curate.” He gave another subdued giggle. “But I really shouldn’t laugh in the circumstances. Proper respect and all that.”
John nodded. “No need, Sir Clovelly. I know you mourn Emilia. The thing is you haven’t seen her for four years. But I …”
His voice died away as, yet again, he saw that figure, dying as the sun died also.
Sir Clovelly’s deep eyes glistened.
“… I found her. I saw her recognise me before she … she . .
John drained his cup of tea deeply, unable to continue.
Sir Clovelly rose from the table and went to John’s side where he laid a hand on the Apothecary’s shoulder. “There, my boy. Be easy. Why don’t you cry it out?”
But as John gave in to tears he felt a strong current inside him which said that this must be the last time, that he must not indulge this torrent of weeping again, that it was not fair on those left alive for him to do so. With this idea uppermost in his mind he brought himself under control and looked up to see the big jolly face looking anxiously at him.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I promise you I won’t do it again.”
“I could do with a brandy,” said his host. “And I think you should certainly have one.”
John nodded. “Thank you for being so patient.”
Sir Clovelly crossed to the sideboard, a fine piece in polished walnut, and poured from the decanter. John was amazed by the size of his portion but sipped it none the less.
“That’ll do you good,” said the older man, deeply imbibing. “Drink it down like a fine fellow.”
The Apothecary decided to be reckless and swallowed a great gulp and, strangely, did feel his spirits lift slightly, Sir Clovelly brought the decanter to the table and refilled John’s glass.
“Saw a friend of yours t’other day,” he remarked conversationally.
“Oh? Who was that?”
“The Marchesa di Lorenzi. Elizabeth.”
Even at the mention of her name the Apothecary felt himself grow hot. How could you, he chastised himself. Yet even with Emilia so newly dead, with the fact that four years had passed since he had last seen the Marchesa, he had suffered that reaction and was ashamed of it, Sir Clovelly, however, clearly noticed nothing because he continued to speak.
“She still lives by herself in that great place of hers overlooking the Exe, Sir Randolph Howarth came courting her and we all thought it would end in marriage but she refused him apparently. He was mighty upset and took himself off abroad.”
Why, the Apothecary
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