Death in the Setting Sun by Deryn Lake Page A

for the same night, then I will gladly accompany him.”
    “And what about Walpole?”
    “You know how much he enjoys socialising. But even he finds it a strain, I believe. On one occasion he had to send to London for a dress coat and a sword in order to be properly attired.”
    “Well, I shall meet the lady for myself tomorrow.”
    “She’ll probably take a great fancy to you and add you to her guest list.”
    “I doubt it. An obscure apothecary will hardly come up to her dazzling heights.” John was silent a moment, laying a hand on his father’s arm. “Sir, you mentioned being without your coach. Do you miss it?”
    “Not at all. Really Kensington is sufficiently small to enable one to walk about. Which I do as it is extremely beneficial to the health. I am much better than I was when in town, don’t you know. I may be eighty but I feel good for another twenty years.”
    “At least,” John answered, then impulsively hugged Sir Gabriel. “You are a most remarkable person, Sir.”
    The older man laughed. “My boy, you flatter me. You always do.”
    “I tell the truth,” said John sincerely, and gave his father a kiss.

    The following morning, much refreshed from a good night’s sleep, he set off for his destination. They picked their way through the snow, sticking to the main tracks at which efforts had been made to keep the path clear. Leaving Kensington behind them they headed into the open country, passing through small villages as they went, and stopping to refresh themselves at an inn situated near the battlefield of Turnham Green. Then they pressed on, harried by the ever-present snow and the threat of more from heavy dark skies.
    At exactly two o’clock they turned off Brentford Lane through a pair of impressive gates and up a short drive, and there, lying before them, was an early Palladian mansion, its exquisite outline made even more stunning by the winter day. It was a fairy palace, John thought, always a fervent admirer of that form of architecture. Calling to Irish Tom to stop the coach, the Apothecary got out to have a better look.
    The house stood almost square in its design, a large pillared balcony on the first floor, the triumph of which was an arched window of enormous size standing between four others, two on either side. Above these pillars was an imposing decorated architrave bearing the design of a classical ribbon surrounding a central disc. The great window stood centrally over the front door which was reached by a short flight of steps, an altogether pleasing aspect to the eye. In short, John thought, it was the kind of house he would like to own but would never be able to afford. Getting back in the coach he instructed Tom to set him down then drive to the coach-house.
    A footman was on duty at the bottom of the entrance flight and, having heard John’s name, lowered the step for him and saw him out, directing Irish Tom to go to the stables. At the top of the flight another servant took John’s greatcoat and hat and bowed him into the water closet, a fact which he found a little obsequious. Having made use of the somewhat smelly facilities, the Apothecary emerged ready for the performance.
    Before him a grand staircase rose up, peeling off in two directions at the top. Several fine people were slowly ascending, careful of their apparel. John followed two ladies who were mounting ahead of him, studying them as he went. Both had on elaborate white wigs and wore spectacles giving the impression that they were very alike. And, indeed, this illusion was continued in their general appearance, for both had lost their chin line, both were identically wrinkled, and both had hands which flew about like birds as they talked.
    “Ah, my dear,” said the bolder of the two, casting her eyes around and taking in the attractive man walking a few paces behind her, “when will this terrible snow vanish is what I demand to know.”
    “One could say that it is very picturesque, mark you,”