Death in the Setting Sun Read Online Free Page A

It’s only me chest.”
    And with that the Irishman removed his cloak, ripped his shirt out of his breeches and hauled it upwards, displaying a great deal of muscular upper body. The Apothecary pressed and prodded gently, to the accompaniment of groans of varying strengths, finally saying, “Yes, Sir, you have sustained a broken rib in my view.”
    “Great God, I’ll have the fellow’s neck, so I will.”
    “It really isn’t anything to worry about. I’ll prescribe you a strong decoction of Madder. That will relieve the bruising both internal and outer.”
    “But me rib, what should I do about that?”
    “Nothing,” John answered calmly. “It will heal on its own. I wouldn’t recommend that you continue the stage fight, however.”
    “Ah, there’s me job gone. I’ll be honest with you, Apothecary. I’m at the very early stages of my career, though one day I hope to play the leads, mark you. But the fact of the matter is that now I’m only employed to brawl and crowd, if you take my meaning. So, I’ll be hanging round the other theatres to see what they’ve got. Ah, ’tis a terrible life, so it is.”
    He looked at John ruefully, his good-looking features creased into such a sad expression that the Apothecary found himself offering comfort.
    “I take it you were at Drury Lane, my friend?”
    “I was indeed, Sir. I was a fighting Capulet until last night.”
    The next question was out before John could help it. “Do you know Miss Coralie Clive?”
    “Not to speak to, no. However that has not stopped me worshipping from afar. But she is in the realm to which I aspire, mark my words.”
    “Then why not go to David Garrick and explain that you are temporarily hors de combat and ask if you may just crowd for the time being?”
    “He’s abroad at the moment and will continue to be so for some time.” The Irishman finished tucking his shirt back in and pulled his coat back into position. “Now, Sir, if you’ll give me the decoction I’ll be on my way.”
    John searched along the counter until he found a bottle of the red liquid. “Take twice a day, but not at night, unless you want to be up and at your chamber pot.”
    “Thank you, Sir.” The Irishman searched in his pocket until he found a card which he presented with a flourish. “My ticket.”
    “Thank you.” John solemnly handed him a card in return. “That will be one shilling.”
    “Expensive but worth it if it does the trick. Good day to yeez.”
    And he was gone, cramming his tricorne on his head and leaving the shop with a further jingling of bells.
    “Quite a character, Sir,” said Gideon, watching his retreating form through the window.
    “Yes.”
    John studied the card which read, “Michael O’Callaghan, Thespian and Artiste”. Beneath this bold inscription there was printed an address off Fleet Street. John suspected that it was probably somewhere rather seedy.
    “Strange to think of him being on the same stage as Coralie,” he said to himself, then felt a rush of self-annoyance that such a thought should even have presented itself.

    The next day found Emilia in a state of extreme nervousness. “John, before you go to work you must advise me on my wardrobe,” she announced at breakfast.
    He looked up from The Daily Courant. “Wardrobe?” he asked.
    “Yes. It is today that I go to take tea with Priscilla. I really am determined to cut a dash fashion-wise. Supposing I should run into Princess Amelia.”
    “Why? Does she wear cutting styles?”
    “I have no idea but one must be prepared. The train has made a comeback, you know. Do you think my open robe with the small train would be suitable? That is if I can get into it.”
    John smiled at her, thinking how excitement became her, transforming her into someone far younger than her actual age. Indeed, Emilia almost looked childlike as she gazed at him earnestly.
    “Let’s go upstairs and have a look at your selection,” he said, cramming a piece of beef into his mouth