Death in the Setting Sun Read Online Free Page B

and chewing hastily.
    “Oh good,” she said, clasped her hands together and practically ran up the flight in front of him.
    Several of her favourite dresses were lying on the bed and before he could say a word Emilia had slipped off her night-rail and was trying the first one on. After fitting them all they eventually decided on a sacque-backed gown in heavy woven silk, trimmed with lace and flowers, the sacque falling in a slight train as fashion decreed. The stays beneath meant that it could be laced as tightly as ever.
    “Phew,” said Emilia, holding her breath.
    “You won’t get away with this much longer,” John remarked, noticing the flush in her cheeks.
    “Nor would I wish to. I feel like an oyster crushed by its shell.”
    “Well, breathe in today and after that, loosen your stays.”
    “Yes, Apothecary,” she said cheekily, making a face at him.
    John felt another rush of love for her and pulled her close. “Enjoy yourself,” he said, “and remember that you will be one of the most beautiful women there. There’s no need for all these alarms, you know.”
    “But I enjoy them,” Emilia said, and kissed him on the cheek. He responded with a proper kiss, a kiss which left them both feeling rather flustered, and it was as much as he could do to tear himself away and walk through the cold to Shug Lane. Which, however, he forced himself to do, slowing his gait as he spied Gideon, running and breathless and somewhat ill-attired, but ahead of him just the same.

Chapter Three

    A fter his day’s work, knowing that Emilia would be late, John made an appointment to see his tailor, a man he held in high esteem. He had been attending the same fellow, whose name was Josiah Bentham, for several years, and now he made his way to Ludgate Hill, where Josiah resided next door to a linen drapers, with whom he had connections. Usually, of course, Mr. Bentham attended to him in his home but tonight, because John had firmly insisted, the client was making his way to see the tailor.
    Taking a hackney coach, John travelled with a sense of enjoyment. Not that he needed a new suit, nor even workclothes, his clothes press bulging with garments. But styles were changing. The flared coat skirts which he had been sporting were being cut back, waistcoats were flaunting small stand collars. Indeed, he looked forward to a half hour in which he could talk about fashion with an expert and, if necessary, call Josiah in to alter some of his existing clothes.
    The night was extremely cold, the moon frosty and covered by a hazy layer of cloud. As the coach proceeded down The Strand, John was struck by the fact that few prostitutes were out, preferring to lose a night’s trade than to brave the elements, no doubt. Fleet Street, where lay the notorious Fleet Ditch, an open sewer with an indescribable stench, was not as noxious as usual. John noticed as they passed over Fleet Bridge that the Ditch had frozen over, trapping the worst of the stinks within. None the less he applied his handkerchief to his nostrils and did not remove it until they had climbed further up Ludgate Hill.
    The hackney drew to a halt outside the linen drapers and John, paying the man off, knocked on the door beside the shop. It was opened by a boy, who bowed and said, “Mr. Josiah is waiting above, Sir.” Cautiously, John ascended the steep flight of stairs.
    He entered a scene of high activity. Despite the lateness of the hour cutters and stitchers were working feverishly on a whole medley of cloths, while the tailor himself, tape measure round neck, flitted from place to place, overseeing all. He turned as he heard John come in and gave an extraordinary bow.
    “Mr. Rawlings, my dear Sir. I do hope your journey here was not too hazardous.”
    “No, I took a hackney.”
    “Just as well. Far too far to walk, particularly on such a freezing night.” He paused, said, “Excuse me a moment if you would,” and hurried over to one of his assistants.
    John looked