Death in the Setting Sun Read Online Free PDF Page A

round him. The room was very long, presumably stretching over the linen drapers shop underneath, and had exposed timbers. There was a large grate in which a coal fire licked halfway up the chimney, throwing out a goodly heat for those nearest to it. In the far corner of the room, however, where the boy who had answered the door sat with a couple of others, there blew a draught which felt as if it had the ocean on its breath. Yet it was the activity in the room that John found exhilarating. For everyone, old and young alike, was working full pelt to finish the garments that lay on the tables stretched out before them. It was like a scene depicting merry dwarves at toil and the Apothecary felt a smile cross his somewhat tired features.
    A table near the fire boasted various provisions together with some bottles of wine. Mr. Bentham, without enquiring whether his visitor would like a drink or not, proceeded to pour out a reasonable claret.
    Handing it to John, he said, “And now, Mr. Rawlings, let us discuss fashion.”
    John took a chair. “What are the latest trends, Mr. Bentham?”
    The tailor, who had not partaken, put his fingertips together. “Well, as you will have no doubt observed, the side seams of the coat are increasingly curving backward, bringing the hip buttons closer together. The effect, of course, is to narrow the back. The flared skirts are, alas Sir, going out.”
    “Oh dear,” said John, alarmed by the fact that he had several fully flared coats in his press.
    “Your present collection can, of course, be modified.”
    “Thank heavens for that. What else is going on?”
    “Well, the stock has replaced the cravat. But I see you are already aware of that.” He cast an approving eye at the Apothecary’s neckwear.
    “Yes. What else?”
    “Heels, my good Sir, are getting lower.” He paused once more and refilled John’s glass. “And now, Sir, let me show you quite the finest piece of material that it has been my pleasure to handle in many a long year.” He clapped his hands and one of the boys in the corner immediately got to his feet. “Jarman,” called Mr. Bentham, “bring me a sample of Midnight in Venice.”
    “Yes, Sir,” and the boy went rummaging amongst bales of cloth and pulled out one which he carried reverentially towards his master.
    It was indeed very fine, made of midnight blue with a design of small silver stars. John picked it up and felt the quality between his fingers. “Does it come from Venice?” he asked.
    “It does, Sir, it does. It is quite the latest style of fabric. Can you not see it with a shot silver waistcoat embroidered in petit-point with deep blue flowers, thus contrasting with the upper garment?”
    “Unfortunately,” the Apothecary answered, clearing his throat, “I can.”
    Josiah looked roguish. “Can I tempt you, Sir?”
    “I don’t think so. I am a family man now.”
    “Of course, of course. Now, when shall I call to remove your flared coats?”
    “Tomorrow perhaps.”
    “Tomorrow at six?”
    “That would be splendid. Now, can you send a lad to the hackney coach point for me?”
    “Of course, Sir. At once. Do have some more wine.”

    It was a little after seven-thirty when John began the journey home. London was freezing and there were few people about. Staring out of the window, wishing that he was already in his house, the Apothecary saw that the streets were almost empty. Then there was a hold-up as he drew level with the King’s Theatre in The Hay Market, into which one or two souls were still hurrying. He stared, feeling he recognised one of them, then as she turned her face was caught by light so that he saw it quite distinctly. It was Priscilla Fleming. But it was to the person accompanying her that John’s eyes were drawn. For it was none other than the Irishman who had come to his shop earlier that day. Michael O’Callaghan was, surprisingly, taking a young lady of some standing to the theatre that night.

    “Did Priscilla