Death at the Devil's Tavern (8 page)

‘Do you want me to call at Sir William Hartfield's town house tomorrow?'

Mr Fielding nodded. ‘Pray do so. Say that you have come to inform the family of some grievous news and take the snuff and pill boxes with you as a means of identifying the dead man. I shall give you a letter of authorisation in which I shall request them to cooperate fully with my representative. Then I suggest that you get one of them to accompany you to the mortuary to arrange for the release of the body. Observe them as closely as you can, Mr Rawlings. Something will be revealed, sure as fate.'

John downed his port and sat up in his chair. ‘I have become so comfortable that I don't want to leave. But leave I must. There is a great deal to be done and I think an early start is indicated in the morning.'

The Blind Beak laid a restraining hand upon his arm. ‘Wait one moment before you depart. There is someone I very much want you to meet. It will only take five minutes.' And getting to his feet, he felt his way to the door and called down the stairs, ‘Nicholas, some more wood for the fire if you please.'

‘Yes, Mr Fielding,' a distant voice responded, and a few moments later the Apothecary heard the sound of a servant humping a heavy basket up the staircase. Somewhat surprised, he turned to look as the salon door reopened.

A youth stood framed in the doorway, a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years old, clutching a basket of logs to him, both arms at full stretch round it. Normally, John would have taken little notice of a kitchen lad come to tend the fire but there was something so arresting about this boy that he gave him a second glance. It was the newcomer's hair which first caught his attention, so black it had almost a blue tinge about it, its vibrance in tremendous contrast to the pale face beneath, clearly etched with the lines of enormous suffering. The Apothecary instantly put the boy down as a charity child, one who had been abandoned by its mother, probably left to die by the roadside, but who had survived to be brought up by the parish.

‘Is that you Nicholas?' asked Mr Fielding, hearing the young man enter the room.

‘Yes, Sir.'

‘This is Mr Rawlings. I want you to tell him about yourself. Speak up and use a clear voice.'

It was pathetic, and the Apothecary hardly knew how to sit emotionless, as the pallid creature turned to him and recited a speech he had obviously learned by heart.

‘My name is Nicholas Dawkins. I was born in Deptford and lived in my grandmother's house until I was three years old, when she died. My mother died at my birth and there was no one to care for me so I was brought up by the parish. I was apprenticed to a sailmaker when I was twelve years old but he beat me so cruelly that I ran away to sea. However, an injury to my leg resulted in my being unfit for service. I came to London looking for work and became involved in petty crime. I appeared before the Principal Magistrate who took an interest in my case and has given me a job as a servant. Thank you.'

John did not know whether to laugh or cry. ‘How very interesting,' was all he could think of saying.

Nicholas fixed his clear russet eyes, an almost identical shade to the sails of a Thames barge, onto the Apothecary. ‘Very good, Sir,' he answered, just as if he were still at sea.

‘Thank you, Nicholas,' said John Fielding, and there was silence as the young man carefully placed some more logs on the fire, piled the remaining few in the basket by the grate, then quietly limped from the room.

The Blind Beak turned his unseeing gaze in John's direction. ‘Well? What did you think of him?'

Very puzzled, the Apothecary answered, ‘His is a sad tale but not all that an unusual one. It was kind of you to give him a home here. Will he continue to be honest, do you consider?'

‘Oh yes, I believe so. He only took up thieving in order to feed himself. But the fact is, Mr Rawlings, there is something about him that interests me.'

‘And what is that?'

‘When he was apprehended by the Runners he was searched and found to be carrying two items, one a document written in a foreign tongue with a post script in English, the other a ring, not tremendously valuable in itself, though made of gold. It bore a crest upon it.'

The Apothecary, who had been wondering why he had been detained just to look at the log boy, suddenly became interested.

‘Yes?'

‘I had the document translated. It was written in the Muscovy language and dated June, 1698. In it the writer, though he does not state exactly who he is, acknowledges that he has sired a bastard by one Nell Dawkins and asks that the reader should do all he can to protect the child with the money provided. Though as to whom that reader actually was is not made clear. Then there was the post script, added in 1737. This states that the child of the union, a certain Katrina Dawkins, gave birth to yet another bastard, one Elisabeth, who died giving birth to a son, Nicholas, and that he is now in the care of Katrina. An unusual name for an English woman, don't you think? Furthermore, the ring, when examined by an expert, appeared to emanate from a noble Muscovite house.'

‘But how in heaven's name,' asked John practically, ‘did the boy manage to protect such items from discovery all those years?'

‘He wore them in a bag which he stitched to the garment nearest his skin. He appears to have continued this practice as he grew and his clothes wore out.'

‘Is it possible that a Muscovy bastard could get itself to Deptford?'

‘Indeed it is, Mr Rawlings. Many years ago, in 1698, Tsar Peter lodged in Sayes Court in that very place in order to see the Deptford shipbuilding yards and study their work practices. He had members of his court with him. No doubt, the eager young beauties of the neighbourhood were kept busy attending to their amorous requirements. They probably left behind them a goodly brood of babes. At least this one's father gave something to support his love child.'

‘What a curious tale,' said John intrigued, then suddenly and quite clearly saw the purpose of his being asked to stay late. ‘You want him to work as my assistant, don't you? Am I right, Mr Fielding?'

The Magistrate, feeling carefully, poured out two generous measures of his excellent port. ‘Yes, that was my intention,' he answered, and laughed his tuneful chuckle.

‘I see.'

‘Perhaps you don't quite. The lad can read and write, taught by the captain of his ship so he told me. He is also highly intelligent and has some trace about him of his exotic heritage, a certain indefinable air which cannot be learned. I also believe that from now on, having been cherished in this house, he will continue on the path of honesty. Mr Rawlings, I am not asking you to take him as an apprentice, that would be too much. What I am suggesting is that while you act as my eyes, hunting down the killer of Sir William Hartfield, he works in your shop on the days when you are about the business of the Public Office.'

John hesitated. ‘Can you guarantee that he can be trusted with money?'

‘As much as one can about any human being, yes.'

The Apothecary grinned, considering that once more he had been manipulated by the sharpest brain in London, and decided to compromise just to prove his independence.

‘Then, Sir, send him to my house at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, sharp. If my father considers him suitable I shall take him on until this particular quest is completed.'

‘My dear Mr Rawlings,' the Blind Beak replied solemnly, ‘I had hoped all along that you might say that.'

Whatever other bad characteristics Nicholas Dawkins might prove to have, unpunctuality was not one of them. At half past six on the following morning, while Sir Gabriel lay in a darkened room, a small mask protecting his eyes from the cold light of dawn, and John whistled while he shaved, a habit which demanded certain facial contortions, there came a tentative knock at the front door. The footman who answered it was astonished to see standing on the step an extremely pale, very thin, dark-haired young man, scrubbed scrupulously clean and wearing a threadbare but serviceable worsted coat and breeches, stating that he had come on the business of Mr John Fielding. And when he produced the documentation to prove it, he was allowed admittance and told to wait in the smallest receiving room of all until Master John came downstairs.

Half an hour later, as the Apothecary entered the breakfast room, he was given the message that a certain young man desired to see him.

‘Then show him in here,' John told the astonished servant, ‘he may as well have something to eat before he starts work.'

A few minutes later Nicholas came in, treading diffidently, his limp even more pronounced than it had been on the previous evening. Studying him, it seemed to the Apothecary that the young man had difficulty in smiling, so hard had been the blows that life had delivered him.

‘Well now …' he began, but Nicholas interrupted him with one of his rehearsed speeches.

‘If you decide to employ me, I promise to be an industrious and honest assistant, Sir. You will not find me lacking when it comes to the call of duty. I am deeply grateful for the trust that you have put in me in giving me this opportunity. Thank you.'

John's eyes twinkled. ‘Noble sentiments, nobly expressed. Have you had breakfast?'

Nicholas's dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Some bread and cheese, Sir. That is all.'

‘Then sit down and have some more. You have a long day's work ahead of you and a lot of learning to do. I want you nourished and strong for such an enterprise.'

So saying, he tucked in heartily himself, motioning Nicholas to sit opposite him and ordering that another cover be laid for Sir Gabriel. Somewhat hesitantly, indeed as if he thought that the chair might break beneath him, Nicholas sat down and took a small piece of bread which he spread thinly with marmalade. He was just about to bite into this when the door opened and John's father appeared, a black velvet turban upon his head, a quilted nightrail flowing from his shoulders in a cascade which rippled about his ankles. It was an awe inspiring sight and Nicholas promptly leapt to his feet and stood at attention, just as he must have done before the captain of his ship.

Sir Gabriel looked at him, an expression of much amusement on his face, then addressed himself to the Apothecary. ‘And whom do we have here?'

‘Nicholas Dawkins, Father, a protégé of Mr Fielding. It is the plan that, if you approve of him, he will help out in my shop while I go in pursuit of Sir William Hartfield's slayer.'

Sir Gabriel's attention temporarily shifted from the newcomer and he stared at John with interest. ‘I presume from that remark that the Beak has now tracked down the missing body?'

‘He has, Sir. It is in the mortuary and the Coroner is satisfied that the dead man is indeed Sir William. So it is my duty, this very day, to go to St James's Square and inform the family of the tragedy.'

‘He lived at number thirty-two,' put in John's father, ‘I looked him up last night in Pigot's street directory.' He turned back to Nicholas. ‘And so this young fellow might be in charge of your shop. Tell me, lad, how old are you?'

‘Eighteen this year, Sir.'

‘And where do you hail from?'

‘From Muscovy, Sir.'

‘Muscovy!' exclaimed Sir Gabriel in astonished tones.

‘Via Deptford,' the Apothecary added quickly. ‘It's a long and interesting story. I'll tell it to you later.'

Sir Gabriel took a seat at table, his robe swirling as he moved. ‘Well then, John, I should take the lad on if I were you. It is not every day that one is offered a Muscovite as an assistant.'

His topaz eyes were sparkling but his expression was severe. John, catching his mood, looked equally stern. ‘Umm. Do you really think so?' But he could continue the teasing no longer as Nicholas's mouth, delicately moulded in his pallid face, began to tremble with anxiety. ‘Be of stout heart, Nick,' the Apothecary added quickly, ‘the appointment is yours if you would like to have it.'

The waxen features transformed into a smile, like spring in frost. ‘You won't regret it, Mr Rawlings, nor you Sir. I'm a quick learner, so the captain used to say, and I swear to do my best.'

‘Then that's settled,' said John, winked his eye at his father, and continued with his breakfast.

An hour later he and Nicholas had opened the shop in Shug Lane and the boy had started to write a list of what potions, pills and physicks were suitable for which particular complaints. He had also made a tour of inspection, noted what each cupboard and drawer contained, and sniffed several bottles of perfume. The exertion of mastering this in so short a space of time had brought a slight tinge of colour to his face and his russet eyes looked livelier than John had seen them. All in all, he seemed to be a useful enough lad to have around the place.

‘Tonight you are to put all the money in a bag and deliver it to my father. That is after you have carefully locked up the shop,' John ordered, wondering if he was making the greatest mistake of his life.

‘You can rely on me, Mr Rawlings.'

‘I sincerely hope I can,' the Apothecary said under his breath, as he went out into Piccadilly to hail himself a hackney coach to take him the short journey to St James's Square.

He was now entering one of the most fashionable parts of London for the entire area of St James's was considered excessively smart and
bon ton
. Not only had the Prince of Wales been born there but the street directory listed several Dukes and Earls amongst the residents of the Square. Furthermore, the inhabitants of this stylish quadrate had their own church, namely St James's, Piccadilly, and their own club, White's, which stood on the east side of St James's Street. John considered, as the hackney dropped him outside number thirty-two, an imposing building if ever there was one, that Sir William Hartfield must have been rich indeed to have owned a house in so elite a quarter.