Death in Hellfire (4 page)

“There is nothing I can do to stop him. He says he will stay in an hostelry close by and watch points, as it were. Besides, Papa, I don’t wish to upset him. Our friendship is just starting to restore itself. It would be a tragedy to undo all that.”

“It would indeed. He is too valuable a companion to risk a further breach. I think, my son, that you will have to consider this as a case of when the maggot bites.”

“I agree. But I shall reveal nothing to Sir John. If he gets to hear of it I shall say it was pure coincidence that Samuel was staying in the same place.”

“And do you think he will believe you?”

“It is all the same to me whether he does or does not,” John answered with far more assurance than he actually felt.

The Apothecary set off for work early the next day and reached the shop while Gideon Purle - now well established as an apothecary’s apprentice - was still sweeping out.

“Good morning, Gideon,” he called cheerfully.

“Good morning, sir, Master Dawkins will be along soon.”

“Before he comes I would like to have a word with you.”

“Yes, sir?” said Gideon, and put down his broom.

John went through to the compounding room and striking a tinder managed to light the little brazier upon which stood a well-used kettle. He looked up as his apprentice came into the room.

“Tell me, Gideon, is Master Nicholas contented working in Shug Lane? Or would he rather have his own establishment?” Gideon looked cautious. “I don’t care to gossip about him, sir, but he seems happy enough to me.”

“Good, I’m pleased to hear it.”

“And he’s moved his lodgings of late to Bow Street, where he is a great deal more settled.”

“I see.” John sipped his tea reflectively. “And lady friends? Does he have any of those?”

Young Purle, who was now nineteen and had shot up to an enormous height, looked down at his master.

“I think not, sir. But you had better ask him directly.”

So the apprentice was not willing to chat about the man whom he considered his master even though his indentures had been signed with John. The Apothecary gave a crooked grin.

“Well said, my friend. I consider myself reprimanded.” Gideon blushed a deep rose red. “I’m sorry, sir… I didn’t mean—“

“Don’t worry,” John interrupted, and laughed. “I was being inquisitive - a naughty little habit of mine. You were quite right to stop me in full spate.”

At that moment the subject of their conversation walked into the shop and John rose to greet him.

“Nicholas, my dear chap. I hear you’ve moved to Bow Street. Tell me all about it.”

“Well, sir, I saw an advertisement for some rooms in
The Public Advertiser
and I went round immediately and got them. And very pleasant they are too. On the fourth floor and not at all stuffy.”

“Are you anywhere near Sir John Fielding?”

The Muscovite gave an attractive smile and answered, “Two doors down, sir.”

He was now in his late twenties and had a special place in John’s affections. He had been suggested to the Apothecary by the Blind Beak himself; a pale, starving, thieving boy from the poorest of backgrounds. But he had turned out to be a wonderful apprentice and John gave sincere thanks that he had, albeit somewhat unwillingly, taken the youth on. Walking with a slight limp - a fact which the ladies seemed to find attractive - he was tall, dark and pale, another feature which they seemed to think appealing. Yet, despite his obvious charms, Nick had never got himself a wife, having a penchant for picking women who were either impossible to capture or who loved someone else. John was beginning to worry about him. Now, though, he gave Nicholas a broad smile.

“Familiar territory for you, eh?”

“Yes, indeed. I was working for Sir John when you first took me on, sir.”

“And Mary Ann? Have you seen anything of her?”

“I have seen her from my window and must say that she has become a very highty-tighty wench - if you’ll forgive the phrase, sir.”

John, remembering the incident when Mary Ann had been kidnapped and Nick had been dying for love of her, merely smiled.

“Enough about that young lady. I’m afraid I have to ask you another favour.”

“And what might that be, sir?” asked Nick, removing his caped coat and putting on his long apron.

“I want you to stand in for me yet again, I’m afraid.”

Nick pulled a quizzical face. “I have been here so long now I feel as if I practically own the shop.” Then seeing the expression on John’s face, added hastily, “But I love the place, sir. I truly do. It is no hardship to me to act as your deputy.” John sat down and poured out two cups of tea, motioning Nick to a chair.

“I promise you, my friend, that one day you will be rewarded for this. And I am not speaking lightly. One day this shop will be yours.”

“But supposing you should have a son, sir.”

John grinned. “No chance of that, I fear.”

Nick looked at him over the edge of the tea cup. “Why not? You might well remarry and have another family.”

“I have no plans to do so. Absolutely none.”

Dawkins gave a disconcerting wink. “You never know what is round the corner,” he said.

For some reason this remark made John pause and think about his life. Perhaps he should marry again and put his great passion for Elizabeth behind him. Perhaps he should marry for the company, for the contented routine that living with somebody brought in its train. Perhaps, indeed, he should try and have another child to give Rose some company.

“No,” he answered Nicholas slowly, “you don’t know, do you.” And he slowly sipped his tea.

Some hours later he returned home to sense a change in the atmosphere. Even as he put his key in the lock and opened the door he could tell that something in the place had changed. There was a faint perfume in the air, a smell of summer and roses and sweetness of the fields.

“Grey,” he said to the footman who came hurrying to take his coat. “Idas somebody called?”

“Not only called, sir, but is waiting for you in the parlour.”

“And who might that be?”

“A young lady, sir. She’s come about the advertisement you placed in the newspaper yesterday. I thought it best that she should wait, sir. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not. I’ll just go and wash quickly and then I’ll present myself.”

“Very good, sir.”

Hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom, John doused his hands and face in cold water, brushed at his clothes then, on a whim, changed his cravat, his other looking somewhat soiled. Then he sauntered downstairs and into the parlour.

The girl was standing looking out of the window as he came in but turned immediately and dropped a curtsey. John bowed slightly, then straightened up to look at her.

It was a neat little parcel of humanity that he was staring at, everything perfectly proportioned and concise. But it was the girl’s face that held his attention, huge dark blackberry eyes and a large smiling mouth, smiling so broadly in fact that John had no option but to grin back. Hair, black as midnight, showed itself beneath her lilac hat, which matched her open robe beneath, her general smallness belied by the girl’s hands which were long and fine.

“Madam,” said John, and bowed once more, this time a little more deeply.

“I am Octavia da Costa,” she answered, and the Apothecary knew at once that she was not a native of these shores, not just from her name but also from her very careful use of the English tongue.

He should have been totally in control of the situation, calmly speaking about the advertisement and her qualifications in answering it, but there was something infectious about her good humour, about her precise use of his mother tongue, that just made him want to laugh. Instead he smiled.

“Miss da Costa, I am John Rawlings. Do sit down. Would you care for some wine?”

“Oh yes, I would like that very much,” she answered, removing her gloves and revealing her hands which were truly distinctive as he had guessed.

John rang a bell, then said, “Tell me, Miss da Costa, where do you come from and what is your history?”

The blackberry eyes beneath their thin dark brows flashed him a slightly apprehensive glance. “I was born in Portugal, Mr Rawlings, of a Portuguese father and an English mother. Unfortunately my father, though a good husband and parent in every other way, was addicted to gambling, in particular he liked to back horses. It was my mother who taught me English, by the way.”

“And very well too,” John answered, finding her accent charming.

“Anyway, Papa died leaving a string of debts and I’m afraid my mother and I were forced by dead of night to take the packet from Lisbon and escape to this country.” She looked at him to see if he was shocked but gathered from his relaxed expression that he was not.

“It was very honest of you to tell me that,” he answered as a footman came in carrying a tray.

“I know, but I thought it best. I think any relationship should start off with the truth. The lies can come later.”

John laughed aloud, at the same time pouring her a glass of rhenish. “Here, Miss da Costa, try this.”

“Thank you, Mr Rawlings. I will.”

She drank deeply and John noticed the way she supped, so that her generous mouth was bedewed with tiny droplets of wine. He knew then that providing she did not reveal anything terrible about her past, he would employ her. Trusting both his gut and his instinct, he found her refreshing and pleasant and felt already that she would be a good influence on Rose.

“So what happened next?” he asked.

“My mother and I got lodgings in London, in Clare Street behind the Strand to be exact. She worked in a dressmaker’s and I took employment with a milliner. But then she got ill and I left my work to look after her. But, alas, she died last month and I knew that I must find some other occupation - preferably one which demanded I lived in - to make ends meet. So here I am, Mr Rawlings. I can provide references from Madam Violet, the milliner, and also from my mother’s physician if they would suit.”

“Yes,” said the Apothecary, attempting to act like an adult, “I should very much like to see them.”

Miss da Costa produced two documents from her reticule and finished her wine while John perused them. He could see out of the corner of his eye that she was regarding him while he did so. He looked up.

“Yes, they seem satisfactory. Tell me, madam, what you will teach my daughter?”

“How to be a good woman,” she answered.

John stared at her, quite dumbstruck, never having heard anything like it in his life. “And what of the more conventional things?” he heard himself ask.

Octavia laughed. “I shall teach everything of everyday life as well, until she is old enough to go to school. You do intend to send her to school, I take it?”

“Yes, I certainly do.”

“Well then, sir, I shall leave you to think things over. Perhaps you would be good enough to send round to my lodgings with your reply, that is when you have interviewed the other candidates.”

“There are no other candidates at the moment,” John answered.

“I see,” said Octavia, and pulled a grave face.

“But I am sure that there will be.”

“Indeed yes.”

“So in the meantime would you like another glass of wine?”

“Yes, I would relish one,” the girl answered, and smiled her warm-mouthed smile.

Chapter Four

A
t breakfast the following morning, John told both Rose and Sir Gabriel about the lively Miss da Costa and how suitable he thought she would be.

“But why do I need a governess, Papa?” asked his daughter. “I am perfectly happy with you and Grandfather.”

“Yes, but we cannot always be here to take care of you, sweetheart. Besides, you lack feminine company. It is time you had a woman friend.”

“But supposing I don’t like her.”

Sir Gabriel interrupted. “I would suggest, my dears, that Rose be the person to make the decision. Why not call Miss da Costa to join us this afternoon and see how she gets on. Surely that would be the sensible way out.”

“You’re right as usual, Papa,” said John. “Though convention decrees that the decision is mine, I will let Rose make the choice.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, and rising from her place at the table planted a moist kiss on his cheek.

Breakfast done, John made his way to his shop but not before he had looked through his correspondence which the postboy brought early to Nassau Street. There were several replies to his advertisement which the Apothecary put on one side against the fact that Rose might take a dislike to Miss da Costa. Not that he could imagine such a thing. Wondering what his daughter would make of the situation, he entered his premises in Shug Lane.

“Good day, Mr Rawlings,” said Nicholas, who this morning was looking decidedly in need of mothering in his dark clothes and impeccable white cravat, which only served to enhance his pale complexion and slim body.

John turned to look at him. “Nick, don’t you think it is time that you addressed me as John?”