Free Death at the Devil's Tavern by Deryn Lake

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.
    â€˜Is that you Nicholas?’ asked Mr Fielding, hearing the young man enter the room.
    â€˜Yes, Sir.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜And what is that?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜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