Free Death at the Devil's Tavern by Deryn Lake Page A

expert, appeared to emanate from a noble Muscovite house.’
    â€˜But how in heaven’s name,’ asked John practically, ‘did the boy manage to protect such items from discovery all those years?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Is it possible that a Muscovy bastard could get itself to Deptford?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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