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Authors: Deryn Lake

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Mystery

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BOOK: Death in Hellfire
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John shivered. “Really? Have you any proof?”

“No, just hearsay. But I want you to get down there as soon as possible.”

“My father suggests that I pose as the son of an Irish peer. Says they are more difficult to trace.”

“A good idea. Who have you decided to be?”

“I thought of the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, a son of the Earl of Cavan.”

“Splendid. Will you speak with an Irish accent?”

“Glory be to God, no I won’t,” answered John in a stage Irish voice. “I’ll just have a slight drawl.”

“Very wise,” replied Sir John dryly.

“And what is your plan?” asked Joe.

“To book in at an hostelry in the nearby village, then perhaps call at the big house on some pretext or other.”

“Um.” The Magistrate cogitated. “Well, be careful. I believe Sir Francis to be a wily old bird. But then I need hardly warn you of that.”

“I promise, sir, that I will be very careful indeed,” John answered thoughtfully.

Chapter Five

T
he village of West Wycombe stood bathed in summer sunshine, its ancient cottages closely packed on either side of the High Street giving a friendly yet guarded look, as if the place would stand firm against any intruder whose aspect it did not care for. Behind the cottages rose a hill, its velvet green sward dotted with trees and at this time of year, early in the month of July in the year 1767, alive with meadow flowers. But it was not to this great medley of colour that the eye was drawn but to the buildings on the summit. For there, dominating the surrounding landscape, was a church with a huge golden ball set upon its tower. While almost immediately in front of it stood a somewhat nightmarish building, quite new judging by the excellent state of the brickwork, hexagonal in shape and faced with flint. It was a strange construction that made John think of a Scottish sepulchral enclosure and something about it made him grow quiet at the very sight.

He had left London the day before, driven by Irish Tom, his coach-driver, taken as far as Maidenhead where they had spent the night at The Bear. The next morning, Tom had returned to Nassau Street to attend to Sir Gabriel’s wishes, while John had gone to the livery stables and there he had hired a chestnut stallion with a friendly eye. These days he found this very important in view of his ill luck with hired beasts which constantly threw him, or refused to move, or misbehaved in some way or another which left him - a rather unconfident rider - looking a total idiot. However, judging this horse to be as good as it was possible to get in such an out-of-the-way place, he paid his money and took to the saddle.

The horse, called Rufus because of its red hair presumably, behaved well other than for one fault. It slowed right down whenever they passed an inn. John assumed from this behaviour that it had a regular rider who frequented such places and eventually gave in and dismounted outside The King’s Head situated in a small village. Ordering a pint of ale for himself, he sat quietly in a corner and tried to formulate a plan. First of all, he thought, he would somehow have to engineer a meeting with Sir Francis Dashwood. Secondly, he would have to think up a good story to cover the fact that one of the sons of the Earl of Cavan was out wandering the countryside in lonely Buckinghamshire. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he could combine the two; that the Honourable Fintan had come in search of the Postmaster General. But why?

Like a flash of lightning he knew the answer. They were considering introducing the penny post in Dublin. What better excuse than to question Sir Francis about it and say that as an impoverished younger son he was trying his hand at writing and would like the baronet’s views on the postal system in general. Suddenly cheerful, John ordered another pint and took some water in a bucket out for the horse.

An hour later he had entered the village of West Wycombe and as he proceeded up the High Street felt his eyes drawn to those two incredible landmarks on the skyline. If these represented Sir Francis’s power locally John would have to play his part incredibly well. For reassurance he patted the pocket in his riding coat inside which were some freshly printed cards bearing the inscription The Honourable Fintan O’Hare, Ballyconnell Castle, Co. Cavan. He just hoped that the baronet had no connections in that particular part of the world.

The one and only coaching inn caught his eye and he headed for it purposefully, handing Rufus to an hostler then making his way within. It was cool and shady inside and he was greeted by a rather charming maidservant who told him that the landlord was at market. Booking himself a room for several nights, John made his way into the taproom. Settling down in a dark recess, complete with a jug of ale, the Apothecary concentrated on listening to the local gossip.

His heart sank as he heard a loud voice say, “Sure, I’m waiting for my master to arrive,” in an accent that was unmistakably Irish. He strained his ears.

“Oh, that’s what you’re about, is it? We did wonder,” came the reply.

“He’ll be here soon enough,” the first voice said. “He’s a bit of a lad, you know and might have got distracted on his journey.”

There was a rumble of half-hearted laughter and the Apothecary surmised that the Irishman had been boring them half to death ever since his arrival. But his presence in the inn, together with that of his awaited master, could prove disturbing. With their knowledge of Ireland his stratagem could be unmasked almost before he had begun it. He listened on.

“Well now lads, let me be buying you all a drink,” said the Irishman.

This time there was a note of enthusiasm in the reply and John guessed that the fellow had an audience of three or four. There were various cries of, “I’ll have an ale, Governor,” and then silence while all quaffed. The Apothecary felt that he could not bear the suspense any longer and strolled round the corner to have a look at them.

The Irishman, who had his back turned, was a big fellow with a strange-looking brown wig on his head. He wore breeches tied round the ankles and a pair of working boots, while on his top half he boasted a sensible coat of fustian. His hat was low brimmed and wide and not like any style John had ever seen before. He stood silently while one of the yokels spoke.

“Whereabouts do you come from, sir?”

“Why, “tis only a small county. Name of Cavan. Have you heard of it?”

The Apothecary virtually reeled back. What evil coincidence could possibly be at work to produce an Irishman from exactly the same place that he was purporting to come from? He stood hesitating, literally rocking from one foot to the other, trying to make up his mind whether to bluff it out or flee - and then the Irishman turned round. John found himself gazing straight into the face of Samuel Swann. There was one awful second while they stared at one another before they both burst out laughing.

“Sam, you old devil,” said John, with just the hint of an Irish burr, “you got here before me.”

“Glory be to God, sir, so I did,” Samuel replied, and winked at him with a little blue eye.

“Well, now, would you like to go to my room and unpack my clothes for me?”

“Sure and I will. Have I time to finish my pint, sir?”

“You most certainly have,” said John with an air of sudden generosity. “In fact I think I’ll buy you a jug of ale and have one myself.”

He settled comfortably in a high-backed chair and put his boots on the table in what he hoped was a typically younger- son-Irish way. Samuel, meanwhile, after seeking permission to sit with his master, waved to the yokel who was acting as potboy to get them their order. John leant forward and lowered his voice to a murmur.

“How the devil did you find me?”

Samuel gave a grin that oozed self-satisfaction. “Easy, old boy. I called round to your house yesterday morning to discover that you had already gone. I presume that you were going to write to me?”

“Yes of course,” said John hastily. “But how did you find out about the Irish younger son?”

“Easier still. You left some newly printed cards in the library. I picked one up as soon as I arrived.” Samuel looked decidedly smug. “You’ll have to be more careful, John. Someone important could find out what you are up to.”

John bit back his rude reply. His relationship with Samuel had only just healed and this was not the moment for a witty answer. Instead he said, “Point taken,” and laughed.

Sam beamed. “I thought it was rather clever of me. I wormed out of Sir Gabriel the fact that you were posing as a son of the Earl of Cavan…”

John found it hard to imagine anyone worming anything out of Sir Gabriel but made no riposte.

“…and then I wended my way to West Wycombe, to find but one coaching inn.” He spread his hands. “The rest you know.”

The Apothecary looked him up and down. “And you are meant to be my manservant, I take it?”

“Irish version, old chap. Wouldn’t be as formal as an Englishman.”

Mentally John shook his head, finding it hard to imagine anyone as terrible as Samuel looked in his homespun garb being anything but a labourer. The potboy approached.

“Oh, Samuel,” the Apothecary said loudly. “How kind of you to help out when poor old Flaherty fell flaherty.”

Samuel stared blankly.

“Oh, he was a wonderful servant, so he was,” John continued. “Why, would you believe, that I looked on him as a father. And now there he is with two broken legs and an arm in jeopardy. But, praise be to the Holy Virgin, you volunteered to accompany me to England, rough old fellow that you are, to make sure that I wouldn’t have to look after meself. You’ve earned the drink I’m getting for you, so you have, you son of the soil, you.”

Samuel looked dumbstruck and said “Eh?” and the potboy appeared thoroughly alarmed.

“Well now, laddie,” John went on, getting into full spate, “would you be after having a pint of ale yourself?”

“Oh, no thank you, sir. Not when I’m on duty, like.”

“Very creditable in a young fellow. Tell me, my boy, do you know Sir Francis Dashwood?”

“Of course, sir. He owns the village. Everyone recognises him.”

“Does he come in here?”

“From time to time he does.”

John lowered his voice. “He’s not here now, is he?”

“No, sir. As a matter of fact I don’t think he’s in residence at the moment. I believe he’s down in London.”

Both John and Samuel made a simultaneous sound of disappointment.

“Oh, glory be, and there was me hoping to call on him. You see I’m very interested in the postal system in Dublin.”

This was obviously beyond the potboy who just gaped at him, open-mouthed,

“Yes,” said the Apothecary, expanding. “I had hoped to interview him on the subject. Him being Postmaster General and all.”

“I don’t know much about that, sir. I suggest you call at the big house.”

“A splendid plan, thank you, I will.” John raised his glass. “And now a toast. To Samuel O”Swann. The most cunning manservant in all Christendom.”

Samuel, reviving, said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll drink to that,” and they clinked glasses.

John had been given a large and interesting room. Straddling the archway which led into the inn’s courtyard, it had a window on one side, which looked down into the yard towards the stabling block and the greenery beyond, while the other side had two windows overlooking the street. The inn sign swung rather noisily and in something of a sinister manner beside one of them. Samuel, walking in, whistled beneath his breath.

“I say, this is a bit of all right. I’ve been relegated to the upstairs part.”

“That’s because you’re a servant.” John sat down on the bed. “Sam, are you sure you want to continue with this?”

“I should absolutely think so!” Sam answered with enthusiasm. “I went to quite a bit of trouble to track you down. I’m not going to miss out on the fun now.”

“But it could be a bit awkward, particularly if Sir Francis discovers we’re acting for Sir John.”

“That all adds to the excitement.” And Samuel beamed at the Apothecary in such a disarming manner that John decided he must say no more and for the sake of a long and steadfast friendship must endure Sam’s occasional blunders. He stood up.

“I must unpack my trunk. It was sent here by cart, by the way.”

“Where from?”

“Maidenhead. I parted company with Irish Tom there and hired a horse.”

“Why did you do that?”

“To enhance the role I’m playing. I had a feeling that an umpteenth son of Lord Cavan might not be able to afford such a luxury as a coach.”

Samuel looked guilty. “I must confess I took a flying coach from London to Maidenhead where I donned a disguise…” John hid a smile.

“…then I made my way here by farmer’s cart. You know, John, it was quite extraordinary, but along the route I’d swear that we passed a coach in which sat Coralie Clive.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was accompanied by a dissolute young man - that would be the heir to the Duke of Sussex who, as you know, she married. They also had a child with them; a girl.”

John sighed. “Yes, I knew she’d married some years ago. I’d forgotten about the child. It must have been born when I was occupied elsewhere.”

“It would be about ten or so. I’m sure it was Coralie. So much so that I ducked behind a large lady next to whom I was sitting.”

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