by Deryn Lake
“I just thought I would sit in on the interview and see the young woman for myself,” he had remarked casually, his lower foot on the bottom stair.
“I will value your opinion greatly, sir,” answered John, well aware that his adopted father was bursting with curiosity.
“Then I will go and prepare myself,” Sir Gabriel had answered, pulling his old-fashioned three-storey wig firmly down upon his head.
Punctually at four o’clock the bell rang and Miss da Costa, today wearing a sky blue hat with matching open robe and cream petticoat, was ushered into the library to be greeted by three pairs of eyes, all regarding her with different expressions. The old man, dressed to the hilt in black and white, was eyeing her as if he could see into her soul, which he probably could, she thought. Mr Rawlings, on the other hand, was smiling at her. But it was to the child, whose dark blue eyes seemed as large as an opened flower, that she was drawn. Miss da Costa saw ancient mystery in those eyes, knew at once that the child was gifted, to the point where she exclaimed, “Oh, you little beauty, we shall have such chats, you and I.”
Rose got up and came towards her, putting up her arms and drawing Octavia’s face down to be level with hers. Then she kissed her on the cheek and turning to her father said, “If I have to have a governess, then I want this one please.”
The two grown men laughed, both having got to their feet when Miss da Costa entered the room, and now John bowed to her.
“Well, Miss da Costa, that would appear to be that. I promised my daughter that she should choose and it would appear that she has done so.”
She made a deep curtsey. “I think I will be very happy here, sir.” Rose, who had not let go of her hand, said, “May I show her the garden please?”
“Perhaps Miss da Costa would rather rest.”
“No, sir, if it is all the same to you I would like to see the garden very much.”
“Then inspect it you shall,” answered John, and bowed once more as the two females passed him on their way out. He turned to his father. “Well?”
“Well indeed. A very comely young woman if I may say so.” John smiled. “I am dining with Sir John tomorrow evening.”
“Excellent. Then you will be leaving us shortly I take it.”
“Yes. I shall be off very soon afterwards.”
“Tell me, will you have to impersonate another character? Adopt a guise of some kind?”
“I think,” John answered carefully, “that I will have to pose as a member of the minor nobility.”
“To gain entry to wherever it is you want to go?”
“Precisely.”
Sir Gabriel rested his chin on a long, thin, elegant hand. “Perhaps try the Irish aristocracy. They are so much more difficult to check.”
“You have a very valuable point. But wouldn’t that mean I’d have to adopt a phoney Irish accent? I don’t think I could keep that up.”
“Nonsense. A great many of them send their sons to England for their education. You could just say the odd word here and there with a strange intonation.”
John burst out laughing. “Father, you truly are an inspiration - and a master of all that is ridiculous. However, I do take your suggestion seriously.”
Sir Gabriel rose and helped himself to a small sherry. “Now, let me think. Who could you be? Perhaps some relation of the Earl of Cavan - one of the smaller counties, don’t you know.”
“No, I don’t, to be perfectly honest. Is there such a man as the Earl?”
Sir Gabriel sipped his sherry thoughtfully. “I have no idea, my son. That is why I suggested that particular place.”
“I see.” John looked pensive. “I could pretend to be one of his sons perhaps.”
“Why not? I doubt that your quarry, however well informed, would be able to check that fact.”
“Father, you’re right. I’ll put it to Sir John tomorrow night.” Sir Gabriel finished his glass. “And will you be mentioning Samuel, my son?”
“No, I think not, don’t you?”
But the answer never came for at that moment they were rejoined by Rose and Octavia da Costa both looking pink as the roses they had just been sniffing.
“Would you like a sherry, Miss da Costa?” the Apothecary asked.
“No, thank you. I must return to my lodgings and pack up my belongings. Would you mind showing me my room before I go?”
“Of course, how remiss of me not to do so before. Come this way?”
He led her upstairs to the first landing and opened the door of the best guest room, feeling that to put her upstairs with the servants would be to pay her insufficient respect. She went into it, clearly delighted.
“Why, it’s most pleasant, sir. I hadn’t expected anything like this.”
John laughed, glad that she was happy, and at that moment the front doorbell rang. Looking down the stairs into the hall below, the Apothecary observed the footman go to answer the summons and Nicholas Dawkins arrive, pale and intriguing as ever. Unaware that he was being observed, his former apprentice removed his caped coat and was ushered in the direction of the library.
“Who was that?” asked Octavia, then blushed a little at her forward manner. John, however, ignored it.
“My ex-apprentice. Name of Nicholas Dawkins.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I think the room is delightful. When would you like me to start?”
“In two days” time if that would be convenient. I have to go away and I will leave Sir Gabriel Kent, my father, in charge of the household. I’m not quite sure at this stage how long I will be.”
Miss da Costa nodded. “Oh, I see. Well, we must do our best without you.” She started to make her way downstairs, John close behind her, but four steps from the bottom she turned and placed her gloved hand in his.
“Do call me Octavia, sir. Miss da Costa is such a mouthful and I would far prefer to be addressed by my Christian name.”
“Very well, then, I will. But by that token I suppose you should call me John.”
But for the second time that day he met with difficulty. “Oh no, sir, that would never do. You will always be Mr Rawlings to me.”
* * *
Sir John Fielding was not in the best of spirits. Joe Jago, who came to the bottom of the stairs leading off by the Public Office, winked and said, “Be careful of the Governor, Mr Rawlings. He’s in high stirrup, I warn you.”
“Why?” John whispered back as they climbed.
“Had a lot of rum cases today, sir. Including a woman accused of murdering her children. It’s affected him badly.”
I shall try to be pleasant,” the Apothecary answered, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his guts.
The Blind Beak was sitting in the little room he used as an office, irritably calling out, “Jago. Jago. Where the devil are you, man?”
“Here, sir,” his clerk called back, “and I’ve got Mr Rawlings with me.”
“Have you now. Good, good.”
John as always made an elaborate bow, regardless of the fact that the Blind Beak could not see him. “Good evening, sir,” he said, then added, “I hope I find you in good spirits.”
“No you don’t,” Sir John retorted sharply. “I have had a terrible day in court. The standard of morals in this country has plunged to a new low, I tell you.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” John answered, knowing that he was learning nothing new.
“Whores, thieves and beggars, the lot of them. As for Francis Dashwood and his bunch of cronies - members of parliament, peers of the realm and God knows what else - they are setting no standards for the rest of the population. The sooner a halt is put to their activities the better it will be for mankind. Those who look to them for an example will have a sorry time of it.”
The Apothecary regarded the Magistrate carefully and thought that the signs of strain were distinctly visible. His face, usually so full and florid, was looking decidedly pinched and had a strange whiteness about it, while his nostrils and lips were both constricted.
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br /> “You don’t look well, sir,” he said tentatively.
Sir John made an impatient gesture. “There’s nothing that a few weeks in Kensington wouldn’t put right. It’s just that today filled me to the brim with despair.”
And the Blind Beak suddenly plunged his face into his hands, looking lost and bereft.
Joe Jago rose silently to his feet and poured out a large measure of gin which he guided into the Magistrate’s hand.
“Here, sir, drink this. It will make you feel better I promise you.”
“I have no wish to drown my sorrows,” Sir John said tersely. “May I have one, please?” John asked, not only because he needed a drink but in the hope that it might encourage the Blind Beak.
Sir John straightened up again. “I am forgetting my manners, Mr Rawlings. For a moment I thought you were a member of the family, which is a great compliment to you, sir. But you are a guest and should be treated as such. Certainly you can have a drink.”
Joe Jago winked and nodded at John, then poured the Apothecary a measure before helping himself to a glass. “Good health, sir. Same to you, Mr Rawlings.”
The Blind Beak drank his glass down then held it out for a refill. “I would like to propose a toast.”
“And what might that be, Sir John?” asked John politely. “That the scum of the earth might all be brought to book.”
The Apothecary sighed. “I don’t think that will happen in my or any other lifetime, sir.”
The Magistrate echoed his sigh. “I believe you are right, Mr Rawlings. Alas I do.”
Joe pulled his nose. “Perhaps some of them might make good if given a chance, sir.”
“Precisely. That is why I started my Seminary for Sailors and my Plan for Preserving Deserted Girls. To keep young thieves and villains and child prostitutes off the streets of London.”
“And very well they have worked too, sir,” put in John, somewhat over-heartily.
The Blind Beak brightened. “Is that the general consensus?”
“I should think it is!” the Apothecary replied with gusto. “Why it is the talk of the town.”
He caught Jago’s eye over the Magistrate’s head and watched as the Clerk gave a slow, blue wink.
“Well, well,” said Sir John. “Who would have thought it.” He slapped his thigh and it was the Apothecary’s turn to wink. The Magistrate’s mood was restored and they could now get on with enjoying the evening.
It was after an excellent dinner and two bottles of wine that Sir John addressed himself to the real reason why John had come.
“I’ve been hearing more about this infernal club. Seems there could be some form of Satanic worship going on.”
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
The 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 knowledg
e 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.