Death at the Devil's Tavern by Deryn Lake

of inspection, noted what each cupboard and drawer contained, and sniffed several bottles of perfume. The exertion of mastering this in so short a space of time had brought a slight tinge of colour to his face and his russet eyes looked livelier than John had seen them. All in all, he seemed to be a useful enough lad to have around the place.
    â€˜Tonight you are to put all the money in a bag and deliver it to my father. That is after you have carefully locked up the shop,’ John ordered, wondering if he was making the greatest mistake of his life.
    â€˜You can rely on me, Mr Rawlings.’
    â€˜I sincerely hope I can,’ the Apothecary said under his breath, as he went out into Piccadilly to hail himself a hackney coach to take him the short journey to St James’s Square.
    He was now entering one of the most fashionable parts of London for the entire area of St James’s was considered excessively smart and
bon ton
. Not only had the Prince of Wales been born there but the street directory listed several Dukes and Earls amongst the residents of the Square. Furthermore, the inhabitants of this stylish quadrate had their own church, namely St James’s, Piccadilly, and their own club, White’s, which stood on the east side of St James’s Street. John considered, as the hackney dropped him outside number thirty-two, an imposing building if ever there was one, that Sir William Hartfield must have been rich indeed to have owned a house in so elite a quarter.
    He had dressed sprucely but not ostentatiously for this occasion, a dark green cloth suit with gold decoration seeming to fit the bill perfectly. His waistcoat of matching material had perhaps just a fraction more embroidery on it than should have befitted one of Mr Fielding’s representatives, but the Apothecary considered this to be a personal statement of his love of fashion and did not let the matter concern him. And he had never been more grateful that he had turned himself out well than when the door was opened by a footman with a face as long and pompous as a viola da gamba, attempting to look down his nose at the visitor.
    Forestalling any effort to turn him away, John said, ‘I am calling here on behalf of Mr John Fielding, Principal Magistrate, of the Public Office, Bow Street. I do not have an appointment but it is imperative that I see the head of the household immediately. I have some grave news to impart.’
    Momentarily startled, the footman instantly regained his usual
sang- froid
. ‘Sir William Hartfield is not at home, Sir.’
    â€˜I am aware of that,’ John answered quickly, covering his bad choice of words. ‘I have come to see his next of kin.’
    There was no mistaking the meaning of that and the front door opened immediately, allowing John into a magnificent hallway, part of a spacious mansion built, so he guessed, in the 1660s.
    â€˜If you will take a seat in the antechamber, I will fetch Mr Roger Hartfield. Who shall I say has called?’
    â€˜John Rawlings.’
    â€˜Very good, Sir.’
    The servant departed, his expression bemused, leaving John to study the room into which he had been shown. Though small, it shouted aloud of Sir William’s wealth. Tall jars imported from India glinted azure and argent in the cold clear sunshine, rich brocades hung at the window, while a Chinese cabinet inlaid with gold stood beneath a decorated porcelain looking glass. Sitting carefully, the Apothecary took a seat in a velvet-covered chair which, by its graceful shape, denoted that it had been made in the reign of Queen Anne.
    The noises of the house bore in on his consciousness. The ticking of the great clock in the hall, footsteps descending the stairs, the distant sound of a harpsichord, a girl laughing. Wondering whether it was the female twin, John got to his feet and was just about to cross to the door to have a look outside, when it opened.
    â€˜Mr Roger will see you in the