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

salon,’ the servant intoned expressionlessly. ‘Would you follow me, Sir.’
    They crossed the vast area of the hall and turned down a passage leading off to the right. At the end of it lay two large doors which the footman threw open, announcing as he did so, ‘Mr John Rawlings, Sir.’
    â€˜Come in,’ said a voice, and John stepped beyond the bowing servant into a room of unbelievable grandeur. Yet before he could take in his opulent surroundings, his eye was drawn to the figure that stood before the fireplace, one elbow resting nonchalantly on the mantelpiece.
    â€˜Did he say Rawlings?’ it asked, and raised a quizzing glance to get a better look at the newcomer.
    John stood thunderstruck, staring, mouth agape, at the fantastic creature who was regarding him, recognising him at once as the monstrous beau who had waved bejewelled fingers at him in St Paul’s Church, Shadwell.
    A vast periwig sat on top of the man’s head, covered with the very finest powder, it being the current fashion to powder one’s headpiece, particularly in the winter months. But if the wig was overpowering, the beau’s clothes were even more so. A coat of pink silk lined with white, revealed beneath it a white satin waistcoat embroidered with silver, unbuttoned at the top to display a shirt of fine cambric with Valenciennes lace ruffles at the neck, these held in place by a glittering ruby brooch. The breeches, when John’s astonished gaze finally worked down to them, were of crimson velvet and encompassed the wearer’s knees without a wrinkle to be seen anywhere. On the legs themselves, which were rather fleshy in the calves, the Apothecary noted, were white silk stockings, these rising from shoes of blue Meroquin bearing stamping red heels and diamond buckles, which winked and glinted and rivalled the shafts of sunlight that fell on them through the many windows.
    â€˜Yes, I am Rawlings,’ said John, his voice hoarse with wonderment.
    The man smiled, displaying a fine set of large white teeth. ‘Roger Hartfield,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘How may I help you?’
    And with that he made a little moue with his mouth, gave a silvery laugh, and pulled the bell rope.
    â€˜Champagne, champagne,’ he shouted carelessly to the bowing footman who came almost immediately. “Tis not every day that a pretty fellow such as this crosses my path. Now, my dear chap, tell me why have you called?’
    â€˜Sir,’ said John gravely, ‘I fear that I may be the bearer of ill tidings. Be good enough to prepare yourself.’ He fished in his pocket and drew out the bag containing the snuff and pill boxes. ‘Mr Hartfield, do you recognise these?’ he asked.
    Roger threw them a disinterested glance. ‘Can’t say that I do, no.’
    The Apothecary was dumbfounded. ‘They are not the property of your father?’
    The beau shrugged. ‘Could be, I suppose. Damme, man, one snuff box is very like another.’
    â€˜Even bearing an emerald such as this?’
    Roger was about to reply when the door opened to admit the footman bearing a silver tray with glasses and champagne upon it.
    â€˜Gibson,’ ordered the beau, ‘come over here.’ The servant did so, having first set down his burden on a side table. ‘Does this belong to my revered Papa?’ Roger went on.
    The footman took the snuff box in a white gloved hand. ‘Indeed it does, Sir.’
    â€˜There you are,’ said Roger triumphantly, as if he had just solved the riddle of the universe. ‘Why d’ye want to know?’
    â€˜Because,’ John answered solemnly, ‘it was found on a body dragged out of the river Thames. A body that the Public Office has every reason to believe is that of Sir William Hartfield.’
    â€˜Damme!’ exclaimed Roger violently. Then he rolled his eyes up in his head, turned white as chalk beneath his enamelled face