Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake Read Free Book Online

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