Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake Read Free Book Online Page A

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