Death at the Devil's Tavern

Table of Contents

By Deryn Lake

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Historical Note

 

The John Rawlings Mysteries

DEATH IN THE DARK WALK

DEATH AT THE BEGGAR'S OPERA

DEATH AT THE DEVIL'S TAVERN

DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH

DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL

DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES' HALL

DEATH IN THE WEST WIND

DEATH AT ST JAMES' PALACE

DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS

DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN

DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER

DEATH IN HELLFIRE

DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID

DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain by

Hodder and Stoughton 1996

eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.

Copyright © 1996 Deryn Lake

The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0094-5 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

In memory of
ZAK PACKHAM,
my dearest friend and companion,
a true gentleman,
who will live on forever in the persona of
Joe Jago.

It being a blustery March day, the wind booming down the Thames with a jolly laugh, teasing the great ships at anchor into fine humour as they bobbed a merry dance upon its surface, John Rawlings, having cautiously emerged into the street from the confines of Apothecaries' Hall, clutched at his hat as it rose swiftly from his head and blew away in the direction of the river. In fact so playful was this breeze that, in order to retrieve the wayward garment, John was forced to break into a fast trot of pursuit, an undignified gait for one who had just been granted his Freedom of the Company and was, at long last, a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, with all the gravitas that such a title implied. Scurrying down Water Street in the direction of Black Friars Stairs, he finally caught up with his hat at the entrance to Glass House Yard, and rammed it back upon his head so hard that his neat white wig, bought especially for the occasion, slipped slightly, thus giving its owner a rakish air quite unsuitable for a man of learning. Unaware of this, John Rawlings continued upon his way with as much decorum as he could muster in view of his bubbling good spirits.

His progress to Freedom had not been without difficulty and now the relief of finally reaching his objective was like a bumper of champagne. Originally, John had been released from his indentures in the late spring of 1754 but had not made his first application to be admitted to the Company until 22nd August. However, on that occasion the court had broken up before his appeal could be heard and on 5th December, the first date on which he had been able to attend again, a similar fate had befallen him. But now it was 13th March, 1755 and he had just seen for himself the official entry which had been made in the Court Book. Provided he paid his fees and passed an examination, Mr John Rawlings, a Foreign Apothecary, was made Free of the Company by Redemption.

Thinking about the day's events and grinning uncontrollably, the new Yeoman let out a whooping sound far more suited to come from the lips of a savage, and tossed the offending hat aloft, barely retrieving his headgear as the high-spirited wind sported with it once more.

As was usual on the days when the Court of Assistants met in Apothecaries' Hall, a flotilla of wherries was waiting at the foot of Black Friars Stairs to row the men of medicine back to their various destinations. John, seizing the opportunity to engage the services of one of the smaller craft plying for hire, bounded down the stone steps, almost slipping in the wet as he did so. Then, with his cloak flapping round his ankles, he clambered aboard from the landing stage, hoping that the journey to the shipping basin of Wapping would not prove as rough as the saucy wind promised, for the wide river was wild with waves which slapped savagely against the shore.

Seeing John's somewhat anxious gaze, the waterman, part of a breed known for their coarse behaviour and foul language, laughed evilly. ‘Do you want my hoars, Scholar? Or are you afraid of spewing up?'

The Apothecary, ignoring the waterman's deliberate mispronunciation of the word oars, attempted a dignified expression, no mean feat in view of the swaying craft and the desire of his rebellious hat to be airborne once more. ‘I am an excellent traveller, thank you,' he answered, somewhat crisply.

‘Then take a seat. Now, where would your scholarship be going?'

‘Down river, to Wapping. Can you land me just below The Devil's Tavern?'

The wherryman adopted a look of mock concern. ‘Are you sure, Scholar? I wouldn't go there if I was you, not a refined gentleman like yourself. There's lowlife gets in there, Sir. Not fit company for a man of learning. Who knows what bad habits you might clap in to.'

John gazed at him blandly. ‘How subtly put. Now, are you going to take me or would you prefer that I hire another craft?'

The wherryman rolled his eyes. ‘I was only trying to do me Christian duty, Scholar. If you wants to get your throat cut in a dark alley, or anything else cut for that matter, then don't say I didn't warn you.'

‘If that fate befalls me I doubt I'll be in a fit state to blame anyone,' the Apothecary answered succinctly, and took to staring out across the wide stretch of waterway, thinking, as they cast off, that today it resembled the ocean more than a river with its plumed waves and churning blue reaches.

Yet there was a certain truth in what the waterman had said, for John had chosen for the rendezvous with his old friend Samuel Swann, one of the most extraordinary and notorious areas of London. Frequented by sailors and riverfolk, Wapping was full of taverns and brothels, halls where mariners danced with slatternly women, and dens in which opium, a powder produced from poppies and a substance which John used in the process of healing, was smoked. But like all localities of dubious reputation, Wapping held a certain fascination and it was considered
de rigueur
by the
beau monde
to visit the place at least once in order to see for oneself the unimaginable way in which the maritime fraternity lived. To say nothing of tasting some of its lowlife pleasures.

Pulling into mid-stream, the wherryman, who was undoubtedly foul but ferociously strong, strove against the unfavourable tide, rowing his passenger past Lime, Dung and Timber Wharves to where St Paul's dominated the landscape.

John gazed upwards. ‘What a truly beautiful building it is, especially from this river view.'

The waterman shrugged. ‘It means little to me, Scholar, seeing it every day.'

John nodded but did not reply, his attention now caught by the south bank of the river, these days consisting mostly of tenter grounds, flat spaces used for stretching cloth by means of securing the material to the earth with tenterhooks. However, this bank had once had a livelier reputation and some of the places of entertainment so popular in the previous century were still visible. The Apothecary, whose very profession was dedicated to the relief rather than the inflicting of pain, turned his eyes away with a shudder from the Old Bear Gardens, where wretched animals had once endured the agony of baiting.

Directly before him lay London Bridge, dating back to the twelfth century and one of the wonders of the realm. Standing on eighteen arches, its double row of shops and houses perched higgledy-piggledy upon its stone back, journeying under it was a known test of both nerve and skill. Timid passengers were inclined to land at Old Swan Stairs on the north bank and rejoin their boat below the bridge. But John, relishing the adventure, clung on hard as the wherry crashed through the roaring cataracts formed by the arches, and almost enjoyed being soundly washed as the foam drenched through to his skin.

Now the whole mood of the river changed, for between the Bridge and Greenwich lay one of the most important shipping basins in the world. Eight thousand vessels lay at anchor in this reach of the Thames, to say nothing of the lighters, bumboats and other craft which serviced them. To add to the confusion, colliers bearing coal and barges bringing produce to the capital competed for space on the crowded waterway. Indeed, at the Legal Quays, where all dutiable cargo was obliged to unload under regulations dating from Elizabethan times, shipping formed a queue that stretched for a mile. And it was into this extraordinary maritime mêlée that the Apothecary now plunged as the wherryman skilfully negotiated his way past the Quays and the Custom House where the mighty masted sailing ships clustered close together.

Passing beside the grim edifice of the Tower of London, John stared thoughtfully at Iron Gate Stairs, situated directly below the Iron Gate to the east of the fortress. It was here that immigrants fleeing from persecution or starvation landed, making their way into the ghettos around the Tower. The poor Jews, often the Ashkenaze, lived in Poor Jewry Lane, while the richer Sephardi had their own quarter around the Guildhall, further west. Hungry Irish also made their way into London through this same entrance. A sad reflection of the harshness of the times.

The Apothecary felt himself growing introspective even at the contemplation of so much poverty and despair, no mood for such a celebratory day as this one, and forced himself into conversation with the wherryman to lift his spirits.

‘Do you live in Wapping, by any chance?'

‘No, Scholar. I'm from Redriff, me. And what about you? Do you hail from the City?'

‘No, from Soho. Nassau Street, to be precise. Do you know it?'

The waterman shook his head. ‘No, too far inland for me. So what were you doing at Black Friars Stairs today?'

‘I had attended the Court of Assistants. I'm an apothecary.'

‘I guessed as much, Scholar. Though I can't say you look the part.'

‘Oh? What should apothecaries look like?'

‘Not like you,' answered the wherryman, and chortled that this scampish young man with his dark red curls peeping from beneath his crooked wig, his vivid blue eyes and irregular smile, should be a member of the profession usually associated with sombre dress and grey beards.