Death at Apothecaries' Hall by Deryn Lake

been at the Hall, seeing the Liveryman was still something of a shock and the Apothecary found his thoughts turning to the glorious Emilia Alleyn, wondering again whether Cruttenden had been the focus of her youthful yearnings, or if it had been another sister who had loved him. On a completely crazy impulse John found himself creeping down the stairs from which the Liveryman had just departed and calling to the sole wherryman who had braved the ghastly night and sat in his boat waiting for a fare.
    â€˜Boatman.’
    â€˜Yes, Scholar?’
    â€˜Keep close behind that barge. I’ve a mind to see where it goes.’
    The waterman spat into the river to show his contempt for idiots. ‘It’ll cost you, Scholar. Double for the fog.’
    â€˜Just get on,’ answered John and sat down on the plank seat, the dank atmosphere already settling on his cloak.
    Master Cruttenden’s barge was ahead of them, barely visible through the ever descending mist, pulling across the river towards the south bank. Not quite certain why he was embarking on such folly, John sat in silence, listening to the quiet dipping of the wherryman’s oars, feeling as if he were acting out a part in a dream.
    The barge vanished from view, the only clue to its whereabouts the sound it made as its oarsmen strove across the tide.
    John leant towards the wherryman. ‘Have you any idea where they’re heading?’ he whispered, breath fluting in the vapour.
    The fellow shrugged, his face yellow beneath the lantern he carried on a pole. ‘Could be anywhere.’
    â€˜What stairs are there on the Southwark side?’ John persisted.
    â€˜Marygold, Bull, Old Barge House. How would I know which one they want?’ His face changed and he held up a hand. ‘Listen, they’re pulling downstream.’
    The Apothecary strained his ears but could hear nothing except the distant stirring of water. But his boatman, with a sturdy heave on the right oar, was turning his craft, also to head downstream, and, eventually, towards the open sea.
    â€˜Not Paris Garden,’ he muttered.
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜They would have started to pull in by now.’
    â€˜Your knowledge is quite amazing.’
    â€˜Nay, Scholar, so would yours be if you’d been born in a boat as I were.’
    They relapsed into silence, listening for the sound of Francis Cruttenden’s barge, now completely lost to view. Finally, the wherryman pointed a gnarled finger at the shore and nodded his head. ‘Mason Stairs,’ he whispered.
    With absolutely no idea how he was going to get back across the river, John paid the man off, gave a generous tip, and set foot on the slippery stone steps. As he did so, he glimpsed the barge, which was being taken off to a boathouse situated, as far as he could tell through the fog, on the river frontage some further yards downstream. Hoping that he would not lose his quarry, the Apothecary set off in pursuit of Liveryman Cruttenden, his feet overloud on the crunching gravel, or so it seemed in the silence.
    At the top of Mason Stairs a walk way ran to both right and left, whilst ahead appeared the shadowy outlines of a timber yard. Beyond that, John could see nothing. He stopped, listening for the sound of movement, and a faint footfall told him that Francis Cruttenden had gone forward. Cautiously, the Apothecary crept on, discovering as he did so that a rough track lay beside the yard, obviously leading to some dwelling place beyond. With extreme care John followed, peering ahead as he did so.
    Directly in front of him the hinges of a gate squeaked as it opened and closed. The Apothecary stopped dead, realising that he had caught the Liveryman up and was in danger of coming up so close behind him that Cruttenden might turn and recognise him. He waited several minutes, then cautiously moved on again, finding himself a moment later in front of a tall and ornate iron gateway. Peering