Death at Apothecaries' Hall by Deryn Lake Page A

through its bars, John could make out a path leading through a formal garden. Beyond that, and scarcely visible in the fog, reared the shape of a large house. Exercising extreme care, the Apothecary eased the gate open a small amount and squeezed his way through without opening it fully. Wondering what possible explanation he could give if he were caught, he proceeded quietly up the path.
    The house emerging from the mist was one of extreme magnificence, and John’s head tilted back as he took in its grandiose elevation. His mouth fell open in sheer surprise at such splendour. Francis Cruttenden was obviously a man of great means, if this was indeed his home. If not, the Liveryman clearly moved amongst an elite circle of rich friends.
    There was the sound of an opening door and John had literally to throw himself behind a bush as a shaft of light coming from the hall illumined the pathway. Through the open doorway he glimpsed a liveried servant, rich carpeting, paintings upon the wall and a glittering candelabra, before the door closed again and he was once more alone in the fog.
    Crouching behind the sheltering shrub, John considered his plan. There was no point in proceeding further. Francis Cruttenden had gone indoors, either to his own home or visiting. Further, there was Sotherton Backler to be called upon, then Samuel, hopefully for a night of claret and jolly conversation. The best thing he could do at this moment would be to find someone to row him back to the north bank, and there visit a tavern where he could appease the grumbling of his empty stomach. Without hesitation John turned on his heel and retraced his steps.
    Was it luck or just the appalling weather, or perhaps the large tip he had given him, that led the Apothecary to find the same boatman, smoking a pipe and taking his ease at the bottom of Mason Stairs? A weather-beaten face was raised through the fog. ‘Is that you, Scholar?’
    â€˜It is.’
    â€˜Did you find him?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said John, settling himself on the damp plank. ‘And very surprising it was.’
    â€˜How’s that?’
    The need to discuss overcame the Apothecary’s usual discretion. ‘Well, the man concerned is only a Liveryman of the Society of Apothecaries. When I say only, don’t misunderstand me. They are great men, advanced men, but I would not have thought their position sufficient to enable them to own a mansion of quite such noble stature as the one I saw tonight. That is, if he does own it.’
    The wherryman spat into the water. ‘Scholar, are you talking about Pye House?’
    â€˜I don’t know. It’s a huge place set back in its own beautiful gardens.’
    â€˜Then you are. There’s only one great house round these parts.’
    â€˜And who owns it?’
    â€˜Master Cruttenden. He’s the richest man for miles.’
    John gaped. ‘How did you come by all this knowledge?’
    â€˜I told you I was born in a boat, didn’t I? I’m river folk, Sir. Have you not come across them before?’
    Remembering all that had happened to him in the great Devil’s Tavern at Wapping, John nodded his head. ‘Oh yes. I most certainly have.’
    â€˜Then I’ll say no more,’ answered the wherryman as they set off through the mist towards Black Friars.
    Sotherton Backler’s house was rather like its lady, the Apothecary thought, attractive, not new, and somehow understated. It stood amongst its neighbours, its facade plain almost to the point of dullness, yet with an underlying appeal of simple charm that could not be missed. Within, as John was shown into the parlour, the same quality occurred. The decoration was confined to the lightest and most sparely applied plaster work, yet the fireplace was exquisite. And the Butler, devoid of her plain and practical work clothes and dressed in rustling skirts, was on the point of being a lovely woman.
    â€˜Good evening,’