Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake

then we shall have a talk, you and I.”
    But to eavesdrop further was impossible. A heavy tread behind him announced the arrival of Sir Francis. Bowing deeply, John appeared confused.
    “Oh, forgive me, Sir Francis. I must have mistaken the rooms. Where was I meant to go?”
    “To the study. Follow me, young man.”
    Once again John found himself in a chamber with an exquisitely painted ceiling which he would have liked to observe were it not for the fact that Sir Francis was motioning him towards a chair.
    “Take a seat, young fellow. Now ask me all you want about the postal system.”
    John gulped and launched forth, having found a few key questions in an old copy of The Tatler which he had been fortunate enough to come across in one of the public rooms of the inn. Having committed to memory as much as he could, he managed to converse in a fairly meaningful manner until eventually the older man said, “Enough. You’ve plenty there to write your wretched articles. Let me press you to a sherry, a far more enjoyable pastime wouldn’t you say?”
    “Yes, indeed I would. But allow me to thank you, Sir Francis, for spending your valuable time with me.”
    “Nonsense. I reckon it to be part of my duty.”
    He sipped deep and as he did so John took the opportunity to have a very good look at him in the brightness of day. It was the face of a libertine, there was no doubting that. Red of texture, chinned voluminously, the dark brown eyes looked at the world with an expression of worldly knowledge that the Apothecary had rarely encountered before. And beneath all his tremendous joviality John sensed something wicked and wayward, as if life had been an experiment which Sir Francis had probed to the maximum. He looked down into his glass as he felt those eyes which had surely never been youthful turn in his direction.
    “You’ve been a married man I take it?” asked the rich velvet voice.
    “Yes, Sir Francis, I have.”
    “So now you’re a sad young widower?”
    “Yes,” John answered shortly.
    “Oh well, bad luck. But one can’t dwell in the past, you know. Off with the old, on with the new and all that. Have another sherry.”
    John held out his glass and realised that he was being scrutinised closely. Not feeling altogether comfortable he turned his attention to the window and the beautiful vista outside.
    “Fine place you have here,” he said somewhat lamely.
    “Yes. Do you want a look round?”
    “I’d like that very much.”
    “Come then,” said Sir Francis, and heaving himself to his feet led the way from the room.
    It was good to be outside again, breathing the fresh air from the lake, which this morning lay like a sheet of glass beneath a vivid sky. Beautiful though the house was it seemed to John that it was a place of secrets, of dark whispers and strange events, and he was glad to be away from it and striding downhill towards the water. A pair of peacocks strolled past, followed by a couple of pure white ones. As it moved away from them one of the males displayed its tail feathers and the Apothecary drew breath at such brilliant splendour.
    On the largest of the three islands there was some sign of building work, though a little slow and desultory as far as John could see. He stopped walking and shaded his eyes with his hand, the better to look.
    “What’s happening there, Sir Francis?”
    “I’m building a little music temple. I plan to have concerts, musical entertainments, that kind of thing.”
    “How very nice. But how will the audience get there?”
    “By boat. I can think of nothing more pleasant on a summer’s evening than to cross the water and listen to the strains of music.” He gave a deep laugh. “Actually I can think of one thing better.”
    “What’s that?”
    “To make love, long and deep, in the open air.”
    Fractionally startled, John said, “I can see your point, Sir Francis.”
    “Can you, by Jove? A man after my own heart, eh?” Something told the Apothecary to