Death on the Rocks (12 page)

John shivered. ‘Don’t tell me any more. I’ve heard quite enough.’

The two men had been walking downhill since they had left the Huxtable home and had finally arrived at the rough path leading to the steps. John blenched at the sight of them and involuntarily stepped back. It was Commodore who put his foot on the top step and swore as his shoe slipped from under him and he fell backwards, landing hard on his bottom. John helped him up.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t really know. The top step seemed extra slippery, that’s all.’

The Apothecary knelt down. ‘Commodore, hold my legs and whatever you do, don’t let go.’

He leant forward and felt the surface of the top step, then the second and the third. Finally, he went at full stretch and examined the fourth. Then for one moment he gazed the length of the treacherous flight and started to shake.

‘Commodore, pull me up,’ he yelled, and closed his eyes as the slave, with a terrific show of strength, obeyed his command. Feeling like a reeled-in fish, John got to his feet and stood gasping.

‘Are you all right, Sir?’

‘Yes, it was just the shock of looking down, that’s all.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Yes. The top three steps have been greased with something. Some kind of fatty substance. Taking a guess I would say it’s goose grease.’

‘Do you mean that a trap was set?’

‘Yes, either for Augustus – or should I say Mr Unknown – or for someone else. But I think it has to be him because why would anyone else try to ascend or descend at night and in the dark?’

Commodore flashed a wonderful grin. ‘You didn’t hear me say this, Sir, but I raise my hat to them. They have rid the world of a thoroughly evil pest.’

‘That’s as may be, but I shall still have to report this to the Constable.’

‘One must do one’s duty, Sir,’ the slave replied impassively.

John put his handkerchief into his pocket. He had rubbed the steps quite vigorously and some of the substance still clung to the fabric. He had a sample he could show to Gilbert Farr and discuss what it might actually be, but at the moment he intended to say nothing further. Stirring at the very back of his mind was a picture of Commodore’s rapturous smile.

‘How about a drink at The Ostrich, my friend? I think we need it after that experience.’

They walked across the Downs together, but as they entered the inn John was vividly reminded of that beautiful creature Lady Tyninghame. He turned to Commodore.

‘Do you know anything about a Lady Tyninghame? I was able to be of some assistance to her in this very place t’other day.’

‘Why, what was the matter with her?’

‘Her coachman said that they had almost run a child down but the girl fortunately escaped with her life at the last second. The Lady felt very faint as a result.’

The black man turned his head so that John could only glimpse his face. He saw that Commodore was far away, locked in some secret thought. He wondered what it could be that held him in such a dark study. Eventually the slave turned to him, his normal expression returned.

‘Enough to frighten anyone, I should imagine.’

‘Yes. But tell me, do you know anything of the woman?’

‘Oh, I most certainly do. I was two years old when I came off the slave ship and went straight to Mrs Vale’s house, as Mrs Bagot formerly was. I can remember talk of the Marchioness when I was a small child. It seemed her husband was brutal and they say his brutality got worse when she was unable to produce an heir. But she was very popular with the people of Bristol, giving money to the poor and generally doing good works. They were all very sorry when he divorced her.’

‘Where did they live?’

‘Just outside the town, in a great house overlooking the sea. Near where the River Trym joins the Avon. It was called Bishopsea Abbas. I went there once.’

John looked up in surprise. ‘Did you?’

‘Yes. The Marchioness had come across Mrs Vale giving charity in Bristol and she invited her and Gussy to tea. We went by coach and bumped and jolted all the way. I was eight years old and at the height of my powers as a black boy. The Marchioness admired me and made much of a fuss of my fine clothes and sweet face. Then she let me play with her little black servant, Samson.’

‘It sounds a pretty scene,’ said John without sarcasm.

‘It was. I still see Samson occasionally.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He stayed on as a servant in the house when he reached puberty. After the divorce he left and went to work in Bristol. He was assisting in a grocer’s shop when I last saw him.’

John nodded, sipping his brandy, thinking of all the many threads that were beginning to run through the story of the true Augustus Bagot and the identity of the false one. He shook his head. Whoever had, in the darkness, greased the top three steps knowing that Mr Unknown would tread on them had been doing the world a favour, there was no doubt about that. Yet John owed it to Sir John Fielding, who had spoken to him long and seriously on the subject, to report the matter to Gilbert Farr, the jolly young Constable of the Hotwell. John put down his glass.

‘Commodore, I’ve got work to do. I must take the chaise to Bristol and then back to Hotwell.’

The black man gave his delicious grin. ‘Not risking the steps, Sir?’

‘No,’ answered the Apothecary. ‘I would rather be dead.’

Gilbert’s shop was packed with customers. There were ladies asking for something for the vapours, young gentlemen whispering for condoms, macaronis calling loudly for something to relieve the headache. It was like the Tower of Babel and John listened, much amused, thinking that nothing changed, be it Shug Lane or the Hotwell. The world was the world, wherever or how far one travelled. With this thought in mind he moved to the back of the shop, looking about him with curiosity, until the crowd cleared. There was finally a lull and Gilbert called out, ‘John – may I address you as such? – what brings you here?’

‘I have something important to tell you; in fact two things.’

‘Come into my compounding room. It’s all right, the body has gone. The coroner sent his cart this morning.’

John grinned despite himself. ‘I hope the bottom was reinforced.’

‘I must confess it sagged a bit. Now come in, come in. Take a seat on that stool. Davy can look after the shop.’

Gilbert’s apprentice, a smaller replica of his master, bowed to John and went through the dividing door.

‘If you think we are alike, he is my brother. An unusual arrangement but we are obeying our father’s wishes. Now what do you have to tell me?’

‘Two things. The first of which I would have mentioned but was so busy dealing with the remains of poor Mr Unknown that it went out of my head completely. I found him the other night, sitting in a paroxysm of fear, heaving and shaking like a jelly. A note fell out of his pocket. On it were written the words “We hear that you are back. We’ll be coming soon”. Or something like that anyway.’

‘’Zounds! Do you mean that he had enemies?’

‘So it would appear.’

Gilbert sighed, long and deep. ‘Oh dear. I haven’t really the time for this. Are you saying that you believe he was murdered?’

‘I’m almost certain of it.’ And with that the Apothecary produced his handkerchief and handed it to Gilbert.

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘It contains a substance that I rubbed off the top three steps of that terrible stairway carved in the rock.’

Gilbert sniffed, then tasted it. ‘It’s fat of some kind,’ he said. ‘Goose or duck grease.’

‘To which even the meanest kitchen hand would have access.’

‘You’re right.’ He scratched his head. ‘I don’t know how I am going to investigate this. I think I’ll have to call in the Constable from Bristol.’

John nodded. ‘That would probably be wise, but can you leave it for a few days? You see …’ And then he told Gilbert of his plan to investigate the lowlife of the city to try to find anyone who had known the real Augustus Bagot.

‘He also had children, you know. They say, if you’ll forgive the pun, that he scattered his seed most liberally.’

Gilbert looked slightly amused. ‘Did he really? Naughty fellow.’

‘So there must be several outraged mothers and fathers – to say nothing of ruined daughters – who would like to see his head on a spike.’

Gilbert whistled between his teeth. ‘I don’t think you’ll find too many angry parents in Bristol. It’s a divided society, you know. Some very rich, others living on what they can steal. A bastard child is usually thrown out to die unless someone with a kindly heart should find it.’

‘Is there nothing in between?’

‘Yes, people like me who strive hard to make a living and then are taxed out of all sense.’ He flashed a smile, lighting up his foxy features. ‘And those who grumble about everything.’

John laughed as well, then said, ‘It strikes me that the real Augustus must have been quite a decent sort of chap, the sort that one could rub along with, but the man who took his place was quite the opposite. I wonder whether he ever met the real one. But then he must have done or he wouldn’t have dared try an impersonation of this magnitude.’

‘But what did Mr Unknown stand to gain?’

‘His mother’s diamonds.’

‘And that is all?’ asked Gilbert, thunderstruck.

‘They might be worth a mint.’

‘And then again they might not.’

‘There is also the fact that Mr Huxtable is not in the first flush of youth and might presumably leave his house and fortune to his erring stepson.’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘But you say that the old man distrusted him from the start. Even sent for you to try and find the truth.’

John raised a dark eyebrow. ‘I don’t quite like the use of the word “even”. You make it sound as if I were some kind of last resort.’

Gilbert, far from looking abashed, roared with laughter. ‘Hardly that. Why, you’ll have solved the case in a few days. But tell me, you don’t propose to wander Bristol’s underworld on your own?’

‘My coachman will be with me. And before you ask, he looks like an Irish chieftan, a massive ox of a man.’

‘Then that’s as well.’

There was a shout from the shop. ‘Mr Farr, Sir. I think you had better come. The place is full of customers.’

John stood up. ‘It has been a most enlightening conversation. Thank you for your time.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Gilbert replied breezily, and with that he bowed to John and made his way back into the shop.

The next morning John and Irish Tom took a boat into the city of Bristol. This was a small craft similar to the ferry that rowed passengers to and from the opposite bank. But this particular form of transport called in at the Hotwell when the tide was high and took its passengers past the confluence with the Frome into the Bristol docks. Dressed roughly, with new costumes supplied by the ever-helpful actor, the couple received barely more than a glance from the other occupants who were, John judged, mostly local traders.

As they rowed along he glanced up at the passing scenery and drew breath. Stupendous walls of rock rose on either side of the river, the highest being known as St Vincent, atop which stood a working pepper mill. Thick, dark foliage hung over the sides of the towering cliffs and in places John could glimpse flowery dells, while sheep grazed contentedly on the lower slopes. In the air was the high, tense smell of salt, and overhead seagulls wheeled and cried, swooping down to catch a fish and majestically rising again on their huge white wings. A thrill of excitement ran through him as he gazed and listened to the sounds of the river: the rhythmic pulling of the oars, creaking in their rowlocks, the shouting of sailors across the green water, the chatter of the other passengers. He turned to Tom.

‘I feel as if we are embarking on a great adventure,’ he whispered.

The Irishman turned on him a rueful grin. ‘Provided we can keep ourselves out of danger, Sorrh.’

‘I think for the sake of appearances you had better call me John.’

‘I will do that indeed, Sorrh.’

John merely shook his head at him and grinned.

They passed the ferry boat, rowed by a roguish fellow with a mop of flying dark curls fastened down by a scarlet bandana. He waved to the other boat and some of the passengers, John included, waved back. The Apothecary had rarely felt in higher spirits.

On landing, they made their way to The Seven Stars, a small but busy inn that lay at the heart of the commercial part of the city. Here they sat unobtrusively and listened to the chat that was going on all around them. The voices mixed in a mighty melange of accents, for it seemed that every nationality in the world was present. The great trading ships brought in their sailors and it was just as likely that one would hear a conversation in Russian as hear the Bristol dialect be spoken. But above all these guttural and incomprehensible languages, one voice rose high and clear.

‘… and as I was saying to the Mayor of Bristol t’other day …’

A bell rang in John’s head. Somewhere in his distant memory something stirred into life. He motioned Tom to remain silent and leant forward to listen.

‘… one can’t be too careful where one dines these days. I mean to say anyone can afford an ordinary, so one could be sitting with any thief or rogue. No, I tell you, my dear Sir, that I always dine at a more expensive type of establishment, so I do.’

Into John’s mind came the mental picture of a watering ginger eye. He strained his memory to find the man who owned such.

‘Allow me to be the first to inform you that Mrs Rudhall – she being the lady who lives at number fifteen, Park Street, in Clifton, don’t you know – had her money lifted from her while she sat at dinner in Mrs Trinder’s eating house in the Hotwell.’

The murder of the Earl of St Austell came thundering hideously into John’s memory. Those two dreadful creatures in poke bonnets and brown shifts who had shot repeatedly into the crowd of merrymakers. And then, finally, came the name. He rose to his feet.

‘Mr Pendleton?’ he enquired in a polite tone. ‘Mr Benedict Pendleton?’

The man with the highfalutin voice stopped short.

‘Do I know you, Sir?’ he asked, raising a dilapidated quizzer and peering through it until his ginger eyes appeared like two huge orbs.