Death on the Rocks (17 page)

He was tall – well over six feet – and slim as a reed. His hair was dark, the colour of liquorice, his features attractively brooding, his eyes amber with somewhat hooded lids. In short, he was devilishly handsome – and he knew it. John watched Titania beginning to melt and decided, somewhat selfishly, to intervene.

‘Good day, Miss Groves. I hope I find you well.’

‘Oh, good day, Mr Rawlings. I had not realised you were back from your visit.’

John turned to the man. ‘And good day to you, Sir. I do not believe we have met.’

Smooth as satin, the man bowed deeply. ‘We have not,’ he said. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Julian Wychwood is my name.’

John should have known it of course. Of all the attractive creatures currently at the Hotwell, this one crowned them all. He bowed very low.

‘And I am John Rawlings, Sir. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

‘Indeed,’ replied the other, giving the Apothecary an unreadable look and bowing once more.

Titania, very rosy in the cheeks, said, ‘Mr Wychwood insists on buying me this lappet. I told him it would not be proper to receive a gift from a stranger but he insists.’

Julian flashed a smile – predictably his teeth were strong and white – and said, ‘Please Miss Groves. It would give me so much pleasure.’

John stood agape, completely outmanoeuvred by this charming stranger. He looked round for an ally and saw Lady Tyninghame walking alone, gazing in the direction of the river. Plucking his hat from his head he waved it aloft to attract her attention. She seemed slightly bewildered by his behaviour, but nonetheless came to join the group. Looking at her, John thought how delicate she was and a vision of Elizabeth shot through his mind. But he knew to think in such a manner would do neither him nor his lover any good at all. He deliberately forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand.

‘Lady Tyninghame, how very nice to see you. You know Miss Groves, of course. But may I introduce Sir Julian Wychwood to you.’

She gave a little gasp, the colour draining from her cheeks, leaving her white as a shroud. Automatically John put out his arm to support her. She seemed drained of animation and lay in the crook of his elbow for a good minute before her eyelids fluttered open.

‘Excuse me,’ she said faintly. ‘I have been a little unwell recently.’

She straightened, turning to John with a gentle laugh and saying, ‘This kind man is always helping me out. I do thank you, Sir.’

John silently handed her his smelling salts, but in fact he was slightly suspicious of this recent attack. It seemed to him that no sooner had she heard the name Julian Wychwood than she had collapsed.

While she was inhaling, he asked pleasantly, ‘You have met Sir Julian before?’

She gave him back the bottle and said, ‘Just once, many years ago. He would not remember me.’

‘Did you know his family?’

‘Only his father. His wife had died some years previously.’

The Apothecary mulled this over but merely said, ‘Oh, I see.’

But he didn’t, feeling that one look at Julian Wychwood had been enough to make the lady faint. But then, he supposed, that might well be enough for any woman.

Julian, meanwhile, was gently kissing Lady Tyninghame’s hand, not on the wrist like Titania’s, but respectably on the back of the fingers.

She looked up at him shyly. ‘I knew your father, Sir Julian. I called on him once.’

‘Do you know I can recall the incident. I believe you came to tea with us. I thought you most charming, Lady Tyninghame – as indeed I do now.’

‘I remember that you were frightened of a toy I brought you. A little wooden cannon that fired real balls.’

Julian smiled. ‘I believe I hid my head in your lap and cried.’

Violetta smiled. ‘But you were only a little boy.’

‘And now I am grown to full height and twenty-five years old.’

‘Quite the mature man.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment, Milady.’

Miss Groves, a little annoyed by the lack of attention, said, ‘I really don’t think it would be proper to accept the lace lappet. I mean, we haven’t been properly introduced.’

Sir Julian gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Perhaps a way round the dilemma would be for me to give it to Lady Tyninghame, who can then give it to you.’

Lady Tyninghame literally sparkled with merriment. She clapped her hands and looked quite the opposite from the sickly woman of a few minutes before.

‘Why, Sir Julian, what a splendid plan. If Miss Groves is agreeable, that is the way we shall proceed.’

Her caught her mood and as if he knew her well, put his two hands at her waist and twirled her round. There was something odd about the couple, but John could not grasp what it might possibly be.

Miss Groves, definitely piqued, said, ‘Oh very well, if you insist. But there is no need, Sir, I assure you.’

‘In that case,’ Lady Tyninghame put in, making matters far, far worse, ‘I shall accept it for myself with pleasure.’

She was elated, like a young girl, her loveliness enhanced by the bright, bold colour that had come to her cheeks. John thought that she was clearly delighted with the company of Julian Wychwood, whereas Titania looked ready to stamp her foot. He tried to lighten the mood.

‘Shall we stroll round the Pleasure Gardens?’ he asked brightly.

‘You may do so if you wish but I have to return to Mama. So I will bid you farewell.’ Having said that, Miss Groves dropped a curtsey to each of them and stalked off, bonnet high. Not in the least perturbed, Julian bowed low and presented Lady Tyninghame with the lappet of lace, which she accepted gracefully. John was about to make his excuses when Samuel Foote bustled up to them.

‘Ha, young Wychwood,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard your enemy is dead.’

‘Yes, and I can’t say I’m sorry. What brute allowed him to occupy my box at the theatre?’

‘Money talks,’ Foote answered merrily.

‘In other words, he gave you a larger fee than my retainer.’

Sam looked shocked. ‘Not me. Oh no, Sir, not me. Some underling at the theatre lining his own pockets. Shocking, I thought. But what could I do? I am merely an actor fellow. But for all that, we all had a good laugh at your antics when you dumped his pot upon his head then climbed up to the box above. Stopped the show it did.’

Lady Tyninghame gazed at Julian with a slight air of reproof. ‘What exactly did you do, Sir?’

Samuel raised his hat to her and gave a small bow. ‘Samuel Foote, at your service, Ma’am. As I was saying, this madcap friend of yours climbed over the theatre like a hero from a romance. It stopped the show while we watched him.’

She turned to Wychwood. ‘I hope you didn’t hurt yourself, my dear.’

Once again John was struck, even more forcibly, by the apparent closeness of two people who had barely been introduced. Something strange was afoot, he knew it certainly, but quite how he could investigate was impossible to conceive.

But now Sir Julian was speaking. ‘I am afraid that I must bid you all adieu. My watch tells me that I am already late for my next appointment. My Lady, goodbye. Surely we will meet again soon. Gentlemen, farewell. I shall see you both around Hotwell without a doubt.’

He raised his embellished tricorne hat and his liquorice hair gleamed black in the sunlight. He made a flourishing bow, kissed Lady Tyninghame warmly on the hand and disappeared into the crowd. John stared after him.

‘What an incredible young man,’ escaped from his lips before he could control the words.

‘I thought him rather charming,’ said Violetta Tyninghame.

‘He has a great air about him,’ remarked Samuel, staring at the space that Wychwood had recently occupied. ‘I knew an actor like him once. When he went on stage every eye turned to where he made his entrance. You could have heard a garter drop in the theatre. He was truly an overwhelming presence.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He disappeared. Quite literally. One day he did not turn up to rehearsal and when one of the company went to his lodgings it was to find that he had gone.’

‘Where to?’

‘Nobody knew. To make it even more mysterious, all the furniture had gone as well.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘This is the peculiar part. One of our patrons – a rich young gentlemen – swore that he saw the actor one night in a theatre in Prague, where he was playing the part of Count Almaviva, of all things.’

‘What’s so odd about that?’ asked John.

‘It is an operatic role and none of us knew he could sing.’

The whole story seemed rather pointless to the Apothecary, but he smiled and nodded and pretended it was very interesting. Yet his brain was totally at another destination. All he could think about was the strangeness of the situation in Hotwell and, overriding everything else, the fact that death was about to rob him of a partner for the second time in his life.

It was a bitter night, about ten of the clock, and John Rawlings was retracing the steps he had made on the night he had been waylaid by the macaronis. His thick cloak concealed a particularly garish suit in a violent shade of lime green. He had worn it in Devon and it held many happy memories for him, but tonight he wore it for a different purpose.

He had thought long and hard about the Strawberry Fields and had concluded that it was a club exclusively for nan-boys – a Miss Molly’s paradise, in other words. He was also fairly sure, judging by remarks made by the dying Benedict Pendleton, that within its walls he would find that renegade from justice, Herman Cushen. Herman and Benedict had been hired to execute the Earl of St Austell and had made a good job of it, disguising their real target by ending the lives of two other people as well. But they had escaped and though one of them had been called to final justice to answer for his crimes, the other had totally vanished. Yet now John felt he was on his trail once more, a trail that had been cold for over two years.

With scant idea of where he was heading, John made a slow progress and was just about ready to give up when ahead of him he saw two fellows, chattering and laughing quite loudly in the empty streets. One of them had a particularly shrill voice.

‘Come on, this way. I’m sure I remember where it was.’

‘I thought we had to turn left.’

‘No, it was quite definitely right. Now hurry along or we’ll be missing the Roaring Boys.’

John sprinted to catch up with them and said, ‘You are going to the Strawberry Fields, aren’t you? You see I’m not too sure of my way.’

He put a slight lisp into his voice and swung his hips a little.

‘Not sure of your way!’ said the taller of the two. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that too much. There’ll be plenty of people there to show you how it’s done.’

At this remark he bellowed with laughter, sounding rather like a mongrel letting rip. His companion joined him by braying like a donkey. John wondered for one infantile moment if they were all going to have to do animal imitations for their initiation ceremony.

The taller one seized his arm and whisked him over the pavements at a rate of knots, and they soon found themselves before an important-looking front door with a black servant in strawberry-coloured livery standing outside.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, looking solemn. ‘Is it your pleasure to sample some strawberries?’

‘Indeed it is. Are you agreed fellows?’

‘Agreed,’ chorused John and the other one, and the door swung open to allow them into a large entrance hall. For a moment or two John’s eyes were dazzled by the crimson draperies, the pot plants, the men lounging back on sofas and chairs, before his senses returned and he knew that the place was just as he had suspected. A male brothel. For all the girls, leaning voluptuously over the men or walking slowly up and down the room, presumably waiting to be picked, were boys in women’s clothing. John stared, never before having seen such fawning, beautiful creatures with the manners and characteristics of the female sex perfectly imitated. Some of the nan-boys looked suspiciously young to him, probably no more than thirteen years of age. And how they postured and pouted, carmined lips blowing kisses, kohl-blackened eyes winking suggestively, eyelashes fluttering and then dipping beneath a black lace fan. And there, in the midst of them all, sporting a peacock dress with false breasts very much visible, but still ugly despite all the make-up, was Herman.

He glanced in John’s direction and John swiftly turned away – but too late. Dragging his heavy dress behind him and with much shaking of the plumes in his wig, the wretched Mr Cushen was making a purposeful tread towards him. John steeled himself and faced him.

Herman’s face was contorted into what he considered to be an attractive leer. ‘Hello, my sweet. Are you feeling lonely? Want a little companionship for an hour or so?’

John answered in a piping falsetto. ‘I would rather look round for a little while. See what’s on offer.’ He managed a high-pitched giggle.

‘Certainly,’ replied the other, with more than a hint of annoyance. ‘Take your pick by all means.’ He flounced off and John metaphorically wiped his brow. Heaven be thanked. Herman had not recognised him.

A boy of about fourteen, dressed gorgeously as a girl in red satin, offered John a flute of champagne, which he took with a shaky hand. Loving couples were now forming up to dance licentiously together, staring into one another’s eyes, hands caressing sensuously. Fully aware that this particular branch of sexual activity was not for him, the Apothecary could still see the attraction of it for those whose natures inclined them that way. Where lay the difference he could not tell, and decided at some time in the future to discuss the whole matter with a learned physician.

Now all were being drawn into the dance, though John politely refused, claiming that he had hurt his knee. Instead he watched the nan-boys who had not yet been hired imitating the slave dancers from the east, posturing for their sultan, writhing about in quite the most formidable contortions. Incense filled the room and the music – played on a pipe – grew ever louder. Suddenly John had had enough. Very quietly, while all the attention was focused on the twisting bodies, he slipped out into the passageway, standing there a moment and cooling off. Then he made his way to the front door. But it was barred to him. The black servant stood there, his arm across the opening.