Death on the Rocks (21 page)

So, seeing that the twins were well settled, he decided that the time had come to return to the Hotwell. It was the last week of the season and he knew that Sir Gabriel would be getting anxious about leaving. Irish Tom, who had been lazing about the last few weeks, was called into action and, having cleaned and polished the coach, brought the equipage round to the front door in Nassau Street, lowered the step and watched John climb inside. Then Tom got smartly onto the box, cracked the whip and away they went.

They drove fairly fast – though not at the hell-for-leather speed they had driven to Devon – and arrived at Thatcham in the small hours, spending the night in a coaching inn. They had four hours’ sleep and set off with fresh horses, arriving in Bristol some time before lunch. Tom picked his way along the riverbank to the Hotwell and pulled up in front of Sir Gabriel’s hotel with a cry of triumph.

‘We’re here, Sir.’

‘Yes by God, we are.’

The place was much emptier than John recalled it, a great many of the
beau monde
having moved on to Bath, exchanging the rustic charm for the indoor formality and enjoying the contrast. After a quick wash and brush up, John found his father sitting on a seat by the river, which was at full tide and looked very pleasing. Next to him was Miss Titania Groves, delightful in green muslin and white lace. They looked up as he approached.

‘Oh my dear,’ said Sir Gabriel. ‘What a terrible time you have been through.’

‘I have indeed – and so have many others. But let us speak of happier things. How have you been enjoying yourself, Papa?’

‘To be frank with you, I am now getting a little bored. The place is lovely, don’t misunderstand me. But I shall be glad to see my own things about me once more.’

‘And quite right too. You have stayed here rather a long time through no fault of your own.’ John turned to Titania. ‘Tell me, if you will, how many people that I met are still here?’

She smiled up at him. ‘Well, everybody really. My mother, of course, and all the friends who sat down to cards. Oh, and Lady Tyninghame.’

‘And Sir Julian Wychwood?’

Titania blushed apple-blossom pink. ‘Yes, I believe so.’

Inwardly John grinned, though his features remained calm. ‘I see. Then I will be in time to say goodbye to them all.’

‘I think Lady Tyninghame is going within the next few days. She talked about moving on to Bath.’

‘As are you perhaps?’

‘Oh yes, Mama says it is a wonderful season. I would not miss it for the world.’

‘I agree, it is very enjoyable, but miss it I must. Sir Gabriel and I are homeward bound.’

‘Oh, what a pity.’

But John knew the little flirt was only toying with him. He felt fairly certain that she had given her heart to that wild seducer Wychwood.

‘How is Sir Julian?’ he asked casually.

‘I believe he is riding on the Downs today. He says the air is very fresh up there.’

‘How interesting. Does he ride well?’

‘I saw him on horseback t’other day. He looked magnificent.’

She sighed, and John, glancing at Sir Gabriel, saw his father wink a brilliant eye. The old man rose to his feet.

‘Pleasant though it has been chatting to you, I must now bid you farewell, Miss Groves. I feel a little fatigued and would like to rest before cards tonight.’

She stood up. ‘Of course, Sir Gabriel.’ She dropped a brief curtsey to him and to John and proceeded along the river path. John took his father’s arm and was somewhat startled by the weight the older man put upon it. For the very first time the reality of Sir Gabriel’s age came home to him in plenty.

They got back to the hotel and sat for a while, chatting about the twins and Elizabeth.

‘So how are the boys settling into London life?’

‘So far very well, but no doubt the day will come when they will beg me to take them home. Amusingly, they are both very much in awe of Fred, that little scallowag that bluffed his way into my employment.’

‘You’ve told me of him before. You mean the foundling child?’

‘That’s the one. He is a sweet little person but his accent is atrocious. I have promised to apprentice him if he can master reading and writing come Christmas. However, the twins have taken him to their hearts and are very well behaved when he is around.’

‘Then he is a valuable member of your staff.’

They talked a while longer and then Sir Gabriel made his way upstairs, leaving his son to peruse the papers, but he had only been reading for about ten minutes when he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps, panting breath, and a shock of carroty hair and a bright blue ribbon flashed into his vision.

‘Gilbert!’ he exclaimed, as young Mr Farr, complete with apothecary’s apron, dashed up to him.

‘My dear John, I am so glad to see you returned. I am afraid that I have made little or no progress with the investigation.’

‘So what have you done? Closed the case?’

‘Yes, more or less. Unless someone comes forward with a confession I do not know how to proceed.’

John shook his head. ‘I am sorry that I had to abandon you, but I was called away to a matter deeply personal. And then I had to sort out its aftermath.’ Gilbert opened his mouth to ask a question but John forestalled him. ‘I would rather not discuss the matter, though I thank you for being concerned. But Gilbert, there is something I would like you to do for me.’

‘And that is?’

‘There’s an escaped villain – an actual murderer – at loose in Bristol. He and an accomplice, who has subsequently died, shot several people at a wedding which I attended. He is now working in a nan-boys’ brothel dressed in female clothing, which hideously unbecomes him. In short, Gilbert, he needs to be arrested by someone in authority.’

‘You don’t mean me?’ asked Gilbert, askance, pointing a finger at himself.

‘I most certainly do.’

‘But what about the Bristol Constable, he—’

‘Oh dammit, Gilbert, ’twould be a personal favour to me. Come on now. The killer has gone free for two years odd.’

John read Gilbert’s thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. It was not his affair, so why should he be involved with it? Yet on the other hand, he had sworn to do his duty when taking on the job of Constable, which was a downright nuisance and interfered with the running of his business. He turned to John.

‘All right, I’ll do it. When do we go?’

‘Tonight, why not? I’m taking my father home in a few days’ time. Speed is now of the essence.’

Gilbert pulled a face. ‘I don’t know why I’m getting implicated in all this.’

‘Neither do I. But it will be a debt long overdue when we get that little wretch behind bars where he belongs.’

Gilbert sighed laboriously. ‘Not my debt.’

‘Oh, courage my friend. A case of murder is everybody’s concern, surely?’

‘I suppose you’re right about that.’

‘You know I am.’

It seemed that deep in his clothes press Gilbert had hidden a suit made of vivid puce satin, with a waistcoat of emerald green trimmed with brilliants. It had been created for a wedding of some family relative and had been treated with much hilarity by his nearest and dearest, to say nothing of his roguish friends. Gilbert had crept home in shame from the matrimonial celebrations, had hidden the aforementioned suit safely in the recesses of his cupboard and had never worn it since. But now, after a great deal of persuasion from John, who said it would be a most suitable attire for the evening’s outing, he had dragged it out again and reluctantly put it on his back. John, meanwhile, had been to see the witty Mr Foote – catching him rehearsing at the theatre – and had borrowed a creation made of velvet and lace, a most effeminate set of garments which the one-legged actor, who always got the audience laughing when he appeared wearing it, insisted was returned the next day.

Thus rigged out, the couple were dropped outside the Strawberry Fields by Irish Tom and with shrill voices demanded entry. The door was opened by the black servant Samson, who looked with a certain surprise at John but made no comment. However, the dwarfish Mr Herbert must have left some instructions because instead of being shown into the main body of the building – from which emanated a great deal of laughter – they were whisked down the corridor and into that same room in which John had been questioned by the owner’s son. But this time the little man was not there. Instead, sitting behind the desk, was a veritable harridan of a woman, who glared at them through a vast quizzing glass encrusted with sparklers.

It was impossible to see her face, which was so plastered with white make-up that it resembled nothing but a malevolent moon. Above the line of where her eyebrows had once been were painted two black lines, while her mouth had been so exaggerated as to look as if it was swelling up after a nasty punch. She wore voluminous red satin and many jewels, glittering when she moved her head, her fingers, and fighting a battle at her neck. Her voice when she spoke was surprisingly deep pitched.

‘So you’ve come back for another taste, have you, my fine young Sir. And brought a friend with you. How cosy. But I can tell you that you’re too late.’

John gazed at her uncomprehendingly. ‘For what?’

‘For capturing my little Curlylocks. He – she – has vanished. My spies tell me that he’s taken a ship to the Indies, as a ship’s cook and whore to the sailors, I don’t doubt.’

John stared at her incredulously. ‘When did this happen?’

The featureless face regarded him. ‘What business is it of yours?’

Gilbert spoke up. ‘I may be dressed outlandishly, Madam, but I am here on official business. I am the Constable of the Hotwell and I am here to arrest Herman Cushen for murder.’

‘Well you can’t. And now I require you to leave my property immediately. Out with you, I say.’

She reared up, a horrific sight, because as she stood she got taller and taller until she towered over them both.

‘You’re no woman,’ shouted John, ‘you’re a man, damn you.’

The transvestite bared his teeth at them and, picking up a cast bronze lion that stood on the desk, hurled it with accuracy at John. It caught him a glancing blow on the temple but was enough to stop him in his tracks. At this Gilbert lost his temper and, jumping on to the desk with an agility that left John breathless, flung himself on to the great man-woman with a loud shout. Samson, hearing the fracas from the other side of the door, rushed in and threw a punch into the air which unfortunately caught John on the side of his jaw, just as he was struggling to his feet. Down he went to the floor again, listening to the sounds of Gilbert cursing and swearing as he belted the great creature with a series of blows which apparently inflicted no pain whatsoever. At this, Samson entered the fray once more and, picking up the bronze lion, leapt up onto a stool and crowned the almighty being with a savage downward thrust. The vast wig of curling blonde curls fell off to reveal an ugly brutal head covered by a mass of short black prickles. The owner of this unlovely sight stood swaying for a moment before buckling at the knees and crashing to the floor. The fight was over.

Samson looked round. ‘I have been wanting to do that for years.’

John, still lying on the floor, said, ‘But I thought the dwarf said that this flash-the-drag man was his mother.’

‘I think Mr Herbert believed he was.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ said Gilbert, getting down from the desk. ‘The minute he stood up I realised it was a chap.’

Samson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then I don’t know the answer, except that to a dwarf the whole world seems tall. But I do know that if we don’t get out of here immediately we’re as good as dead.’

They helped John up and made for the front door. ‘Are you coming, Samson? There must be a better life than working here, surely?’

‘Yessir, I’m escaping. I’ll come with you to the Hotwell and try to find employment there.’

The slave closed the front door quietly, but for all his caution there was the sound of an inner door opening.

‘Run,’ he said. ‘Go like the devil.’

The three of them took off at speed, only to hear the front door open behind them. ‘After them,’ they heard. ‘One of them has killed Madame.’ This was followed by a chorus of high-pitched shrieks and the sound of pounding footsteps.

John turned down a side street and, much to his relief, saw his coach standing at the ready. Irish Tom, hearing the hue and cry, peered into the darkness, identified John and shot off the box, lowering the step and opening the door. The three men clambered aboard, Samson losing a shoe in the haste. As they drove away they heard someone fling himself at the coach door, which opened a crack. Gilbert promptly trod on the pursuer’s hand and the accompanying yelp of pain was drowned by the noise of the equipage taking off into the darkness of night.

They did not stop until they reached the outskirts of Hotwell, where the coach pulled up by a low-class ale house, The Bear in Love Street. John and Gilbert hurried in, in need of some liquid refreshment after their chase from the Strawberry Fields. Samson followed them warily, but grew more confident when he saw another black face inside.

The whistles and shouts at the appearance of the Apothecary and Gilbert Farr had to be heard to be believed. The entire crew of customers thought them effeminate to say the least of it and the lewd comments were enough to curl their most intimate hairs. But they put a brave face on it and made some merry quips in return before sitting at a table with Samson. They had started on their second brandy when there was another stir in the ale house as Samuel Foote appeared, flushed with success as he had just finished a performance at the Playhouse. He made a bold entrance, shouting, ‘Unhand me gentlefolk, unhand me I say. I am but a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage.’

The landlord, one Thomas Brotherton, yelled over the hubbub, ‘Show some respect please, gentlemen. It’s an actor from the theatre.’

There was a lessening of the uproar and Samuel, spotting John, came over to join them.

‘You’re both got up very fine,’ he said, and turning to the Apothecary added, ‘That costume suits you, so it does.’