Death on the Rocks (22 page)

‘I promise not to spill anything on it.’

‘You’ll be lucky if someone doesn’t heave their guts up all over you.’

‘What a nasty thought.’

‘I spoke in jest,’ said Samuel, but his face bore a very serious expression.

Gilbert Farr said, ‘We haven’t been introduced, Sir, but I have much admired your work in the theatre. I was at the Playhouse this last week past and thought your performance admirable.’

Samuel rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘An admirer. And such a young and attractive one, too.’

John said in a slightly warning voice, ‘Gilbert Farr is an apothecary and is also Constable of the Hotwell.’

Samuel pursed his lips into a tiny O. ‘My, my, I shall have to watch my Ps and Qs, won’t I?’

Gilbert looked at him straightforwardly. ‘It is a bigger villain than you could ever be that we seek, Sir. Or rather, we sought.’

Samuel stared at him. ‘Do you mean the murderer of the fat man on the steep steps?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well the answer is obvious, my dear chap. It was that agile young man who swung round the theatre like a veritable ape. In other words, Sir Julian Wychwood. He had an enormous grudge against the fat feller for taking his box. He’s your man.’

Gilbert looked astonished and John said, ‘Have you any evidence, Samuel?’

‘Evidence? Not as such. But I know human nature. Had to study it in order to perform, you see. I tell you that Wychwood is a trickster, especially with the female sex. And at cards, too, I’ll warrant.’

‘That’s a bit heavy without any actual proof.’

‘Pouff to proof. It is what one learns from life. That is the way of telling what a man is really like.’

They gave Samuel Foote a lift back to his lodgings in Dove Street, and when he was gone Gilbert said to John, ‘Do you think I should question Wychwood?’

‘Definitely. After all, Sam Foote has had a great deal of experience and he might just be right.’

‘Should I make my visit formal?’ asked Gilbert.

John considered. ‘No, I think he might laugh. Try and bump into him – or even better come to the ball at the Long Room tomorrow night and I’ll introduce you.’

‘I will. And could you do me a favour, my friend? Could you quiz Mr Huxtable and his slave once more?’

‘I can certainly do that. And what about Henry Tavener?’

‘I think he’s innocent, don’t you?’

With these words they trooped off to their various addresses, but just as John was going into his hotel he noticed a hound in the street outside, nose upward, staring at the moon which hung low in the sky and was a deep sanguine red, a Hunter’s Moon. The dog, which John recognised as Tray, had opened its muzzle and was letting out a doleful howl, a sound reckoned to shatter the nerves after listening for a minute or two.

‘Tray, be quiet,’ John called in an authoritative voice, but the wretched animal had now changed the unnerving sound to a continuous bark.

A window opened in the hotel and a head in a night cap poked out and said, ‘Can nobody shut that wretched beast up. It’s keeping us all awake.’

John called back, ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll see if I can find its owner.’

‘Thank you.’ The head withdrew and the window banged shut.

Cautiously, John approached the beast which bared its teeth at him.

‘Good dog,’ he said nervously. ‘Hush now. Be a good boy.’

The canine let out a low growl which made John shiver. It pulled back just as if it were about to launch itself at him when suddenly a hand rose from a bundle of clothes which John had not even noticed and attached itself to the dog’s collar.

‘Quiet, Tray, you miserable little bastard,’ said a voice, and with this reassurance John walked forward.

The forlorn object turned out to be Henry Tavener, as drunk as a wheelbarrow, lying on the ground, his hose muddy and laddered, his cravat smeared with vomit. It was not a pretty sight. Henry smelt disgusting, but for all that John took a deep breath and forced himself to pull him into an upright position. Forgetting that Henry still had his hand under Tray’s collar, the Apothecary was somewhat amused to see the dog jerked onto its back legs at the same time.

‘Wha?’ said Henry.

The Apothecary answered, ‘Release your dog, Sir. You’re choking it.’

‘Eh?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ and John slipped Henry’s nerveless fingers from Tray’s neckpiece, at which the wretched animal gave another loud howl and belted off into the darkness. Slowly and extremely uncomfortably, John led the shambling wreck to his mother’s lodging in Lebeck House, where he found all the candles lit and two anxious people waiting up.

This was his second encounter with Sir Roland Tavener and all he could say was that the man did not improve upon acquaintance. The winkle eyes were buried deep and he still had that supercilious manner which John had found rather irritating when they first met. But at this precise second he had a sobbing Lady Tavener in his arms, over whose bulky form it was almost impossible to appear upper crust. John could not help but smile at the look of consternation which filled the little eyes as they regarded Henry, who was making horrible noises again, scarcely able to stand.

‘My God, boy, what have you been doing?’

There was no reply as John rushed the wretched young man out into the kitchen and held his head over the sink. From the living room he could hear Lady Tavener wailing, ‘Oh Roly, that it should have come to this.’

‘The boy’s a drunken sot, mixes with the wrong sort, always goes round with that mangey cur of his. To think that a son of mine should turn out like this.’

‘Hush Roly, he might hear you.’

‘I don’t care if he does,’ answered Sir Roland, deliberately raising his voice.

The wretched Henry, his vomiting at an end, now wept. ‘You see,’ he said to John. ‘That’s what my father thinks of me. Oh God, I wish I were dead.’

‘How can you say that?’ John asked angrily. ‘You, who have had a life of privilege, while other poor creatures claw an existence out of nothing. You should make something of yourself, get out of that sordid Rat Pitt for a start and give both yourself and your dog a bit of peace. Go into business – there’s enough of it hereabouts for you to find something that would appeal. Buy a ship and export glass, made of that blue shade. Import wine in return. Come on, lad, you’ll make a fortune.’

Henry’s bottom lip trembled. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, I mean it. But the answer lies in your own hands.’

Lady Tavener walked in at that moment. ‘Henry, you look awful.’

‘I feel awful, Mama.’

John cut in. ‘The fact of the matter is, Madam, that Henry is worried about his parentage. He has it through his head that his real mother was a whore, who stood on the quayside with the other mongers and sold him to the nearest bidder. Is this true or not?’

‘And what business is that of yours?’ she asked haughtily.

Henry straightened up. ‘Please, Mother, for once in your life tell the truth. Don’t let me go on suffering like this.’

She hesitated and Sir Roland walked in. He had apparently overheard all of the previous conversation because he said loudly, ‘Go on, Beatrice. Tell him the truth.’

‘Oh, but Roly, I cannot do so. Think of my reputation.’

‘I would have thought,’ said John with force, ‘that the time has come to stop thinking of one’s good name and put your wretched son’s interests first.’

‘Well, I’ll say it if you won’t,’ said Sir Roland. ‘As you know, you are mine and the woman who says she is your mother
is.
In other words, she and I had an affair which Charles knew all about and approved because he was impotent. But she was always worried about what people would think and so the story of the adoption was put about.’ Just for a second the winkle eyes looked large and jovial. ‘But people guessed Henry was mine and that’s an end to it.’

‘So you’re not the son of a whore,’ John said tactlessly.

‘No, Henry, you are not. Unless you regard me as such,’ Lady Tavener said with a rusty pink spot appearing in either cheek.

Before his son could say a word, Sir Roland spoke up. ‘It was all done to please brother Charles. He’d had an accident some years ago which affected his prowess, yet he knew Beatrice longed for a child and so the whole plot was conceived – as did she! – to grant her wish. So, Henry, it’s time for you to grow up and stop imagining things.’

For answer the poor young man threw himself into his mother’s arms, weeping vigorously and ruining her maquillage. After a moment or two Sir Roland gave him a half-hearted pat on the back and beckoned John into the other room where he poured out two large brandies. John, who had already had quite a few, sipped it tentatively.

‘Well, let it be hoped that this will pull him together and make a man out of the little swine.’

‘Don’t be too hard on him, Sir,’ John answered. ‘He really cared about his parentage, you know.’

‘Probably an excuse to do nothing about his lifestyle.’

‘Have you thought about taking him into business with your good self?’

Sir Roland huffed. ‘I am a Merchant Venturer, Sir, and very highly regarded.’

‘But surely that wouldn’t prevent you taking him into apprenticeship or similar. Indeed, it might be seen as a highly philanthropic act.’

Sir Roland paused, letting the vision of this form in his mind. ‘Indeed, perhaps you are right. I will give it my consideration.’

‘I was hoping you might say that,’ John answered, getting to his feet. ‘Well, I must be off. If you will give my good wishes to Lady Tavener and Henry …’

‘Certainly.’

‘Good night,’ and John bowed his way out, thinking what a great many pompous people made up the population of the world.

Next morning he rose early, had only a piece of bread, butter and cheese, and took his coach up past the Playhouse and along to Clifton village. There was still a hill to climb but at least he wasn’t perpendicular.

He found Mr Huxtable at home, reading the newspaper, a pair of spectacles on his nose, his feet up on a footstool. Commodore answered the door and looked surprised to see the Apothecary again after such a long time had elapsed. Horatio stood to welcome him.

‘Ah, my dear Mr Rawlings. How very nice to see you again. I do hope you haven’t had too disturbing a time.’

‘It was rather terrible, I must confess, but I’m afraid that is not the reason for my visit.’

‘Is it about the man who claimed to be my stepson?’

‘Yes, I regret it is.’

‘Why, am I suspected of pushing him down the steps?’

‘It is a hideous puzzle because no-one knows whether he had an enemy from his early life or if he made a recent enemy who did the deed.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, that would put me in the picture, and Commodore too, I imagine.’

‘Yes, it would. Mr Huxtable, please know that I am only asking this question because I am assisting the Constable, a pleasant chap called Gilbert Farr who is terribly overworked in his apothecary’s shop. Were you at home alone on that night?’

‘I understand, and the answer is no. I went out to a card party arranged by a neighbour, and as the late pretender had left the coach behind, that is how I travelled.’

‘And Commodore, did he go with you?’

‘No, he went off courting his lady love. One Venus, who is Lady Tavener’s slave. And I am sure that is where he went because Lady Tavener’s housekeeper complained that she had to throw him out.’

‘Late?’

‘Late.’

John leant back in his chair, relieved. He liked Horatio and had grown to admire Commodore, who had been brought to this island as a frightened little boy and who had responded so well and grown into a considerable man. He was glad that they both had people who would speak up for them if it became necessary. His thoughts roamed to Samuel Foote’s assertion that it had been Julian Wychwood. He conjured up a mental picture of the man, so darkly seductive and probably controlling a violent temper. Mr Huxtable’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘I would adore a cup,’ said John, and really meant it.

An hour later he left and called in at Gilbert’s shop on the way back. They discussed the evening’s arrangements and John, facing the prospect with a grim smile, went to have a plunge bath at the Hotwell spring in preparation.

The plunge bath was not an altogether pleasant experience. First of all he had to enter the bath room, which was small and smelt very slightly of some unknown odour. Then, in exchange for his shilling, John was handed the key of the door and, having locked himself in, removed his nether garments, turned round, took hold of the iron rings fastened to the wall and stepped back. There were three shallow steps but still it was an unnerving experience, walking backwards in the semi-darkness into tepid liquid, wondering when his feet were going to touch the bottom. Though John had been assured that the water was changed after every bather, he only hoped that this statement was true.

He dipped his head down several times and then tried to relax, but the puzzle of the death of the false Augustus Bagot kept going through his mind. Who had greased those top steps? Had it been someone from Bristol’s lowlife, thinking he was the Augustus of old, or had the killer been lurking among the people staying at the Hotwell? He considered them all and realised that any one of them could have crept out in the darkness, applied the goose fat and then gone on to whatever rendezvous they had arranged. Whereas it would have been almost impossible for the old whore who stood by the fountain in Bristol city, or her child, sired by the young Gus, to have got there without transport and carrying naught but a lantern. No, he felt positive that the killer was near at hand – but who was it?

After ten minutes John had had enough and, climbing up, wrapped himself in a towel, unlocked the door and made his way to the small changing room. Having dressed, he decided he needed refreshment and stopped at a tea shop and went within. The woman who resembled a haystack was sitting at a table with a small, frightened female who looked like a very small shrew.

‘So you see, Mrs Lightpill,’ the larger woman was saying loudly, ‘I have the morning free. Sir Geoffrey – bless him, bless him – has his cousin visiting and he – that is, I mean to say, the cousin – has taken the old gentleman out in his conveyance. I do believe they are intending to move on to Bath – that is Sir Geoffrey and the cousin, the Honourable Anthony Longbotham – which means that I shall have to pack up my things and travel on. Ah, there is no rest for us ladies who act as confidantes to the elderly. Bless them.’