Death on the Rocks (26 page)

Sir Julian Wychwood looked at his watch, drawn from his waistcoat pocket, and as he did so it was echoed by the prison’s mournful chimes. Two o’clock in the morning and not a soul penetrated the thick enveloping mist which lay over the land. Julian had not taken shelter in his coach for he felt sure that his beloved mother could be released from another door and he might not see her slip away in the gloom. That is why he stood outside and let the fog drift around him.

The whole episode was cloaked in mystery. As far as he was concerned, some unknown assailant had knocked him semi-conscious, during which time he had glimpsed through a hazy eye his mother being dragged backwards into her own coach. After a frantic search, the next he had heard was that she had been taken to Bristol Gaol pending a magistrate’s enquiry. None of it made any sense to him, and so here he was, his clothes growing gradually damp, his face getting more pinched as the endless minutes ticked away.

Eventually, at quarter to five there was a great rumbling of bolts and turning of keys in the great door that guarded the entrance. Julian drew closer and eventually a ghost-like figure emerged, stepping out and gazing round blindly, putting a hand up to its face to protect it from the vapour.

‘Mother?’ called Julian.

She turned to him uncertainly, gazing at him with eyes that seemed blinded by the mist. ‘Julian?’ she said in a quavering voice.

‘Yes, I’m here. Oh, my dear, sweet woman, what have they done to you?’

‘It has all been so horrible, Julian. I have been crowded in a cell with whores and other creatures. I thought I would die of shame.’

‘But what was it all about, Mother, why should you – the victim – be placed in gaol?’

For answer she laid her finger across his lips. ‘Shush, my love. I’ll tell you the whole story when I have settled down. Now, is that your carriage I see in the gloom?’

‘Yes it is. Allow me.’

She looked so fragile that he picked her up in his arms while she made little birdlike noises and snuggled against his chest.

‘Where d’you wanna go, Sir?’ asked the driver, who had been sleeping best he could and felt thoroughly despondent.

‘To the Hotwell?’ answered Julian, but his mother cut across him.

‘No, if you please, there is somebody I must see up at Clifton. If you could possibly drive me there first.’

‘But Madam,’ answered the long-suffering driver, ‘there is a very thick fog tonight and the way is dangerous enough as it is. I think you should leave it until morning.’

‘I am not asking your opinion, I am giving you orders,’ answered Lady Tyninghame, in a tone of voice which Julian had never heard her use before.

‘But Mother …’

She turned to him, sweet as a sugar mouse. ‘Oh please, Julian, darling. It is urgent. I really do need to go. I’ll tell you all about it when we get there. Surely your coachman will be able to pick his way?’

He suddenly felt exhausted, as tired as his coachman obviously was.

‘Oh, go on, Saunders, for the love of God.’ It was a plea, not a command.

‘If you like to take the risk, Sir,’ and Saunders made a harumphing sound to express his displeasure.

They set off into the invisible night, the horse picking its way and occasionally shying with fright as an object loomed up out of the fog. Lady Tyninghame fell asleep, leaning against Julian. He was aware, more than ever, of her fragility, of the fact that she could snap like a wishbone. And yet again he puzzled over the fact that she had been so desperate that she had given him away immediately. For surely she had planned to marry the old man she met on the ship?

Or so it appeared to Julian as they plodded through the fog for hours, forever climbing. Eventually Saunders cried out, ‘Gawd, I think I can see the lights of The Ostrich.’

‘Which one?’

‘Not the one at the docks, the one on Clifton Downs.’

‘So we’re there.’

Violetta stirred into wakefulness, yawning and saying in a tired, tiny voice, ‘Are we at Clifton, sweetheart?’

‘Yes, Mother. You slept all the way here.’

‘I was so exhausted. I have been through such an ordeal.’

‘You promised to tell me about it but you slept all the way instead.’

‘Never mind, dear child, I will do so tomorrow when you are refreshed. Now, let us get out for a moment.’

‘You said you wanted to see someone, but I must remind you that it’s six o’clock in the morning.’

‘Well, I am getting out. Nature calls me. And surely you will not let your mother go unescorted.’

Reluctantly, Julian stepped out of the carriage, breathing in the foggy air and wondering at how different and strange everything appeared in these misty conditions. His mother had entirely vanished and, looking up at the coachman’s box, he saw that Saunders slept where he sat. He suddenly felt terribly alone, as if he were standing on the edge of the world with no-one to guide him. He tried to thrust on his natural persona, the devil-may-care young man that women found irresistible, the rake that girls adored and men tolerated. But instead he felt frightened and lonely. Like a child again. And then his mother’s voice spoke out of the fog.

‘This way, Julian. Walk forward a little.’

Christ! Where was she?

He called out, ‘Where are you? I can’t see you.’

‘Another few paces, sweetheart. Go straight ahead.’

He did as he had been bidden and then paused as his foot detected a different surface beneath his shoe. It was rock. He was standing on rock. But where in Clifton was there solid rock in the shape of a step? And then Julian knew and he stopped short.

Now her voice was right behind him. ‘Go on, you unwanted little bastard, who disgusts me by the very fact you’re alive. Climb down in the fog. Let’s see how you like that. Let’s see what you’re really made of.’ And she pushed him, hard.

Fortunately she did no more than unbalance him so that he slipped down one of the steps and clung on to the second with his knee. She pushed again. This time Julian raised his right arm to fend her off; he was hanging on for his very life with the left. And then he heard running feet in the fog and he called out with all his strength, ‘Help! I’m on the steps! I’m being attacked!’

A dog came flying out of the fog, a fearful-looking hound. ‘Go on, Tray,’ said a voice. ‘Kill.’

Lady Tyninghame gave a scream of genuine fear, and as she buckled to her knees Julian could hear the noise of growling followed by what sounded horribly like a booted kick. She gave one last scream as she plunged downwards into the mist, towards the Avon Gorge, the sound dying away as it hit the wall of vapour that lay below. Julian, panting, put up his right hand.

‘Help me up, I beg you.’

A strong arm came down and hauled him upward till Julian sat once more upon the grass, weeping like a child.

‘’Zounds, no more of that, I pray you. I never thought to see such a sight.’

‘It’s just that I’m shocked. My own mother tried to kill me.’

‘Oh, is that what all the fuss was about. I know I accidentally kicked something in the fog. Hope I haven’t hurt her.’

‘I think, Mr Tavener, that you have.’

‘Damme, what terrible mistakes one can make in misty conditions.’

And with that, Henry Tavener and Julian Wychwood, to say nothing of the good dog Tray, lurched towards The Ostrich and banged on the door until they gained admittance and could discuss the situation at length.

The day that an inanimate and shapeless mass was hauled out of the mud by a pair of local fishermen was the day that John Rawlings and Sir Gabriel Kent left Hotwell for the last time. Overnight, what had once been a spa of great natural beauty and delights had become cold and desolate. The season was over, the fine company had moved on to Bath. Instead of the buzz of excitement that had been in the air, there was now an almighty silence. To make matters worse, the tide had gone right out, filling the spa with the stink of rotting fish, rotting detritus, rotting boats and another sweet, sickly, unidentifiable smell that wove amongst the rest and became part of the melange that they formed.

Sir Gabriel raised a handkerchief to his nostrils. ‘What a place of stinks is Bristol and its environs.’

‘Are you glad to be leaving?’

‘You know that I am always delighted to return to my own home.’

‘I hope that you will allow me to escort you there.’

They drove on for another few yards and then Irish Tom pulled the horses to a stop.

‘There’s something going on, Sir. The Constable is here and they are stopping the coaches.’

‘Do you mind if I have a look?’

John stepped down from the carriage and saw that Gilbert Farr in the midst of five or six other men was looking at something lying on the mud banks of the river. John knew, even from a distance, that it was a body. He also knew that there was very little of it remaining, having been crushed to pulp by the fall. The second Augustus Bagot had had his fall broken by the roof of the Colonnade, but this poor creature had not been that fortunate. She had crashed down on to the river bank from a great height and thus there was very little left of her features. The size of the pulped mess told John that it was female, but it was Gilbert Farr who cried out in some distress, ‘Oh God, it’s Lady Tyninghame. This mushed object is the hat she was wearing when she went to prison.’

So the fat man had had a kind of revenge, thought John. She had died in exactly the same way that he had. He walked up to Gilbert.

‘Anything I can do, old friend?’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘Nothing. She’s as dead as a door nail. It must have been as I thought. The Marquis pulled a few strings and got her out of gaol, but what happened after that Heaven alone knows. She must have caught a coach back to Clifton and crashed down the steps in the fog.’

‘But what was she doing up there?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘And why didn’t she fall on the Colonnade?’

‘I imagine it was because she was too light a weight. But whatever happened she’s past help now.’

‘Well at least let’s hope she rests in peace, the poor tormented soul.’

Walking briskly back to the coach, John started to tiptoe as he saw Tom, who was standing beside it, put his finger to his lips.

‘Your father’s dropped off into a nice snooze, Sorrh. I’d let him rest if I were you.’

John laughed, just a trifle grimly. ‘In that case, I have no option but to find an alehouse. The sight of those remains made me rather queasy, to be perfectly honest.’

The nearest was The Seven Stars, that drinking house in which one could hear practically every language in the world being spoken. Today, however, it was less crowded and John managed to get a seat at a table and was just settling down to consume a glass of canary when a whispering voice spoke in his ear. John jumped with nerves and on looking round could see no one but a strange bundle of rags unfolding itself beside him. A second or two later, the sibilant creature, who previously had told him so much about the youthful Gussie, had taken a seat opposite him.

On this occasion, he was slightly smarter in that his face and hands were clean and he had on a salt-stained jersey, which was less ragged than his terrible coat.

‘’ullo, Guv,’ he said. ‘’ow are you? Did you find out any more about our Gussie?’

‘Plenty,’ John answered, moving a little as the man’s particular brand of body odour came creeping towards him. ‘I discovered the identity of his two little bastards – two persons far removed from one another socially – and I also found out for sure that the fat imposter was just that – a fake.’

‘I could ’ave told you that.’

‘Yes, but I had to have proof positive.’

The whispering man gave a chuckle and asked John to get him a large brandy. Once he had it in his hand, he peered into its depths and said, ‘Want to know something?’

‘Yes. What?’

‘I saw Gussie recent. I was on a ship plying between here and Bordeaux for wine, and bugger me but if he weren’t there, standing on the quay. “Gussie,” I calls out, loud and clear, and he looks up and waves, just like his usual self, though there are flecks of grey in his unruly mop now. Anyway, we repairs to a tavern and I tells him all about the fat man impersonating him. He laughs. “You don’t mean old tubby Cecil, do you? Do you know, I met the blighter once and he had a very peculiar interest in me. I was a bit in me cups and never thought to ask him why. What was the reason, do you know?” he says. So I says, “Your mother had died and left you a fortune in diamonds. It was in all the newspapers. Didn’t you see them?” At that poor Gussie cries a bit and says, “I was a naughty boy in my youth, I neglected my parents something shockin’.” Then he revives and asks about Commodore. I told him he was a big fellow these days. So Gussie suddenly sits up straight and says, “I’m going to England. I’m going to see them all and get those diamonds. I am going to apologise to my poor old step-papa for all the trouble I caused. I’m going to be an upright citizen in future.”

‘Well, I thought to meself, That’ll be the day, but I just chuckles and says, “Good.” Then I asks him about his dog, old Sam. He shakes his head. “Gone to the great kennel in the sky, alas, but I got a new one called Tinker. He’s a winner, I can tell you.” Then Gus stands up, looks at his watch, and says, “I’m late, I’m late, got to be at the snail races. See you in England, you old devil.” And he’s gone, quick as a flash. He’s a lovely fellow, old Gussie. They don’t make them like that any more.’

They certainly don’t, thought John, but inwardly he was pleased to hear the news. Pleased that the red-headed reprobate was returning to Bristol and was going to liven things up once more.

Walking back to the coach, he decided to tell Sir Gabriel nothing about the arrest and subsequent death of Lady Tyninghame, sparing his father the details of her terrible end. So, as he got back into the carriage, Sir Gabriel awoke and asked, ‘Who was the poor dead soul?’

‘Just a drab from Bristol who decided to finish it all.’

‘Poor woman. Who can have such a wretched life that they feel they must end it?’

‘Perhaps she was mentally ill,’ answered John, and refused to discuss the matter any further, concentrating instead on the various landmarks along the way that told them they were approaching home.