Death on the Rocks (7 page)

When he thought of Rose’s love for her brothers it brought the sudden sting of tears to his eyes and he had to look out at the water and pretend that the sun’s dancing rays, which caused it to reflect a million brilliant lights, were the reason for the purposeful application of his handkerchief.

‘Are you all right, Sorrh?’ asked Tom.

‘Yes, I was just thinking, that’s all.’

‘About the boys, I shouldn’t wonder.’

John glanced at Commodore, but he had drawn a few paces in front of them and was talking to the man who had been watching the pony and trap for him.

‘Yes, you’re right. I miss them, you know.’

‘’Tis a wicked woman who will keep a father away from his sons.’

‘But I walked out on her, Tom. She has every right to keep them from me.’

‘If I was you, Sorrh – which I’m not saying I am, mind – I would go and see her and sort things out.’

‘Even after all this time?’

‘Yes, Sorrh. It’s never too late on these types of occasions.’

But there their conversation had to end because Commodore was climbing into the trap and bidding them farewell.

‘Thank you, my friend, for all the help you’ve given me about Augustus.’

‘I don’t know what else to say, Sir. I told you of his early life and how close we were. There really is nothing further I can add.’

‘I suppose you have informed Mr Huxtable of your conclusions?’

‘I have repeated them over and over again. But still he has that lingering doubt.’

‘I wonder why that should be?’

‘Perhaps,’ Commdore said, somewhat sadly, ‘it is out of a misplaced respect for his late wife’s wishes.’

The Apothecary nodded. There was no answer to be made to a remark like that and he and Irish Tom watched as the slave drove off along the quayside, then turned as they heard a cheerful voice calling John by name. It was Samuel Foote, sauntering along, sprightly as you please, in a suit of striped strawberry corded silk with spangled buttons. He was accompanied by a fellow thespian dressed in a less spectacular fashion.

John swept off his hat and bowed and Irish Tom took a respectful step backwards. Mr Foote made a spectacular bow and said, ‘Damme, but if it isn’t young Rawlings. Just left your father, who allowed himself to be dipped in the healing waters. Allow me to introduce to you Sir John Hill, he’s down here to take the waters and has obliged us with an appearance at the theatre.’

This time John bowed to the ground. Sir John was the kind of man that he admired more than any. Botanist, playwright, actor, novelist, journalist and, above all, apothecary, with his own line in herbal cures. Furthermore, he had been granted a medical degree at Edinburgh. All this and it was rumoured that he had had an affair with Peg Woffington. John’s hat was literally and metaphorically off.

‘Good day to you, Sir,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I can truly say that I am an admirer of all your works.’

Hill smiled at him with bright eyes, their colour somewhat dimmed by the passing of the years and the amount of work they had had to endure.

‘How d’you do?’ he said.

‘Mr Rawlings is a fellow apothecary,’ said Foote, and laughed as if he had made some great joke.

‘Well,’ Hill replied, ‘that makes two of us, does it not?’

They both laughed and John felt that he was surely missing something funny.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I fail to see the humour of the situation.’

Hill regarded him in a scholarly fashion. ‘It was the mention of two of us, d’you see? Mr Foote and I once exchanged some acrimonious correspondence, but we made it up with a visit to the King’s Arms in Covent Garden – just the two of us.’

John laughed dutifully, though in fact he failed to see anything amusing at all.

‘Well, now, we are off to take a little liquid refreshment at The Rummer. Would you care to join us? You may bring your friend along, should you so wish.’

Irish Tom spoke up. ‘Begging your pardon, gents, but I’ll make meself scarce if you don’t mind. I’m only a coachman and I doubt I could keep up with your conversation.’

Samuel Foote said with dignity, ‘Your station in life means little to me, my friend. In my profession I mix with gamblers, whores and even Irishmen. I would be pleased to spend some time in your company and listen to your melodious voice, which I will then proceed to imitate.’

And he did just that, taking off Tom’s way of speaking to within an inch. The four men burst out laughing and John felt how marvellous it was to be alive, to have made friends with a man like Foote, to have met someone as celebrated as Sir John Hill, and to have a servant as rich in life and experience as Irish Tom.

‘Well, now, I doubt me mother would have known the difference,’ said the coachman, applying a red spotted handkerchief to his watering eyes.

‘Oh, sure and she would not,’ said Foote, and his art of mimicry was so accurate that John laughed all over again and let out a great whoop of joy. At which Foote burst into an impromptu jig, somewhat hampered by the fact he only had one leg.

Later, when the three men were seated in The Rummer – Irish Tom having excused himself to go and check on the coach – they fell to talking. The first thing they discussed was the fact that the inn was packed with the dockside riff raff and intelligentsia. Sailors, dockers, great mountainous fellows with hands like hams and arms like bellows thronged the bar, and dotted among them were earnest-looking men in sombre suits, heads together, talking about the price of rum, or sugar, or slaves. Some looked despondent because their ships were late into port; others rubbed their hands with relish that their vessels, complete with suffering human cargoes, had arrived.

Foote ran his canny little eyes over the merchants and said in a broad Bristolian drawl, ‘I am so upset that half my blacks died on the way here. We had to chuck overboard all the corpses – and the near corpses as well.’

Hill gave him an amused look and said, ‘Keep your voice down. You’ll get us thrown out.’

Foote put on a mincing air and said, ‘Gadso, but you are a rude, rough fellow. Don’t you lean on me, Sir, or I’ll call the Constable.’

Sir John Hill rolled his eyes. ‘Damme, but you can’t take the man anywhere. He never knows when to stop.’

John leaned forward. ‘Might I be serious for a moment, Mr Foote?’

‘Certainly, dear boy,’ the actor answered, suddenly avuncular. ‘What is it you wish to say?’

‘I would like to know a little more about your false leg. Is it true that you were injured in a riding accident and had to have the real leg amputated?’

‘Yes. All quite true,’ Foote answered, suddenly solemn, his features changing and an expression like that of a whipped dog appearing. ‘It was meant to be a joke, d’you see? Prince Edward was there and laid wagers among his friends as to how long I could stay on the back of his mettlesome horse. Anyway, I mounted the beast which immediately reared and threw me out of the saddle and onto the granite cobbles below.’

‘God’s life! What did you do?’

‘Scream,’ Foote answered promptly. ‘Very loudly.’

‘Who attended you?’

‘William Bromfield, the Prince’s own surgeon and a devotee of the methods of the great Hunter brothers.’

‘William Hunter delivered my twin sons,’ said John reflectively.

‘’Sblud. I did not know you were a married man, Sir.’

‘I am a widower,’ John answered, and left it at that, elaborating no further. Instead he asked another question.

‘If I may make so bold, who designed your false leg, Mr Foote?’

‘A puppeteer, would you believe? But he did me a great service in that it was articulated at the knee. The first of its kind.’

John gazed in amazement. ‘And may I know the name of this genius?’

‘Mr Addison of Hanover Street, Long Acre. You should look him up, Sir, if the same thing happens to you.’

Sir John spoke. ‘It is the custom of Samuel to make light of everything. But I can assure you he went through great pain and stress at the time. It was a royal joke that failed miserably in my view.’

‘But it bought me a theatre,’ Foote answered wryly. ‘The Theatre Royal in the Haymarket. A good exchange for a leg, eh, what?’

John Hill pulled a wry mouth and John Rawlings asked, ‘Is that how they repaid you, Sir?’

‘Yes, it is.’

Before he could say more, Sir John came in with, ‘And did he not make the best of it! His character Sir Luke Limp reduced the audience to veritable howls of laughter. I admit chortling so much I split my waistcoat at the sides. You are a great fellow, Samuel Foote.’

Just for a moment, John saw all the months of pain that the actor had gone through in order to regain his mobility, before his face took on its usual expression of puckish good humour.

Sir John Hill turned to Rawlings.

‘Tell me, Sir, am I mistaken that I have seen you several times in the public gallery at Sir John Fielding’s courthouse?’

‘Yes, indeed you have, Sir John.’

‘And why would that be?’

For once John Rawlings was indiscreet and said, ‘I occasionally work with him.’

Quick as a flying bird, Sam Foote asked, ‘In what regard? Surely you are not a Runner? I’d swear your father said you were an apothecary.’

‘So I am, Sir. I assist Sir John Fielding in other matters.’

Foote gave an enormous wink. ‘I knew it the moment I saw you. I do believe, Sir, that you are a spy.’

For once John was totally confused. ‘I … no, you are quite wrong. I merely discuss things with him … sometimes.’

‘Enough said,’ announced Sam Foote, tapping the side of his nose and rolling his eyes in a thoroughly suggestive manner. ‘I wonder exactly what kind of things you have been discussing lately.’

It was useless. Lowering his voice, the Apothecary briefly outlined his real reason for visiting the Hotwell. Sir John Hill looked astonished; Sam looked wise.

‘I think I know who you mean, Sir. That great fat oaf who frequents the theatre. He occupies a whole box on his own.’

‘That’s him,’ John answered triumphantly. ‘But is he who he says he is?’

‘“‘I love you my Gussie, but cannot say why, ’Tis not for your beauty or wit, What can it be for, Sir?’ He made his reply, ‘I’ve come here for what I can git,’” ’quoted Samuel with a wicked gleam.

‘That just about sums it up,’ John answered.

‘Well, my friend, Sir John and I will keep our ears open and will report back to you any suspicious goings on.’

‘I thank you both, gentlemen.’ John stood up. ‘And now, alas, I must leave you. It has truly been a pleasure to spend this time with you and to have the honour of meeting you, Sir John.’

Everyone bowed to everyone else and then John was out on the quay once more, not quite certain of his next move. What he wanted above all was to find people who had known Augustus in the old days, before he went to sea. During his conversation with Commodore, the name of The Seven Stars had come up as a place where Augustus had hung out in his early twenties, and now John made his way towards the great tower of St Mary Redclift. Near it, so he had been told, was the small hostelry where further information might – just might – be available. John entered the lowly lane with a sinking heart.

It was a stinking place, with medieval houses blocking out the sunlight and the smell of general filth hanging in the air like a malodorous vapour. Figures appeared in the gloom, scuttling about like rats. From a doorway a female voice called out, ‘Two pennies a go, Mister.’ John glanced and saw a shapeless hag with her skirts hoisted above her waist, exposing a dark triangle of coarse black hair which she was thrusting in his direction. With a shudder the Apothecary hurried on.

A stream of garbage ran down the centre of the lane, thick with every kind of imaginable stuff. John wondered if he were going to come out of this experience alive or at least with his health intact. He trod in something unspeakable and was forced to scrape his silver buckled shoes on the oily cobbles. And then at last he saw the ale house, small and dimly lit with candles. Beneath the sign reading The Seven Stars, John made his way inside.

It was a dingy place but relatively clean, which was more than could be said of the landlord, who had a cloth strapped round his middle which could have done with a thorough laundering.

‘Yerse,’ was his word of welcome.

‘Do you have any wine?’ John asked, thinking that any more ale would sink him.

The fellow let out a grunt resembling a laugh. ‘What you think this place is? It ain’t bleedin’ Hotwell.’

‘So I gather,’ John answered. ‘I’ll have a pint of porter, please.’

‘Bess,’ the landlord called, and an elderly woman swaddled in clothes shuffled in from the depths of the place and regarded the Apothecary with a beady eye.

‘Give this genl’man a drink, will yer.’

Trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, John accepted a tankard from Bess’s grimy hands and went to sit in a dark corner. A figure reared out of the blackness opposite him.

‘Who are you?’ it growled gruffly.

God’s blood, thought John, but aloud said, ‘I am John Rawlings, an apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

‘Never you mind,’ answered the voice. ‘What you doin’ in this part of Bristol?’

John decided to take the plunge. ‘I’m looking for a man called Augustus Bagot.’

‘Why?’

John lied desperately. ‘Because I have some information that might be of interest to him.’

‘What would that be?’

‘I am afraid that is personal. I could not reveal the secret to you.’

A staring black eye appeared from the gloom. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right person. Gus used to lodge with me.’

‘Really? When was that?’

A hand so ingrained with filth that John could barely look at it thrust itself forward. ‘A bloke like you could afford to pay for such low down.’

‘How do I know that you will tell me the truth?’

There was a rasping laugh. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, woncher.’

John produced two shillings from his pocket and placed them in the upturned palm. The man moved further forward on his bench and John could smell a body that had never been washed, together with evil breath and above all the stink of rot and decay. He involuntarily moved back.