Death on the Rocks (9 page)

John stared after him. ‘What a strange young man.’

Commodore grinned in the moonlight. ‘A strange family altogether, Master.’

‘What do you mean by that?

But the negro merely shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Nothing at all, Sir.’

John slept fitfully that night and was late to breakfast, finding Sir Gabriel already at his repast, sipping delicately from a cup of coffee. Talking to him across the space between the tables was a man of florid complexion with eyes that seemed buried like winkles in the sand. He gave the Apothecary a small, sharp glance as he approached.

Sir Gabriel waved his hand. ‘My dear Sir, I do not know your name but may I present my son to you?’

‘Certainly you may,’ the other replied grandly, with a condescending nod of his small, bewigged head. ‘But first let me present myself. I am Sir Roland Tavener, baronet.’

‘And I am Gabriel Kent. My son, John Rawlings.’

Sir Roland gave another deep nod, then peered even more closely at John. ‘You have a different surname, I notice. Why is that?’

John let Sir Gabriel explain.

‘I adopted John when he was two years old. I was married to his mother.’

‘Ah. My late brother adopted a son also, but he has turned out to be a right jackanapes. Gambling, women, drink, he has experimented with them all.’

‘I think a lot of young men do,’ Sir Gabriel answered wisely.

‘Unless they are apprenticed,’ put in the Apothecary, ‘because then they do it secretly.’

Sir Gabriel laughed unashamedly, joined by Samuel Foote who had just entered the room to get some breakfast. Sir Roland looked disapproving and raised his newspaper high.

Foote cocked an eyebrow in his direction and murmured, ‘So is my arse! What a stuffy old windbag.’ He sat down at Sir Gabriel’s table. ‘Well, what news from the Rialto?’

John looked a little downcast. ‘Nothing, really. Mr Huxtable’s slave, Commodore, would swear that our friend is a fraud. But who would take a slave’s word against that of a white man?’

The actor nodded. ‘It will all be different one day, you mark me. But meanwhile, friend John, I would continue with your enquiries in Bristol. You’ll unearth something one of these days. Let one of the Bristolians come forward and challenge him. That will make him sweat, I warrant.’

John turned to his father. ‘I don’t know what to do, Sir. As you know, this visit was only meant to last a few days, but it seems as if it is going to take much longer.’

Sir Gabriel sighed with elegance. ‘My dear child, when has one of your enquiries ever taken less? I am happy here. The water suits me and Lady Dartington plays a damn fine hand at whist. I am prepared to stay until your puzzle is solved.’

‘If I were you,’ said Mr Foote wisely, ‘I would borrow a costume from the theatre and traipse round Bristol dressed as a sailor or something of that sort. Take your coachman with you and dress him up as well.’

‘Now that,’ said John, ‘is a very good idea indeed.’

Before he set his – or rather Samuel Foote’s – plan into action, John decided to call on Mr Huxtable. But the problem was how to get there. Sir Gabriel had gone riding forth in the carriage and there seemed nothing for it but to tackle the steps. John had been informed that they started behind the Colonnade and, strolling round there, he suddenly came to a complete halt as his eye took in the terrifying sight before him. He had never had a head for heights and now he took a few steps back as he contemplated the steep climb upwards.

The steps themselves were crude, rough hewn out of the rock, and as far as John could see were suitable for climbing only by mountain goats with a strong will. Furthermore, they glistened with damp and John could imagine the feeling as his feet slipped from under him and he clung on to whatever was at hand. He stood staring at the steps, wondering if his visit to Mr Huxtable was really necessary, then deciding that it was. A street child came and stood next to him.

‘Go on, Mister, why doncher?’ the cheeky little swine enquired.

‘Because I’m afraid,’ John answered frankly.

‘Wot? A young feller like you? Why, I could climb them in ten minutes.’

‘Then pray do so,’ John answered, stung.

‘Tell yer wot. I’ll help you up ’em for a shilling.’

‘Make it sixpence and you’ve got an agreement.’

So up they went, John feeling like an old codger, with the child pushing him from behind, shouting, ‘Don’t look down, Mister, for the luv of Gawd.’

The Apothecary would not have lied if he had said that it was one of the most frightening experiences of his life. He reached the top and his stomach lurched as he glanced down at that terrifying gorge yawning below him, the river a slash of blue snaking at the bottom. With a cry of fright he collapsed into a sitting position to try and pull himself together.

The urchin stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘There’s no need to take on so, Mister. They’re only steps. Now where’s me sixpence? I’ve earned it.’

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, John fished in his pocket and handed the child a coin. The boy took it, tried it between his teeth, then scuttled down the steps like a rat. Groaning, the Apothecary got to his feet and made his way to Mr Huxtable’s house.

Commodore answered the door, noticing the beads of perspiration on John’s upper lip.

‘Don’t tell me you climbed the steps, Master?’

John nodded, still slightly out of breath.

‘Now you understand what I meant when I descended them last night.’

‘I don’t know how you did it. I think I would have died of fright.’

The black man smiled. ‘I didn’t go back that way. I hitched a lift from a coach going to the theatre.’

‘That was still a pretty steep walk.’

‘Anything rather than the steps.’

John nodded. ‘I came to see Mr Huxtable.’

‘He is out, Sir. Has taken the carriage into Bristol. But
he
’s here.’ He jerked his head towards the sitting room.

John froze. ‘He must not know that I am in touch with his stepfather. I’ll go at once.’

But already a heavy voice was calling out, ‘Who’s there, Commodore?’

‘Say it’s someone looking for somewhere else,’ John whispered, but already he could hear heavy plodding feet making their way to the hall. He turned and bolted out of the front door at top speed, leaving poor Commodore to sort out the situation as best he could.

Feeling quite worn out with the recent memory of being shoved up the steps and then nearly meeting Augustus face to face, John walked across the Downs, an invigorating and pleasant experience, and ended up at The Ostrich Inn. The place did particularly well on a Sunday when there were excursions from Bristol to the Downs for people to take the fresh air, play bowls, or to picnic on the slopes of Nightingale Valley among the grazing sheep. Today the place was almost empty, yet John detected an atmosphere as soon as he crossed the threshold. It was as if everyone was on tenterhooks, behaving in an unnatural way. Furthermore, the landlord looked especially clean and was wearing a new stock at his throat.

‘Dressed very finely this morning, I declare,’ John said jovially as he stepped up to the counter and ordered a pint of ale.

‘We have great company in the snug,’ the landlord answered in a whisper.

‘Oh, do tell. Who is it?’

‘The Marchioness of Tyninghame herself.’

John looked suitably impressed but was raking through his memory to try and recall the name … and failed.

‘I am sorry, I don’t know who that is. But forgive me, I am not local. Just a visitor to the Hotwell.’

‘She is not local either. But her husband was. Apparently he was a bit brutal and she left him. He actually divorced her. But I say too much. It is never good to gossip about one’s patrons.’

The case was coming back to John now. The Marquis of Tyninghame’s divorce had been reported in the newspapers. His wife had run off and left him without saying a word; he subsequently remarried and had a large brood of eight children.

‘Isn’t she of foreign blood?’ John asked, vaguely scrabbling at memory.

‘The lady is Austrian and a great beauty,’ the landlord answered with a smug little smile.

‘How interesting. I hope I manage to get a look at her.’

‘I doubt it. The snug has a private door.’

‘Oh dear. Well, never mind. I’ll just have to do without.’

But at that moment the door leading from the private room opened and the lady herself stood framed within, gazing about her with huge light-green eyes, one hand holding a reticule while the other absently stroked the head of a little black boy who proudly held the hem of her dress. The Apothecary snatched his hat off and made a deep bow, even though she was looking in the opposite direction.

‘Where is my coachman?’ She addressed the landlord in a voice deliciously foreign in its undertone.

‘He stepped outside, my Lady. Can I help you at all?’

‘Please, I would like a glass of brandy.’

And she retired into the snug again without even glancing in John’s direction. Slightly daunted, he retired to a corner and contemplated his tankard of ale, thinking about the woman whom he had just seen. She reminded him of someone and after a few moments he realised that it was Elizabeth. They both had that air of cool detachment, yet with his mistress one always suspected that underneath lay a moody, passionate heart. With this woman one sensed fragility, a delicacy that could easily be destroyed by the ugliness of the world. John longed in that moment to meet her.

The outer door opened and this time in strode the coachman, red in the cheeks and puffing very slightly. It was obvious that he had been in search of the boghouse because there was a slight whiff of it about his greatcoat.

‘Has the Lady wanted anything?’ he asked.

‘She asked for another brandy and I served her.’

‘Why does she need brandy at this time of day?’ asked John, determined to get into the conversation somehow or other.

The coachman turned to see who had spoken. ‘How should I know?’ he said in a rough voice.

‘Sorry, I meant no offence,’ the Apothecary answered, adopting a humble face. ‘I just wondered if she were ill.’

‘No, she’s had a bit of a shock, that’s all. A child ran out in front of the coach and we had to swerve to miss her. ’Twas nothing more than a jolt.’

‘You wouldn’t like me to attend her? I am an apothecary,’ John answered hopefully.

The coachman snorted. ‘Another would-be suitor, eh? My Lady has had her fill of ’em. It is highly unlikely she will want any more.’ And with that he ostentatiously turned his back.

The inner door from the snug opened again and the little black boy rushed into the bar.

‘Oh please help. My Lady is so poorly. I’m afraid she is dying.’

With one of his hare-like leaps, the Apothecary was on his feet and positively sprinting towards the snug room from which feeble moans were emanating.

‘Madam,’ he boomed impressively, ‘fear not. I am an apothecary and have come to assist you.’

And so saying, he picked up the slumped figure of Lady Tyninghame and placed her back in her chair.

The very touch of her gave an impression of gentle delicacy. John felt that if he held her too tightly her bones would shatter beneath his hands. Yet, saying all that, there was a similarity to Elizabeth in her wonderful facial structure and full, slightly wordly lips. But there any likeness ended.

John loosened her jacket at the neckline and felt in his pocket for the smelling salts that he always carried. The coachman, who had followed him in, regarded him with suspicion.

‘I am merely giving her smelling salts,’ the Apothecary said over his shoulder.

But Lady Tyninghame was regaining consciousness and looking around her with a pair of remarkable eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I felt so enfeebled.’

‘No need to concern yourself, Madam. It happens to us all at some time or another.’

The green eyes fixed themselves on John and in their depths he saw a flicker of something indefinable.

‘Thank you so much for your help. May I know your name, Sir?’

‘John Rawlings, my Lady. Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’

‘Goodness, what are you doing so far from home?’

‘I am accompanying my father to the Hotwell. He is taking the waters.’

‘I too am making my way there. We were coming round the long way from Bristol and a child ran into the road and I thought we were going to hit her. Of course my wonderful coachman shouted and she sped away. But it left me feeling faint. So foolish of me.’

She smiled guilelessly and John wondered how such a fragile creature could have even contemplated running away from her husband, however brutal he might have been.

‘And you, Sir,’ she went on. ‘What are you doing in Clifton?’

‘I went to visit an old friend but unfortunately he was out, so I retreated to this excellent inn.’

She smiled naughtily, an impish look flitting across her features. ‘And how did you get here?’

‘Madam, I climbed the steps and have never been more frightened in my life.’

‘The steps?’ she repeated.

‘Yes,’ John answered, chuckling a little at the thought of the child who had literally shoved him to the top. ‘Two hundred of ’em. And each one steep and slippery, carved out of the rock face.’

She gave a little shudder but a minute later was smiling again. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Violetta Tyninghame. I was the Marchioness but my husband wanted rid of me and so now I am just known as Lady. His second wife became the Marchioness, you see.’

‘Vaguely, yes,’ John answered honestly.

‘Maybe I will tell you the story one day,’ she answered. ‘And then again, maybe I won’t. But now to more practical matters. Is it your intention to descend the steps once more? Or may I give you a lift to the Hotwell?’

John put his hand on his heart. ‘Madam, I swear that I would walk to Bristol and come back via Rope Walk – even if it took me six hours – than ever face those dreadful steps again.’

She stood up and transformed instantly from the vulnerable little creature prone to fainting, to a woman of stature and good breeding. Looking every inch a
grande dame
, she ordered her coachman to take them down the precipitous track known as Granby Hill. Once more John found himself subjected to that terrifying carriage ride carved out of the rock face, and was pushed flat on his back with both legs raised in the air as the coach hurtled perpendicular down the side of that vicious slope. But having arrived breathlessly at Hotwell, he helped Lady Tyninghame from her carriage and proceeded to a small ale house where he ordered a large brandy and fell in company with the deliciously dandified Samuel Foote, preparing himself for the performance that evening.