Death on the Rocks

by Deryn Lake

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.

  ‘I’ll want more than two shullin’ for what I’m about to tell yer.’

  John, somewhat reluctantly, produced another three and said, ‘You had better make this good.’

  There came the deep rumble of a chuckle. John’s eyes, which had now adapted to the darkness, saw that the man was wearing a hole-ridden and no doubt flea-infested striped jersey and that his greasy hair was tied back in a pigtail. He was talking to someone who had once been a sailor.

  ‘Ben’s the name, your worship. Ben Bull, pressed into the Navy from this very establishment. That is till I got too old to be of service to them and they slung me out.’

  ‘But surely there is a hospital to which you could have retired?’

  Ben spat a yellow glob onto the floor. ‘That old place in King Street? Why, I’d rather die of drink than set me foot in such a hell hole.’

  John thought to himself that it wouldn’t be long, judging by the smell of the man.

  ‘Anway, I knew Gussie when he were just a lad. He had this dog, see, and his mother didn’t care for the brute. Gus used to take it to the Rat Pitt and old Sam became a champion.’

  ‘I know this already,’ John answered. ‘Tell me the next part of the story.’

  The other man spat again. ‘Gus was a bit of a rebel and eventually he ran away from home. I knew him from the Rat Pitt and I offered that he could come and live with me. Well, he moved in, in secret ’cos he didn’t want his ma to find out, then I was pressed into the Navy and was at sea for three years.’

  ‘I hope this is going to be worth five shillings.’

  ‘When I comes ’ome again the lad was in bad trouble.’

  Despite the rank bodily smells, John leant forward. ‘What sort?’

  A laugh full of spittle ran out. ‘Chasin’ the girls, he was.’

  ‘Did he catch any of them?’

  Another laugh, this one wheezy. ‘Too many. In fact two of them gave him the Scarborough warning.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Aye, truth to tell he filled two cradles before he went to sea.’

  ‘Did he take responsibility for either of these little bastards?’

  Ben laughed for a third time. ‘No, not our Gussie. A likeable enough fellow in his way but a precious ass for all that. He loved life and women and gambling but little else beside. In the end he went to trade with the settlers in New Zealand.’

  ‘And that was the last you heard of him?’

  ‘Yes, he just upped sticks and went, dog and all.’

  John was tempted to ask whether Ben had heard any rumours of Gus’s return, but thought better of it. Ben coughed disgustingly, then wiped his hand across his mouth and said, ‘Was that worth the five shullin’, governor?’

  John tossed him another coin and said, ‘What happened to the two children? What sex were they? Or don’t you know?’

  ‘I never found that out. About that time a ship sailed for the West Indies and I went on it. Then sailed back and then out again. It was six years before I saw Bristol once more.’

  John got up. ‘You have been very helpful. Thank you.’

  Ben receded before his eyes, merging into the darkness, a bundle of rags that someone had thrown into a corner and forgotten all about. For all John knew, the old sailor could well stay there until the day he rotted away.

  Seven

  On returning to the Hotwell, John proceeded to the Long Room and there found his father, reading a newspaper, occasionally lowering it to reveal a pair of golden eyes hidden behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles, regarding with interest the woman sitting opposite him.

  She was like a haystack blowing in a strong wind, constantly listing from side to side, her hair falling down from her cap and untidily moving round her shoulders, her arms flailing about in a series of apparently meaningless gestures as she talked incessantly to her companion, an elderly gentleman slumped in a Bath chair, lids falling down over desperately weary eyes.

  ‘And then I said to Mrs Phoebe Lightpill, “Rahlly that was not a nice thing to do, my good man.” What do you think of that, Sir Geoffrey?’

  ‘Eh? What?’ said the old fellow, struggling up from sleep.

  ‘I said … Oh, never mind. I do wish you would listen sometimes.’ She sighed loudly and dropped one of the many unfashionable scarves with which she adorned her person.

  John stooped and picked it up for her, handing it back with a slight bow. ‘I believe this is yours, Madam.’

  She fluttered like a small gale. ‘How clumsy of me. Thank you, Sir. Thank you indeed. I am the clumsiest woman on earth, you know. Oh why am I so clumsy?’

  John bowed again and would have joined Sir Gabriel but the woman continued without check.

  ‘But there now, I’m in a right how-do-you-do. I should have introduced myself. Miss Abigail Thorney, companion to Sir Geoffrey Lucas. I was a companion to his dear wife, Lady Effie, before she passed to the realm beyond. I know it is not considered the done thing for those of the gentle sex to be attendant upon gentlemen, but I am more of a nurse, if you follow my meaning.’

  John was somewhat at a loss, but was just about to introduce himself when Sir Gabriel rose from his chair and spoke.

  ‘Madam, allow me to present myself and my son to you. I am Gabriel Kent of Kensington and this is John Rawlings of Nassau Street, Soho. We hope to have the honour of your acquaintance.’

  She rose and made a complicated movement which resembled a bell tent descending to the floor, from which position she had some difficulty rising. Sir Gabriel graciously extended a hand which she clutched with desperate fingers, giggling coyly all the while. The old gentleman finally woke up and called out, ‘Damme, what’s going on?’

  John shouted into the old man’s ear horn, ‘We are introducing ourselves, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘Producing what?’

  ‘No, I said introducing.’

  ‘Oh, leave it to me,’ said Miss Abigail with resignation, and bellowed at Sir Geoffrey, ‘These fine gentlemen come from London.’

  ‘Oh good. I used to live there. In St James’s Square. Do you know it?’

  Sir Gabriel raised his ear trumpet in a gesture of companionship and the two elderly men sat shouting at one another, leaving John to converse with Abigail. Desperately seeking for something to say, he gratefully noticed Titania Groves from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Ah ha, there is someone I recognise. Will you excuse me if I go and speak to her?’

  Miss Thorney looked thoroughly put out and said grumpily, ‘Ah yes, Miss Groves. I know her, of course. But then, who doesn’t? She is quite the little flirt of the Hotwell, you know. But then I suppose we all were once upon a year.’

  She sighed drearily and John, relieved in more ways than one to see the attractive Miss Groves, bowed and crossed the Long Room to greet the new arrival.

  Much later that evening, when his father had retired for the night and the buzz surrounding the community visiting the Hotwell had died down to a mellow murmur, John and a few others strolled along the riverside walk. He was silent, locked in his thoughts. It seemed unlikely to him that the great oaf passing himself off as Augustus Bagot could be the same
person that both Commodore and the old sailor remembered with a certain fondness – a wild, naughty young man who had owned a dirty dog called Sam and who had got at least two girls into trouble before running away to sea. Yet how to prove it? Admittedly the juvenile Augustus had had a birthmark on his buttocks. But short of demanding that the present Augustus bare all – a thought that made the Apothecary feel definitely nauseous – John could think of no other answer.

  It was a silver night, the moon drenching the river and the fisherboats sailing quietly on its breeze-ruffled surface. The avenue of trees threw sable shadows of branches on to the walkway below, tracing delicate patterns of leaves beneath John’s shoes, the buckles gleaming in the moonshine, the points of light dancing ahead of him as he walked along. There were not many people about at this hour of the night, a few going for a rapid constitutional, but mostly couples, many young and in love, whispering into each other’s ears. And then John heard the sound of hurrying footsteps and turned to see Commodore trying to catch up with him. He stopped walking and the slave panted up to his side.

  ‘Oh Mr Rawlings, the Master thought there was something else I should tell you.’

  ‘How did you get here?’ asked John, astonished to see him.

  ‘I came down the steps, Sir, and I held my breath on every one.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Commodore rolled his great dark eyes. ‘Because of the danger, Sir. They are cut out of the rock and are always wet. I would never have risked them but I felt there was something further that I had to say to you.’

  ‘About young Augustus?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I know of one person locally who would remember him. But the present Mr Bagot refuses to call on him, says he is a scoundrel and a wastrel and refuses even to see him.’

  ‘So who is this interesting man?’

  ‘Sir Roland Tavener, Sir. A most respected member of our community, whose only fault seems to be that his late brother Charles beat young Augustus into a pulp over an argument concerning Sir Charles’s sister.’

  ‘I met an old sailor in Bristol who told me that Augustus went to live with him when he ran away from home. Apparently young Bagot was very free and easy with the ladies.’