Death on the Rocks

by Deryn Lake

  Sir Gabriel stepped forward. ‘Should you require an escort to any social function then I would be most happy to oblige, Ma’am.’

  ‘My thanks, Sir,’ she answered, and dropped a small curtsey.

  They left the grotto while Lady Tyninghame remained, staring wistfully at the Cupid and remembering, John imagined, where she and the young lover who had ruined her marriage had long ago exchanged secret vows.

  Changing for the evening and putting on a suit of fuchsia-coloured satin with a high-cut waistcoat stiff with silver embroidery, John decided that this night he would flirt outrageously with the Honourable Miss Groves. Looking in the mirror while he tied his neckwear in a startling bow, he decided that he had been on his own long enough, that his affair with Elizabeth di Lorenzi had run its course, that he must look elsewhere or else drift uncertainly towards middle-age and solitude. Yet deep down, in his most secret heart-of-hearts, he knew that still one letter, one call from her, and he would be running to Devon faster than a greyhound. So he deliberately set out to amuse Titania and made much of her during the supper which they ate in the Old Long Room, under the direction of Mr Barton, a youngish man with a somewhat pimply face hidden by a layer of enamel.

  It was a Tuesday and thus the night of the ball, so the place was well attended. Sir Gabriel, on arrival at the spa, had paid a guinea, the season’s subscription for attending as many dances as he might wish. So tonight he arrived in style, together with Lady Dartington and one or two other acquaintances whom he had met since starting his visit to the Hotwell. On entering the Old Long Room he had been bowed to very deeply by Mr Barton, who, with the mincing steps of a dandy, had led the party to their table. John and Titania, as two of the youngest people present, had been placed together, a fact which pleased both of them.

  Despite his longing to change his way of life, the Apothecary found himself in an odd mood, everything seeming dreamlike and unreal. As he whirled through the country dances and cotillions, he had the odd sensation of standing outside himself and looking down at his frenetic activity on the dance floor. He was quite glad, in fact, when an interval came and he was able to sit down once more. Drinking a glass of brandy-based punch, he looked round the room.

  There were several people missing, including Samuel Foote and the ravishing Lady Tyninghame. Also absent was that great, fat loose fish, Augustus Bagot, and neither was there any sign of Mr Huxtable, though John knew he did not often frequent such affairs. There was a roll of drums and Mr Barton stepped forward and pronounced in a shrill voice that dancing would resume in ten minutes. John turned to Titania.

  ‘I believe the shops are still open.’

  ‘Yes, they remain open late here. There is still a great deal of custom, you see.’

  ‘I feel like a breath of fresh air. Will you walk with me by the river?’

  ‘I should like to visit the milliner’s first.’

  ‘Shall we make a polite exit?’

  Titania curtseyed. ‘It sounds delightful.’

  Meaningful expressions came over the faces of the rest of the company when John asked permission to escort Miss Groves to the shops. Lady Dartington looked rather cold but said reluctantly, ‘You may do so, Mr Rawlings, but she is to be back in thirty minutes, mind.’

  ‘I promise to take care of her, Madam.’

  ‘So I should hope, young man.’

  It was another bright night, a definite chill in the air but the universe packed with stars. John looked up and felt slightly giddy, but Titania was enthusiastically pointing out the Plough and nestling closer to John’s protective warmth as she did so. He felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her and did just that, quite lightly and then with a little more enthusiasm. She snuggled even closer.

  ‘I liked that.’

  ‘You’re a naughty girl.’

  ‘Yes, I am rather.’

  He laughed at her without derision and she smiled back and, standing on tip-toe, kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘You are the most fascinating man I have ever met.’

  ‘You say that to all the boys. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘High time your mother found you a husband.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that I want one, thank you,’ Titania answered loftily.

  They walked on to the Colonnade, a pretty row of shops set back in a semi-circle, with pillars supporting a roof so that customers could shop in comfort should the weather prove inclement. Titania gave a gasp of delight at the sight of a new hat displayed in the milliner’s window and was just about to go in when the night was broken by a most peculiar sound. There was a distant cry – of alarm, John thought – and then a ghastly scream, the sound of which grew ever louder. Then right over their heads, on the roof of the Colonnade, there was a terrible thump as something landed. John looked up and saw the ceiling begin to crack and crumble, and before his amazed eyes the vast rear end of someone appeared. He saw a huge pair of red breeches, torn asunder to reveal a naked arse.

  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Titania, reeling slightly.

  There was a further fracture and a little more of the body appeared. With a lurch of his stomach John looked up and was able to recognise the broad end of Augustus Bagot. In that instant he was also able to take in one further fact. The great behind sagged like two white moonstones, unstirred and untouched. There was no mark at all on the buttocks, no mole, no port wine stain, no nothing. Mr Huxtable’s quasi-stepson was a posturing fraud.

  With an effort John pulled himself together and shouted for a ladder, and at the same moment the door of the apothecary’s shop opened and a ginger-headed man rushed out and yelled, ‘What ho! Is anybody hurt? I heard a crash.’

  John gave him a swift glance and saw a large young person with broad shoulders and a shock of carroty hair tied back with a bright blue bow.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Who am I? I’m the blasted Constable, that’s who. And I’m also the apothecary, overworked and decidedly depressed.’

  The man’s gaze went upwards, and as it did so a further large proportion of the roof came away in a little explosion of dust and powder which fell on the ground of the Colonnade. The body slumped through as if it were lying in a hammock.

  ‘I’m an apothecary too,’ John said quickly. ‘And I am at your disposal should you need my services.’

  ‘Can you help me get the body down?’

  ‘Are you certain it is a body? That he’s dead, I mean?’

  ‘No, not yet. But if he’s fallen down the steps I should think it is more than likely.’

  As he spoke the words John felt himself grow cold. The man could only be speaking of the terrible flight that he had recently tried to climb, and remembered with a nasty feeling of fear his sheer terror as he had looked downwards and seen the horrific drop below him. But what could have induced anyone to mount or descend that ghastly staircase in the pitch dark? There was no time for further reflection as a ladder was found from somewhere and the ginger-headed apothecary began to climb upwards. As he did so there was a further loud crack as in a flurry of dust and flying mortar Augustus Bagot finally descended to the floor below.

  That he was dead there could be no doubt. The neck had broken and the head was turned at a ridiculous angle to the body. The eyes were wide open, staring, and the tongue was lolling out of the mouth. It was enough to make one faint, which several women promptly did, and even the beautiful Titania gave a little shudder and went as if to swoon. John rushed to her side but she shook her head and whispered, ‘See to the dead man – and move him away if you possibly can.’

  In the end it took eight strong men, John included, to move Augustus from the scene of the fall and into the compounding room of the apothecary’s shop. The two men then made an examination of the corpse, but not before they had introduced themselves.

  ‘Excuse the informality,’ said the ginger-haired man, bowing, his long apron creaking as he did so. ‘My name is Gilbert Farr, and you are?’

&n
bsp; ‘John Rawlings, of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London. I am here to take the waters and I vaguely knew the dead man.’

  ‘And so did I. He came into my shop once and asked for opium to ease his pain. I gave him short shrift and told him to go to Bristol to find it.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ Gilbert shrugged like a horse easing its shoulders. In fact he had an equine quality about him, resembling a big, friendly chestnut stallion.

  In silence the two apothecaries examined the body, then at John’s request and aided by Gilbert’s apprentice and a burly fellow who came in from one of the many inns, they turned the corpse over. It was John’s unlovely task to examine the buttocks at close quarters. It was a revolting job and the Apothecary, who had seen some hideous sights in his lifetime, literally heaved as he looked at the vast amount of unclean flesh. But it was as he had thought. There was no sign of a birthmark anywhere. Augustus Bagot had been an assumed name. The dead man’s true identity was unknown.

  Gilbert Farr ushered the others present out and locked the door of the compounding room behind him.

  ‘What next?’ asked John.

  ‘Now I write to the coroner and ask him to collect the body. I’ll send the letter to Bristol tonight.’

  ‘Tell me, are you the Constable for the whole city?’

  Gilbert burst out laughing. ‘No, thank God. It is only this small place of Hotwell that I look after. But it’s enough. Did you know that two thousand people come here at the height of the season?’

  ‘I hadn’t realised it was quite so popular.’

  Gilbert laughed again, a deep bellow. ‘No, the constable of Bristol is frightfully grand. None of the citizens want to do it so they have a professional. He is puffed with pride.’ He looked at his fob watch. ‘Goodness, is it that late? Let’s go for a drink in The Bear. Oh, but I forgot. You’re with company.’

  ‘I sent Titania home with a woman of her acquaintance so I am free as a bird. Yes, I’d love to.’

  ‘What ho. I didn’t envy you when you examined the victim’s posterior. Were you looking for something?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered John.

  ‘And did you find it?’

  ‘No, Sir, it was not there. And tomorrow I must call on Mr Huxtable of Clifton to tell him that his so-called stepson was a fraud.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Gilbert, stepping back a pace or two. ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘I think it is, very serious indeed.’

  Ten

  ‘I see,’ said Horatio Huxtable, frowning very slightly and laying down his copy of The Tatler. ‘You say that Augustus’s claim was fraudulent?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Sir.’

  ‘And that he is dead?’

  ‘I examined the body myself last night. And furthermore I examined the buttocks and there was not a sign of a birthmark anywhere.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Commodore, who was standing in a respectful attitude by the door.

  ‘So who was the imposter?’

  John shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Mr Huxtable. But I intend to find out.’

  ‘And you say he fell down the steps?’

  ‘It would appear so, though I ask myself who would be lunatic enough to climb down them at night.’

  ‘Who indeed?’

  The Apothecary turned to glance at Commodore, who winked. ‘I would like to examine those steps. Will you come with me? That is if you will excuse your servant, Mr Huxtable?’

  ‘Of course I will excuse him. He told me from the start that that great fat oaf was a fraud – and now he has been proved right.’

  Commodore bowed first to his master and then to John. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  They left the house well wrapped against the day because there was a wind which had a biting tongue. It was the first week of October and the season was coming to an end. Soon most of the population of the Hotwell would move on to Bath and take the waters there, sacrificing the wild and rugged beauty of the alpine scenery for the indoor formality of the pretty town. But now John, even though his stomach seethed at the thought of those terrible, evil steps, was thinking that he must visit them once more. It was his duty to have a look just to see if any evidence had been left there. He turned to Commodore.

  ‘I’m frightened, my friend.’

  ‘So am I, Sir. There have been a lot of nasty accidents on them; I can tell you I was terrified out of my wits the other night as I came down. When I was a boy a little child went hurtling. He was climbing up but missed his footing and fell. Fortunately his father was a few steps behind him and somehow managed to break the boy’s fall. Otherwise he would have been quite dead.’

  ‘But has anybody actually been killed on them? Other than Augustus, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Several men and one woman. She, poor creature, was attempting to save time and climbed up in her long clothes, tripped and fell, gashing her head open on the bottom step.’

  John shivered. ‘Don’t tell me any more. I’ve heard quite enough.’

  The two men had been walking downhill since they had left the Huxtable home and had finally arrived at the rough path leading to the steps. John blenched at the sight of them and involuntarily stepped back. It was Commodore who put his foot on the top step and swore as his shoe slipped from under him and he fell backwards, landing hard on his bottom. John helped him up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t really know. The top step seemed extra slippery, that’s all.’

  The Apothecary knelt down. ‘Commodore, hold my legs and whatever you do, don’t let go.’

  He leant forward and felt the surface of the top step, then the second and the third. Finally, he went at full stretch and examined the fourth. Then for one moment he gazed the length of the treacherous flight and started to shake.

  ‘Commodore, pull me up,’ he yelled, and closed his eyes as the slave, with a terrific show of strength, obeyed his command. Feeling like a reeled-in fish, John got to his feet and stood gasping.

  ‘Are you all right, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, it was just the shock of looking down, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Yes. The top three steps have been greased with something. Some kind of fatty substance. Taking a guess I would say it’s goose grease.’

  ‘Do you mean that a trap was set?’

  ‘Yes, either for Augustus – or should I say Mr Unknown – or for someone else. But I think it has to be him because why would anyone else try to ascend or descend at night and in the dark?’

  Commodore flashed a wonderful grin. ‘You didn’t hear me say this, Sir, but I raise my hat to them. They have rid the world of a thoroughly evil pest.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I shall still have to report this to the Constable.’

  ‘One must do one’s duty, Sir,’ the slave replied impassively.

  John put his handkerchief into his pocket. He had rubbed the steps quite vigorously and some of the substance still clung to the fabric. He had a sample he could show to Gilbert Farr and discuss what it might actually be, but at the moment he intended to say nothing further. Stirring at the very back of his mind was a picture of Commodore’s rapturous smile.

  ‘How about a drink at The Ostrich, my friend? I think we need it after that experience.’

  They walked across the Downs together, but as they entered the inn John was vividly reminded of that beautiful creature Lady Tyninghame. He turned to Commodore.

  ‘Do you know anything about a Lady Tyninghame? I was able to be of some assistance to her in this very place t’other day.’

  ‘Why, what was the matter with her?’

  ‘Her coachman said that they had almost run a child down but the girl fortunately escaped with her life at the last second. The Lady felt very faint as a result.’

  The black man turned his head so that John could only glimpse his face. He saw that Commodore was far away, locked in some secret thought. He wondered what it co
uld be that held him in such a dark study. Eventually the slave turned to him, his normal expression returned.

  ‘Enough to frighten anyone, I should imagine.’

  ‘Yes. But tell me, do you know anything of the woman?’

  ‘Oh, I most certainly do. I was two years old when I came off the slave ship and went straight to Mrs Vale’s house, as Mrs Bagot formerly was. I can remember talk of the Marchioness when I was a small child. It seemed her husband was brutal and they say his brutality got worse when she was unable to produce an heir. But she was very popular with the people of Bristol, giving money to the poor and generally doing good works. They were all very sorry when he divorced her.’

  ‘Where did they live?’

  ‘Just outside the town, in a great house overlooking the sea. Near where the River Trym joins the Avon. It was called Bishopsea Abbas. I went there once.’

  John looked up in surprise. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. The Marchioness had come across Mrs Vale giving charity in Bristol and she invited her and Gussy to tea. We went by coach and bumped and jolted all the way. I was eight years old and at the height of my powers as a black boy. The Marchioness admired me and made much of a fuss of my fine clothes and sweet face. Then she let me play with her little black servant, Samson.’

  ‘It sounds a pretty scene,’ said John without sarcasm.

  ‘It was. I still see Samson occasionally.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He stayed on as a servant in the house when he reached puberty. After the divorce he left and went to work in Bristol. He was assisting in a grocer’s shop when I last saw him.’

  John nodded, sipping his brandy, thinking of all the many threads that were beginning to run through the story of the true Augustus Bagot and the identity of the false one. He shook his head. Whoever had, in the darkness, greased the top three steps knowing that Mr Unknown would tread on them had been doing the world a favour, there was no doubt about that. Yet John owed it to Sir John Fielding, who had spoken to him long and seriously on the subject, to report the matter to Gilbert Farr, the jolly young Constable of the Hotwell. John put down his glass.