Death on the Rocks

by Deryn Lake

  One of the pair, overhearing, turned to stare, and John was dazzled by the amount of make-up the fellow wore; everything that the paintbrush could throw had been plastered on his face, including a large black beauty spot.

  ‘Are you addressing me?’ he shrilled.

  ‘No, no,’ John answered hastily. ‘My coach – I mean, my friend – was merely remarking on the coldness of the evening.’

  The macaroni approached and as he drew nearer John could see that he was quite middle-aged. Raising his quizzing glass he stared at John long and hard.

  ‘Look Gerard, I’ve think we’ve got a rum prancer here.’

  Gerard wheeled on his high red heels. ‘By Jove, I think you’re right, Alastair. What a fine-looking boy, though filthy dirty and as poor as horse shit.’

  ‘Just a minute …’ exclaimed Irish Tom, putting up his fists.

  ‘Tom, stop it,’ ordered John, deliberately adopting a foreign accent and smiling at the pair of fops.

  ‘I declare I think we’ll take him to the Strawberry Fields with us. ’Twould be amusing, don’t you know.’

  ‘Please?’ said John, spreading his hands and looking puzzled.

  ‘Damme, he said please.’

  The two creatures fell around the cobbles laughing, and while they were doing so John caught Tom’s eye and whispered, ‘This could be interesting.’

  The Irishman shot him a look of disbelief and shook his head but kept quiet.

  ‘Now look here, my Italian friend – you are Italian, aren’t you? – how would you like to come and have a drink with us? Come on, caro mio, say yes.’

  John calculated. The Strawberry Fields sounded interesting, a place of ill repute no doubt, but to go in dressed as a scoundrel and as the cat’s-paw of two macaronis was far from ideal. He shook his head.

  ‘No, Signor. Not tonight. I have other plans.’

  ‘Oh, come now, pretty boy. We want your company, la so we do.’

  John turned to Irish Tom, shouted, ‘Run like hell,’ and took off at speed, careering over the cobbles and wishing he were in better condition. The macaronis clattered after him but their high heels forbade any serious chase and soon the sound of their pursuing footsteps died away. John and Tom slowed to a stop and stood, panting for a moment or two before looking round them.

  They were in a street probably worse than the one John had found himself in recently. This was a festering alley with houses leaning so close together that it seemed they were likely to collide at any given moment. Rats scuttled about in the darkness and played in the filth in the middle of the path. Flickering candles dimly lit the ghastly interiors, but in one particular house there was more light and the low hum of voices came from within.

  ‘It’s a bordello,’ Tom whispered.

  ‘I know,’ John answered. ‘Shall we go in? At least we can have a drink and ask directions.’

  ‘But they will presume …’

  ‘They can presume what they like, we’ve got to find our way out of this hellhole somehow or other.’

  They approached the front door of the house and the stink of unwashed flesh, rum and sweat came in a vapour to meet them. John raised a handkerchief to his nostrils but made his way in with a determined step. A woman with a pair of very fine breasts was standing in the hallway. She pulled her top down a little as they approached, exposing one firm nipple, the colour of a raspberry.

  ‘Hello gentlemen,’ she said in a sing-song voice. ‘What be your pleasure tonight?’

  John raised his eyes to her face. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, my friend and I have lost our way and wondered if you could direct us to the harbour.’

  She pealed with laughter and answered, ‘You’ll find plenty of willing harbours round here, good Sir. Now what takes your fancy? Ginger, dark or purest blonde?’

  Her double entendre did not go amiss and John chuckled and raised a mobile brow. ‘Naught for me, thanks all the same. I am tired out already.’

  But even as he spoke a well-built woman was coming down the stairs wearing nothing but a small black corset and a pair of white stockings. Over the top of the corset protruded a pair of enormous breasts. She flashed her handsome eyes at the two men and said, ‘Now which of you is it to be? Or would you like me to take you on at the same time? I’m quite used to that, and good at it too. I charge more for the back door, mind.’

  ‘Do you provide a scabbard for the sword?’ John asked.

  ‘Course we do,’ answered the woman with the raspberry nipple. ‘I can’t risk my girls catching anything.’

  John grinned. ‘Go on, Tom. It will do you good. From what I hear you lead a fairly celibate life.’

  ‘I do and all, John.’ And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Tom was whisked upstairs like a jack rabbit. The Apothecary smiled at his departing back and said, ‘I really am tired, Madam. I would enjoy it enormously if I could just sit and buy you something to drink.’

  There was a room to the right of the bar which had once been a parlour, John imagined. He and the madame – who introduced herself as Maud – sat there drinking rum, while she kept an ear out for visitors. She had been, John thought, studying her carefully, an absolutely stunning girl, but years of bodily abuse and alcohol had produced lines of wretchedness on her face and her mouth which, when not speaking, drooped down at the corners in a sure sign of discontent. But for all her miserable existence she had a certain braveness, a certain flair, that the Apothecary found himself warming to.

  ‘So how long have you been in this business?’ he asked.

  ‘Whoring, you mean? Oh, since I was eleven. I was just a child when my mother put me on the streets to earn my keep.’

  ‘That seems a bit hard.’

  ‘She never wanted me. She was saddled with a bastard and she always resented my presence in her hovel. She was a whore herself. There is no other life for girls born into dire poverty.’

  John’s heart lurched as he thought of the unfairness of society, momentarily comparing the lives of Titania Groves and Maud. Nobody asks to be born, he thought, we just are, so nobody has any say over what strata of life they are going to come into. Savagely poor girls like Maud had no prospects before them except selling their bodies to any drunken vagabond with twopence in his pocket and a leer on his face. Spoilt pets like Titania – and his daughter Rose – had a good education and often their own pick of husband. What a tragedy it all was. He looked at Maud with enormous anguish. But she did not notice, too busy pouring two shots of rum into their glasses.

  She raised hers in a toast. ‘Here’s to my father, whoever he might have been.’

  ‘Don’t you know anything about him?’

  ‘My ma told me he was a gentleman, so I’m half a lady, me.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Gussie, that’s what she called him.’

  There was a prickling along the Apothecary’s spine. ‘Gussie who?’

  Maud tilted her head back and laughed, looking younger and more vibrant than the drab with the raspberry nipple who had greeted them.

  ‘I was never grand enough to have a surname. He was just Gussie. The only thing that Ma told me about him was that he was one of her regulars and that he had bright red hair.’

  ‘Did she say whether he had a dog?’

  Maud looked at him most oddly. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John lied. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘She did once remark that he had some mongrel tagging along.’

  ‘Did she mention its name by any chance?’

  Maud put her glass down and gave him a long biting stare. ‘Why do you ask so many questions? What interest could my father possibly hold for you? What are you, some kind of spy?’

  John looked into the bleak blue eyes, regarding those and the colour of her hair, which under all the dirt and grime was obviously red.

  ‘Yes, in a way I am a spy, but I promise you I am not a crooked one.’

  And then he explained everything. About the l
etter from Mr Huxtable, the false Augustus Bagot – including a mirthful description of his general girth and deportment – and of John’s search for the real man and anything known of him, which hopefully might lead to the killers of the false one.

  Poor Maud sat fascinated, as if she had never heard a story before in her life. In the end a solitary tear formed in her eye and she said, ‘Oh, the way you describe it all, it’s like an adventure from another world.’

  ‘Yes, but it happened right here and now. Maud, if you should hear anything at all, perhaps one of your clients might speak of something, please will you let me know?’

  She did not answer but sat in silence, slowly sipping her rum. In the end she turned a thoughtful face in his direction.

  ‘Would you like to meet my ma?’

  ‘Very much. Is she nearby?’

  ‘She’s here. In this very house. In the attic. She’s ill but she still goes out on the game. But I looks after her. God knows why. She didn’t do much for me.’

  ‘She could have put you to die.’

  Maud’s mouth gave a twisted half smile. ‘Aye, she could have done that, I suppose.’

  Twelve

  Side by side they made their way up the twisting stairs, aided only by the flickering light of a solitary candle, passing various tatty rooms on their journey from which came the sounds of squeals and shrieks, grunts and groans, all of which served to remind John that he had been celibate for rather a long time. Eventually they reached the attic floor and Maud opened the door and slipped inside, motioning John to remain where he was. From within he heard muffled voices and one strident cry of ‘Leave me be. I don’t want to see nobody.’

  ‘But Ma …’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know nuffink. I want to sleep.’

  The door opened a crack and the Apothecary glimpsed a broken bed with a bundle of rotten rags lying on it. Within the bundle was a white face with fierce brown eyes and teeth to match. The most appalling smell hit his nostrils, of rot and urine and unwashed flesh. Gagging, John took a step backward. Maud appeared, her face sad in the candleglow.

  ‘She won’t see you.’

  Thank God, thought John. Aloud he said, ‘Can you ask her whether she believed Gus had come back?’

  A shout came through the open door. ‘That’s what they’re all saying up the town. That the sailor boy’s returned. Bad cess to him, says I.’

  ‘So they did not part on good terms?’ John said quizzically.

  ‘He left her pregnant. What can you expect?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. Anyway, your mother has told me all I need to know.’

  ‘Has she?’

  ‘You said she is still able to get up and sally forth?’

  Maud gave a ghastly grin.

  ‘Yes, you heard me. She plies her trade down Temple Street. Stands down by the fountains, she does.’

  John was glad that it was dark on the stairs so that Maud could not see his expression. ‘And does she get any customers?’

  ‘A few. She only charges a penny, you see.’

  John felt sickened by the very thought, and was glad when they returned to the ground floor to see Irish Tom, looking somewhat exhausted, waiting for him. They made to take their leave and John raised Maud’s grimy hand to his lips.

  ‘Goodbye and thank you for your help.’

  She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘You’re not what you seem, are you? You’re no rough sailor.’

  ‘No, that’s true enough. Now, where do you suggest we find lodgings? We want clean beds and some food in the morning.’

  ‘You’ll find some decent rooms at the Blue Bell. John Hemborough runs the establishment. It’s turn right, then right again.’

  ‘Thank you, Maud.’

  ‘And thank your girl for me,’ said Irish Tom.

  ‘Would you recommend her?’

  ‘I think she should train for the circus,’ answered Tom enigmatically, and with that they were off.

  They woke the next morning and decided to make their way to the Rat Pitt in The Hatchet where once Augustus Bagot and his dog Sam had reigned supreme. Remembering the rough crowd who hung out there, the Apothecary felt fairly certain that this would be the place to pick up any gossip.

  It was barely noon by the time they had strolled along via the harbour, but already the Rat Pitt was bursting with bloodthirsty boys, eager for some sport. The dogs made John wary, all on short leashes and all snipping, snapping and snarling. He gave them a wide berth as he and Tom took seats at the side of the arena. The Irishman, however, seemed ready for anything and was laying bets like a good ’un. John, feeling a bit of a mealy mouth, declined.

  The rats were brought in in a sack which was unloaded onto the flat surface. A Master of Ceremonies of sorts shouted out, ‘Dog Hercules, owner Philip Moncrieffe.’ And there was a mighty roar as a simply enormous black devil was released, baring its teeth and growling. It set about killing like a maniac – which John suspected it was – but one cunning rat crept up its head and hung on to its ear, which it bit repeatedly. This made the dog even more savage, if such a thing were possible, and it killed without remorse. John was only glad that it was rats not children, for he felt sure the creature would have ripped their faces away in its maddened blood lust. Eventually a bell rang and the orgy was over. The dog was grabbed by its owner, the rat still biting its ear.

  ‘Henry Tavener and Tray,’ called the voice, and bets were hurriedly placed on the number of rats Tray could dispose of in a given time. John had to admit that his opinion of Henry had changed enormously, ever since that night on the river bank when the young man had greeted the slave Commodore with much affection. Until that time the Apothecary had considered him a brainless ass, but now he knew that the boy was kind and had genuine affection for people he liked.

  He brushed right past the Apothecary but did not recognise him in his exotic sailor gear until John gently pulled at his sleeve. Henry stared at him, then exclaimed, ‘Odds m’life, it’s Rawlings. How the devil are you, Sir? And what are you doing in that get up?’

  ‘I’m in disguise,’ answered John, looking sinister.

  ‘So you are. Why?’

  ‘That I can’t say.’

  Henry looked conniving. ‘Anything to do with that incident t’other night? When that fat old fool plummeted to his death?’

  John tapped the side of his nose and assumed a wise expression.

  ‘Oh, I see. Stand mum, is it? Well, I can do that.’ Henry’s voice became overhearty. ‘Well, how now, good fellow. Want to know whether to bet on my dog, eh? Well, let me tell you he’s a sure-fire winner. Aren’t you, Tray boy?’

  Tray boy let out a low sound which could have been anything between a growl and a yelp and allowed himself to be placed in the arena. A bell rang, the rats were unloaded and the dog started on its killing spree. Rats were falling like soldiers on a battlefield, except for the wily ones that climbed up Tray’s face. There they hung remorselessly, taking bites out of his ear and attacking his eyes. Eventually the final bell rang and the count started. Eighty-three rat corpses produced a loud cheer and money changed from fingers to clinking fist.

  ‘There, I told you he was a winner,’ Henry announced triumphantly. ‘Let’s go and toast him.’

  They made their way out of the Rat Pitt and clambered upstairs into the inn, leaving Irish Tom laying bets like a fury and in charge of Tray, who was bleeding fairly profusely from various bites.

  ‘Henry, I think I can trust you,’ said John when they were settled with their drinks. ‘Fact is I need your help.’

  ‘It’s all to do with that fat chap, isn’t it?’

  ‘Everything to do with him.’

  And John outlined the story as it had developed and explained why he was trying to find people who had known the original Augustus Bagot.

  ‘In the hope that you might come across someone sufficiently angry to make an attempt on the second Augustus, believing him to be the first?’

  ‘Yes, t
hat’s the story in a nutshell.’

  ‘What did the real one do that might cause revenge to be sought?’

  ‘Nothing too terrible. As a lad he haunted the Rat Pitt with a winning dog called Sam – somebody might have lost a great deal of money and be hell bent on pursuing him for it. He also made very free with the ladies and has two, if not three, little bye-blows running round Bristol. Thirdly comes the category of anyone who disliked him enough for some slight, and that could be anybody.’

  ‘It’s a tricky one to work out,’ said Henry, staring into his tankard.

  ‘I think I’ve located one of his bastards. A whore who is the daughter of the old drab who stands by the fountain in Temple Street.’

  ‘’Zounds, she offered herself to me once. I didn’t stop running for a week. I can’t imagine her killing him off.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ John answered. ‘Murderers come in very strange guises. One can never tell.’

  ‘I think,’ answered Henry after a pause, ‘that the best person for you to speak to might be my uncle. He knows everything hereabouts as he was once a justice of the peace.’

  ‘He retired?’

  ‘Yes, got tired of seeing all his old friends in the dock.’

  ‘I would like to meet him very much in another day or two. I think in the meantime I’ll stay in this hideous disguise, found for me by Mr Foote no less, and rove round the dockyards, listening to gossip.’

  ‘This Bagot fellow. How old was he when he sailed for New Zealand?’

  ‘Well, he ran away from home when he was fourteen or so, and lived with the lowlife fraternity because his mother objected to his dog. I think he was about twenty-five when he actually sailed. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know really. I was just thinking.’ There was a momentary pause and then Henry asked, ‘How long ago did all this happen?’

  ‘About twenty-five years.’

  ‘So the fake Mr Bagot must have been fifty – or said he was?’

  ‘Precisely. Why does it interest you so much?’

  ‘Only because I am just twenty-five and according to my mother I was adopted.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes, apparently I was her nephew – her brother-in-law’s little bye-blow. I don’t know who my real mother was. I was given to Lady Tavener when I was but a few hours old and a marvellous mama she has turned out to be. She even allows old Tray home, provided he sleeps in a kennel.’