Death on the Rocks

by Deryn Lake

  ‘And I take it you know Commodore?’

  ‘Yes, a wonderful chap. He’s always been around and part of our lives.’

  ‘Indeed,’ answered John, thinking that he hadn’t seen Henry look at him when they had first met in The Hatchet.

  ‘And just in case you’re thinking of our first meeting, I winked at him when you were not looking,’ Henry said triumphantly.

  John smiled, but within he was thinking intently. So far he had accounted for one of Augustus’s little bastards – the poor, drab Maud – but where and who was the other one? Or, indeed, two.

  He felt a strong need to discuss the whole matter with a good listener, and having collected Irish Tom who was flushed with winnings and alcohol, they went down to the docks and hired a boat that was plying for the Hotwell. They climbed aboard with some relief. Though the city of Bristol was raw with excitement and dubious pleasures, both men felt that they had earned a short respite.

  Thirteen

  ‘Pray continue, my son. So far I have heard every word you have said.’

  ‘I think I have just about concluded, Papa. The fact is that I wanted you to hear all the points and then give me your comments.’

  ‘Ah, I understand,’ and Sir Gabriel lowered his ear trumpet and sat in quiet contemplation.

  They were sitting quite alone in a small room overlooking the river. John had chosen the place – an annexe of the New Long Room – with due care, wanting desperately to hear his father’s sharp and intelligent view of the events so far, and at the same time be in complete privacy. He could not have chosen better. The only sound was the lapping of the great river, the tide being full, and the distant hum of voices from the Long Room itself. Eventually Sir Gabriel broke the silence.

  ‘It seems to me, my boy, that the best thing you can do is continue along the same path.’

  ‘Meaning exactly?’

  ‘That you must do your very best to find out who bore a grudge against the real Augustus Bagot. Though, come to think of it …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That imposter might have made his own enemies. He certainly behaved in a rude enough style to have warranted a few.’

  ‘But remember the wording on that note I saw. I definitely received the impression that it was written by someone from Gussie’s past.’

  His father looked wise. ‘But that does not mean that they followed suit. It could merely have been an empty threat. Suppose that the person you are looking for is much nearer home.’

  John gulped. ‘You don’t mean Mr Huxtable? Or Commodore?’

  ‘Why not? I would have thought that they would have more reason than most to want the fellow out of the way.’

  ‘’Zounds, Father. It sounds as if this investigation is going to be a Herculean task.’

  ‘I rather think it is, my dear. So for a start why do you not make two lists. One of people trying to murder the unknown man, and the second of people trying to murder the real Augustus Bagot.’

  ‘But if I am going to enquire after both I am going to need a great deal of help.’

  Sir Gabriel stroked his chin. ‘What about Gilbert Farr?’

  ‘He is very busy in his shop.’

  ‘But he has a duty. After all, he is the Constable.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. I shall go and see him in the morning.’

  ‘And now, might I suggest that you have an early night. The night life of Bristol has obviously worn you out.’

  ‘You’re right as usual, Father. I shall go to bed.’

  ‘And I shall rejoin the others in the Long Room.’

  It was a brisk walk back to the hotel, but as John passed the night porter he was surprised when the man rose to his feet with a certain urgency.

  ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings, I’m glad I’ve caught you, Sir. I have a letter for you. The post boy brought it just after you had gone out.’

  It had obviously been forwarded from London, and as John turned it and saw the writing on the outside he felt as if someone had given him a blow to the chest. He let out a gasp and took a step backward.

  The porter, staring at him, said, ‘Are you all right, Sir? You’ve gone white as a cloud.’

  For a moment John could not answer, recognising the bold hand of Elizabeth, so like her in character, the letters so fearless and so clearly written. He managed to say, ‘Yes, I am just a little tired,’ before bolting to his room and breaking the seal open, holding the candle high so that he could clearly read what she had to say.

  My dear John. It seems that we have spent a Lifetime without conversing, which might indeed be Deemed foolish Behaviour on the Part of two Adults who were Once so Close. Be that as it May I now wish to Speak with you on a Matter of Great Importance Concerning, as it does, Our Two Sons. I would ask You therefore to visit me In Devon at Your Earliest Convenience.

  I Cannot state too Greatly how very much this would Oblige your Old Friend and Humble Servant.

  Elizabeth di Lorenzi.

  John drew a deep breath. A reconciliation at last! But what a moment to pick. He sat down on his bed and thrust his head into his hands, feeling overcome with deep depression. Then suddenly, acting almost like an automaton, he flung himself upward and hurried down the stairs and out of the front door, heading for the New Long Room and the company of the man he loved best in the world, Sir Gabriel Kent.

  They talked long into the night, with small shots of brandy to bolster them up. Sir Gabriel listened wisely and finally said, ‘My son, your first duty lies with your children and their welfare must be the most important thing to you. Consult with Gilbert Farr and explain your predicament. I shall offer him my assistance in the case, limited though it might be. But you must not let a sense of misplaced obligation stand between you and your flesh and blood. If your two boys need you, if Elizabeth should need you, then you must go to them forthwith.’

  John gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Papa. If I say you are always right it will make you sound like a saintly ass and you are anything but that. So I shall go immediately to Elizabeth and find out what is wrong.’

  Even as he said the words the Apothecary felt his blood quicken. It was as if she were once again in his arms, the smell of her hair in his nostrils, her own wild, exotic perfume firing his senses. He took a sip of brandy to distract himself.

  Sir Gabriel was speaking. ‘I believe that if you travel to Bath you can pick up the Exeter stagecoach.’

  ‘What a good idea. What time does it leave, do you know?’

  ‘No, but the staff are bound to be aware.’

  Finally, having been told that the coach arrived in Bath at ten in the morning, from which it departed at ten-thirty, John sent a message to Irish Tom to pick him up just after eight. Then, with an air of mounting excitement, he retired for the night in order to pack his trunk.

  Fourteen

  The ride to Bath was done at top speed, Tom being afraid of missing the connection at Bath. He made the two horses, which had been well rested during their stay in Hotwell, go as fast as they could. Sitting inside the newly upholstered interior, John was a prey to varying emotions. Riding overall was his sense of excitement, but this was tempered by a feeling of dread, of stark fear at seeing Elizabeth after this gap of two years. Not that he was afraid of her as a person nor, indeed, of her temperament, but for all that he feared her coldness, should she choose to be aloof and in high stirrup. But his natural optimism told him that she would not have sent for him at all if that were the case. He tried not to think of the worst that might have happened, as going down that alleyway filled him with mortal dread.

  The scene in The Bear in Bath, a comfortable coaching inn, presented the usual excitement that greeted the arrival of the stagecoach. Hawkers and urchins ran about with useless things to purchase, while the passengers, weary and bleary after a night on the road, alighted to take breakfast within. Several people were making this their final stop, so to John’s enquiry came the reply that there was a seat available on the outside at
the rear. It was better than nothing and John accepted and clambered aboard. The horses, all four of them, were being led out by the horseman, and four rested replacements were standing by, ready to be backed into the harness. The coachman meanwhile had disappeared into the inn, and the guard, looking rather tired and grumpy, was leaning against the wall talking to one of the maids. Eventually though he heaved himself up beside John and looked at him rather suspiciously.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the Apothecary brightly.

  The guard regarded him stonily but eventually relaxed a little and said, ‘Morning.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have many people to talk to on your journey,’ John continued in the same jolly tone.

  ‘It don’t bother me much,’ the guard answered. ‘I likes me own company.’

  ‘Well, that’s just as well then,’ John replied.

  A few moments later the rest of the passengers came hurrying out of the inn and took their places, three hearty men clambering onto the roof and squeezing in beside the various trunks and boxes. Finally the coachman came aboard and gave a mighty crack of his whip which announced that they were off. There was a general shout and then they were asked to stop again for two late passengers, a rat-faced little man who leapt into the basket – which up to this point had remained empty – and his wife, a most dreary-looking female who appeared generally displeased with life. They immediately started complaining about the discomfort, the noise, the smell of the horses, the bumpiness of the road – in fact their entire journey was one long and continual moan. The Apothecary thought how miserable they must be and then realised that this constant stream of complaint was in fact their contentment. He nudged the guard who whispered, ‘I’ll shoot the buggers if they go on much longer,’ and then lapsed into silence again.

  They dined at Taunton, passed through White Ball and Collumpton, and finally arrived in Exeter shortly before eleven at night. John, thoroughly weary and feeling rather cramped for sitting so long in one uncomfortable position, made his way into The Half Moon and booked himself a room for the night. Now that he was drawing so close to Elizabeth he was full of excited fear, his stomach aching with dull pain, his nerve endings tingling with fidgety trepidation.

  He slept well, despite his anxieties, and next morning hired a man with a trap to take him to Withycombe House. The weather had turned damp and soggy and John sat with his hat pulled well down and the collar of his greatcoat turned up. The city of Exeter looked dull and grey and when they got into the open countryside it was even worse.

  The grass was flattened and had the dull sheen of raindrops, the fields were churning with gurgling mud, and the River Exe was beginning to swell with the excess water. When they reached the slope above which stood Elizabeth’s great house, they could barely see it through the mist that was rising from the sodden ground. John’s lurking feeling that all was not well returned a hundredfold.

  The lodge keeper waved them through, recognising John and giving him a salute, before they proceeded up the drive. They turned a bend and the house came into view, its windows blinded by the slashing rain, the brick darkened by the driving downpour. They reached the front door and John pulled the bell, calling over his shoulder for the trap to wait until he had gained admittance. Everything became dreamlike and slow in motion as a footman appeared. He was new and stared at John blankly.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘I have come to see Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi. Is she at home?’

  ‘Yes, but she is not receiving today. Would you like to leave your card?’

  ‘But I must see her. She asked for me to come urgently. Please allow me a few minutes with her.’

  The footman was opening his mouth but another voice broke across his.

  ‘It’s all right, Richardson. I know this gentleman.’

  The sound came from the staircase, and as the footman turned, so did John. She was standing on the bottom step, dressed in a loose gown made of white voile, her dark hair hanging about her shoulders. And though she still looked beautiful, John could see that an enormous change had come over her. Gone was the wonderful woman who had ridden out fearlessly to hunt down her son’s killers; gone was the woman who had whispered to him once, ‘I long to kiss you’; gone was the flame, the passion, the magnificent creature with whom he had been so in love. In her place stood a much smaller person, a frail being, a woman on the brink of advancing years.

  A cry broke from John, ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ and it seemed to him that he jumped the distance between the door and the stairs and snatched her into his arms, the unrestrained tears scalding his cheeks.

  She smiled at him, oh so sadly, and said, ‘I was hoping you would not catch me like this.’

  ‘My darling girl, what do you mean?’

  ‘En deshabille. I planned to put on so much make-up that I would resemble my former self.’

  Holding her tightly he could feel how thin she was. Though never remotely fat, now she was skeletal.

  ‘Elizabeth, what is the matter with you?’

  She looked up at him and gave him a smile that would haunt him for the rest of his life. ‘I have cachexia.’

  ‘The wasting disease? But why? What is the cause?’

  ‘Let us not continue the conversation here. Let us repair to my sitting room and there I will tell you everything.’

  The Apothecary nodded, too full of dread to ask any further questions. But when Elizabeth turned to mount the staircase he saw that she was too weak to do more than drag herself upwards. In a moment that felt as if his heart was breaking, he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom, then into the little parlour that led off it. Then he wept at the cruelty of life that could bring this terrible illness to a woman who had once stood tall as an Amazon.

  A servant came in response to the bell and brought them wine and little cakes. Somehow or other John turned himself into the professional, used to seeing disease in all its forms, even though the effort was killing him.

  ‘Elizabeth, tell me, have you seen a physician?’

  She gave him a sad smile. ‘I have seen not one, but two. And they are the best physicians of all.’

  ‘Not the Hunter brothers?’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘They were both staying down here and when I called for William, they both came. I am afraid that they found I had hard swellings …’

  ‘Kernels?’

  ‘… which they feared had gone too far for them to try and remove. Oh John, my dear, I am afraid that I am dying.’

  For the first time in all their acquaintance she visibly broke down and clung to him, sobbing out her agony and suffering. John held her to his heart but deep inside he felt the turn of the knife. He had heard of this illness before, quite a few times, and knew that it was terminal, that the physicians and apothecaries could do little but relieve their patients’ pain. What a joke for some evil entity to bring low a woman who had been so magnificent – that was the most bitter gall of all.

  He cleared his throat and spoke. ‘What have they prescribed for you?’

  ‘Cinquefoil roots boiled in vinegar. And opium, of course.’

  He said nothing, thinking of Elizabeth when first he saw her: supple, tall, beautiful, a world away from the shrunken creature that wept so bitterly in his arms. Eventually the storm passed and he dried her eyes, then she took the handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘I feel better now you’re here,’ she said.

  ‘I came immediately. I had a feeling something was wrong.’

  She flashed a sudden grin and the old Elizabeth looked out from her face. At that moment the bedroom door opened quietly and a little boy with a mass of dark curls and eyes the colour of bluebells looked in. Seeing his mother was busy he closed the door again, but a second or two later it opened once more and this time he rushed in. Elizabeth stood up to meet him and he buried his face in her knees.

  ‘Whyfore you sad, Mama?’

  Before she could answer, the door opened yet again and an identical little boy with a
serious face ran in after him and said, ‘Mama is not well. I told you.’

  So there they were, John’s twin sons, so alike they could be the same person, but clearly with rather different personalities.

  ‘Now which of you is Jasper and which one James?’ John asked, rising to his feet.

  They both stared at him, devouring him in a solemn gaze of bright blue.

  ‘Well, speak up,’ ordered Elizabeth. ‘And make a little bow when you answer.’

  The serious little boy did exactly as he had been told, bowing from the waist and almost folding himself in half as he did so.

  ‘I am James, Sir.’

  ‘And I am Jasper,’ said the other, and imitated his brother’s bow.

  ‘You are my two favourite boys in all the world,’ John stated, at which the twins looked surprised.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jasper; and James said, ‘But you don’t know us.’

  ‘My sons,’ Elizabeth interjected quietly, ‘this man is your father.’

  They looked at him solemnly but neither said a word, and John could tell by Elizabeth’s attitude that it was better like this.

  ‘Now run along my poppets,’ she said. ‘May I bring your father to your nursery supper? Or would you rather that it was just I who came?’

  James spoke up. ‘Please bring him, Mama.’

  Then they hurried out and John could hear their nurserymaid calling. ‘So that’s where you’ve been hiding, the pair of you. Now come along.’

  He turned to Elizabeth. ‘Will you let me get into bed with you? Just to hold you close.’

  ‘There can be nothing further. Those days are over for me.’

  ‘My darling, I just want to be near you. That is all.’

  They slept for a while, at first deeply – John being tired from travelling – but waking after a while and watching the shadows start to deepen on the walls.