by Deryn Lake
Commodore’s great set of white teeth flashed vividly in the moonlight. ‘You could say that, Sir. I would not disagree.’
‘Tell me exactly how old was Augustus when he ran away from home?’
‘Fourteen years, Sir, just after he found that rough bit of canine.’
‘And he got a place to live and enough money to support himself?’
‘Oh Master Rawlings, as soon as he was inducted into the Rat Pitt he never looked back. Old dog Sam earned him a fortune. But still he remained living in squalor.’
‘But if you knew where he was, why didn’t his parents try to get him back?’
‘Well, he never told me his actual address, said he wouldn’t burden me with the knowledge. So when his parents went looking for him – and they tried repeatedly, believe me – he would disappear with some of his raggety friends and not emerge again until he knew the coast was clear.’
‘Did he hate his mother and stepfather so much?’
‘No, but he was a naughty character, though I forgave him everything. It was just that he enjoyed the freedom of not having to go to school and being his own master.’
‘So is it true he sired a couple of little bastards before he left Bristol’s shores?’
Commodore looked at the ground. ‘I’m not rightly sure of the number, Sir. But he did mention to me that he had given at least two damsels a belly-bump.’
‘And you don’t know who these damsels were?’
‘Have no idea, Master.’
But the bending away of Commodore’s head and the fact that he kept his eyes firmly on the ground made John a little suspicious that there might be more to the yarn than he was being told. However, he let the matter rest for the time being.
‘So what age was he when he finally sailed for New Zealand?’
‘Twenty-five, Sir. He’d had his birthday about three weeks before and told me he was still full of hugmatee.’
John smiled, thinking how well Commodore had mastered the English language, slang and all. He looked at the slave’s broad countenance.
‘Commodore, tell me the truth. You were devoted to young Augustus, weren’t you?’
The black man wept, suddenly and silently. ‘He and I were like brothers. I could not have survived the ordeal of my horrific journey here without his friendship. He was an impish boy, I admit that, but I loved him just the same. That is how I know this new man is an imposter.’
‘How?’
‘When he first arrived here at Clifton, all perfumed and powdered, smelling like a molly-mop’s marriage, the better to cover the stink of his armpits no doubt, he cut me dead.’
‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘I answered the door to him, standing upright and straight as I have been taught to do. He walked past me, never even gave me a second glance. We had been as close as blood brothers and even though the years had flown by, I know he would have recognised me at once. He is a fraud, Master.’
At that moment they were interrupted by a late walker, whom, as he drew closer, John recognised as the tight-trousered buck from the Rat Pitt. He drew level with them and stopped.
‘Damme, but don’t I know you?’ he said, staring at John.
‘We met in Bristol, you were coming out of the Pitt,’ came the dry reply.
A grin split the young man’s features. ‘Oh yes. You were the miching malicho who gave me a dirty look. I thought it rather funny.’
‘I’m delighted you found it amusing. Personally I don’t like the sight of a handsome man with his apparel hanging half off and looking as pleased with himself as a fiddler’s friend.’
‘Don’t you now? Well, Sir, let me tell you something. I don’t like strangers making remarks about my appearance, be damned if I do.’
And with that he let fly a blow to the Apothecary’s chin that had John reeling on his feet. Commodore moved rapidly between them.
‘Now, now, Master Henry, don’t be so hasty. Master John is not the kind of man to deliver insults. He spoke in jest.’
John had expected a string of rhetoric to flow from Henry’s lips, but he turned to Commodore with affection.
‘You old nigger-nogger, now you’re giving me a hard time. I thought I spotted you earlier in The Hatchet. Is this a friend of yours?’
‘Mr Rawlings, young Master, is a gentleman from London and an associate of Mr Huxtable. And he ain’t no damn fool.’
At this Henry burst out laughing, nudged Commodore in the ribs, and said, ‘Then I’d better make my apologies.’ He swept his hat from his head and said, ‘Forgive me for hitting you hard, Sir. Trouble is I’m a peacock when it comes to my appearance.’
Slightly mollified, John said shortly, ‘Apology accepted. I’m sorry if I caused offence.’
But Henry had already turned back to Commodore and was saying, ‘And who did I see the other night hanging round the kitchen and flirting with our Venus?’
Commodore smiled. ‘She is a very pretty young woman, Master Henry.’
‘Well you are not to misbehave with her. She’s my mother’s special piccaninny.’ Henry bowed to John and raised his hat. ‘Evening, Sir. Please excuse the mill.’ And he walked off as fast as he had come.
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.’
Eight
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.
‘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.