by Deryn Lake
This was his second encounter with Sir Roland Tavener and all he could say was that the man did not improve upon acquaintance. The winkle eyes were buried deep and he still had that supercilious manner which John had found rather irritating when they first met. But at this precise second he had a sobbing Lady Tavener in his arms, over whose bulky form it was almost impossible to appear upper crust. John could not help but smile at the look of consternation which filled the little eyes as they regarded Henry, who was making horrible noises again, scarcely able to stand.
‘My God, boy, what have you been doing?’
There was no reply as John rushed the wretched young man out into the kitchen and held his head over the sink. From the living room he could hear Lady Tavener wailing, ‘Oh Roly, that it should have come to this.’
‘The boy’s a drunken sot, mixes with the wrong sort, always goes round with that mangey cur of his. To think that a son of mine should turn out like this.’
‘Hush Roly, he might hear you.’
‘I don’t care if he does,’ answered Sir Roland, deliberately raising his voice.
The wretched Henry, his vomiting at an end, now wept. ‘You see,’ he said to John. ‘That’s what my father thinks of me. Oh God, I wish I were dead.’
‘How can you say that?’ John asked angrily. ‘You, who have had a life of privilege, while other poor creatures claw an existence out of nothing. You should make something of yourself, get out of that sordid Rat Pitt for a start and give both yourself and your dog a bit of peace. Go into business – there’s enough of it hereabouts for you to find something that would appeal. Buy a ship and export glass, made of that blue shade. Import wine in return. Come on, lad, you’ll make a fortune.’
Henry’s bottom lip trembled. ‘You’re just saying that.’
‘No, I mean it. But the answer lies in your own hands.’
Lady Tavener walked in at that moment. ‘Henry, you look awful.’
‘I feel awful, Mama.’
John cut in. ‘The fact of the matter is, Madam, that Henry is worried about his parentage. He has it through his head that his real mother was a whore, who stood on the quayside with the other mongers and sold him to the nearest bidder. Is this true or not?’
‘And what business is that of yours?’ she asked haughtily.
Henry straightened up. ‘Please, Mother, for once in your life tell the truth. Don’t let me go on suffering like this.’
She hesitated and Sir Roland walked in. He had apparently overheard all of the previous conversation because he said loudly, ‘Go on, Beatrice. Tell him the truth.’
‘Oh, but Roly, I cannot do so. Think of my reputation.’
‘I would have thought,’ said John with force, ‘that the time has come to stop thinking of one’s good name and put your wretched son’s interests first.’
‘Well, I’ll say it if you won’t,’ said Sir Roland. ‘As you know, you are mine and the woman who says she is your mother is. In other words, she and I had an affair which Charles knew all about and approved because he was impotent. But she was always worried about what people would think and so the story of the adoption was put about.’ Just for a second the winkle eyes looked large and jovial. ‘But people guessed Henry was mine and that’s an end to it.’
‘So you’re not the son of a whore,’ John said tactlessly.
‘No, Henry, you are not. Unless you regard me as such,’ Lady Tavener said with a rusty pink spot appearing in either cheek.
Before his son could say a word, Sir Roland spoke up. ‘It was all done to please brother Charles. He’d had an accident some years ago which affected his prowess, yet he knew Beatrice longed for a child and so the whole plot was conceived – as did she! – to grant her wish. So, Henry, it’s time for you to grow up and stop imagining things.’
For answer the poor young man threw himself into his mother’s arms, weeping vigorously and ruining her maquillage. After a moment or two Sir Roland gave him a half-hearted pat on the back and beckoned John into the other room where he poured out two large brandies. John, who had already had quite a few, sipped it tentatively.
‘Well, let it be hoped that this will pull him together and make a man out of the little swine.’
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Sir,’ John answered. ‘He really cared about his parentage, you know.’
‘Probably an excuse to do nothing about his lifestyle.’
‘Have you thought about taking him into business with your good self?’
Sir Roland huffed. ‘I am a Merchant Venturer, Sir, and very highly regarded.’
‘But surely that wouldn’t prevent you taking him into apprenticeship or similar. Indeed, it might be seen as a highly philanthropic act.’
Sir Roland paused, letting the vision of this form in his mind. ‘Indeed, perhaps you are right. I will give it my consideration.’
‘I was hoping you might say that,’ John answered, getting to his feet. ‘Well, I must be off. If you will give my good wishes to Lady Tavener and Henry …’
‘Certainly.’
‘Good night,’ and John bowed his way out, thinking what a great many pompous people made up the population of the world.
Next morning he rose early, had only a piece of bread, butter and cheese, and took his coach up past the Playhouse and along to Clifton village. There was still a hill to climb but at least he wasn’t perpendicular.
He found Mr Huxtable at home, reading the newspaper, a pair of spectacles on his nose, his feet up on a footstool. Commodore answered the door and looked surprised to see the Apothecary again after such a long time had elapsed. Horatio stood to welcome him.
‘Ah, my dear Mr Rawlings. How very nice to see you again. I do hope you haven’t had too disturbing a time.’
‘It was rather terrible, I must confess, but I’m afraid that is not the reason for my visit.’
‘Is it about the man who claimed to be my stepson?’
‘Yes, I regret it is.’
‘Why, am I suspected of pushing him down the steps?’
‘It is a hideous puzzle because no-one knows whether he had an enemy from his early life or if he made a recent enemy who did the deed.’
‘Yes, I see. Well, that would put me in the picture, and Commodore too, I imagine.’
‘Yes, it would. Mr Huxtable, please know that I am only asking this question because I am assisting the Constable, a pleasant chap called Gilbert Farr who is terribly overworked in his apothecary’s shop. Were you at home alone on that night?’
‘I understand, and the answer is no. I went out to a card party arranged by a neighbour, and as the late pretender had left the coach behind, that is how I travelled.’
‘And Commodore, did he go with you?’
‘No, he went off courting his lady love. One Venus, who is Lady Tavener’s slave. And I am sure that is where he went because Lady Tavener’s housekeeper complained that she had to throw him out.’
‘Late?’
‘Late.’
John leant back in his chair, relieved. He liked Horatio and had grown to admire Commodore, who had been brought to this island as a frightened little boy and who had responded so well and grown into a considerable man. He was glad that they both had people who would speak up for them if it became necessary. His thoughts roamed to Samuel Foote’s assertion that it had been Julian Wychwood. He conjured up a mental picture of the man, so darkly seductive and probably controlling a violent temper. Mr Huxtable’s voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘I would adore a cup,’ said John, and really meant it.
An hour later he left and called in at Gilbert’s shop on the way back. They discussed the evening’s arrangements and John, facing the prospect with a grim smile, went to have a plunge bath at the Hotwell spring in preparation.
Twenty
The plunge bath was not an altogether pleasant experience. First of all he had to enter the bath room, which was small and smelt very slightly
of some unknown odour. Then, in exchange for his shilling, John was handed the key of the door and, having locked himself in, removed his nether garments, turned round, took hold of the iron rings fastened to the wall and stepped back. There were three shallow steps but still it was an unnerving experience, walking backwards in the semi-darkness into tepid liquid, wondering when his feet were going to touch the bottom. Though John had been assured that the water was changed after every bather, he only hoped that this statement was true.
He dipped his head down several times and then tried to relax, but the puzzle of the death of the false Augustus Bagot kept going through his mind. Who had greased those top steps? Had it been someone from Bristol’s lowlife, thinking he was the Augustus of old, or had the killer been lurking among the people staying at the Hotwell? He considered them all and realised that any one of them could have crept out in the darkness, applied the goose fat and then gone on to whatever rendezvous they had arranged. Whereas it would have been almost impossible for the old whore who stood by the fountain in Bristol city, or her child, sired by the young Gus, to have got there without transport and carrying naught but a lantern. No, he felt positive that the killer was near at hand – but who was it?
After ten minutes John had had enough and, climbing up, wrapped himself in a towel, unlocked the door and made his way to the small changing room. Having dressed, he decided he needed refreshment and stopped at a tea shop and went within. The woman who resembled a haystack was sitting at a table with a small, frightened female who looked like a very small shrew.
‘So you see, Mrs Lightpill,’ the larger woman was saying loudly, ‘I have the morning free. Sir Geoffrey – bless him, bless him – has his cousin visiting and he – that is, I mean to say, the cousin – has taken the old gentleman out in his conveyance. I do believe they are intending to move on to Bath – that is Sir Geoffrey and the cousin, the Honourable Anthony Longbotham – which means that I shall have to pack up my things and travel on. Ah, there is no rest for us ladies who act as confidantes to the elderly. Bless them.’
She moved her arms rapidly and a wisp of hair fell out of her hat and bobbed in the breeze. Mrs Lightpill looked terrified but merely nodded her head. Miss Thorney continued relentlessly.
‘Talking of ladies, I saw the strangest thing t’other night. You know that little village of Clifton? Well, I was invited up there to partake of a little cold collation with my friend Miss Wilson. She is a companion to the Honourable Mrs Anstruther – such a martinet, I fear. Anyway, as I was saying, I was invited to sup. Well, my dear Mrs Lightpill, I was fair put out by the thought of how to get there. Anyway, Sir Geoffrey most kindly lent me his coach because he was retiring early, having a bad attack of the gout. He is a martyr to it, my dear, a martyr. Well, I was saying, I had the most terrible journey there up the steepest of hills. I was thrown about like a shipwrecked spar …’
She laughed suddenly and very loudly, a noise which made Mrs Lightpill jump with fright.
‘… but eventually reached the top. We drew level with those horrid steps – you know the ones, carved out of the rock – and there was a woman at the top on her hands and knees, scrubbing them. I could hardly believe my eyes.’
John, who had been trying not to listen, suddenly strained his ears. Mrs Lightpill, who had not said a word up till now, whispered, ‘Why was that?’
Miss Thorney, mistaking her, said impatiently, ‘Because it was such a silly thing to see. A woman of quality scrubbing steps in the darkness, the only light thrown by a watchman’s lantern. I think she must have spilled something or other.’
Mrs Lightpill went pale but said nothing.
‘I knew she was a woman of quality by the cut of her cloak. Very grand it was. Anyway, as soon as she heard the carriage she dived into the shadows and I went on to Royal York Street. Miss Wilson lives at the very best address, you know.’
‘Well, who was it?’ Mrs Lightpill asked eventually.
‘Who was who?’
‘The woman scrubbing the steps?’
Miss Thorney looked thoroughly put out. ‘Well how should I know? Her face was hidden by her hood. It could have been anyone.’
Mrs Lightpill nodded meekly. John stood up and made his way to Miss Thorney’s table, at which he bowed very courteously. She looked startled, though Mrs Lightpill looked relieved.
‘Ladies, good day to you. I trust you will recall me. I am John Rawlings, son of Sir Gabriel Kent.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Miss Thorney nodded her head vigorously and some more of her hair fell down. ‘Won’t you join us? We’re quite put out for a little male company.’
John bowed again and said, ‘The pleasure would be entirely mine. May I get you ladies some more coffee?’
‘Too kind, too kind,’ gushed Miss Thorney.
The order placed, John turned to her wearing his honest citizen face. ‘Forgive me, Madam, but I could not help but overhear what you said just now. Pray tell me, how can you be so certain it was a woman?’
Miss Thorney heaved her shoulders and went a bright poppy red. ‘Because as she stood up from the scrubbing her cloak slipped back and I saw the outline of her …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, her womanly things.’
‘You mean her breasts?’
Miss Thorney gave a subdued squeal and whispered, ‘Yes.’
So this was news indeed. The woman putting goose fat on the steps had been witnessed. But who was she? In his mind, though he continued to smile and nod at Miss Thorney, John ran through the list. There was Augustus’s bastard, Maud; her ghastly old mother; Lady Dartington; Lady Tyninghame; Lady Tavener; and the Honourable Titania Groves. None of them seemed a remote possibility. Inwardly the Apothecary groaned. Surely it was not possible that a stranger had entered the equation at this late stage. Abigail Thorney’s voice broke in on his thoughts.
‘Well, I must be going, Mr Rawlings. I have all Sir Geoffrey’s packing to do before he leaves for Bath. And a great many items to be given to the launderess,’ she added in a sinister voice. ‘Are you coming, Mrs Lightpill?’
The tiny woman spoke. ‘No, I will remain here for five minutes, Miss Thorney, if it please you.’
‘Oh very well. Suit yourself.’
John rose to his feet and bowed yet again and Miss Thorney swept off, the last of her hair descending with a thrust of her head. Mrs Lightpill smiled at John and he smiled back.
‘Miss Thorney can be very commanding,’ she murmured.
‘Indeed she can,’ he answered, and patted her little gloved hand.
It being so near the end of the season, the last celebrations were now in place, and so it was with the ball held in the Upper Long Room. It was to be a special occasion and there was an air of some excitement among the guests gathered to celebrate the event.
John was dressed very finely in crimson satin with white waistcoat, and Gilbert Farr had made a great effort and appeared looking mysterious in midnight blue. But neither of them could hold a candle to the elegant Sir Julian Wychwood, who made a great flurry over his entrance, dressed in silver brocade with stark black adornment. Women turned their heads to stare and men looked at the floor as the saturnine seducer walked the length of the floor and bowed before Miss Groves. She blushed like a rosebud and allowed him to lead her out for the first dance.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ John whispered urgently to Gilbert.
‘Be quick. I’ve got to join the dancers.’
‘It’s—’
But too late. Lady Dartington was bearing down on him, quizzer raised. ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings. Where have you been? I have not noticed you this last day or two.’
He made a fulsome bow. ‘I have been hither and yon, my Lady.’
‘Are you going on to Bath?’
‘Unfortunately no. My father and I are returning to London to settle in for the winter.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I hope that wretched fellow is not coming.’ Her eyes indicated Sir Julian, who was steppi
ng out in a sprightly fashion with Titania. ‘He has quite turned my daughter’s head. But fortunately he seems greatly attached to Lady Tyninghame and she to him.’
‘Yes, I had noticed that.’
‘If you ask my opinion she is head over heels in love with him – quite unsuitably, I might add.’
‘Why is that?’ John asked politely.
‘Because she is a deal too old for him. There is much talk of it behind the fans.’
‘Gracious!’ John answered, looking suitably shocked. ‘And what of him? Does he have an equal tendresse for her?’
Lady Dartington gave what would have been the equivalent of a snort in a person of lesser degree.
‘I should hardly think so. He is using the poor fool for what he can get out of her.’
John nodded and attempted to look wise, though he was having some difficulty in subduing a smile. The Hotwell, like every other place on earth, was alive with gossip and scandal mongering. He gave a short but polite bow.
‘Excuse me, Lady Dartington, I spy my father over there. I really must join him.’
Tonight the great beau shimmered like a dark flame, his high old-fashioned wig sitting well upon his head, his strong features alive and interested, yet John saw to his immense sadness that the old fellow was at long last starting to slow up, that the great fire which had been his father was beginning to burn low. An irrepressible sob caught in the Apothecary’s throat as he considered Sir Gabriel’s mortality. Yet the face of his son showed not a trace of these thoughts as he bowed before his father and said, ‘Good evening, Sir. May I mention how very fine you look.’
‘As do you, my boy. As does everyone. What a well-dressed company there is here tonight.’
John was about to answer, but as the dance ended a sudden hush fell over the room and the Master of Ceremonies announced, ‘Lady Tyninghame.’
She was both fragile and lovely to a heart-breaking degree, clad from head to toe in lavender satin with lilac adornments, the material swirling round her slim form and accentuating her delicate features. The Apothecary almost clapped as she walked into the room unaccompanied. Immediately Sir Julian, dark beast to her pale beauty, was at her side, kissing her hand and making a great to-do of greeting her.