Death on the Rocks (3 page)

‘Father, dear soul,’ John said in a raised voice. ‘How are you?’

‘There’s no need to shout, my boy. I am utterly fine and this wretched trumpet is in perfect working order.’

‘Then why, if I may be so bold, don’t you use it all the time?’

‘Vanity, dear child. None of us likes to be reminded of the passing years, particularly in the presence of the fair sex.’

John grinned. ‘Yes, I had noticed.’

Sir Gabriel laughed and said, ‘I thought that my weakness of spirit would have passed unobserved.’

‘It usually does, but it was when you started talking about Roman remains when the lady had remarked on the aroma remaining that it became a little obvious.’

‘But only to you, I trust?’

‘Of course,’ John lied gallantly, ‘only to me.’

He bent over and kissed Sir Gabriel on his fine old cheek, then sat down in a chair opposite his.

‘A little sherry, my dear?’

‘Thank you, that would be very nice.’

Sir Gabriel took a delicate sip and smiled at John over the rim of the glass. ‘Well, what news?’

John sampled his sherry carefully, weighing up his promise to Seraphina, his overwhelming curiosity about Hotwell Water, and the strange letter he had received, against the thought of his father being taken ill on his own. Meanwhile Sir Gabriel regarded him, his topaz eyes twinkling away.

‘You seem lost in thought, dear child.’

‘Oh, sorry …’

‘I have some news for you,’ Sir Gabriel interrupted. ‘I am thinking of going away to benefit my health.’

‘Really, Sir? To Bath?’

‘I should say not. The season is quite closed. It would be highly unfashionable to visit at this time of year. No, I intend to go to the Hotwell, which is situated at the foot of the Avon Gorge in Bristol. I believe their season runs till the end of October and there is a great deal of amusement to be had even this late in the calendar. I wondered whether you would care to accompany me?’

John took such a violent sip of his sherry that it went up his nose and ran down inside his nostrils, burning as it flowed. He reached for his handkerchief and blew the offending item hard.

Sir Gabriel looked sympathetic. ‘You are surprised, my dear?’

John looked at him suspiciously. ‘May I ask, Sir, how you knew?’

Sir Gabriel played the innocent. ‘Knew what, my son?’

‘That I was thinking of going there myself?’

‘Good gracious! Were you indeed? Then I shall have a fine travelling companion.’

His father refused to reveal any further information, and John was torn between suspecting Mrs Fortune of writing and inviting Sir Gabriel to stay in Nassau Street while he was away, or believing that it was the most outrageous coincidence. So he merely looked at Sir Gabriel straight-faced and said, ‘So on what day shall we depart, Papa?’

‘Would three days’ time suit you?’

‘That will be ideal.’

The public stage had recently set a record by running a coach from Bristol via Bath to London in seventeen hours flat. In fact transport of every kind was speeding up. One could change horses at various conveniently placed inns along the six Great Roads, where one could find good stabling and smart horsekeepers to speed up the changes. The charge was moderate: 3d or 4d per mile.

Had John been travelling alone he would have asked his coachman, Irish Tom, to try to drive faster, but in view of Sir Gabriel’s great age he decided to stop for the night at the Old Chequers in Thatcham, near Newbury. There they slept well and departed at about eight in the morning, having eaten a breakfast of varying degrees of quantity, John’s being large, Sir Gabriel’s minimal. Thus they arrived in Bristol some eight hours later and drove through the town towards the splendour of the Avon Gorge.

It was only the Apothecary’s second visit to the town, but as they approached its outskirts he noticed Sir Gabriel’s fine nose wrinkle at the strange smell which pervaded the carriage.

‘The tide is out,’ his father said drily.

John sniffed. He could smell mud and garbage and something even worse.

‘I fear you’re right,’ he answered.

The River Avon was tidal and though the boats on which the town relied for its trade could be towed up and moored at the bustling quays, alongside which were crammed the many houses, when the tide went out the water level dropped by some thirty feet and left the ships stranded like netted fish on the mud banks below. So the packed and jostling town of Bristol was never without its own individual stink. A fact of which John was vividly reminded when Sir Gabriel produced a lace trimmed handkerchief and put it delicately to his nostrils.

The carriage jolted and shuddered as it crossed over a waterway and then, at last, came into Frog Lane and then Limekiln Lane, heading towards Hotwell. John drew breath as the majesty of the Avon Gorge reared above him. A great rock protruded almost to the brink of the river, and craning his neck he saw sheep grazing on the grassy slopes, hanging on by sheer tenacity to the steep drop. High overhead, on the tallest hill of all, stood a solitary mill, a lonely and somehow desolate building. On the bank opposite there were signs of commercial activity, but it was to the Hotwell buildings that the Apothecary felt his eyes drawn.

As the tide was low he could make out the place where the spring bubbled forth, only to be taken to the Pump Room above by a series of valves and pumps, which was as well, he thought, as at high tide the river would be flooded with every cat and dog in the neighbourhood, to say nothing of raw sewage.

Sir Gabriel spoke to Irish Tom.

‘We are staying at the Gloucester Hotel, my good fellow. I have written to them in advance. And I have booked a room for you at The Bear, which provides adequate stabling for the horses.’

‘Very good, Sir Gabriel.’

The coachman picked his way over the cobbled streets, while John looked about him, admiring the riverside walk of young trees, planted so that their overhead branches met and people could promenade quite happily even when it began to rain. An attractive colonnade of shops, curving in a half circle, lined with white pillars and covered with a roof, was on his right, while ahead of him lay the Hotwell Pump Room.

‘Just a little further on,’ Sir Gabriel called, and his son had a sudden thrill of excitement, which he always associated with danger. As usual he made no attempt to analyse this sensation, but merely accepted it as a forerunner to coming events – though he had to admit that the tale of the Bristol merchant’s unknown stepson both intrigued and puzzled him.

The next morning he and Sir Gabriel stepped forth with lively gait to the delights of the Hotwell spa, making immediately for the Pump Room, which buzzed with activity. A small orchestra was playing – à la Bath – over which the visitors shouted cheerfully at one another. There was the usual gathering of the chronically sick, some looking fit to die, mixed with the bright young set who had come to be seen in the right places. Besides these were the couples who walked stoically up and down the length of the room, looking coldly at the new arrivals and parading their finery for all the world to see. John smiled and thought that it could be a Pump Room situated in any spa in any part of the world. The characters were always the same.

As ever, despite his enormous age, the entrance of Sir Gabriel Kent caused quite a stir. Attired in his usual garments of black and white, his vast three-storey wig – hopelessly out of fashion but arresting for all that – together with his beribboned great stick, caught the eye of all present. There was a rustle amongst the people promenading and all eyes turned in his direction. Sir Gabriel swept his tricorne hat from his head and made a low bow.

‘Good morning,’ he pronounced in ringing tones, and made his way through the throng to the fountain at the end of the room. John followed behind as the waves of people parted like the Dead Sea to allow his father a thoroughfare.

The water bubbled up into a spout beside which stood a corpulent woman with somewhat flushed features doling out glasses to the passing parade. ‘How much do you charge, Madam?’ Sir Gabriel enquired.

‘Sixpence a glass, Sir. Very good for the diarrhoea, the stone, the gout, the spleen and disorders of the urine.’

‘My, my,’ murmured John’s father. ‘I’ll take two glasses if you please.’

John held his glass up to the light before drinking it. The water had a natural sparkle and was slightly cloudy. He swallowed it and thought to himself as he did so that it had rather a base, mineral-laden taste. But he supposed that was inevitable with a medicinal draught. It was also warm and in no way competed with his sparkling brew – not that they were in the same line of business.

At the end of the Pump Room, beyond the fountain, were windows which swept down to the river, giving a fine view of the Rownham Woods opposite. Looking to his left John could see a jolly ferryman, attired in vivid colours, taking passengers across the river. He decided then and there that he must explore the surrounding area, and that he also must call on the gentleman who had written him that extraordinary letter.

Sir Gabriel muttered at his elbow, ‘Good lord, I do believe that Samuel Foote has just come in.’

John turned and looked, seeing a small, limping figure dressed in a suit of bright vermillion making its way towards the fountain. A series of rather amusing features which included a tilted nose, a pair of lively eyes and a definitely humorous mouth were crowned by a short grey wig with tight curls on either side. John’s mind flashed back ten years to when he had seen the great actor appear as a woman called Mrs Cole, a Covent Garden madam who had been converted to Methodism by a preacher, namely one Dr Squintum, also played by Foote. At the end of the show John had been asked to attend a delicate young woman who had fainted through laughing so much. He himself had felt a tremendous aching of the ribs, which had lasted all the following day. That Dr Squintum was based on the famous squinting Methodist, George Whitefield, and Mrs Cole on Jenny Douglas, the most infamous of all the madams in Covent Garden, had only added to the hilarity. John had thought him one of the funniest men he had ever seen in his life and now felt an overwhelming urge to speak to him.

The small figure was approaching the fountain and a ripple of applause rang out from the cognoscenti in the Pump Room. John bowed and Sir Gabriel acknowledged the actor’s arrival with a slow nod of his head.

‘I suppose I’d better have a slurp of the revolting stuff,’ Samuel Foote announced to the world in general. He proceeded to gulp from the glass and then said ‘Urrgh,’ which endeared him to John immediately.

The serving woman looked displeased. ‘It’s very good for the spleen and—’

‘I know, I know,’ interrupted the actor. ‘Makes your urine less sour and cures both warts and the pox.’

Sir Gabriel looked grave and said, ‘My good Sir, is that a fact?’, his voice solemn but his lips atwitch.

Samuel Foote looked up at the man’s great height and suddenly, by bending his body over and reassembling his facial features, became Mrs Cole.

‘Oh yes, Sir. I tell that to all the gentlemen who come to see my girls. It’s a right cure-all, this magic water.’

John’s father gave a boom of laughter and said, ‘Oh come now, Mrs Cole, I can hardly believe that.’

In his role, the actor bobbed a curtsey. ‘You must think what you will, Sir.’ Then a second later he had straightened and said solemnly, ‘Excuse my levity, Sir. I merely jest. Allow me to introduce myself. Samuel Foote, at your service.’

Sir Gabriel bowed a little lower. ‘Mr Foote, I know who you are and can assure you that I have adored your performances ever since I first saw you in
Tom Thumb
and
The Historical Register.
If I may be allowed to comment, Sir, it is your rollicking sense of humour coupled with a pair of roguish eyes that makes you such a splendid comedian.’

Samuel Foote bowed in return. ‘I cannot receive enough praise, Sir. A poor actor fellow draws the breath of life from a constant stream of it.’

His face was impish as he spoke, but John felt that there was a certain element of truth in what the brilliant Mr Foote had just said.

He spoke up. ‘Allow me to present to you my father, Sir Gabriel Kent, a great patron of the arts. While I, too, have loved each performance you have given. I think you are the finest comedian alive today.’

The little man visibly blossomed. ‘Well, gentlemen, I take this as a great compliment. I presume you have come to the Hotwell for the social side as well as for your health?’

‘Indeed,’ answered Sir Gabriel with enthusiasm. ‘And what of your good self?’

‘I am appearing at the Playhouse over by Jacob’s Well. It is a robust little place. Do you know it?’

‘I believe I do. Is it by Brandon Hill?’

‘In that direction, yes. Its actual address is Limekilns.’

‘And what play are you performing?’ asked John.

‘An old piece, I fear, but very funny. It was written by my associate John Hippisley and is entitiled
A Journey to Bristol
.’

‘We shall come and see it this very night,’ Sir Gabriel announced with conviction, and John nodded in agreement.

Having perambulated in the Pump Room and listened to the music for a while, John and his father sallied forth along Dowry Parade. Here were the pretty shops that John had spied earlier, including an apothecary’s business, which was packed with people, mostly invalids, judging by their grim-looking faces. John raised his expressive eyebrows and moved on to the hat shop, where he bought one that would delight the heart of his daughter, Rose. Fashioned in straw, its emerald ribbons and tiny flowers were clearly the work of a remarkable milliner, and the Apothecary wondered how many such tradespeople currently worked at the Hotwell, providing for the needs of the thriving crowd of visitors who came to drink the water and to be seen there.

Irish Tom had not been called upon that day and had also spent his time wandering through the streets and gazing at the sights of the Hotwell. But by half past five he had the coach round at the hotel’s front gates, watching as Sir Gabriel, very grand in a swirling black cape with diamond clasps and an old-fashioned but very fine three-cornered hat, made an exit. He was followed by John, far more up-to-date in his new long, light overcoat and soft-brimmed felt hat. Not too sure of the direction, the coachman turned to his right and picked his way through the fading light of early evening.