Death on the Rocks Read Online Free PDF

mother-in-law is pursued by the Devil himself, who finally vanishes beneath her voluminous petticoats. The spectators, who loved a bit of rudery, clapped and whooped noisily, and while Sir Gabriel gathered himself together, his son looked once more at the occupant of the stage box.
    The man’s stick was handed to him by a kindly snuffer and then he drew his immense frame to a standing position and slowly waddled out. The Apothecary wondered where the man was staying and if he had possibly come to the Hotwell to try and cure his obesity. But there his curiosity had to end, for Irish Tom had sprinted down the stairs from the gallery and was bringing round the coach. Helping Sir Gabriel aboard, John thought that their first day at the Hotwell had been highly successful, but as the carriage turned back in the direction from which they had come, his eye was caught by the sight of the colossus being heaved into a coach by a team of three sweating footmen. He knew a moment of pure curiosity. Before he left he would make it his business to find out exactly who the fat fellow was.
    At breakfast the next morning – which John ate like a trencherman and at which Sir Gabriel merely picked – he produced the letter from his dressing gown pocket.
    ‘What do you make of this, Papa?’
    Sir Gabriel produced a pair of spectacles and put them on his powerful nose. Then he proceeded to read the paper twice before lowering it and asking John, ‘You have no knowledge of this person?’
    ‘You refer to the writer?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘No, I know nothing of him or his stepson.’
    ‘My instinct is that you should go and see the man as soon as possible. Find out all that you can. And as quickly as you can. If this stepson is an imposter then the poor fellow might be in danger.’
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘My dear John, it is not like you to miss a whiff of trouble. I should certainly make it my business to go if I were in your shoes.’
    ‘You have made up my mind for me. I will call on him this morning. If I can find the wretched place.’
    It was even more difficult than the Apothecary had realised. Whereas Hotwell was a bustling and thriving community, Clifton was a small and remote village with only a church, a few farms and a scattering of thirty or so upper-class houses scattered between Clifton Hill and the Green. The reason for this was that it was almost impossible to get to. There were four possible routes: along the toll road which went over Clifton Downs, up a winding footpath which pre-dated the Roman invasion, by a flight of steps which led directly from the Colonnade and climbed steeply upwards, and up Granby Hill. John chose the last and had never been more terrified in his life.
    His horses screamed in fear as they gallantly climbed, hooves slipping and eyes rolling – Irish Tom cursing the way robustly – up a steep and precipitous track hacked out of the rock itself. John closed his eyes and clung to the seat as he was forced into an upright position as they neared the top of the terrible ascent. Then they stopped, horses panting for breath, Irish Tom white in the face and John feeling slightly sick as they reached the end of that terrible road. Not far away lay an inn and they made for it rapidly to collect themselves before their next destination.
    So it was with a whiff of brandy on his breath that John, peering out of the window, found his way to Sion Row, a small street of terraced houses built not far from the mighty Gorge itself. With some trepidation the Apothecary knocked on the front door, to be answered by a somewhat downcast footman who said in a depressed voice, ‘Yes, Sir?’
    With a flourish John produced his card, which the man stared at as if he had never in his life seen the like of it before.
    ‘Do you want me to show this to the Master, Sir?’
    John decided to be kind. ‘Yes, if you would be so good.’
    ‘If you will wait there, Sir, I’ll see if he is in.’
    ‘Just a moment before you do.