Death on the Rocks Read Online Free PDF Page B

Is his name Mr Huxtable?’
    ‘That’s the old master, Sir. The new master is Mr Bagot.’
    ‘Then I seek Mr Huxtable, if you please.’
    ‘Just a moment, Sir.’
    Feeling somewhat isolated – Irish Tom having vanished with the coach to find a suitable place to water the horses – the Apothecary tried to imagine what Sir Gabriel would have made of the journey he had just undertaken. But his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a small, bustling man of some sixty years who bowed effusively and held out his hand.
    ‘Mr Rawlings. It is Mr Rawlings, isn’t it?’ John nodded. ‘I am so very grateful to you, Sir, for coming to see me. Yes indeed. And all the way from London, too. Thank you, Sir, sincerely. Please step inside. Can I get you some refreshment?’
    The Apothecary smiled. ‘First of all, let me assure you that I am staying near the Hotwell and travelled down with my father, who is here to take the waters. So please do not concern yourself on that score. And secondly, I would like to have a cup of coffee, provided you join me.’
    ‘Oh yes, indeed I will. Gregory, fetch a tray please. Commodore is out running an errand.’
    The miserable servant bowed and plodded out of the room.
    Mr Huxtable sighed loudly. ‘You must forgive him, Mr Rawlings. He is a farmer’s son and not born to serve. Alas, this is a very small community and we must take what we can in the way of servants.’
    The Apothecary nodded sympathetically.
    Mr Huxtable went on, ‘I feel certain that you remarked the poor quality of his livery but, alas, I am running desperately short of funds to renew it. My stepson – if so he be – spends money as if it were his birthright. And, oh Mr Rawlings, I am not so sure it is.’
    The coffee came in at this juncture and there was silence while the poor servant, hands shaking violently with nervousness, poured it out, a great deal of the liquid ending up in the saucers. Mr Huxtable merely sighed again and looked at John covertly from beneath half-closed lids.
    He was like a thrush, John decided, Short and slightly rotund with a waistcoat of some speckled material that generally added to the illusion. His eyes were as bright and as round as a bird’s and equally as brilliant. Furthermore he had rather a jerky way of moving, hopping about on skinny little legs, which he was now doing as he advanced towards the Apothecary, handing him a cup.
    ‘Why don’t you tell me the entire story,’ John said encouragingly, taking a sip of coffee and wishing that he hadn’t.
    ‘Where shall I start?’
    ‘How about from your marriage.’
    ‘Very well. I have been married twice, you know. My first wife was a pale little thing, a slip of womanhood, but one whom I loved tremendously. But she was too frail to live and she died in my arms when we had only been wed a twelve-month. After that I knew I could never really love again, but then about a year or so later I met a young widow, a Mrs Bagot, and we married a few months later. She had a young son – a nice little boy called Augustus – and he lived with us quite happily at home in Bristol. But at the age of fourteen he fell in with rough company and, to cut to the bone, left home and refused to return. My wife took it very hard, I can tell you.’
    ‘And this is the boy who has now come back and is squandering your money?’
    Mr Huxtable put down his coffee cup and turned on John a face of pure wretchedness. He nodded silently.
    ‘I see.’ The Apothecary also put down his cup, the liquid untouched. ‘And what is wrong with the man? Other than the fact he is a spendthrift.’
    Mr Huxtable let out an involuntary groan. ‘The trouble is, Mr Rawlings, that I do not recognise him at all.’
    ‘What do you mean exactly?’
    ‘Well, he left home a slim, ginger-haired, freckle-faced lad of fourteen and he comes back a hideous mountain of flesh, a face so contorted by double chins that it appears barely human, and a stink about him of old rotting