Death on the Rocks Read Online Free

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