Free Death on the Rocks by Deryn Lake

eyes, merging into the darkness, a bundle of rags that someone had thrown into a corner and forgotten all about. For all John knew, the old sailor could well stay there until the day he rotted away.

Seven
    On returning to the Hotwell, John proceeded to the Long Room and there found his father, reading a newspaper, occasionally lowering it to reveal a pair of golden eyes hidden behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles, regarding with interest the woman sitting opposite him.
    She was like a haystack blowing in a strong wind, constantly listing from side to side, her hair falling down from her cap and untidily moving round her shoulders, her arms flailing about in a series of apparently meaningless gestures as she talked incessantly to her companion, an elderly gentleman slumped in a Bath chair, lids falling down over desperately weary eyes.
    ‘And then I said to Mrs Phoebe Lightpill, “Rahlly that was not a nice thing to do, my good man.” What do you think of that, Sir Geoffrey?’
    ‘Eh? What?’ said the old fellow, struggling up from sleep.
    ‘I said … Oh, never mind. I do wish you would listen sometimes.’ She sighed loudly and dropped one of the many unfashionable scarves with which she adorned her person.
    John stooped and picked it up for her, handing it back with a slight bow. ‘I believe this is yours, Madam.’
    She fluttered like a small gale. ‘How clumsy of me. Thank you, Sir. Thank you indeed. I am the clumsiest woman on earth, you know. Oh why am I so clumsy?’
    John bowed again and would have joined Sir Gabriel but the woman continued without check.
    ‘But there now, I’m in a right how-do-you-do. I should have introduced myself. Miss Abigail Thorney, companion to Sir Geoffrey Lucas. I was a companion to his dear wife, Lady Effie, before she passed to the realm beyond. I know it is not considered the done thing for those of the gentle sex to be attendant upon gentlemen, but I am more of a nurse, if you follow my meaning.’
    John was somewhat at a loss, but was just about to introduce himself when Sir Gabriel rose from his chair and spoke.
    ‘Madam, allow me to present myself and my son to you. I am Gabriel Kent of Kensington and this is John Rawlings of Nassau Street, Soho. We hope to have the honour of your acquaintance.’
    She rose and made a complicated movement which resembled a bell tent descending to the floor, from which position she had some difficulty rising. Sir Gabriel graciously extended a hand which she clutched with desperate fingers, giggling coyly all the while. The old gentleman finally woke up and called out, ‘Damme, what’s going on?’
    John shouted into the old man’s ear horn, ‘We are introducing ourselves, Sir Geoffrey.’
    ‘Producing what?’
    ‘No, I said introducing.’
    ‘Oh, leave it to me,’ said Miss Abigail with resignation, and bellowed at Sir Geoffrey, ‘These fine gentlemen come from London.’
    ‘Oh good. I used to live there. In St James’s Square. Do you know it?’
    Sir Gabriel raised his ear trumpet in a gesture of companionship and the two elderly men sat shouting at one another, leaving John to converse with Abigail. Desperately seeking for something to say, he gratefully noticed Titania Groves from the corner of his eye.
    ‘Ah ha, there is someone I recognise. Will you excuse me if I go and speak to her?’
    Miss Thorney looked thoroughly put out and said grumpily, ‘Ah yes, Miss Groves. I know her, of course. But then, who doesn’t? She is quite the little flirt of the Hotwell, you know. But then I suppose we all were once upon a year.’
    She sighed drearily and John, relieved in more ways than one to see the attractive Miss Groves, bowed and crossed the Long Room to greet the new arrival.
    Much later that evening, when his father had retired for the night and the buzz surrounding the community visiting the Hotwell had died down to a mellow murmur, John and a few others strolled along the riverside walk. He was silent, locked in his