Free Death on the Rocks by Deryn Lake Page B

might be more to the yarn than he was being told. However, he let the matter rest for the time being.
    ‘So what age was he when he finally sailed for New Zealand?’
    ‘Twenty-five, Sir. He’d had his birthday about three weeks before and told me he was still full of hugmatee.’
    John smiled, thinking how well Commodore had mastered the English language, slang and all. He looked at the slave’s broad countenance.
    ‘Commodore, tell me the truth. You were devoted to young Augustus, weren’t you?’
    The black man wept, suddenly and silently. ‘He and I were like brothers. I could not have survived the ordeal of my horrific journey here without his friendship. He was an impish boy, I admit that, but I loved him just the same. That is how I know this new man is an imposter.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘When he first arrived here at Clifton, all perfumed and powdered, smelling like a molly-mop’s marriage, the better to cover the stink of his armpits no doubt, he cut me dead.’
    ‘What do you mean exactly?’
    ‘I answered the door to him, standing upright and straight as I have been taught to do. He walked past me, never even gave me a second glance. We had been as close as blood brothers and even though the years had flown by, I know he would have recognised me at once. He is a fraud, Master.’
    At that moment they were interrupted by a late walker, whom, as he drew closer, John recognised as the tight-trousered buck from the Rat Pitt. He drew level with them and stopped.
    ‘Damme, but don’t I know you?’ he said, staring at John.
    ‘We met in Bristol, you were coming out of the Pitt,’ came the dry reply.
    A grin split the young man’s features. ‘Oh yes. You were the miching malicho who gave me a dirty look. I thought it rather funny.’
    ‘I’m delighted you found it amusing. Personally I don’t like the sight of a handsome man with his apparel hanging half off and looking as pleased with himself as a fiddler’s friend.’
    ‘Don’t you now? Well, Sir, let me tell you something. I don’t like strangers making remarks about my appearance, be damned if I do.’
    And with that he let fly a blow to the Apothecary’s chin that had John reeling on his feet. Commodore moved rapidly between them.
    ‘Now, now, Master Henry, don’t be so hasty. Master John is not the kind of man to deliver insults. He spoke in jest.’
    John had expected a string of rhetoric to flow from Henry’s lips, but he turned to Commodore with affection.
    ‘You old nigger-nogger, now you’re giving me a hard time. I thought I spotted you earlier in The Hatchet. Is this a friend of yours?’
    ‘Mr Rawlings, young Master, is a gentleman from London and an associate of Mr Huxtable. And he ain’t no damn fool.’
    At this Henry burst out laughing, nudged Commodore in the ribs, and said, ‘Then I’d better make my apologies.’ He swept his hat from his head and said, ‘Forgive me for hitting you hard, Sir. Trouble is I’m a peacock when it comes to my appearance.’
    Slightly mollified, John said shortly, ‘Apology accepted. I’m sorry if I caused offence.’
    But Henry had already turned back to Commodore and was saying, ‘And who did I see the other night hanging round the kitchen and flirting with our Venus?’
    Commodore smiled. ‘She is a very pretty young woman, Master Henry.’
    ‘Well you are not to misbehave with her. She’s my mother’s special piccaninny.’ Henry bowed to John and raised his hat. ‘Evening, Sir. Please excuse the mill.’ And he walked off as fast as he had come.
    John stared after him. ‘What a strange young man.’
    Commodore grinned in the moonlight. ‘A strange family altogether, Master.’
    ‘What do you mean by that?
    But the negro merely shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Nothing at all, Sir.’
    John slept fitfully that night and was late to breakfast, finding Sir Gabriel already at his repast, sipping delicately from a cup of coffee. Talking to him across the space between the tables