Death at the Wedding Feast

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It was a delicious moment. In fact probably the most delicious moment of his life. And then John Rawlings, with an impish sideways grin, remembered a particularly special occasion in his misspent youth — an incident involving Sukie, his master’s kitchen maid — and decided that this was the second most delicious. Be that as it may, nothing could take away from his present triumph. He had at last, after many years of experimenting with water, finally succeeded in carbonating it. The bottle he was holding up to the light and peering at contained sparkling bubbles.

After his father had moved to Kensington John had set up a rather large piece of equipment in his home in Nassau Street. Barrels and vats, boxes and a handwheel, to say nothing of a mass of pipes joining one piece of machinery to another, now dominated the room at the back formerly used for cleaning boots and Sir Gabriel’s shoes, together with the knife cleaning area. Sir Gabriel’s best pair, worn on special occasions only, had glittering pinchbeck heels; however footwear more ordinary, with shining buckles and bright rosettes, sufficed the great old man for everyday wear.

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