Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men

Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men Andrew Taylor Mark Mills Sam Bourne THREE NO.1 BESTSELLING RICHARD & JUDY BOOKCLUB PICKS IN ONE.THE AMERICAN BOY BY ANDREW TAYLOR:England, 1819: Thomas Shield, a new master at a school near London, is tutor to a young American boy and the boy’s sensitive best friend, Charles Frant. When a brutal crime is committed he finds himself at the heart of a labyrinthine mystery – a tangle of sex, money, murder and lies from which he cannot escape. And what of the strange American boy at the centre of these macabre events – what is the secret of the boy named Edgar Allan Poe?THE SAVAGE GARDEN BY MARK MILLS:Italy, 1958. Arriving at the Docci family home, young scholar Adam Strickland finds the family, their house and its unique garden as seductive as each other. But post-War Italy is still a strange, even dangerous place, and the Doccis have some dark skeletons hidden away which Adam finds himself compelled to investigate. Before long, he will uncover two stories of love, revenge and murder, separated by 400 years… but is another tragedy about to be added to the villa's cursed past?THE RIGHTEOUS MEN BY SAM BOURNE:A series of killings in every corner of the globe cannot possibly be connected. That's the instinct of Will Monroe, rookie reporter for The New York Times – until his beautiful wife Beth is kidnapped. Desperate, Will follows a trail that leads to a mysterious cult right on his own doorstep. With more murders by the hour, he must now unravel the prophecies buried deep in the Bible until he finds a secret worth killing for, a secret on which the fate of humanity may depend. RICHARD AND JUDY BOOKCLUB 3 BESTSELLERS IN 1: The American BoyThe Savage GardenThe Righteous Men Andrew Taylor, Mark Mills and Sam Bourne Contents Cover (#udc6e8585-77f9-5f40-a73a-63f851277be6) Title Page (#u653f2747-a5d7-5ea7-b852-dbca22c38d88) The American Boy (#uaa40bd69-d337-5cf5-bd15-7f4390f7de9a) The Savage Garden (#litres_trial_promo) The Righteous Men (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) (#ulink_94a2ebfb-e2df-5d2c-9f6a-141c49523f67) THE AMERICAN BOY ANDREW TAYLOR Dedication (#ulink_595d21a6-d746-5cd0-b3ff-917734e9172a) For Sarah and William. And, as always, for Caroline. Epigraph (#ulink_561d611c-a5cf-57b5-809b-867f84cf9aba) I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. From “William Wilson” by Edgar Allan Poe Contents Cover (#uaa40bd69-d337-5cf5-bd15-7f4390f7de9a) Title Page (#ue474d449-b86c-53dc-82eb-67b379604035) Dedication (#u0b022f57-cde0-55dd-9710-3514ba46ebac) Epigraph (#uf29044d7-5add-59fe-b714-79cc01730cf1) The Wavenhoe Family, 1819 (#u1a3b1144-e871-5917-ba40-197e3d545252) The Narrative of Thomas Shield, 1819–20 (#u10b22f4d-98b9-55f0-aeb6-801bf2364204) Chapter 1 (#u85768bff-6dff-5d17-9677-f016e64b6bb7) Chapter 2 (#u189c89cf-077f-5ca9-80c1-b06fa6b5df13) Chapter 3 (#u13e5eca6-c00a-5ac4-aa43-1a79bb9d4d57) Chapter 4 (#u0923e85d-e5c8-5a91-8faf-4d8a25e007e4) Chapter 5 (#uedce219b-9e5e-5174-bb49-081232e08fbe) Chapter 6 (#u6b05bd73-2355-5367-a049-bf4adced6afa) Chapter 7 (#u6a4af5dc-b68e-5656-949b-a8153d556c32) Chapter 8 (#u73ccdab6-febf-5612-9f0f-37d0b9b2bf40) Chapter 9 (#ub5cc13ce-3508-5875-a518-b676fc47c5f9) Chapter 10 (#u001d20c2-5d88-5eba-b451-3406c3fac3f5) Chapter 11 (#uc1e0ca91-aaf4-58e2-bcdd-eb7f82508371) Chapter 12 (#u749ad122-ae83-5a23-b679-69afd93b537b) Chapter 13 (#ue4d7edac-f99e-54ba-84b7-b1782f1d88a4) Chapter 14 (#ud2ebdbe1-5473-5d9f-8629-e68517a97196) Chapter 15 (#u68646573-dc41-5849-bbdb-4d3b4671b427) Chapter 16 (#uddaa54d9-233a-5ec5-9f01-29fe78916dcb) Chapter 17 (#u94a887e5-53b9-5ee3-af43-0307215775e1) Chapter 18 (#u0e577252-3705-5350-947c-b6c24e669098) Chapter 19 (#u869639ed-f744-589b-820e-90a9b11b6e48) Chapter 20 (#u2d79e132-542b-518c-8b2c-3262e9e980ef) Chapter 21 (#uddabc100-0e52-5b85-9822-c9506cde0199) Chapter 22 (#ua03e1a83-0f1f-5393-b3b7-2eb1d9606f79) Chapter 23 (#ucf9c04c8-9ff0-580f-ab93-665ad482ff36) Chapter 24 (#uad0df833-dc84-5162-b7b2-95006c81e198) Chapter 25 (#u526fc2b4-d39b-5886-8245-4794272f12f0) Chapter 26 (#u8a237a53-c8c1-5494-a8f7-92a544bf1ec8) Chapter 27 (#u8a713524-e89b-53b5-9d1f-a0e5e6fc7a07) Chapter 28 (#u69abe6ac-df8a-5147-b02c-b8b4ffe25956) Chapter 29 (#uf169a0ee-37d6-5ea9-a2f9-d2c3359deb21) Chapter 30 (#u3723ced8-8fff-5a73-a51a-f012ad6ee96b) Chapter 31 (#u4b69c76a-2f1d-5bc7-af67-1aab373b9a5b) Chapter 32 (#ua2805b82-22bd-5699-b3df-1a5fee0ed582) Chapter 33 (#u3bbd5061-9a17-5837-862c-0001bd98fe39) Chapter 34 (#u7ca004a2-07e2-5cc6-92ce-b6bb41adc6db) Chapter 35 (#u7a35337c-0712-5a7b-a1c1-9e09db1c9981) Chapter 36 (#u7fb218a2-1ed5-519b-9775-06501a6cdbd9) Chapter 37 (#u4b8bcb52-a79c-5fda-8ae6-440c2c7e7d6b) Chapter 38 (#ue8867bda-3250-516b-acc4-1a0fd4553362) Chapter 39 (#u6a933897-953f-541a-983d-fe59fadd082e) Chapter 40 (#u91b0261f-0d9e-521e-9557-686dea9960ee) Chapter 41 (#ua5581a57-1b2b-591f-9e68-71e6a6ca50ff) Chapter 42 (#u3c617339-b701-50ad-9b36-6b678586633e) Chapter 43 (#ucbdd712c-eb78-5aa7-8972-864e2325e0df) Chapter 44 (#u5a573f50-4057-5502-8321-38d24b7eaf10) Chapter 45 (#u3ed77e85-a466-5021-ad4f-8263337f6430) Chapter 46 (#uc723e071-13d9-58fd-9c57-d1a06cda4ac4) Chapter 47 (#u2431099a-66b8-5d6b-a1a8-483b5bde3460) Chapter 48 (#ub78c5e64-39d0-5edc-8613-430cde837789) Chapter 49 (#u7639cec7-bddd-5eca-83ad-d9313b2ee6c3) Chapter 50 (#udea47406-c1f7-57bd-a203-5b2b06caebef) Chapter 51 (#u981e0b22-5c73-5449-a2e0-67efb408f623) Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 64 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 65 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 66 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 74 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 75 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 76 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 77 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 78 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 79 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 80 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 81 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 82 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 83 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 84 (#litres_trial_promo) Appendix, 1862 (#litres_trial_promo) A Historical Note on Edgar Allan Poe (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) The Wavenhoe Family, 1819: (#ulink_a61b758c-0dc3-5d89-9bd7-dd585199a82f) N.B. The names underlined are of those members of the family who were alive in September 1819 THE NARRATIVE OF THOMAS SHIELD (#ulink_c10abbd8-a3a8-51ae-8618-6867de89cb43) 8th September 1819 – 23rd May 1820 Chapter 1 (#ulink_595e6c1b-a511-5189-b976-550a0571fe15) We owe respect to the living, Voltaire tells us in his Premi?re Lettre sur Oedipe, but to the dead we owe only truth. The truth is that there are days when the world changes, and a man does not notice because his mind is on his own affairs. I first saw Sophia Frant shortly before midday on Wednesday the 8th of September, 1819. She was leaving the house in Stoke Newington, and for a moment she was framed in the doorway as though in a picture. Something in the shadows of the hall behind her had made her pause, a word spoken, perhaps, or an unexpected movement. What struck me first were the eyes, which were large and blue. Then other details lodged in my memory like burrs on a coat. She was neither tall nor short, with well-shaped, regular features and a pale complexion. She wore an elaborate cottage bonnet, decorated with flowers. Her dress had a white skirt, puffed sleeves and a pale blue bodice, the latter matching the leather slipper peeping beneath the hem of her skirt. In her left hand she carried a pair of white gloves and a small reticule. I heard the clatter of the footman leaping down from the box of the carriage, and the rattle as he let down the steps. A stout middle-aged man in black joined the lady on the doorstep and gave her his arm as they strolled towards the carriage. They did not look at me. On either side of the path from the house to the road were miniature shrubberies enclosed by railings. I felt faint, and I held on to one of the uprights of the railings at the front. “Indeed, madam,” the man said, as though continuing a conversation begun in the house, “our situation is quite rural and the air is notably healthy.” The lady glanced at me and smiled. This so surprised me that I failed to bow. The footman opened the door of the carriage. The stout man handed her in. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured. “You have been very patient.” He bowed over her hand. “Not at all, madam. Pray give my compliments to Mr Frant.” I stood there like a booby. The footman closed the door, put up the steps and climbed up to his seat. The lacquered woodwork of the carriage was painted blue and the gilt wheels were so clean they hurt your eyes. The coachman unwound the reins from the whipstock. He cracked his whip, and the pair of matching bays, as glossy as the coachman’s top hat, jingled down the road towards the High-street. The stout man held up his hand in not so much a wave as a blessing. When he turned back to the house, his gaze flicked towards me. I let go of the railing and whipped off my hat. “Mr Bransby? That is, have I the honour –?” “Yes, you have.” He stared at me with pale blue eyes partly masked by pink, puffy lids. “What do you want with me?” “My name is Shield, sir. Thomas Shield. My aunt, Mrs Reynolds, wrote to you, and you were kind enough to say –” “Yes, yes.” The Reverend Mr Bransby held out a finger for me to shake. He stared me over, running his eyes from head to toe. “You’re not at all like her.” He led me up the path and through the open door into the panelled hall beyond. From somewhere in the building came the sound of chanting voices. He opened a door on the right and went into a room fitted out as a library, with a Turkey carpet and two windows overlooking the road. He sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk, stretched out his legs and pushed two stubby fingers into his right-hand waistcoat pocket. “You look fagged.” “I walked from London, sir. It was warm work.” “Sit down.” He took out an ivory snuff-box, helped himself to a pinch and sneezed into a handkerchief spotted with brown stains. “So you want a position, hey?” “Yes, sir.” “And Mrs Reynolds tells me that there are at least two good reasons why you are entirely unsuitable for any post I might be able to offer you.” “If you would permit me, I would endeavour to explain.” “Some would say that facts explain themselves. You left your last position without a reference. And, more recently, if I understand your aunt aright, you have been the next best thing to a Bedlamite.” “I cannot deny either charge, sir. But there were reasons for my behaviour, and there are reasons why those episodes happened and why they will not happen again.” “You have two minutes in which to convince me.” “Sir, my father was an apothecary in the town of Rosington. His practice prospered, and one of his patrons was a canon of the cathedral, who presented me to a vacancy at the grammar school. When I left there, I matriculated at Jesus College, Cambridge.” “You held a scholarship there?” “No, sir. My father assisted me. He knew I had no aptitude for the apothecary’s trade and he intended me eventually to take holy orders. Unfortunately, near the end of my first year, he died of a putrid fever, and his affairs were found to be much embarrassed, so I left the university without taking my degree.” “What of your mother?” “She had died when I was a lad. But the master of the grammar school, who had known me as a boy, gave me a job as an assistant usher, teaching the younger boys. All went well for a few years, but, alas, he died and his successor did not look so kindly on me.” I hesitated, for the master had a daughter named Fanny, the memory of whom still brought me pain. “We disagreed, sir – that was the long and the short of it. I said foolish things I instantly regretted.” “As is usually the case,” Bransby said. “It was then April 1815, and I fell in with a recruiting sergeant.” He took another pinch of snuff. “Doubtless he made you so drunk that you practically snatched the King’s shilling from his hand and went off to fight the monster Bonaparte single-handed. Well, sir, you have given me ample proof that you are a foolish, headstrong young man who has a belligerent nature and cannot hold his liquor. And now shall we come to Bedlam?” I squeezed the thick brim of my hat until it bent under the pressure. “Sir, I was never there in my life.” He scowled. “Mrs Reynolds writes that you were placed under restraint, and lived for a while in the care of a doctor. Whether in Bedlam itself or not is immaterial. How came you to be in such a state?” “Many men had the misfortune to be wounded in the late war. It so happened that I was wounded in my mind as well as in my body.” “Wounded in the mind? You sound like a school miss with the vapours. Why not speak plainly? Your wits were disordered.” “I was ill, sir. Like one with a fever. I acted imprudently.” “Imprudent? Good God, is that what you call it? I understand you threw your Waterloo Medal at an officer of the Guards in Rotten-row.” “I regret it excessively, sir.” He sneezed, and his little eyes watered. “It is true that your aunt, Mrs Reynolds, was the best housekeeper my parents ever had. As a boy I never had any reason to doubt her veracity or indeed her kindness. But those two facts do not necessarily encourage me to allow a lunatic and a drunkard a position of authority over the boys entrusted to my care.” “Sir, I am neither of those things.” He glared at me. “A man, moreover, whose former employers will not speak for him.” “But my aunt speaks for me. If you know her, sir, you will know she would not do that lightly.” For a moment neither of us spoke. Through the open window came the clop of hooves from the road beyond. A fly swam noisily through the heavy air. I was slowly baking, basted in sweat in the oven of my own clothes. My black coat was too heavy for a day like this but it was the only one I had. I wore it buttoned to the throat to conceal the fact that I did not have a shirt beneath. I stood up. “I must detain you no longer, sir.” “Be so good as to sit down. I have not concluded this conversation.” Bransby picked up his eye glasses and twirled them between finger and thumb. “I am persuaded to give you a trial.” He spoke harshly, as if he had in mind a trial in a court of law. “I will provide you with your board and lodging for a quarter. I will also advance you a small sum of money so you may dress in a manner appropriate to a junior usher at this establishment. If your conduct is in any way unsatisfactory, you will leave at once. If all goes well, however, at the end of the three months, I may decide to renew the arrangement between us, perhaps on different terms. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, sir.” “Ring the bell there. You will need refreshment before you return to London.” I stood up again and tugged the rope on the left of the fireplace. “Tell me,” he added, without any change of tone, “is Mrs Reynolds dying?” I felt tears prick my eyelids. I said, “She does not confide in me, but she grows weaker daily.” “I am sorry to hear it. She has a small annuity, I collect? You must not mind me if I am blunt. It is as well for us to be frank about such matters.” There is a thin line between frankness and brutality. I never knew on which side of the line Bransby stood. I heard a tap on the door. “Enter!” cried Mr Bransby. I turned, expecting a servant in answer to the bell. Instead a small, neat boy slipped into the room. “Ah, Allan. Good morning.” “Good morning, sir.” He and Bransby shook hands. “Make your bow to Mr Shield, Allan,” Bransby told him. “You will be seeing more of him in the weeks to come.” Allan glanced at me and obeyed. He was a well-made child with large, bright eyes and a high forehead. In his hand was a letter. “Are Mr and Mrs Allan quite well?” Bransby inquired. “Yes, sir. My father asked me to present his compliments, and to give you this.” Bransby took the letter, glanced at the superscription and dropped it on the desk. “I trust you will apply yourself with extra force after this long holiday. Idleness does not become you.” “No, sir.” “Adde quod ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes.” He prodded the boy in the chest. “Continue and construe.” “I regret, sir, I cannot.” Bransby boxed the lad’s ears with casual efficiency. He turned to me. “Eh, Mr Shield? I need not ask you to construe, but perhaps you would be so good as to complete the sentence?” “Emollit mores nec sinit esse feros. Add that to have studied the liberal arts with assiduity refines one’s manners and does not allow them to be coarse.” “You see, Allan? Mr Shield was wont to mind his book. Epistulae Ex Ponto, book the second. He knows his Ovid and so shall you.” When we were alone, Bransby wiped fragments of snuff from his nostrils with a large, stained handkerchief. “One must always show them who is master, Shield,” he said. “Remember that. Kindness is all very well but it don’t answer in the long run. Take young Edgar Allan, for example. The boy has parts, there is no denying it. But his parents indulge him. I shudder to think where such as he would be without due chastisement. Spare the rod, sir, and spoil the child.” So it was that, in the space of a few minutes, I found a respectable position, gained a new roof over my head, and encountered for the first time both Mrs Frant and the boy Allan. Though I marked a slight but unfamiliar twang in his accent, I did not then realise that Allan was American. Nor did I realise that Mrs Frant and Edgar Allan would lead me, step by step, towards the dark heart of a labyrinth, to a place of terrible secrets and the worst of crimes. Chapter 2 (#ulink_5e1a268e-397c-5a5a-9e70-145edf5c5ce3) Before I venture into the labyrinth, let me deal briefly with this matter of my lunacy. I had not seen my aunt Reynolds since I was a boy at school, yet I asked them to send for her when they put me in gaol because I had no other person in the world who would acknowledge the ties of kinship. She spoke up for me before the magistrates. One of them had been a soldier, and was inclined to mercy. Since I had indeed thrown the medal before a score of witnesses, and moreover shouted “You murdering bastard” as I did so, there was little doubt in any mind including my own that I was guilty. The Guards officer was a vengeful man, for although the medal had hardly hurt him, his horse had reared and thrown him before the ladies. So it seemed there was only one road to mercy, and that was by declaring me insane. At the time I had little objection. The magistrates decided that I was the victim of periodic bouts of insanity, during one of which I had assaulted the officer on his black horse. It was a form of lunacy, they agreed, that should yield to treatment. This made it possible for me to be released into the care of my aunt. She arranged for me to board with Dr Haines, whom she had consulted during my trial. Haines was a humane man who disliked chaining up his patients like dogs and who lived with his own family not far away from them. “I hold with Terence,” the doctor said to me. “Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto. To be sure, some of the poor fellows have unusual habits which are not always convenient in society, but they are made of the same clay as you or I.” Most of his patients were madmen and half-wits, some violent, some foolish, all sad; demented, syphilitic, idiotic, prey to strange and fearful delusions, or sweeping from one extreme of their spirits to the other in the folie circulaire. But there were a few like myself, who lived apart from the others and were invited to take our meals with the doctor and his wife in the private part of the house. “Give him time and quiet, moderate exercise and a good, wholesome diet,” Dr Haines told my aunt in my presence, “and your nephew will mend.” At first I doubted him. My dreams were filled with the groans of the dying, with the fear of death, with my own unworthiness. Why should I live? What had I done to deserve it when so many better men were dead? At first, night after night, I woke drenched in sweat, with my pulses racing, and sensed the presence of my cries hanging in the air though their sound had gone. Others in that house cried in the night, so why should not I? The doctor, however, said it would not do and gave me a dose of laudanum each evening, which calmed my disquiet or at least blunted its edge. Also he made me talk to him, of what I had done and seen. “Unwholesome memories,” he once told me, “should be treated like unwholesome food. It is better to purge them than to leave them within.” I was reluctant to believe him. I clung to my misery because it was all I had. I told him I could not remember; I feigned rage; I wept. After a week or two, he cunningly worked on my feelings, suggesting that if I were to teach his son and daughters some Latin and a little Greek for half an hour each morning, he would be able to remit a modest proportion of the fees my aunt paid him for my upkeep. For the first week of this instruction, he sat in the parlour reading a book as I made the children con their grammars and chant their declensions. Then he took to leaving me alone with them, at first for a few minutes only, and then for longer. “You have a gift for instructing the young,” the doctor said to me one evening. “I show them no mercy. I make them work hard.” “You make them wish to please you.” It was not long after that he declared that he had done all he could for me. My aunt took me to her lodgings in a narrow little street running up to the Strand. Here I perched like an untidy cuckoo, mouth ever open, in her snug nest. I filled her parlour during the day, and slept there at night on a bed they made up on the sofa. During that summer, the reek from the river was well-nigh overwhelming. I soon realised that my aunt was not well, that I had occasioned a severe increase in her expenditure since my foolish assault with the Waterloo Medal, and that my presence, though she strove to hide it, could not but be a burden to her. I also heard the groans she smothered in the dark hours of the morning, and I saw illness ravage her body like an invading army. One day, as we drank tea after dinner, my aunt gave me back the Waterloo Medal. It felt cold and heavy in the palm of my hand. I touched the ribbon with its broad, blood-red stripe between dark blue borders. I tilted my hand and let the medal slide on to the table by the tea caddy. I pushed it towards her. “Where did it come from?” “The magistrate gave it to me for you,” she said. “The one who was kind, who had served in the Peninsula. He said it was yours, that you had earned it.” “I threw it away.” She shook her head. “You threw it at Captain Stanhope.” “Does not that amount to the same thing?” “No.” She added, almost pleading, “You could be proud of it, Tom. You fought with honour for your King and your country.” “There was no damned honour in it,” I muttered. But I took the medal to please her, and slipped it in my pocket. Then I said – and the one thing led to the other – “I must find employment. I cannot be a burden to you any longer.” At that time jobs of any kind were not easy to find, particularly if one was a discharged lunatic who had left his last teaching post without a reference, who lacked qualifications or influence. But my aunt Reynolds had once kept house for Mr Bransby’s family, and he had a kindness for her. Upon threads of this nature, those chance connections of memory, habit and affection that bind us with fragile and invisible bonds, the happiness of many depends, even their lives. All this explains why I was ready to take up my position as an under-usher at the Manor House School in the village of Stoke Newington on Monday the 13th of September. On the evening before I left my aunt’s house for the last time, I walked east into the City and on to London Bridge. I stopped there for a while and watched the grey, sluggish water moving between the piers and the craft plying up and down the river. Then, at last, I felt in my trouser pocket and took out the medal. I threw it into the water. I was on the upstream side of the bridge and the little disc twisted and twinkled as it fell, catching the evening sunshine. It slipped neatly into the river, like one going home. It might never have existed. “Why did I not do that before?” I said aloud, and two shopgirls, passing arm in arm, laughed at me. I laughed back, and they giggled, picked up their skirts and hastened away. They were pretty girls, too, and I felt desire stir within me. One of them was tall and dark, and she reminded me a little of Fanny, my first love. The girls skittered like leaves in the wind and I watched how their bodies swayed beneath thin dresses. As my aunt grows worse, I thought, I grow better, as though I feed upon her distress. Chapter 3 (#ulink_6e4e5e9d-ec92-5f06-9233-b4f9a0bc2139) Once again, I walked to save money. My box had gone ahead by carrier. I followed the old Roman road to Cambridge, Ermine-street, stretching north from Shoreditch, the bricks and mortar of the city creeping blindly after it like ants following a line of honey. About a mile south of Stoke Newington, the vehicles on the road came to a noisy standstill. Walking steadily, I passed the uneasy, twitching snake of curricles and gigs, chaises and carts, stagecoaches and wagons, until I drew level with the cause of the obstruction. A shabby little one-horse carriage travelling south had collided with a brewer’s dray returning from London. One of the chaise’s shafts had snapped, and the unfortunate hack which had drawn it was squirming on the ground, still entangled in her harness. The driver was waving his blood-soaked wig at the draymen and bellowing, while around them gathered a steadily expanding crowd of angry travellers and curious bystanders. Some forty yards away, standing in the queue of vehicles travelling towards London, was a carriage drawn by a pair of matching bays. When I saw it, I felt a pang, curiously like hunger. I had seen the equipage before – outside the Manor House School. The same coachman was on the box, staring at the scene of the accident with a bored expression on his face. The glass was down and a man’s hand rested on the sill. I stopped and turned back, pretending an interest in the accident, and examined the carriage more closely. As far as I could see, it had only the one occupant, a man whose eyes met mine, then looked away, back to something on his lap. He had a long pale face, with a hint of green in its pallor and fine regular features. His starched collar rose almost to his ears and his neck cloth tumbled in a snowy waterfall from his throat. The fingers on the windowsill moved rhythmically, as though marking time to an inaudible tune. On the forefinger was a great gold signet ring. A footman came hurrying along the road from the accident, pushing his way through the crowd. He went up to the carriage window. The occupant raised his head. “There’s a horse down, sir, the chaise is a wreck and the dray has lost its offside front wheel. They say there’s nothing to do but wait.” “Ask that fellow what he’s staring at.” “I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, and my voice sounded thin and reedy in my ears. “I stared at no one, but I admired your conveyance. A fine example of the coach-builder’s craft.” The footman was already looming over me, leaning close. He smelt of onions and porter. “Be off with you, then.” He nudged me with his shoulder and went on in a lower voice, “You’ve admired enough, so cheese it.” I did not move. The coachman lifted his whip. Meanwhile, the man in the carriage stared straight at me. He showed neither anger nor interest. There was an impersonal menace in the air, as pungent as gas, even in broad daylight and on a crowded road. Like an itch, I was a minor irritant. The gentleman in the coach had decided to scratch me. I sketched a bow and strolled away. I did not know the encounter for what it was, an omen. Chapter 4 (#ulink_89a0bd2b-ede0-53b7-8f75-a6a50371553f) Stoke Newington was a pretty place, despite its proximity to London. I remember the trees and rooks with affection. The youngest boy in the school was four; the oldest nineteen and so nearly a man that he sported bushy whiskers and was rumoured to have put the baker’s girl with child. The sons of richer and more ambitious parents were prepared for entry at the public schools. Most, however, received all the learning they required at Mr Bransby’s. “The parents entrust their sons’ board and lodging to us as well as their tuition,” Mr Bransby told me. “A nutritious diet and a comfortable bed are essential if a boy is to learn. Moreover, if a child lives among gentlefolk, he acquires their ways. We keep strictly to our regimen. It is an essential foundation to sobriety in later life.” The regimen did not affect Mr Bransby and his household, who lived separately from the rest of the school and were no doubt sufficiently sober already. I was expected to sleep on the boys’ side, as was the only other master who lived at the school, the senior usher. “Mr Dansey has been with me for many years,” Bransby told me when he introduced us. “You will find him a scholar of distinction.” Edward Dansey was probably in his forties, a thin man, dressed in black clothes so old and faded that they were now mottled shades of green and grey. He wore a dusty little wig, usually askew, and had a cast in one eye, which, without being actually oblique, approached nearly to a squint. Both then and later, he was always perfectly civil. His manners were those of a gentleman, despite his shabby clothes. He had the great merit of showing no curiosity about my past history. When I knew Dansey better I found he had a habit of looking at the world with his chin raised and his lips twisted asymmetrically so that one corner of the mouth curled up and the other curled down; it was as though part of him was smiling and part of him was frowning so one never really knew where one stood with him. The cast in his eye accentuated this ambivalence of expression. The boys called him Janus, perhaps because they believed his mood varied according to the side of his face you saw him from. They were scared of Bransby, who kept a cane in every room of the school so he could flog a boy wherever he was without delay, but they were terrified of Dansey. On my second Thursday at the school, the manservant padded along to the form room as the boys were streaming out to their two hours of liberty before dinner and requested me to wait on his master. My immediate fear was that I had somehow displeased Mr Bransby. I went through the door that separated his quarters from the rest of the house, which was like stepping into a different country. Here the air smelt of beeswax and flowers and the walls were freshly papered, the panels freshly painted. Mr Bransby had silence enough to hear the ticking of a clock, a luxury indeed in a house full of boys. I knocked and was told to enter. He was staring out of the window, tapping his fingers on the leather top of his table. “Sit down, Shield. I must be the bearer of sad news, I’m afraid.” I said, “My aunt Reynolds?” Bransby bowed his heavy head. “I am truly sorry for it. She was an excellent woman.” My mind was blank, an empty place filled with fog. “She charged the woman with whom she lodged to write to me when she was gone. She died yesterday afternoon.” He cleared his throat. “It appears that it was very sudden at the end, or else they would have sent for you. But there is a letter. Mrs Reynolds directed that it should be given to you after her death.” The seal was intact. It had been stamped with what looked like the handle of a small spoon. I thought I could make out the imprint of fluting. My aunt had probably used the small silver spoon she kept locked in the caddy with her tea. The wax was streaky, a mixture of rusty orange and dark blue. Economical in all things, she saved the seals of letters sent to her and melted the wax again when she sent a letter of her own. The mind is an ungovernable creature, particularly under the influence of grief; we cannot always command our own thoughts. I found myself wondering if the spoon would still be there, and whether by rights it was now mine. For an instant the fog cleared and I saw her there, in my mind but as solid as Bransby himself, sitting at the table after dinner, frowning into the caddy as she measured the tea. “There will be arrangements to be made,” Bransby was saying. “Mr Dansey will take over your duties for a day or two.” He sneezed, and then said angrily, “I shall advance you a small sum of money to cover any expenses you may have. I suggest you go up to town this afternoon. Well? What do you say?” I recalled that my sanity was still on trial, and now there was no one to speak for me so I must make shift to speak for myself. I raised my head and said that I was sensible of Mr Bransby’s great kindness. I begged leave to withdraw and prepare for my journey. A moment later, I went up to my little room in the attic, a green hermitage under the eaves. There at last I wept. I wish I could say my tears were solely for my aunt, the best of women. Alas, they were also for myself. My protector was dead. Now, I told myself, I was truly alone in the world. Chapter 5 (#ulink_a12ae115-ca75-56e5-b5d5-87894c3a657b) My aunt’s death drew me deeper into the labyrinth. It brought me to Mr Rowsell and Mrs Jem. Her last letter to me was brief and, judging by the handwriting, written in the later stages of her illness. In it, she expressed the hope that we might meet again in that better place beyond the grave and assured me that, if heaven permitted it, she would watch over me. Turning to more practical matters, she informed me that she had left money to defray the expense of her funeral. There was nothing for me to do, for she had decided all the details, even the nature of her memorial, even the mason to cut the letters. Finally, she directed me to wait on her attorney Mr Rowsell at Lincoln’s Inn. I called at the lawyer’s chambers. Mr Rowsell was a large, red-faced man, bulging in the prison of his clothing as though the blood were bursting to escape from his body. He directed his moon-faced clerk to fetch my aunt’s papers. While we waited he scribbled in his pocketbook. When the clerk returned, Rowsell looked through the will, glancing up at me with bright, bird-like eyes, his manner a curious compound of the curt and the furtive. There were two bequests of five pounds apiece, he told me, one to the maid of all work and the other to the landlady. “The residue comes to you, Mr Shield,” he said. “Apart from my bill, of course, which will be a charge on the estate.” “There cannot be much.” “She drew up a schedule, I believe,” said Rowsell, reaching into the little deed-box. “But do not let your hopes rise too high, young man.” He took out a sheet of paper, glanced at it and handed it to me. “Her goods and chattels, such as they were,” he continued, staring at me over his spectacles, “and a sum of money. A little over a hundred pounds, in all probability. Heaven knows how she managed to put it by on that annuity of hers.” He stood up and held out his hand. “I am pressed for time this morning so I shall not detain you any longer. If you leave your direction with Atkins on your way out, I will write to you when we are in a position to conclude the business.” A hundred pounds! I walked down to the Strand in a daze similar to intoxication. My steps were unsteady. A hundred pounds! I went to the house where my aunt had lodged and arranged for the disposal of her possessions. Of the larger items, I kept only the tea caddy with its spoon. The landlady found a friend named Mrs Jem who was willing to buy the furniture. I suspected I would have got a higher price if I had been prepared to look elsewhere, but I did not want the trouble of it. Mrs Jem also bought my aunt’s clothes. “Not that they’re worth more than a few shillings,” she said with a martyred smile; she was a mountainous woman with handsome little features buried in her broad face. “More patches and darns than anything else. Still, you won’t want them, will you, so it’s doing you a favour. I’ve only thirty shillings. Will you wait while I fetch the rest of the money?” “No.” I could not bear to stay here any longer, for I wanted to contemplate both my loss and my good fortune in peace and quiet. “I will take the thirty shillings and collect the balance later.” “As you wish,” she said. “Three Gaunt-court. It’s not a stone’s throw away.” “A long throw.” She gave me a hard stare. “Don’t worry, I’ll have the money waiting for you. Six shillings, no more no less. I pay my debts, Mr Shield, and I expect others to pay theirs.” I could not resist a schoolboy pun. “Mrs Jem,” I said solemnly, “you are indeed a pearl of great price.” “That’s enough of your impudence,” she replied. “If you’re going, you’d better go.” The balloon of mirth subsided as I walked away from the house where my aunt had lived. So this was all that a life amounted to – a mound of freshly turned earth in a churchyard, a few pieces of furniture scattered among other people’s rooms, and a handful of clothes that nobody but the poor would want to buy. There was also the small matter of the money which would come to me. For the first time in my life, I was about to be a man of substance, the absolute master of ?103 and a few shillings and pence. The knowledge changed me. Wealth may not bring happiness, but at least it has the power to avert certain causes of sorrow. And it makes a man feel he has a place in the world. Chapter 6 (#ulink_919bf401-e43f-5116-98be-730952d03267) Wealth. That brings me to Wavenhoe’s Bank. It was Mr Bransby who first mentioned its name to me. I never went there, never met old Mr Wavenhoe himself until he was on his deathbed, but Wavenhoe’s was the chain that bound us all together, the British and the Americans, the Frants and the Carswalls, Charlie and Edgar. Money plays its own tune, and in our different ways we all found ourselves dancing to it. Early in October, I applied to Bransby for leave to go up to Town. It was on that occasion that he mentioned Wavenhoe’s. I needed to visit London because Mr Rowsell had papers for me to sign, and I wished to collect the few shillings that Mrs Jem owed me. He made no difficulty about my request. “Upon one condition, however,” he went on. “I should like you to go on Tuesday. Then you may undertake two errands for me while you are there. Not that you will find them onerous – quite the reverse, I fancy. When you travel up to Town, you will take the boy Allan with you and leave him at his parents’ house in Southampton-row. Number thirty-nine. His father writes that his mother desires to have him measured for a suit of clothes against the winter.” “Will I collect him on my way back, sir?” “No. I understand he is to return later in the evening, and that Mr Allan will make the arrangements. Once you have left him at his father’s house, you may discharge your own business. But afterwards I wish you to call at a house in Russell-square so that you may convey a new pupil to the school. Or rather, he will convey you. The boy’s father tells me he will order the carriage.” Bransby leant back in his chair, his body pressing against his waistcoat buttons. “His name is Frant.” I nodded. I remembered the lady who had smiled at me at the gate of the school, and also the man who had nearly set his servants on to me as I walked up Ermine-street. I felt my pulse beating somewhere among the fingers of my clasped hands. “Master Frant should suit us very well. His father is one of the partners of Wavenhoe’s Bank. A very sound concern indeed.” “How old is the boy, sir?” “Ten or eleven. As it happens, this school was commended to Mr Frant by Allan’s father. He is an American of Scottish descent, but resident in London. I understand that he and Mr Frant have conducted business together. Mark this well, Shield: first, a satisfied parent will share his satisfaction with other parents; second, Mr Frant is a gentleman-like man who not only moves in good society but meets wealthy men in the course of his business. Wealthy men have sons who require an education. I would wish you to make a particularly good impression, therefore, on Mr and Mrs Allan and Mr and Mrs Frant.” “I shall endeavour to do so, sir.” Bransby leant forward across the desk so that he could study me more closely. “I am confident that your manner will be everything that is appropriate. But I must confess – and pray do not take this amiss – that some alteration to your dress might be desirable. I advanced you a small sum for clothing, did I not, but perhaps not enough?” I began to speak: “It is unfortunate, sir, that –” “And, indeed,” Bransby rushed on, his colour darkening, “you have now been with us for nearly a month and your work has, on the whole, been satisfactory. That being so, from next quarterday I propose to pay you a salary of twelve pounds a year, as well as your board and lodging. It is on the understanding, naturally, that your dress will be appropriate to an usher at this establishment and that your conduct continues to give satisfaction in all respects. In the circumstances, I am minded to advance you perhaps half of your first quarter’s salary so that you may make the necessary purchases.” Three days later, on Tuesday, 5th October, I travelled up to London. Young Allan sat as far away as possible from me in the coach and replied in monosyllables to the questions I put to him. I delivered the boy into the care of a servant at his parents’ house. I had taken but a few steps along the pavement when I felt a hand on my sleeve. I stopped and turned. “Your pardon, sir.” A tall man in a shabby green coat inclined his trunk forward from the waist. He wore a greasy wig, thick blue spectacles and a spreading beard like the nest of an untidy bird. “I am looking – looking for the residence of an acquaintance.” He had a low, booming voice, the sort that makes glasses vibrate. “An American gentleman – a Mr Allan. I wonder whether that might be his house.” “It is indeed.” “Ah – you are most obliging, sir – so the boy you were with must be his son?” He swayed as he spoke. “A handsome boy.” I bowed. The man’s face was turned away from me but his breath smelt faintly of spirits and strongly of rotting teeth or an infection of the gums. He was not intoxicated, though, or rather not so it affected his actions. I thought he was perhaps the sort of man who is at his most sober when a little elevated. “Mr Shield, sir!” I turned back to the Allans’ house. The servant had opened the door. “There was a message from Mrs Allan, sir. She wishes to keep Master Edgar until tomorrow. Mr Allan’s clerk will bring him back to Stoke Newington in the morning.” “Very good,” I said. “I will inform Mr Bransby.” Without a word of farewell, the man in the green coat walked rapidly in the direction of Holborn. I followed, for my next destination was beyond it, at Lincoln’s Inn. The man glanced over his shoulder, saw me strolling behind him and began to walk more quickly. He knocked against a woman selling baskets and she shrieked abuse at him, which he ignored. He turned into Vernon-row. By the time I reached the corner, there was no sign of him. I thought perhaps the man in the green coat had mistaken me, or someone behind me, for a creditor. Or he had accelerated his pace for quite a different reason, unconnected with his looking back. I dismissed him from my mind and continued to walk southwards. But the incident lodged itself in my memory, and later I was to be thankful that it had. At Mr Rowsell’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, his clerk had the papers ready for me to sign. But as I was about to take my leave, the lawyer himself came out of his private room and shook me by the hand with unexpected cordiality. “I give you joy of your inheritance. You are somewhat changed, Mr Shield, if I may say so without impertinence. And for the better.” “Thank you, sir.” “A new coat, I fancy? You have begun to spend your new wealth?” I smiled at Mr Rowsell, responding to the good humour in his face rather than the words. “I have not touched my aunt’s money yet.” “What will you do with it?” “I shall place it in a bank for a few months. I do not wish to rush into a venture I might later regret.” I hesitated, then added upon impulse: “My employer Mr Bransby happened to mention that Wavenhoe’s is a sound concern.” “Wavenhoe’s, eh?” Rowsell shrugged. “They have a good name, it is true, but lately there have been rumours – not that that means anything; the City is a perfect rumour mill, you understand, turning ceaselessly, grinding yesterday’s idle speculations into tomorrow’s facts. Mr Wavenhoe himself is an old man, and they say he delegates much of the day-to-day business of the bank to his partners.” “And that is a cause of unease?” “Not exactly. But the City does not like change, it may be no more than that. And if Mr Wavenhoe retires, or even dies, his absence may have an effect on confidence in the bank. That is no reflection on the bank itself necessarily, merely on human nature. If you wish, I shall make some inquiries on your behalf.” I dined at an ordinary among plump lawyers and skinny clerks. My business had taken longer than I had anticipated, and I resolved to postpone my visit to Mrs Jem in Gaunt-court. After dinner, comfortable with beef and beer, I made my way up Southampton-row, passing the Allans’ house. It was a fine autumn afternoon. With my new coat, my new position and my new fortune, I felt I had become a different Tom Shield altogether from the one I had been less than a month before. As I walked, I observed the passers-by – chiefly the women. My eyes clung to a face beneath a bonnet, a pretty foot peeping beneath the hem of a dress, the curve of a forearm, the swell of a breast, a pair of bright eyes. I heard their laughter, their whispers. I smelt their perfume. Dear God, I was like a boy with his face pressed against the pastry-cook’s window. One struck me in particular, a tall woman with black hair, a high colour, and a fine full figure; as she climbed into a hackney I thought for an instant that she was Fanny, the girl I had once known, not as she had been then but as she might have become; and for a moment or two a cloud covered my happiness. Chapter 7 (#ulink_256abfd5-fa93-5bac-8751-79ac32c09a27) The Frants’ house was on the south side of Russell-square. I rang the bell and waited. The brass plate sparkled. The paint was new. If a surface could be polished, it had been polished. If it could be scrubbed, it had been scrubbed. A manservant answered the door, a tall fellow with a fleshy, hook-nosed face. I told him my name and business, and he left me to kick my heels in a big dining room overlooking the square. I walked over to the window and stared down at the square garden. The curtains were striped silk, cream and green, and the green seemed to have been chosen to match exactly the grass outside. The door opened, and I turned to see Mr Henry Frant. As I did so, I looked for the first time at the wall beside the door, which was opposite the window. A portrait hung there, Mrs Frant to the life, sitting in a park with a tiny boy leaning against her knee and a spaniel stretched on the ground at her feet. In the distance was a prospect of a large stone-built mansion-house. “You’re Mr Bransby’s usher, I collect?” Frant walked quickly towards me, his left hand in his pocket, bringing with him a scent of lavender water. He was the man I had seen at the carriage window in Ermine-street. “The boy will be down in a moment.” There was no sign of recognition on his face. I was too insignificant for him to have remembered me, of course, but it was also possible to believe that my own appearance had changed in the last month. Frant made no move to shake hands; nor was there an offer of refreshment or even a chair. There was an air of excitement about him, of absorption in his own affairs. “The boy has milksop tendencies, fostered by his mother,” he announced. “I particularly desire that these traits be eradicated.” I bowed. In the portrait, Mrs Frant’s small white hand toyed with a brown ringlet that had escaped the confines of her bonnet. “He is not to be indulged, do you hear? He has had enough of that already. But now he is grown too old for the softness of women. It is time for him to learn to be a man. Behaving like a blushing maiden will be no good to him when he goes to Westminster. That is one reason why I have determined to send him to Mr Bransby’s.” “So he has never been to school before, sir?” “He has had tutors at home.” Frant waved his right hand as though pushing them away, and the great signet ring on his forefinger gleamed as it caught the light from the window. “He does well enough at his books. Now it is time for him to learn something equally useful: how to deal with his fellows. But I will not detain you any longer. Pray give my compliments to Mr Bransby.” Before I could manage even another bow, Frant was out of the room, the door snapping shut behind him. I envied him: here was a man who had everything the gods could bestow including an air of breeding and consequence that sat naturally upon him, as though he were its rightful possessor. Even now, God help me, part of me envies him as he was then. I waited another moment, studying the portrait. My interest, I told myself, was both pure and objective. I admired the painting as I might a beautiful statue or a line of poetry that spoke with both elegance and force to the heart. The brushwork was particularly fine, and the skin was exquisitely lifelike. Such beauty was refreshing, too, like a drink to a thirsty traveller. There was, therefore, no reason why I should not study it as much as I wished. Ah, you will say, you were falling in love with Sophia Frant. But that is romantic nonsense. If you want plain speaking, I will give it you as I gave it to myself on that fateful day: leaving artistic considerations aside, I disliked her because she had so much I lacked in the way of wealth and the world’s esteem; and I also disliked her because I desired her, as I did almost any pretty woman I saw, and knew she could never be mine. I heard footsteps outside the door and a high voice speaking indistinctly but loudly. I moved away and feigned an intense interest in the ormolu clock upon the mantel-shelf. The door opened and a boy rushed into the room, followed by a small, plain woman, dressed in black and with a wart on the side of her chin. What struck me immediately was that there was a remarkable resemblance between young Frant and Edgar Allan, the American boy. With their lofty brows, their bright eyes and their delicate features, they might almost have been brothers. Then I noticed the boy’s attire. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I am Charles Augustus Frant.” I shook the offered hand. “And I am Mr Shield.” “And this is Mrs Kerridge, my – one of the servants,” the boy rushed on. “There was no need for her to come down with me, but she insisted.” I nodded to her and she inclined her head. “I wished to ask if Master Charles’s box had arrived at the school yet, sir.” “I’m afraid I do not know. But I’m sure its absence would have been marked.” “And my mistress desired me to say that Master Charles feels the cold. When the weather begins to turn, perhaps a flannel undershirt next to the skin might be advisable.” The boy snorted. I nodded gravely. My mind was on the lad’s clothes, though not in a way that Mrs Kerridge or indeed Mrs Frant would have liked. Whether at his own request or at his mother’s whim, Master Charles was wearing a beautifully cut olive greatcoat with black frogs. He carried under his arm a hat from which depended a long and handsome tassel; he clutched a cane in his left hand. “They’re bringing the carriage round, sir,” Mrs Kerridge said, “and Master Charles’s valise is in the hall. Would you like anything before you go?” The boy hopped from one leg to another. “Thank you, no,” I said. “There’s the carriage.” He ran over to the window. “Yes, it is ours.” Mrs Kerridge looked up at me, squeezing her face to a frown. “Poor lamb,” she murmured in a tone too low for him to hear. “Never been away from home before.” I nodded, and smiled in a way I hoped the woman would find reassuring. When we opened the door, a footman was waiting by the front door and a black pageboy, not much older than Charles himself, hovered over the valise. Charles Frant, smiling graciously at his father’s servants, marched down the steps with a dignity befitting the Horse Guards, a dignity only slightly marred by the way he skipped up into the carriage. Mrs Kerridge and I followed more slowly, walking behind like a pair of acolytes. “He is very young for his age, sir,” Mrs Kerridge muttered. I smiled down at her. “He’s a handsome boy.” “Takes after his mother.” “Is she not here to say goodbye to him?” “She’s away nursing her uncle.” Mrs Kerridge grimaced. “The poor gentleman’s dying, and he ain’t going easy. Otherwise Madam would be here. Will he be all right, sir? Boys can be cruel little varmints. He don’t realise. He don’t know many boys.” “It may not be easy at first. But most boys find there is much to enjoy at school as well. Once they are used to it.” “His mama frets about him.” “It often happens that an event is more distressing in anticipation than it is in actuality. You must endeavour to –” I broke off, realising that Mrs Kerridge was no longer looking at me. She had been distracted by the sight of a carriage whirling into the square from Montague-street. It was an elegant light chariot, painted green and gold, and drawn by a pair of chestnuts. The coachman slipped between two carts and brought the equipage to a standstill behind our own, the wheels neatly aligned within a couple of inches of the kerb. He sat back on the box with the air of a man well pleased with himself. “Oh Lord,” muttered Mrs Kerridge, but she was smiling. The glass slid down. I glimpsed a pale face and a mass of auburn curls partly concealed by a large hat adorned with grogram. “Kerridge!” the girl called. “Kerridge, dearest. Am I in time? Where’s Charlie?” Charles jumped out of the Frants’ carriage and ran along the pavement. “Do you like this rig, Cousin Flora? Mighty fine, ain’t it?” “You look very handsome,” she said. “Quite the military man.” He held his face up for her to kiss him. She leaned down and I had a better view of her. She was older than I had thought – a young woman; not a girl. Mrs Kerridge came forward to be kissed in her turn. Then the young woman’s eyes turned to me. “And who is this? Will you introduce us, Charlie?” He coloured. “I beg your pardon. Cousin Flora, allow me to name Mr Shield, an usher at Mr Bransby’s – my school, you know.” He swallowed, and then gabbled, “Mr Shield, my cousin Miss Carswall.” I bowed. With great condescension, Miss Carswall held out her hand. It was a little hand that seemed to vanish within my own. She wore lilac-coloured gloves, I recall, which matched the pelisse she wore over her white muslin dress. “You were about to convey my cousin to school, no doubt? I shall not detain you long, sir. I merely wished to say farewell to him, and to give him this.” She undid the drawstring of her reticule and took out a small purse which she handed to him. “Put it somewhere safe, Charlie. You may wish to treat your friends.” She bent down, kissed the top of his head, and gave him a little push away from her. “Your mama sends her best love, by the by. I saw her for a moment at Uncle George’s.” For an instant the boy’s face became perfectly blank, drained of the fun and excitement. Miss Carswall patted his shoulder. “She cannot leave him, not at this moment.” She looked over the boy to Mrs Kerridge and myself. “I must not delay you any longer. Kerridge, dearest, may I drink tea with you before I go? It would be like old times.” “Mr Frant is within, miss.” “Oh.” The young lady gave a little laugh, and a look of understanding passed between her and Mrs Kerridge. “Good God, I had almost forgot. I am promised to Emma Trenton. Another time, perhaps, and we shall have a good old prose together.” Miss Carswall’s departure was the signal for ours. I followed Charlie into the Frants’ carriage. A moment later we turned into Southampton-row. The boy huddled into the corner and turned his head to stare out of the far window. The tassel on that ridiculous hat swayed and bounced behind him. Flora Carswall could never have been called beautiful, unlike Mrs Frant. But she had a quality of ripeness about her, like fruit waiting to be plucked, demanding to be eaten. Chapter 8 (#ulink_9e80c41b-e0af-523d-9b5e-1a31b8550ee2) I found it difficult to sleep that night. My mind was possessed with a strange excitement that would not let me rest. I felt that during the day I had crossed from one part of my life into another, as though its events formed a river between two countries. I lay in my narrow bed, my body twitching and turning and sighing. I measured the passage of time by the striking of clocks. At last, a little after half-past one, my restlessness drove me from the warmth of my bed to smoke a pipe. Mr Bransby held that snuff was the only form of tobacco acceptable to a gentleman so Dansey and I found it necessary to smoke outside. But I knew where the key to the side door was kept. A moment later I walked down the lawn, my footsteps making no noise on the wet grass. There were a few clouds but the stars were bright enough for me to see my way. To the south was a faint lessening of the darkness, a yellow haze, the false dawn of London by night, the city which never went to sleep. Beneath the trees it was completely dark. I smoked in the shelter of a copper beech, leaning against the trunk. Leaves stirred above my head. Tiny crackles and rustles near my feet hinted at the passage of small, secretive animals. Then came another sound, a screech so sharp and hard and unexpected that I jerked myself away from the tree and almost choked on the smoke in my mouth. It came from the direction of the house. There was another, quieter noise, the scrape of metal against metal, followed by a smothered laugh. I crouched and knocked out the pipe on the soft, damp earth. I moved forward, my feet making little sound on the leaf mould and the husks of last year’s beech nuts. By now my eyes had grown accustomed to the near darkness. Something white was hanging from an attic window in the boys’ wing. The room behind it was in darkness. I veered aside into the slightly deeper darkness running along the line of a hedge. The attic was not in the same wing of the house as my own and Dansey’s. Most of the boys slept in dormitories, with ten or twelve of them crammed together in one of the larger rooms below. But in this part of the attic storey, two or three boys might share one of the smaller rooms if their parents were willing to pay extra for the privilege. Once again, I heard the gasp of laughter, snuffed out almost as soon as it began. Suddenly, and with an anger so sharp that it stabbed me like a knife, I knew what I had seen. I went quickly into the house, lit my candle and made my way to the stairs leading to the boys’ attics. I found myself in a narrow corridor. By the light of the candle I saw five doors, all closed. I tried the doors in turn until I found the one I wanted. I saw three truckle beds in the wavering glow of the candle flame. From two of them came the sound of loud, regular snoring. From the third came the broken breathing of a person trying not to cry. The window was closed. “Which boys are in this room?” I demanded, not troubling to lower my voice. One boy stopped snoring. To compensate, the other snored with redoubled force. The third boy, the one who had been trying not to cry, became completely silent. I pulled the blankets from the nearest bed and tossed them on the floor. Its occupant continued to snore. I held the candle close to his face. “Quird,” I said. “You will wait behind after morning school.” I stripped the covers from the next bed. Another boy stared up at me, making no pretence at sleep. “You will accompany him, Morley.” My foot caught on something on the floor. I bent down and made out a length of rope like a basking snake, most of it pushed beneath Morley’s bed. With a grunt of anger, I threw off the covers from the third bed. There was Charlie Frant, his nightshirt rucked up above his waist and a handkerchief tied round his mouth. I swore. I placed the candle on the windowsill, lifted the boy up and pulled down the nightshirt. He was trembling uncontrollably. I untied the handkerchief. The lad spat out a rag they had pushed inside his mouth. He retched once. Then, without a word, he fell back on the bed, turned away from me and buried his head in the pillow and began to sob. Morley and Quird had hung him out of the window. The older boys had lashed his ankles round the central mullion to prevent him from breaking his neck on the gravel walk below. “I will see you tomorrow,” I heard myself saying to them. “At present, I cannot see any reason why I should not flog you twice a day and every day until Christmas.” I wondered whether I should remove young Frant from his tormentors, but what would I do with him? The boy had to sleep somewhere. But the nub of the matter was that, sooner or later, by day or by night, young Frant would have to face up to Quird and Morley. Punishing them was one thing; but trying to shield him was another. I went back to my own room. I did not sleep until dawn. When I did, it seemed only moments before the bell rang for another day of hearing little savages construe Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Chapter 9 (#ulink_d19e7aff-1239-5efd-867b-98a3133011ad) I watched Charlie Frant in morning school, both before breakfast and after it. The boy sat by himself at the back of the room. I doubted if he turned a page of his book or even saw what was written on the one in front of him. His coat was now too bedraggled to have a military air. He had tear tracks on his cheeks, and his nostrils were caked with blood and mucus. Smears on the sleeve showed where he had wiped his nose. At breakfast, I told Dansey what had happened in the night. The older man shrugged. “If the boy goes to Westminster School, he’ll get far worse than that.” “But we cannot let it pass.” “We cannot prevent it.” “If the older boys would but exert some authority over the younger ones –” Dansey shook his head. “This is not a public school. We do not have a tradition of self-governance by the boys.” “If I went to Mr Bransby, might he not expel them or at least discipline them – Quird and Morley, I mean?” “You forget, my dear Shield: the true aim of this establishment is not an educational one. Considered properly, it is nothing but a machine for making money. That is why Mr Bransby has sunk his capital in it. That is why you and I are sitting here drinking weak coffee at Mr Bransby’s expense. Both Quird and Morley have younger brothers.” Dansey’s lips twisted into their Janus-like frowning smile. “Their fathers pay their bills.” “Then is there nothing to be done?” “You can beat the wretched boys so soundly that you reduce their ability to persecute their unfortunate friend. At least I can be of assistance in that respect.” At eleven o’clock, after the second session of morning school, I flogged Morley and Quird harder than I had ever flogged a boy before. They did not enjoy it but they did not complain. Custom blunts even pain. Later, I caught sight of Charlie Frant in the playground. Half a dozen boys had grouped around him in a ragged circle. They tossed the hat from one to the other, encouraging him to make ineffectual grabs for it. The hat had lost its tassel. Some wag had contrived to pin it on the back of the olive-green coat. “Donkey,” they chanted. “Who’s a little donkey? Bray, bray, bray.” When lessons resumed after dinner, Frant was not at his desk. He had hidden himself away to lick his wounds. I decided that if Lord Nelson could turn a blind eye to matters he did not wish to see, then so could I. I did not, however, turn a blind eye to either Quird or Morley. Their work, never distinguished, withered under the unremitting attention that I bestowed upon it. I gave them both the imposition of copying out ten pages of the geography textbook by the following morning. Towards the end of afternoon school, the manservant came from Mr Bransby’s part of the house and desired Dansey and myself to wait upon his master without delay. We found him in his study, pacing up and down behind his desk, his face dark with rage and a trail of spilt snuff cascading down his waistcoat. “Here’s a fine to-do,” he began without any preamble, before I had even closed the door. “That wretched boy Frant.” “He has absconded?” Dansey said. Bransby snorted. “Not worse, I hope?” There was the barest trace of amusement in Dansey’s voice, like an intellectual whisper pitched too low for Mr Bransby’s range of comprehension. “He has – harmed himself?” Bransby shook his head. “It appears that he strolled away, as cool as a cucumber, after the boys’ dinner. He walked a little way and then found a carrier willing to give him a ride to Holborn. I understand that Mrs Frant is away from home but the servants at once sent word to Mr Frant.” He waved a letter as though trying to swat a fly. “His stable boy brought this.” He took another turn in silence up and down the room. We watched him warily. “It is most vexing,” he continued at length, glowering at each of us in turn. “That it should concern Mr Frant – the very man we should study to please in every particular.” “Has he settled on withdrawing the boy?” Dansey asked. “We are spared that, at least. Mr Frant wishes his son to return to us. But he demands that the boy be suitably chastised for his transgression so that he apprehends that the discipline of the school is firmly allied to paternal authority. Mr Frant desires me to send an under-master to collect his son, and he proposes that the under-master should flog the boy in his, that is to say Mr Frant’s, presence and in the boy’s own home. He suggests that in this way the boy will realise that he has no choice but to knuckle down to the discipline of the school and that by this he will learn a valuable lesson that will stand him in good stead in his later life.” Bransby’s heavy-lidded eyes swung towards me. “No doubt you were about to volunteer, Shield. Indeed, my choice would have fallen on you in any case. You are a younger man than Mr Dansey, and therefore have the stronger right arm. There is also the fact that I can spare you more easily than I can Mr Dansey.” “Sir,” I began, “is not such a course –?” Dansey, standing behind me and to the left, stabbed his finger into my back. “Such a course of action is indeed a trifle unusual,” he interrupted smoothly, “but in the circumstances I have no doubt that it will prove efficacious. Mr Frant’s paternal concern is laudable.” Bransby nodded. “Quite so.” He glanced at me. “The stable boy has ridden back to town with my answer. The chaise from the inn will be here in about half an hour. Be so good as to discuss with Mr Dansey how he should best discharge your evening duties as well as his own.” “When will it be convenient for me to wait upon Mr Frant?” “As soon as possible. You will find him now at Russell-square.” A moment later, Dansey and I went through the door from the private part of the house to the school. A crowd of inky boys scattered as though we had the plague. “Did you ever hear of anything so unfeeling?” I burst out, keeping my voice low for fear of eavesdroppers. “It is barbaric.” “Are you alluding to the behaviour of Mr Frant or the behaviour of Mr Bransby?” “I – I meant Mr Frant. He wishes to make a spectacle of his own son.” “He is entirely within his rights to do so, is he not? You would not dispute a father’s right to exercise authority over his child, I take it? Whether directly or in a delegated form is surely immaterial.” “Of course not. By the by, I must thank you for your timely interruption. I own I was becoming a little heated.” “Mr Frant and his bank could purchase this entire establishment many times over,” Dansey observed. “And purchase Mr Quird and Mr Morley as well, for that matter. Mr Frant is a fashionable man, too, who moves in the best circles. If it is at all possible, Mr Bransby will do all in his power to indulge him. It is not to be wondered at.” “But it is hardly just. It is the boy’s tormentors who deserve chastisement.” “There is little point in railing against circumstances one cannot change. And remember that, by acting as Mr Bransby’s agent in this, you may to some degree be able to palliate the severity of the punishment.” We stopped at the foot of the stairs, Dansey about to go about his duties, I to fetch my hat, gloves and stick from my room. For a moment we looked at each other. Men are strange animals, myself included, riddled with inconsistencies. Now, in that moment at the foot of the stairs, the silence became almost oppressive with the weight of things unsaid. Then Dansey nodded, I bowed, and we went our separate ways. Chapter 10 (#ulink_665d9d25-17ef-5666-8a3d-8f584b1854a3) I come now to an episode of great significance for this history, to the introduction of the Americans. Providence in the form of Mr Bransby decreed I should witness a scene of comings and goings in Russell-square. A man believes in Providence because to do otherwise would force him to see his life as an arbitrary affair, conducted by the freakish rules of chance, no more under his control than a roll of the dice or the composition of a hand of cards. So let us by all means believe in Providence. Providence arranged matters so that I should call at Mr Frant’s on the same afternoon as the Americans arrived. The shabby little chaise from the inn brought me to London. The vehicle creaked and groaned as though afflicted with arthritis. The seat was lumpy, the leather torn and stained. The interior smelt of old tobacco and unwashed bodies and vinegar. The ostler who was driving me swore at the horse, a steady stream of obscenity punctuated by the snapping of the whip. As we drove, the daylight drained away from the afternoon. By the time we reached Russell-square, the sky was heavy with dark, swirling clouds the colour of smudged ink. My knock was answered by a footman, who showed me into the dining room to wait. Because of the weather and the lateness of the afternoon, the room was in near darkness. I turned my back on the portrait. Rain was now falling on the square, fat drops of water that smacked on to the roadway and tapped like drumbeats on the roof of the carriages. I heard voices in the hall, and the slam of a door. A moment later the footman returned. “Mr Frant will see you now,” he said, and jerked his head for me to follow him. He led me across the marble chequerboard of the hall to a door which opened as we approached. The butler emerged. “You are to desire Master Charles to step this way,” he told the footman. The footman strode away. The butler took me into a small and square apartment, furnished as a book-room. Henry Frant was seated at a bureau, pen in hand, and did not look up. The shutters were up and candles burned in sconces above the fireplace and in a candelabrum on a table by the window. The nib scratched on the paper. The candlelight glinted on Frant’s signet ring and the touches of silver in his hair. At length he sat back, re-read what he had written, sanded the paper, and folded it. As he opened one of the drawers of the bureau, I noticed that he was missing the top joints of the forefinger on his left hand, a blemish on his perfection which pleased me. At least, I thought, I have something that you have not. He slipped the paper in the drawer. “Open the cupboard on the left of the fireplace,” he said without looking at me. “Below the shelves. You will find a stick in the right-hand corner.” I obeyed him. It was a walking-stick, a stout malacca cane with a silver handle and a brass-shod point. “Twelve good hard strokes, I think,” Mr Frant observed. He indicated a low stool with his pen. “Mount him over that, with his face towards me.” “Sir, the stick is too heavy for the purpose.” “You will find it answers admirably. Use it with the full force of your arm. I desire to teach the boy a lesson.” “Two older boys set on him at school,” I said. “That is why he ran away.” “He ran away because he is weak. I do not say he is a coward, not yet; but he might become one if indulged. Pray make it clear to Mr Bransby that I do not expect the school to indulge his weaknesses any more than I do.” There was a knock on the door. He raised his voice. “Come in.” The butler opened the door. The boy edged into the room. “Sir,” he began in a small, high voice. “I hope I find you in good health, and –” “Be silent,” Frant said. “Wait until you are spoken to.” The butler stood in the doorway, as if waiting for orders. In the hall behind were the footman and the little Negro pageboy. I glimpsed Mrs Kerridge on the stairs. Frant looked beyond his son and saw the servants. “Well?” he snapped. “What are you gaping at? Do you not have work to do? Be off with you.” At that moment the doorbell rang. The servants jerked towards it, as though attached to the sound by a set of strings. There was another ring, followed immediately by knocking. The footman glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who looked at Mr Frant, who squeezed his lips together in a tight, horizontal line and nodded. The footman scurried to the front door. Mrs Frant slipped into the hall before the door was more than a foot or two ajar. A maid followed her in. Mrs Frant’s colour was high as if she had been running, and she clutched her cloak to her throat. She darted across the squares of marble to the door of the book-room, where she stopped suddenly on the threshold, as though confronted by an invisible barrier. For a moment nobody spoke. Mrs Frant’s grey travelling cloak slipped from her shoulders to the floor. “Madam,” Frant said, standing up and bowing. “I’m rejoiced to see you.” Mrs Frant looked up at her husband but said nothing. He was a tall, broad man and beside him she looked as defenceless as a child. “Allow me to name Mr Shield, one of Mr Bransby’s under-masters.” I bowed; she inclined her head. Frant said, “You are come from Albemarle-street? I hope I should not infer from this unexpected visit that Mr Wavenhoe has taken a turn for the worse?” She glanced wildly at him. “No – that is to say, yes, in that he is no worse and may even be slightly better.” “What gratifying intelligence. Now, Mrs Frant, I do not know whether you are aware that your son has chosen to pay us an unauthorised visit from his school. He is about to pay the penalty for this, and then Mr Shield will convey him back to Stoke Newington.” Mrs Frant glanced at me, and saw the malacca cane in my hand. I looked at the boy, who was shaking like a shirt on a washing line. “May I speak with you, sir?” she said. “A word in private?” “I am afraid that at present I am not at leisure. Pray allow me to wait on you in the drawing room when Mr Shield and Charles have left us.” “No,” Mrs Frant said so softly that I could hardly hear her. “I must ask you –” There came another ring on the doorbell. “Confound it,” Frant said. “Mr Shield, would you excuse us for a moment? Frederick will show you into the dining room. Close the door of this room, Loomis. Then see who that is. Neither Mrs Frant nor I are at home.” I propped the cane against a bookcase and went into the hall. Mrs Kerridge moved towards the back of the house, shooing the maid before her. Loomis pulled open the front door. I glanced over his shoulder. For an instant, I thought it was much later than it really was. Rain was now falling heavily over the square from a sky as black as coal. Through the doorway came the smell of freshly watered dust, and the hissing and pattering of the rain. The brief illusion of night was reinforced by an enormous umbrella stretching across the width of the doorway. Below it I glimpsed a small, grey man in a snuff-coloured coat. “My name is Mr Noak,” announced the newcomer in a hard, nasal voice. “Pray inform Mr Frant that I am here.” “Mr Frant is not at home, sir. If you would like to leave your –” “Nonsense, man. They told me at his place of business he was here. He is expecting me.” The little man stepped into the hall and Loomis gave ground before him. Beside me, Frederick drew a sharp intake of breath, presumably at this breach of decorum, this frontal assault on Mr Loomis’s authority. Noak was followed by another man, much taller and perhaps twice his weight, who backed into the hall, lowering, collapsing and shaking the umbrella. He turned round, holding out the dripping umbrella to Frederick. This fellow was a Negro, though not so dark as the pageboy and with a more European cast of features. He took off his hat, revealing close-cropped grey hair. His dark eyes examined the hallway, resting for a moment on me. “Convey my card to Mr Frant,” Noak said, unbuttoning his coat and feeling in an inner pocket. “Stay a moment. I shall write a word on the back.” The butler did not even try to dissuade him. The little man had a natural authority which any schoolmaster would have envied. He found a pencil in his waistcoat and scribbled briefly on the back of the card. The Negro waited, his hat in his hands. The umbrella dripped on the floor. Frederick craned his neck, trying to see what Noak was writing. I edged nearer Mrs Kerridge to get a better view of proceedings. She glanced up at me and rubbed the wart on the side of her chin. Noak handed the card to Loomis. “I’m obliged to you.” He passed his hat to Frederick. Loomis tapped on the book-room door and went inside. No one spoke in the hall. Noak turned his back towards Frederick and raised his arms, so the footman could help him out of his coat. The Negro was as still as a post, his eyes now fixed on a spot behind Mrs Kerridge’s head. The book-room door reopened, and to my surprise Mr Frant himself emerged, his face illuminated with a smile of welcome. The Negro’s head swivelled towards Mr Frant, and the expression on his face had an element of calculation which reminded me of the way farmers at market look when assessing a calf or a mare. At the time it did not strike me as significant – but how could it have done? Only later did I realise what was really happening in the hall of the house in Russell-square. “My dear sir,” Frant said, advancing towards Noak with his hand outstretched. “This is indeed an honour. And I had not expected you so soon, though I left word with my clerk in case we were fortunate. You travelled post from Liverpool, I collect?” “Yes, sir. We arrived a little after noon.” “But I forget my manners.” Frant released Noak’s hand and turned towards Mrs Frant, who was now standing in the doorway behind him. “My dear, allow me to present Mr Noak of Boston, in the United States. You have often heard me speak of him – he is acquainted with the Allans and many of our other American friends. And this, sir, is Mrs Frant.” She coloured becomingly and curtsied. “How do you do, sir. You must be exhausted after your long journey.” “And here is my son,” Frant continued before Noak could reply. “Come, Charles, make your bow to Mr Noak.” You must allow the gentry this, if nothing else: they know how to close ranks in front of strangers. You would never have guessed from their behaviour that the Frants were not the happiest of families. Mrs Frant smoothed her son’s hair and smiled first at her guest and then at her husband. I fancied that the only symptom of her underlying agitation was her breathing: it seemed to me that her bosom rose and fell more rapidly than was natural. “Charles is about to return to his school,” Mr Frant said. “Pray excuse him.” Noak inclined his head. “I should not like to be the cause of interrupting a young man’s education.” He glanced briefly and incuriously in my direction; Frant had not considered me worth introducing. Mrs Frant smiled dazzlingly at Mr Noak, took the boy by his shoulders and steered him towards Mrs Kerridge. “Charlie and Mr Shield will leave now,” Mrs Frant murmured. “Make sure they take something to eat with them.” She added in a sudden rush, still in a whisper, “But they must leave at once, Kerridge, the hour is already late. We have detained Mr Shield from his duties for too long.” Mrs Kerridge curtsied. Mrs Frant turned to me. “I confide my son to your charge, sir. I regret we have inconvenienced you.” I bowed, sensing that my own colour was rising. What you must realise is that she was beautiful, and her beauty had the power to invest the simplest words with charm. In her company I was like a man in the desert who stumbles on a pool of clear water fringed with palms. You will understand nothing of what follows unless you understand that. “How did you come here?” she asked me. “In a hired chaise, madam. It is outside.” “Tell them to have it brought round to the area door. It – it will be quicker than using the hall door.” Quicker, and more discreet. She hugged her son. Her husband and Mr Noak were chatting about the inconvenience of travelling post, at the mercy of other people’s worn-out horses. I stared at the angle between her neck and shoulder and wondered how soft the skin would be, and what it would smell of. She pushed Charles gently away from her. “Go with Mr Shield, Charlie. And write to me often.” “But Mama –” “Go, dearest. Go quickly now.” “This way, Master Charles.” Mrs Kerridge placed an arm over the boy’s thin shoulders and urged him away from the front of the hall. Looking back at me, she added, “If you would be so kind as to come this way, sir.” She smiled at Mr Noak’s man, still standing, still watching with grave interest. “I am Mrs Kerridge, sir.” “Salutation Harmwell, ma’am. At your service.” “Come and dry out in the servants’ hall. Perhaps we can offer you a little refreshment while you wait?” He paused for a moment, as if contemplating the meaning of her question; then he bowed his assent, and for an instant his gravity dissolved into what was almost a smile. I wondered how well Harmwell spoke English. He was undoubtedly a fine figure of a man, though, in any language. Aye, and Mrs Kerridge thought so too; I could tell that from the way she stumbled on the stairs and clung to his arm and thanked him so prettily for his support. It struck me for the first time that, though by no stretch of the imagination was she a handsome woman, she had a fine, mature figure and a pleasing smile when she chose to use it. In the basement, the cook emerged and lured young Frant into her kitchen to select the contents of our hamper for the drive back to school. I waited in the shadows by the staircase, ignored and feeling somewhat of a fool. Mrs Kerridge showed Mr Harmwell into the servants’ hall. A moment later she returned, demanding a decanter of Madeira and a plate of biscuits. Unaware of my presence, she raised a finger to detain Frederick, who was about to fetch the chaise. “What did that scrawny little fellow write on his card?” she muttered. “Did you see?” He glanced from side to side, then spoke in a low voice to match hers. “Can’t have been more than two or three words. I could only read one of them. Carswall.” “Mr Carswall?” Frederick shrugged. “Who else?” He gave a snort of amusement. “Unless it was Miss Flora.” “Don’t be pert,” Mrs Kerridge said. “Well, well. You’d better fetch that hackney.” As the footman was leaving, I shifted my weight from one foot to another. My boot creaked. Mrs Kerridge looked quickly in my direction, and then away. I kept my face bland. Perhaps she wondered whether I had marked the oddity of it. If Mr Frant had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Mr Noak, why had not Mr Noak simply sent in his card? And why had the name of Carswall acted as his Open Sesame? The page came clumping down the stairs with indecorous speed. “Don’t run, Juvenal,” snapped Mrs Kerridge. “It ain’t genteel.” “The mistress told Mr Loomis to have the carriage brought round,” the boy gasped. “Mr Wavenhoe’s, that is, she come in that. She’s a-going back to Albemarle-street.” Frederick grinned. “I wouldn’t want to linger here if it was my uncle a-dying, and him as rich as half a dozen nabobs.” “That’s more than enough from you,” Mrs Kerridge said. “It’s not your place to go prattling about your betters. If you want to keep your situation, you’d better mind that tongue of yours.” She turned to me, no doubt to alert the others to my presence. “Mr Shield, sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting down here. Ah, here’s Master Charles.” The lad came out of the kitchen holding a basket covered with a cloth. Frederick called out that our chaise was at the door. A moment later, the boy and I were driving back to Stoke Newington. I unstrapped the hamper and Charlie Frant wept quietly into the napkin that had been wrapped round the warm rolls. “In a year’s time,” I said, “you will smile at this.” “I won’t, sir,” he retorted, his voice thick with grief. “I shall never forget this day.” I told him all things passed, even memories, and I ate cold chicken. And as I ate, I wondered if I had spoken the truth: for how could a man ever forget the face of Mrs Frant? Chapter 11 (#ulink_3410f3f0-1d07-51d1-a132-89b86460e8be) The next incident of this history would have turned out very differently if there had not been the physical resemblance between young Allan and Charlie Frant. The similarity between them was sufficiently striking for Mr Bransby on occasion to mistake one for the other. On the day after my return from London, I gave Morley and Quird another flogging after morning school. I made them yelp, and for once I derived a melancholy satisfaction from the infliction of pain. Charlie Frant was pale but composed. I believed they had let him alone during the night. Morley and Quird were uncertain how far they could try me. After dinner, I took a turn about the garden. It was a fine afternoon, and I strolled down the gravel walk to the trees at the end. On my left was a high hedge dividing the lawn from the part of the garden used as the boys’ playground. The high, indistinct chatter of their voices formed a background to my meditations. Then a shriller voice, suddenly much louder than the rest as if its owner were becoming heated, penetrated my thoughts. “He’s your brother, isn’t he? Must be. So is he a little bastard like you?” Another voice spoke; I could not make out the words. “You’re brothers, I know you are.” The first voice was Quird’s, made even shriller by the fact that it would occasionally dive deep down the register. “A pair of little bastards – with the same mother, I should think, but different fathers.” “Damn you,” cried a voice I recognised as Allan’s, anger making his American twang more pronounced than usual. “Do not insult my mother.” “I shall, you little traitor bastard. Your mother’s a – a nymph of the pavey. A – a fellow who knows her saw her in the Haymarket. She’s nothing but a moll.” “My mother is dead,” Allan said in a low voice. “Liar. Morley saw her, didn’t you, Morley? So you’re a bastard and a liar.” “I’m not a liar. My mother and father are dead. Mr and Mrs Allan adopted me.” Quird made a noise like breaking wind. “Oh yes, and I’m the Emperor of China, didn’t you know, you Yankee bastard?” “I’ll fight you.” “You? You little scrub. Fight me?” “One cannot always fight with the sons of gentlemen,” said the American boy. “Much as one would prefer it.” There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of a slap. “I am a gentleman!” cried Quird with what sounded like genuine anguish. “My papa keeps his carriage.” “Steady on,” Morley intervened, croaking like a raven. “If there’s to be a fight, you must have it in the regular manner.” Morley was older than his friend, a hulking youth of fourteen or fifteen. “After school, and you must find yourself a bottle-holder, Allan. I shall act for Quird.” “He’ll have the other little bastard,” Quird said, “the one we put out of the window. That was famous sport, but this will be even better.” I could not intervene. From time immemorial, fighting had been commonplace in schools. The little boys aped the bigger ones. An establishment such as Mr Bransby’s aped the great public schools. The public schools aped the noble art of pugilism on the one hand and the mores of the duel on the other. It was one thing for me to intervene in an episode of nocturnal bullying, but quite a different one for me to seek to prevent a fight conducted with the tacit approval of Mr Bransby. I own that I was surprised by the tenderness of my own feelings. I was perfectly accustomed to the knowledge that boys are rough little animals and maul each other like puppies. There was a good deal of whispering during afternoon school. The older boys, I guessed, had seized with enthusiasm the opportunity to organise the fight. I consulted with my colleague Dansey, who told me, as I knew he would, that I must leave well alone. “They will not thank you, Shield. Boys are morally fastidious creatures. They would consider you had interfered in an affair of honour.” By the time supper came, nothing had happened. That was plain from the unmarked countenances of Quird and Allan, and from the buzz of excited whispering that spread up and down the long tables. “It will be after supper, I fancy,” Dansey observed. “There will still be enough light, and Mr Bransby will be safe in his own quarters. They should have well over an hour to beat each other into pulp before bedtime.” I did not know the result of the fight until the following morning. It did not come as a surprise. There are cases when Jack kills the Giant to universal approbation, but they are few and far between. Quird was at least a head taller than Allan and a couple of stone heavier. Arm in arm with Morley, Quird swaggered into morning school. Edgar Allan, on the other hand, sported two black eyes, a grazed cheekbone and swollen lips. I looked for, and found, reasons for me to give impositions to Morley and Quird which would keep them occupied after prayers every evening for a week. Sometimes it is easier to punish the wicked than to defend the innocent. Gradually I discovered that the defeat was widely recognised as having been an honourable one. Dansey told me that he had overheard two older boys talking about the fight at breakfast: one had said that the little Yankee was a well plucked ’un, to which the other had replied that he had fought like the very devil and that Quird should be ashamed of himself for picking on such a youngster. “So you see there’s no harm in it,” Dansey said. “None in the world.” Chapter 12 (#ulink_cb67c917-6b88-5b6a-9773-8dd6ef01fa3a) Over the next few days I did not pay much attention to Charlie Frant and the American boy. I saw them, of course, and noted that they showed no further marks of mistreatment, or rather no more than one would expect to find on small boys in their situation. I was aware, however, that they often sat together and played together. Once I overheard two older boys pretending to mistake one for the other, but in a jocular way that suggested that the resemblance between them had become a source of friendly amusement rather than mockery. The next event of importance to this history occurred on Monday the 11th October. The boys were more or less at leisure during the period between the end of morning school at eleven o’clock and their dinner two hours later. They might play, write letters, or do their preparation. They were also allowed to request permission to make excursions to the village. Their movements outside the school, however, were strictly regulated, at least in theory. Mr Bransby had decreed, for example, among other things, that boys should patronise certain establishments and not others. Only the older boys were permitted to purchase liquor, for which they required special permission from Mr Bransby. The older boys ignored the condition, usually with impunity, and were frequently drunk at weekends and on holidays; and some of the younger ones were not slow to follow their example. But I own I was surprised when I saw Charlie Frant ineffectually attempting to conceal a pint bottle beneath his coat. I had walked into the village in order to buy a pipe of tobacco. On my way back to the school, I happened to pass the yard entrance of the inn which hired out hacks. There was really no avoiding the meeting. Looking as furtive as a pair of housebreakers, Frant and Allan edged out of the yard immediately in front of me. I was on their left, but their attention was to their right, towards the school, in other words, the direction from which they expected trouble. Frant actually knocked into me. I watched the shock spreading over his features. “What have you got there?” I asked sternly. “Nothing, sir,” replied Charlie Frant. “Don’t be a fool. It looks remarkably like a bottle. Give it me.” He passed it to me. I pulled out the cork and sniffed. The contents smelled of citrus and spirits. “Rum-shrub, eh?” The boys stared up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Rum-shrub was something of a favourite among the older boys at the Manor House School, for the combination of rum with sugar and orange or lemon juice offered them a cheap, sweet and rapid route to inebriation. But it was not a customary beverage for ten-year-olds. “Who told you to purchase this?” I inquired. “No one, sir,” said Frant, staring at his boots and blushing. “Well, Allan, is your memory any better?” “No, sir.” “In that case, I shall be obliged if you would both wait on me after supper.” I slipped the bottle into my coat pocket. “Good day.” I walked on, swinging my stick and wondering which of the older boys had sent them out. I would have to beat Allan and Frant, if only for the look of the thing. Allan and Frant followed me round the corner. I glanced back, in time to see a man coming up behind them. He was a tall figure, clad in a blue coat with metal buttons. “Boy,” the man said, taking Charlie by the arm with a large hand and bending down to peer into his face. “Come here – let me look at you.” His face was turned away from me, but it was the voice that was somehow familiar – deep, husky and audible though the man spoke little above a whisper. He must have seen me ahead but cannot have realised my connection with the boys. “Let go,” Charlie said, trying to tug himself away. “You’ll do as I ask, my boy, because –” “Let him go, sir,” snapped Allan in his high voice. He took hold of Charlie’s other arm and tried to pull him away. Charlie saw me. “Sir! Mr Shield!” The man raised his stick. I was not sure which boy he intended to hit. I did not wait to find out but shouted and broke into a run. “That is enough, sir. Leave the boys alone.” He released his grip on Charlie and swung towards me. “And who the devil are you?” “Their master.” He screwed up his forehead. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses. I could not tell whether he recognised me or not. “Damn you,” he said. “Be off with you. Or I shall call the constable.” The man’s face changed: it was as though the features were dissolving into a puddle of discoloured flesh. “I meant no harm, sir, I take my oath on it. Won’t you pity an old soldier? All I hoped was that these two young gents might be able to oblige me with the price of a little refreshment.” I suppressed the temptation to give him the bottle of rum-shrub. Instead I raised my stick. He muttered a few words I could not catch and walked rapidly away, his shoulders rounded. Charlie Frant looked up at me with his mother’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.” “I suggest you return to school before you fall into more mischief,” I said. They scuttled down the lane. I wondered if I should accost the man but he was already out of sight. So I followed the boys, walking slowly and cudgelling my brains to find an explanation while wondering whether an explanation was in fact required. Here was an old reprobate, I told myself, a drunkard lurking in the environs of an inn in the hope of cadging a drink. No doubt he had seen the two little boys with their bottle of rum-shrub leaving the tap and he had followed them as a hunter follows his prey. It was the most natural thing in the world, a man would think, nothing strange about it. But to me there was something strange. I could not be sure but I believed I might have seen the fellow before. Was it he who had accosted me the previous week outside Mr Allan’s house in Southampton-row? The coat and hat were different, and so was the accent; but the voice itself was similar, and so were the blue spectacles and the beard like an untidy bird’s nest. Chapter 13 (#ulink_a0d70ac3-9128-5610-acf2-8d41072a29c3) I took the coward’s way out and did not pursue the matter. After supper I flogged the little boys as lightly as I could while preserving the decencies. Both of them thanked me afterwards, as custom dictated. Allan was pale but apart from grunting when the blows fell gave no sign of pain; Frant wept silently, but I turned my eyes away so that he would not know that I had seen his moment of weakness. He was the gentler of the two, who followed where Edgar Allan led. Mr Bransby usually exchanged a few words with Dansey and myself when we waited upon him before evening prayers. That evening I took the opportunity of this meeting to mention to him that Frant and Allan had been accosted by a drunk in the village during the afternoon. I added that I had been on hand to deal with the man, so no harm had been done. “He pestered young Frant, you say?” Bransby was in a hurry (he never lingered before or after evening prayers because he dined immediately afterwards). “Well, no harm done. I’m glad you were at hand to deal with him.” “I believe I may have seen the vagabond in Town the other day, sir. He claimed acquaintance with Allan’s father.” “These fellows try their luck everywhere. What are the magistrates doing, to let them roam the streets and pester honest folk?” Mr Bransby said nothing further on that occasion. But there was a sequel the following week. On the twentieth, he desired me to wait upon him after morning school. “Sit down, Shield, sit down,” he said with unusual affability, taking a pinch of snuff and sneezing. “I have had a letter concerning you from Mrs Frant. It seems that Master Charles sent her a highly coloured account of your dispute with the vagabond the other day. You are quite a hero among the little boys, I find.” I inclined my head but said nothing. “There is also the point that tomorrow is the fourteenth anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, and therefore a half holiday for the school.” I was well aware of this, as was everyone else in the school. Mr Bransby had a cousin who had distinguished himself in the service, who had seen action at Trafalgar, and who had once shaken Lord Nelson himself by the hand. As a result, Mr Bransby had a great respect for the achievements of the Royal Navy. “Mrs Frant proposes that the boy spend his half holiday with her in London. She has invited Allan as well. I understand he too performed heroically in the great battle of Stoke Newington.” Bransby looked expectantly at me. He was neither a subtle humorist nor a habitual one, and I found his efforts so unnerving that all I could manage was a weak smile. “Furthermore,” he continued, “Mrs Frant suggests that you accompany the lads. I trust you will not find that an inconvenience?” I bowed again, and said that it would be no trouble in the world. The following afternoon, the carriage was waiting for us after the boys’ dinner. Both Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan were in an ebullient mood, and eager to be away from school. “Shall you call on your parents while you are in Town?” I asked the American boy. “No, sir. They are away from home.” “And they are not his parents, sir,” said Charlie, squirming with the excitement of being privy to information that he believed I lacked. “They are his foster parents.” I glanced at Edgar. “Indeed?” Charlie reddened. “Should I not have said? You do not mind, Edgar?” “There is no secret.” Allan turned to me. “Yes, sir, my parents died when I was an infant. Mr and Mrs Allan took me into their home and have always treated me as a son.” “I’m sure you repay their kindness,” I replied and gestured at random at the world beyond the window of the Frants’ carriage. “Is that a swallow or a house-martin?” The distraction was clumsy but effective. We talked of other matters for the remainder of the journey. When we got to Russell-square, I went into the house with the boys to discover when Mrs Frant wished me to return for them. Loomis, the butler, desired me to step upstairs with the boys. He showed us into the drawing room. Mrs Frant was seated by one of the windows with a book in her hand. Charlie, no doubt aware of the presence of Allan and myself, was very cool and composed with her, submitting to her embrace rather than returning it. A moment later, she turned to me, her hand outstretched. “I must thank you, sir,” she said. “I shudder to think what might have happened to Charlie had you not been at hand to help him.” “You must not magnify the danger he was in, madam,” I said, thinking that her hand was soft and warm like a living bird. “But a mother can never exaggerate the dangers that face her child, Mr Shield. And this is Edgar Allan?” As she was shaking hands with him, Charlie piped up: “His grandpapa was a soldier, Mama, like mine. They might have fought each other. He was a general in the American Revolutionary army.” Mrs Frant looked inquiringly at Edgar. “Yes, ma’am. That is to say, he is widely known as General Poe among his friends and neighbours, but my foster father Mr Allan has informed me that he did not in fact hold that rank. I believe he was a major.” “And his mama was a famous English actress,” Charlie went on, though I could see the conversation was causing Edgar some embarrassment. “How charming,” Mrs Frant said. “You come from a talented family. What was her name?” “Elizabeth Arnold, madam. Though English, she acted mainly in the United States. And it was there that she died.” “You poor boy.” She turned the conversation: “Perhaps you should visit cook before you do anything else. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had baked something for you.” The boys clattered out of the room, relieved to be away from the company of their elders. For the first time I was quite alone with Mrs Frant. Her dress rustled as she crossed the room from the window and sat down upon a Grecian sofa of carved mahogany. The air moved around me as she passed, and I smelt her perfume. I was seized by a crazy desire to kneel at her feet, throw my arms around her and bury my head in the sweet softness of her lap. “Would you care for some tea, Mr Shield?” she asked. “Thank you, madam, but no.” I had spoken abruptly, and I hastened to smooth the refusal with a lie. “I have several errands I must complete. When would you like me to return?” “I have ordered the carriage for half-past six o’clock. If you wish to come earlier, perhaps at six, the boys will be having their supper and I’m sure you could join them.” There was a delicious touch of pink to her pale complexion, and she began to speak faster. “I would ask you to dine with us, but my husband prefers to sit down at a later time.” I bowed my acknowledgement of her condescension and a moment later said goodbye. When the door of the drawing room was safely closed behind me, I dabbed my forehead and felt the sweat. I was terrified by the strength of my own desire. I walked slowly down the stone steps to the hall. Loomis was waiting at the bottom. As I drew nearer, he gave a gentle cough. “Mr Frant desired me to ask you to step in and see him on your way out, sir.” I followed the servant to the book-room at the back of the hall. He knocked at the door, opened it and announced me. Mr Frant was seated at his bureau, as he had been on the other occasion I had visited him here. This time, however, my welcome was altogether more cordial. He looked up from a letter he was reading, and a smile spread across his pale features. “Mr Shield – I am rejoiced to see you. Pray sit down. I will not delay you long.” He folded the letter and locked it away in a drawer. “My wife informs me that you rendered us a considerable service the other day.” “It was nothing of consequence, sir,” I said, embarrassed that the Frants were making so much of the incident. “Nevertheless, I am obliged to you. Tell me, would you describe to me exactly what occurred?” I explained that an older boy had sent Frant and Allan upon an errand – I did not judge it prudent to enlarge upon its nature – and that the man had approached them on their way back. I added that I had been fortunate enough to witness the moment when the man accosted the boys. “What exactly did he do, Mr Shield?” “He took Charles by the arm.” “Why would he do that if he were a beggar? Would he not ask for money instead?” “I think it likely his wits were disordered, sir. He had been drinking. I cannot say whether he intended to offer violence or whether his design was simply to attract the boys’ attention and demand money. Young Allan tried to drag Charles away.” “A brave lad. The man was carrying a stick, I understand?” “Yes, sir.” “And he offered you violence?” “Yes, sir, but it didn’t signify – I had a stick myself and I fancy that even without it I would not have been in difficulties.” “My son told his mama the man was somewhat larger than you.” “True, sir, but on the other hand I am somewhat younger.” Henry Frant turned aside to sharpen a pencil. “Would you indulge my curiosity a little further and describe him?” “He was well above the middle height and had an ill-trimmed beard. He wore blue spectacles, and a blue coat with metal buttons and I think brown breeches. Oh, and a cocked hat and a wig.” I hesitated. “There’s one more thing, sir. I cannot be absolutely certain, but I believe I may have seen him before.” “The devil you have. Where?” “In Southampton-row. It was on the day I came to collect your son when he first went to school. I took Edgar Allan to his parents’ house on the way. The man was loitering, and asked me when I was leaving if that was Mr Allan’s, and then he hurried away.” Frant tapped his teeth with the pencil. “If he were interested in Allan’s boy, then why should he attach himself to mine? It makes no sense.” “No, sir. But the two boys are not unlike. And I noticed the man stooped to look at me.” “So you formed the impression he might be short-sighted? Perhaps. I will be candid, Mr Shield. A man in my situation makes enemies. I am a banker, you understand, and bankers cannot please everybody all the time. There is also the point that a certain type of depraved mind might consider stealing the child of a wealthy man in order to extort money. This attack may be no more than a chance encounter, the casual work of a drunkard. Or it may be that the man was more interested in Mr Allan’s boy. But there remains the third possibility: that he nursed a design of some sort against my son, or even in the long run against myself.” “To judge by what little I have seen of him, sir, I would doubt that he could put any design successfully into action, apart, perhaps, from that of raising a glass or a bottle up to his lips.” Frant gave a bark of laughter. “I like a man who speaks plain, Mr Shield. May I ask you not to mention what we have discussed to my wife? Speculation of this nature must inevitably distress her.” I bowed. “You may depend on me, sir.” “I take this kindly, Mr Shield.” Frant glanced at the clock on the mantel-shelf. “One more thing, for my own private satisfaction I should like to meet this fellow and ask him a few questions. Should you come across him again, would you be good enough to let me know? Now, I must not keep you any longer from your half holiday.” He shook hands cordially with me. A moment later I was walking down to Holborn. My mind was in a whirl. There is something intensely gratifying about being treated civilly by people of wealth and indeed fashion. I felt myself a fine fellow. Perhaps, I thought as I strolled through the autumn sunshine, my luck was changing. With Mr and Mrs Frant as my patrons, where might I not end? Chapter 14 (#ulink_51d9c4c0-5a41-5007-9555-9f81f359bb30) The afternoon unexpectedly changed its course as I was walking down Long Acre on my way to Gaunt-court and Mrs Jem’s six shillings, the balance of the price we had agreed for my aunt Reynolds’s possessions. I stopped to buy a buttonhole and, while the woman was fixing it to my lapel, I glanced over her shoulder along the way I had come. I saw some twenty-five yards away, quite distinctly, the man with the bird’s-nest beard. As if aware I had recognised him, he ducked into the shadow of a shop doorway. I gave the girl a penny and hurried back along the street. He plunged out of the doorway and blundered into one of the side roads leading down to Covent Garden. Without conscious thought, I set off in pursuit. I acted upon impulse – partly, no doubt, because Mr Frant wanted to know more about the man, and I welcomed an opportunity to oblige Mr Frant. But there was both more and less to it than that: I was like a cat chasing a rope’s end: I chased the man not because I wanted to catch him but because he moved. The market was drawing to its close for the day. We pushed our way into a swirling sea of humanity and vegetables. There was a tremendous din – of iron-shod wheels and hooves on cobbles, of half a dozen barrel organs, each playing a different tune, of people swearing and shouting and crying their wares. Despite his age and weight and condition, my quarry was remarkably agile. We zigzagged through the market, where he tried to conceal himself behind a stall selling oranges. I found him out, but he saw me, and off he went again. He leapt like a hunter over a wheelbarrow full of cocoa nuts, veered past the church and swerved into the mouth of Henrietta-street. It so happened that there was a pile of rotting cabbage leaves on the corner and this, quite literally, was his downfall. He slipped and went down. Though he tried at once to scramble up, his ankle gave way and he sank back, swearing. I seized him by the shoulder. He straightened his spectacles and looked up at me, his face red with exertion. “I meant no harm, sir,” he panted in that absurdly deep voice. “As God is my witness, I meant no harm.” “Then why did you run away?” “I was afraid, sir. I thought you might set the constables on me.” “Then why did you follow me in the first place?” “Because –” He broke off. “It does not matter.” His voice took on a richer note and the words that followed fell into a rhythm, like words often repeated: “I give you my word, sir, as one gentleman to another, that I am as innocent as the day is long. It is true that I have fallen upon evil times but the fault has not been mine. I have been unlucky in the choice of my companions, perhaps, and cursed by a generous spirit, by a fatal tendency to trust my fellow men. Yet –” “Enough, sir,” I interrupted. “Why have you been following me?” “A father’s feelings,” he said, beating himself on the breast with both fists, “may not be denied. The heart which beats within this breast is that of a gentleman of an old and distinguished Irish family.” By now he was kneeling in the gutter and a knot of spectators was gathering around us to enjoy the spectacle. “Bloody clunch,” an urchin cried. “He’s dicked in the nob.” “Which, you may ask, has been the worst of my many losses?” my companion continued. “Was it the loss of my patrimony? My enforced departure from my native heath? Was it the bitter knowledge that my reputation has been unjustly besmirched by men not fit to brush my coat? Was it disappointment in my profession and the loss, through the intemperate jealousy of others, of my hopes of regaining my fortune by my own exertions? Was it the death of the beloved wife of my bosom? No, sir, bad though all these things were, none of them was the worst blow to befall me.” He raised his face to the sky. “As heaven is my witness, no sorrow compares with the loss of my little cherubs, my beloved children. Two fine sons had I, and a daughter, destined to be the delights of my maturity and the supports of my old age. Alas, they have been snatched away from me.” He paused to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “If that was a play,” observed another of our audience, “I wouldn’t pay a penny to see it. I wouldn’t pay a bloody ha’penny. A bloody farthing.” “You repugnant rapscallion!” the man roared, shaking his fist at the boy. Once more he lifted his face to the sky. “Why, heaven?” he inquired. “Why do I bare my innermost heart before the vulgar herd?” “Who are you calling names then?” said another voice. “The gentleman is unwell,” I said firmly. “No, he ain’t. He’s half-cocked.” “Perhaps his wits are a little disordered,” I conceded, helping my captive to his feet. The big man began to weep. “The lad speaks no more than the truth, sir,” he said, leaning so heavily on me that I could scarce bear his weight. “I’ll not deny that in my sorrow I have occasionally found consolation in a glass of brandy.” He brought his lips close to my ear. “Indeed, now you mention it, a drop of something warming would be a most effective prophylactic against this autumn chill which even now I feel creeping over me.” I led him, mumbling, down Henrietta-street. The crowd dropped away from us for the man was no longer amusing. In Bedford-street, he steered me to a tavern where we sat opposite each other in a corner. My guest thanked me kindly for my hospitality and ordered brandy and water. I asked for porter. When the girl brought the drinks, he raised his glass to me and said, “Your health, sir.” He drank deeply and then looked inquiringly at me. “You do not drink.” “I am wondering whether I should have you arrested and given in charge,” I said. “I regret that I shall be compelled to do so if you do not tell me the nature of your interest in myself and in the boys you waylaid in Stoke Newington.” “Ah, my dear sir.” He spread his hands wide. He was calmer now, almost at his ease, and the mellifluous tone of his voice was oddly at variance with his dishevelled appearance. “But I have already explained. Or rather I was in the middle of doing so when that pack of ruffians interrupted me.” “I am at a loss to understand you.” “The boy, of course,” he said impatiently. “The boy is my son.” Chapter 15 (#ulink_ab465691-9041-5ab8-b5d9-51494c424a52) I returned to Russell-square shortly after six o’clock, having missed my six shillings from Mrs Jem; in fact, thanks to Mr Poe, I was poorer than before and had acquired a slight headache. The door was answered by the footman, Frederick, whom I had met before. I desired him to inquire whether his master was at leisure. A moment later, Mr Frant came down the stairs, asked me how I did with the utmost cordiality, and led me into the book-room. He looked keenly at me and seemed to divine in my countenance the reason for my presence. “You have intelligence of the man who assaulted Charles?” “Yes, sir. After leaving you, I was walking down to Leicester-square. It appears he had been loitering in the neighbourhood, and followed me.” There were spots of colour in Frant’s sallow cheeks. “Why should he do that? Are you the reason for his interest?” “I believe not. I chanced to see him behind me. He ran off but I gave chase.” Frant made an impatient movement with his hand, which warned me to be brief. “The long and the short of it is I brought him down and then gave him a drink afterwards. He confided that he is an Irish-American who has fallen on hard times. His name is Poe, David Poe. His family believe him dead.” “And what does he want with you and the boys?” “The object of his interest is Edgar Allan, sir, and he hoped I might lead him to the boy this afternoon. He alleges that the Allans are merely foster parents – which I have heard from the boy’s own lips, by the way – and that Edgar is in fact his son. He told me that circumstances forced him to leave his wife in New York, and that she shortly afterwards died in Richmond, Virginia, leaving three children.” “Assuming he speaks the truth, what does he want from his son? Money?” “Quite possibly. Yet he may not have acted entirely from self-interest.” Frant gave his bark of laughter. “You surely do not suggest that he has suddenly been overwhelmed by the weight of his paternal responsibilities?” “No – yet a man may sometimes act from more than one motive. Perhaps he is curious. There may even be a streak of tender sentiment in him. He told me he merely wanted to see the boy, to hear him speak.” Frant nodded. “Once again, Mr Shield, I am obliged to you. Where does he lodge? Did you find that out?” “He declined to give me his precise direction. He lives in St Giles. As you know, it is a perfect maze of alleys and courts and he doubted I could find his lodging even if he told me where it was. But he informed me he is often to be found in a nearby tavern, the Fountain. He plies his trade there.” “He is gainfully employed?” “As a screever.” Frant shrugged. “And takes his fees in gin, no doubt.” He fell silent and took a turn about the room. In a moment, he said, “So you have done me a second service, Mr Shield. May I ask you to do a third?” I bowed. “I would be obliged if you would preserve the utmost discretion about this. Considered in all its aspects, this is a delicate matter. Not so much for you or me but for others. I see a good deal of Mr Allan in the way of business, and I know he is fond of the boy, and treats him as his son. The arrival of someone claiming to be the lad’s natural father would come as a profound shock. Indeed, I understand Mrs Allan is in delicate health and such a shock could kill her.” “You think Mr Poe may be an impostor?” “It is possible. Some reprobate American, perhaps, who knows of Mr Allan’s wealth, and his generosity towards the boy and his affection for him. Then we must consider Mr Bransby, must we not? Should this matter become public, and should it also become known that an Irish rogue from St Giles preyed on boys while they were in the care of Mr Bransby, then I do not imagine the effect upon the school would be a healthy one. A school is like a bank, Mr Shield, in that there must be mutual trust between the institution and its customers, in this case between the school and the parents who pay the bills. A rumour of this affair, should it get out, would spread widely, and no doubt become exaggerated in the telling.” “Then what is to be done, sir?” I was alive to the fact, as no doubt Mr Frant intended I should be, that my welfare was to some extent tied to the school’s, and that if Mr Bransby’s profits diminished, then so might the size of his establishment. “I am also mindful that young Edgar Allan has been a friend to my boy,” Frant went on, as though thinking aloud, as though I had not spoken. “So, taken all in all, I think we should encourage the soidisant Mr Poe to – ah – neglect his duties as a father. I shall make it worth his while, of course.” He gave me a sudden, charming smile. “Mr Bransby is indeed fortunate in his assistants. Should you ever tire of the teaching profession, Mr Shield, let me know. There are always openings to be found for young men of parts and discretion.” Twenty minutes later, the boys and I rattled away from that big, luxurious house in Russell-square. The boys chatted happily about what they had done and what they had eaten. I sat back in my corner, enjoying the feel of the leather and the faint smell of Mrs Frant’s perfume. I confess that during the day my opinion of Henry Frant had changed considerably. Previously I had thought him a proud and disagreeable man. Now I knew there was a more amiable side to him. I toyed with a pleasant dream in which Mr Frant used his influence to obtain for me a well-paid sinecure in Whitehall or brought me into Wavenhoe’s Bank to work as his secretary. Stranger things had happened, I told myself, and why should they not happen to me? Chapter 16 (#ulink_c6859b44-0626-5a3f-bb28-889e34c47e24) Such was my na?vet?, I believed that my aunt’s attorney Mr Rowsell had conceived a sudden liking for me. The apparent proof of this came in the form of an invitation to dinner. He wrote that there was another document to be signed in connection with my aunt’s estate. Moreover, he had devoted some thought to the question of how I might lay out my modest nest-egg to best advantage. He believed he was now in a position to offer me some advice, should I wish to receive it. Unless I preferred to call on him in Lincoln’s Inn, Mrs Rowsell would be pleased if I would dine with them on any Saturday I cared to name. He understood, of course, that my time was not at present my own, but no doubt my employer would understand how desirable it was that the disposition of my aunt’s estate should be completed as soon as possible. The Rowsells lived at Northington-street in the neighbourhood of Theobalds-road. On Saturdays, Mr Rowsell went to Lincoln’s Inn during the morning and they dined at five. When I arrived, Mrs Rowsell made a brief appearance, her face flushed, wiping floury hands upon her apron. She was a plump lady, considerably younger than Mr Rowsell. Having greeted me, she made her excuses and returned to the kitchen. Mr Rowsell seemed to have forgotten the original purpose of my visit. He called for the children, who had been with their mother. There were four of them, ranging in age from three to nine. Puffing with exertion, he led us up to the sitting room on the first floor where I did my best to amuse the elder boy and girl with card tricks and the like. The dinner was served in a parlour at the front of the house. Mrs Rowsell was plainly anxious, but as the dishes succeeded each other without accident she became more cheerful. After we had attacked an enormous suet pudding and retired defeated, the cloth was withdrawn and Mrs Rowsell left us to our wine. As she passed round the table to the door, her husband leant backwards in his chair and, believing himself unobserved by me, pinched her thigh. She squealed – “Oh la! Mr Rowsell!” – smacked his hand away and scuttled out of the room. Mr Rowsell beamed at me. “Man was born for the married state, Mr Shield. The benefits it brings are inestimable. A toast, sir! A toast! Let us drink to Hymen.” It was the first of many toasts. By the time we had finished the second bottle of port Mr Rowsell was lying back in his chair, glass in hand, his clothes loosened, trying to recall the words of a sentimental ballad of his youth. He exuded benevolence. Yet his little blue eyes often stared at me in a fixed manner I found uncomfortable, and it occurred to me that perhaps he was less drunk than he appeared. I dismissed the idea almost at once because there was surely no reason for him to deceive me. With the third bottle, he put music aside and talked with unexpected eloquence about money, a subject that interested him in the abstract: in particular he was fascinated by its ability to grow and diminish apparently of its own volition, without relation to the goods or services it theoretically stood for. This at last gave me an opportunity to bring the conversation round to the reason for my invi tation to dinner. “You wrote, sir, that you were in a position to advise me about how to lay out my aunt’s money?” “Eh? Oh yes.” He leant back in his chair and looked at me with great solemnity. “In your position I should avoid risk. I recall that at an earlier stage of our acquaintance, you mentioned that your esteemed employer had recommended Wavenhoe’s Bank to you.” “Yes, sir.” “There is a personal connection of some sort, I collect?” “We have a boy at the school whose father, Mr Henry Frant, is one of the partners.” Mr Rowsell wiped his pink, moist forehead with a gravy-spattered napkin. “Mr Frant is the youngest of the partners, I believe, but nowadays takes the leading part in the business.” “I understand that Mr Wavenhoe himself is not well.” “I remember your mentioning the circumstance. It is common knowledge that he is dying. They say in the City that it will be only a matter of weeks.” I thought of Sophia Frant. “I’m sorry to hear it, sir.” “Things were very different when Wavenhoe was young. It was his father who founded the bank. City people, of course, tended to steer clear of those West End accounts. The further West you go, I always say, the higher the profits but the higher the risk. Of course he was lucky to get Carswall. In a private partnership you can do nothing without capital.” He looked sternly at me. “Stephen Carswall may not be an agreeable man, but no one would deny he has capital. Shrewd, too. Sold his sugar plantations in the nineties, early enough to get a good price. Mind you, many men thought he was mad. But he could see the way the wind was blowing. Those damned Abolitionists, eh? Once you abolish the trade, it’s only a matter of time before the institution itself is under threat. When the institution goes, as it will, the entire economic foundation of the West Indies will be destroyed. But Carswall was ahead of the game there. That’s the beauty of banking: all you need is capital; none of the worry of land and other fixed property. They can’t abolish money, thank God. Though I wouldn’t put it past them to try.” He pushed the port towards me. “Where was I?” “You were describing how Mr Carswall became Mr Wavenhoe’s partner, sir. Did he take an active part in the running of the bank?” “He left that to Wavenhoe most of the time, as far as the City was concerned, at least. But what went on behind the scenes may have been another matter. Carswall has many friends in America, especially in the southern states, and they did a good deal of business over there. And they did very well in Canada, despite the late war.” Mr Rowsell was of course referring to that inconclusive and largely unnecessary squabble between Great Britain and the United States, not to the great war with France. I said, “So they had a finger in every man’s pie?” “Spread the risks, eh, increase the profits. It was Carswall who brought in young Frant. Not that he’s so young any more. You have met him?” “Yes, sir. I was able to do him a small service, and he was most amiable. He is very much the gentleman, of course.” “The family fell on evil times, which forced him into trade. As for his amiability, I hear a different story. Frant has ability, I don’t question that. It’s just that – your glass, sir, your glass is empty.” Breathing heavily, Mr Rowsell refilled the glass so well that it overflowed. The diversion caused him to lose the thread of his discourse. He sipped his wine and stared with a frown at the polished mahogany. “Is Mr Carswall married?” I asked after a moment or two. “Married? Not now. There was a wife, I believe, but she died. Mind you –” He lowered his voice and leant towards me. “I’m not saying he hasn’t found consolation. Stephen Carswall used to have something of a reputation, if you get my drift.” He tapped his nose to make his drift even clearer. “He’s kin to George Wavenhoe. You knew they were cousins?” I shook my head. “Stephen Carswall’s mother was sister to George’s father. So they are first cousins.” He laughed and stabbed his forehead once more with the napkin. “Young Frant was a fly one. He came in as Carswall’s man, and what does he do but marry Sophia Marpool, old Wavenhoe’s niece? So there he is, with a connection to both partners. A love match, they say, but I wager that most of the love was on one side. Master Henry thinks he’s the heir apparent, the crown prince. But it’s ill luck to count your gains during the game, eh?” Rowsell stood up, staggered to the door, opened it with difficulty, and bellowed for the servant to bring another bottle. “Something went wrong? Something to do with Mr Carswall?” “There was a host of reasons. First Carswall decided to withdraw his capital. He’d settled in the country, turned gentleman, wanted nothing to do with the bank. The story is that Wavenhoe was pressed to find the ready cash when it was needed. It was a large sum. Then Wavenhoe himself has not been well these last few years. He left more and more of the day-to-day conduct of business in the hands of Henry Frant. The City does not feel entirely easy with Frant. It is not just that he is a gentleman dabbling in trade. There are stories that he is fond of play, like his father before him. That was how the Frants lost their money.” The maid brought another bottle. When it was opened, Rowsell recharged our glasses and drank deeply. “It’s a matter of confidence, you see. All business must depend on it, and banking more than most. If you lose the esteem of those you do business with, you might as well shut up shop. No, my boy, to return to your own case, if you wish to keep your money safe, there is much to be said for the Consolidated Funds.” Mr Rowsell stared glassily at me and at last continued to speak, though slowly and with elaborate care of his consonants. “You will not become rich, but you will not become bankrupt, either.” He stopped. He blinked rapidly. His mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came. He bowed like a great oak falling, stately even in ruin. His head hit the table, knocking over the glass. He began to snore. Chapter 17 (#ulink_ba58d284-70fe-524e-8317-5562c715400b) As the weeks slipped by and the weather grew steadily colder, the friendship between Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan flourished. Like many schoolboy friendships it was partly a defensive alliance, a strategy for dealing with a world full of Morleys and Quirds. Though similar in looks, they were different in temperament. The American was a proud boy who would not take insults lightly, who when teased would fly at his tormentors. Charlie Frant was gentler, and well supplied with pocket money. If you offended one of them, you had a taste of Edgar Allan’s anger, which was formidable. If you pleased one or both of them, however, you were likely to be among the beneficiaries when Charlie Frant next paid a visit to the pastry-cook’s. As for myself, I felt the life of the school settle around me like an old coat. But one part of my life was incomplete. I own that I dwelt overmuch in my daydreams during this period. When I was in this unsatisfactory state I no longer thought much of Fanny, the girl whose ghostly presence had lingered in my mind for years. Instead, I frequently encountered both Miss Carswall and her cousin Mrs Frant. Daydreams have this advantage over real life: one is not obliged to be constant. There was nothing to warn me of the troubles that lay ahead. One evening, however, Mr Bransby summoned Dansey and myself to his private room. “I have had a disturbing communication from Mrs Frant, gentlemen,” he said. “She writes that her son and young Allan have been accosted in the village by the ruffian who approached them before. The man’s effrontery beggars belief.” “We have heard nothing about this from the boys, sir?” Dansey said. Bransby shook his head. “He did not linger. And there was no unpleasantness. No, it seems that he simply came up to them in the High-street, gave them a half-sovereign apiece, told them to mind their book and walked away.” “How extraordinary,” Dansey said. “I gained the impression that he was not the sort of man who had a ready supply of half-sovereigns.” “Just so.” Mr Bransby fumbled for his snuff-box. “I have interrogated Frant and Allan, of course. Frant mentioned the meeting to his mother in a letter. They had nothing substantial to add to what they had told her, except to emphasise that the man’s behaviour was noticeably more benevolent than on the previous occasion. Allan added that he was more respectably dressed than before.” “So we may infer from all this that he is in more comfortable circumstances?” “Indeed. But Mrs Frant is understandably somewhat agitated. She does not like the idea that boys of this establishment, and in particular her son, should be at the mercy of meetings with strange men. I propose to inform the boys that they must report any suspicious strangers in the village to me at once. Moreover, Mr Dansey, I would be obliged if you would alert the innkeepers and tradesmen to the danger. You and Mr Shield will circulate a description of the man in question.” “You believe he may return, sir?” “It is not a question of what I believe, Mr Dansey, but rather a matter of trying to allay Mrs Frant’s fears.” Dansey bowed. I could have revealed the identity of the stranger. But it was not my secret to tell. Nor did I think it would be kind to Edgar Allan. The gap between father and son was too wide to be easily bridged, especially in that the boy had no knowledge whatsoever of his natural father and believed him to have died long ago in the United States. It could only come as a shock to the lad to learn that David Poe was an impoverished drunkard on his very doorstep. I said, “You do not think it likely he will venture to return, sir?” “For my part, I doubt it. He will not show his face here again.” In that, at least, Mr Bransby was entirely correct. Chapter 18 (#ulink_117e2105-bf71-5c16-b7d7-d3dd55e51e9c) All this time, George Wavenhoe lay dying in his fine house in Albemarle-street. The old man took his time, hesitating between this world and the next, but by November matters had come to a crisis, and it was clear that the end could not be far away. Once again I was summoned to Mr Bransby’s private room, this time without Dansey. “I am in receipt of another letter from Mrs Frant,” he said with a trace of irritation. “You are aware that her uncle, Mr Wavenhoe, has been very ill for some time?” “Yes, sir.” “His medical attendants now believe him to be at death’s door. He has expressed a wish to say farewell to his great-nephew. Mrs Frant requests that you convey her son to Mr Wavenhoe’s house, where she and the rest of his family have gathered. And she further requests that you remain with him while he is there.” I confess my heart leapt at the prospect of being under the same roof as Sophia Frant for a few days. “But surely that will be most inconvenient for the conduct of the school, sir? Could she not send a servant instead to collect him?” Bransby held up his hand. “Mr Wavenhoe’s establishment is in some disorder. Both Mrs Frant and the boy’s old nurse are fully occupied in nursing Mr Wavenhoe. She does not wish her son to be neglected, or to mope, while he is with them.” He took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. “As to the inconvenience, that is to some extent mitigated by the fact that Mrs Frant is prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of having your company for her son. It should only be for a day or two.” For an instant, a wild hope surged through me: could Mrs Frant have invited me for her own sake, rather than her son’s? A moment’s reflection was enough to show me my folly. “You will leave this afternoon,” Bransby said. “I could wish it otherwise. Sooner or later the boy must learn to stand on his own two feet.” When Charlie Frant heard that I was to take him to his uncle Wavenhoe’s, and why, his face aged. The skin wrinkled, the colour fled. I glimpsed the old man he might at some point in the future become. “May Allan come with me, sir?” he asked. “No, I’m afraid not. But you must bring your books.” Later that day we drove up to town. Charlie resisted my efforts at conversation, and I was reminded of that other journey, when I had taken him back to school in disgrace. Although it was only the middle of the afternoon, it was such a raw, damp, grey day it felt hours later than it really was. When we turned from the noise and lights of the bustle of Piccadilly into Albemarle-street, what struck me first was the quiet. They had put down straw to muffle the sound of wheels and bribed the organ grinders, the beggars and the street sellers to take themselves elsewhere. Mr Wavenhoe lived in a substantial house near the northern end of the street. The servant took our hats and coats in the hall. Men were talking in raised voices in a room on the right of the front door. There were footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see Flora Carswall running towards us, her feet flickering in and out on the stone steps. She stooped and kissed Charlie who shied away from the embrace. She smiled at me and held out her hand. “Mr Shield, is it not? We met briefly outside my cousin’s house in Russell-square.” I told her I remembered our meeting well, which was no more than the truth. She said she was come to take Charlie up to his mother. I asked after Mr Wavenhoe. “I fear he is sinking fast.” She lowered her voice. “These last few months have not been happy ones for him, so in some respects it is a blessed relief.” Her eyes strayed to Charlie. “There is nothing distressing about it. Or rather, that is to say, not for the spectator.” She coloured most becomingly. “Lord, my father says I let my tongue run away with me, and I fear he is right. What I mean to say, is that Mr Wavenhoe looks at present like one who is very tired and very sleepy. Nothing more than that.” I smiled at her and inclined my head. It was a kindly thought. To see the dying is often disagreeable, particularly for a child. The sound of male voices became louder behind the closed door. “Oh dear,” Miss Carswall said. “Papa and Mr Frant are in there.” She bit her lip. “I am staying here to help Mrs Frant with the nursing, and Papa looks in at least once a day to see how we do. But now I must take Charlie up to his mama and Kerridge or they will wonder where we are.” She turned to the footman. “Show Mr Shield up to his room, will you? And he and Master Charles will need a room to sit in. Has Mrs Frant left instructions?” “I understand the housekeeper has lit a fire in the old schoolroom, miss. Mr Shield’s room is next door.” We went upstairs. Miss Carswall led Charlie away. I looked after her, watching her hips swaying beneath the muslin of her gown. I realised the footman was doing the same and quickly looked away. We men are all the same under the skin: we fear death, and in our healthy maturity we desire copulation. We climbed higher and the footman showed me first into a bedroom under the eaves, and then into a long schoolroom next to it. There were fires burning in the grates of both rooms, a luxury I was not used to. The man inquired very civilly if I desired any refreshment, and I asked for tea. He bowed and went away, leaving me to warm my hands by the fire. A little later, there came footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door. I looked round, expecting Charlie or the footman. But it was Mrs Frant who entered the room. I stood up hastily and, made clumsy by surprise, sketched an awkward bow. “Pray be seated, Mr Shield. Thank you for coming with Charlie. I trust they have made you comfortable?” Her colour was up and she had her hand to the side, as though running up the stairs had given her a stitch. I said I was well looked after, and asked after Mr Wavenhoe. “I fear he is not long for this world.” “Has Charlie seen him?” “No – my uncle is asleep. Kerridge took Charlie downstairs with her for something to eat.” Her face broke into a smile, instantly suppressed. “She believes she must feed him every time she sees him. He will be with you directly. If you need any refreshment, by the way, you must ring the bell. As for meals, I thought it might be more convenient if you and Charlie had them up here.” She moved to the barred window, which looked across an eighteen-inch lead-lined gully to the back of the parapet of the street fa?ade. She wore greys and lilacs today, a transitional stage before the blacks she would don when her uncle died. A strand of hair had escaped from her cap, and she pushed it back with a finger. Her movements were always graceful, a joy to watch. She turned towards me, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as though impatient with herself. “You must have lights,” she said almost pettishly, tugging the bell. “It is growing dark. I cannot abide the dark.” While we waited for the servant to come she questioned me about how Charlie was faring at school. I reassured her as best I could. He was much happier than he had been. No, he was not exactly industrious, but he coped with the work that was expected of him. Yes, he was indeed occasionally flogged, but so were all boys and there was nothing out of the way in it. As for his appetite, I rarely saw the boys eating, so I could not comment with any authority, but I had seen him on several occasions emerging from the pastry-cook’s in the village. Finally, as to his motions, I feared I had no information upon that topic whatsoever. Mrs Frant blushed and said I must excuse the fondness of a mother. A moment later, the footman brought my tea and a lamp. When the shadows fled from the corners of the room, then so did the curious intimacy of my conversation with Mrs Frant. Yet she lingered. I asked her what regimen she would like us to follow while we were here. She replied that perhaps we might work in the mornings, take the air in the afternoons, and return to our books for a short while in the evening. “Of course, there may be interruptions.” She twisted her wedding ring round her finger. “One cannot predict the course of events. Mr Shield, I cannot –” She broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a tap on the door, and Mrs Kerridge and Charlie entered. “I saw him,” Charlie said. “I thought he was dead at first, he lay so still, but then I heard his breathing.” “Did he wake?” “No, madam,” Mrs Kerridge said. “The apothecary gave Mr Wavenhoe his draught, and he’s sleeping soundly.” Mrs Frant stood up and ran her fingers through the boy’s hair. “Then you shall have a holiday for the rest of the afternoon.” “I shall go and see the coaches, Mama.” “Very well. But do not stay too long – it is possible your uncle may wake and call for you.” Soon I was alone again in the long, narrow room. I drank tea and read for upwards of an hour. Then I became restless, and decided to go out to buy tobacco. I took the front stairs. As I came down the last flight into the marble-floored hall, a door opened and an old man emerged, wheezing with effort, from the room beyond. He was not tall, but he was broad and had once been powerfully built. He had thick black hair streaked with silver and a fleshy face dominated by a great curving nose. He wore a dark blue coat and a showy but dishevelled cravat. “Ha!” he said as he saw me. “Who are you?” “My name’s Shield, sir.” “And who the devil is Shield?” “I brought Master Charles from his school. I am an usher there.” “Charlie’s bear leader, eh?” He had a rich voice, which he seemed to wrench from deep within his chest. “Thought you were the damned parson for a moment, in that black coat of yours.” I smiled and bowed, taking this for a pleasantry. The elegant figure of Henry Frant appeared in the doorway behind him. “Mr Shield,” he said. “Good afternoon.” I bowed again. “Your servant, sir.” “Don’t know why you and Sophie thought the boy ought to have a tutor,” the old man said. “I’ll wager he gets enough book-learning at school. They get too much of that already. We’re breeding a race of damned milksops.” “Your views on the rearing of the young, sir,” Frant observed, “always merit the most profound consideration.” Mr Carswall rested one hand on the newel post, looked back at the rest of us and broke wind. It was curious that this old, infirm man had the power to make one feel a little less substantial than one usually was. Even Henry Frant was diminished by his presence. The old man grunted and, swaying like a tree in a gale, mounted the stairs. Frant nodded at me and strolled across the hall and into another room. I buttoned up my coat, took my hat and gloves and went out into the raw November air. Albemarle-street was a quiet, sombre place, lying under the shadow of death. The acrid smell of sea coal filled my nostrils. I crossed the road and glanced back at the house. For an instant, I glimpsed the white blur of a face at one of the drawing-room windows on the first floor. Someone had been standing there – staring idly into the street? or watching me? – and had retreated into the room. I walked rapidly down towards the lights and the bustle. Charlie had said he wanted to watch the coaches, and I knew where he would have gone. During my long convalescence, when I was staying with my aunt, I would sometimes walk to Piccadilly and watch the fast coaches leaving and arriving from the White Horse Cellar. Half the small boys in London, of all conditions, of all ages, laboured under the same compulsion. I stepped briskly into Piccadilly, dodged across the road, and made my way along the crowded pavement towards a tobacconist’s. The shop was full of customers, and it was a quarter of an hour before I emerged with a paper of cigars in my pocket. A few paces ahead of me walked a couple, arm in arm and muffled against the cold. The man raised his stick and hailed a passing hackney. He helped the lady in, and I think his hand must have brushed against her bosom, though whether on purpose or by accident I could not tell. She turned, half in, half out of the hackney, and tapped him playfully on the cheek in mock reproof. The woman was Mrs Kerridge, and the cheek she tapped had a familiar dusky hue. “Brewer-street,” said Salutation Harmwell, and followed Mrs Kerridge into the coach. There was nothing suspicious about that, of course, or not then. It was not unusual to see a white-skinned woman arm in arm with a well-set-up blackamoor. Dusky gentlemen were rumoured to have certain advantages when it came to pleasing ladies, advantages denied to the men of other races. But I own I was shocked and a little surprised. Mrs Kerridge had seemed so sober, so prim, so old. Why, I thought to myself, she must be forty if she’s a day. Yet when she looked down at Harmwell, her face had been as bright as a girl’s at her first ball. I stared after the hackney, wondering what the pair of them were going to do in Brewer-street and feeling an unaccountable stab of envy. At that moment a hand touched my sleeve. I turned, expecting to see Charlie at my elbow. “I always said Mrs Kerridge was a deep one,” said Flora Carswall. “I believe my cousin sent her on an errand to Russell-square.” I raised my hat and bowed. An abigail in a black cloak hovered a few paces away, her eyes discreetly averted. “And where are you off to, Mr Shield, on this dreary afternoon?” Miss Carswall asked. “The White Horse Cellar.” It did not seem quite genteel to confess that I had been looking for a tobacconist’s. “I believe Charlie may be there.” “You are looking for him?” “Not really. I am at leisure for an hour or so.” “It is vastly agreeable to see the coaches depart, is it not? All that bustle and excitement, and the thought that one might purchase a ticket, climb aboard and go anywhere, anywhere in the world.” “I was thinking something very similar.” “Most people do, probably. How I hate this place.” I stared at her for an instant. Why should a girl like Flora Carswall dislike a city that could gratify her every whim? I said, “Then for your sake I hope your stay here will be brief.” “That depends on poor Mr Wavenhoe. But it is not being in Town that I dislike – quite the reverse, in fact – but the gloom of Albemarle-street and some of the people one is obliged to meet there.” She smiled at me, her outburst apparently forgotten. “I wonder – if you are at leisure, might I request the favour of your company? Then I could send my maid home – the poor girl has a mountain of sewing. I have one or two errands to run; they will not take long.” I could hardly have refused even if I had wanted to. Miss Carswall took my arm and we threaded our way through the crowds down St James’s-street. In Pall Mall, she scanned the latest novels in Payne and Foss’s for a few minutes and spent rather more time with Messrs Harding, Howell, & Co. The people there made much of her. She bought a pair of gloves, examined some lace newly arrived from Belgium, and inquired after the progress of a hat she was having made for her. She even asked my opinion about whether a certain colour matched her eyes and prettily deferred to my verdict. She was excessively animated; and the longer we were together the more I liked her, and the more I wondered whether our meeting had been coincidental. On the way back to Piccadilly, neither of us talked much. Once she slipped in the mud, and would have fallen if I had not been there. For a moment her grip tightened on my arm and I saw her looking up at my face. When at last we returned to Albemarle-street, she removed her hand from my arm and we walked side by side but unattached. As we drew near to Mr Wavenhoe’s house, she walked more slowly, despite the cold and despite the rain which had begun to fall. “You have met my father?” “Yes – as I was leaving the house just now.” “I daresay you thought him a little brusque,” she said. “Pray do not answer. Most people do. But I hope you will not allow his manner to offend you. He is naturally choleric, and the gout makes it worse.” “You must not distress yourself, Miss Carswall.” “He is not always as amiable as he might be.” “I shall bear it as best I can.” She looked sharply at me and stopped walking altogether. “There is something I wish to tell you. No, not exactly: it is rather that I would prefer to tell you myself than have you discover it from someone else. I –” “Sir! Cousin Flora! Wait!” We turned to face Piccadilly. Charlie ran towards us. His cheeks were pink from the cold and the exercise. The side of his coat was covered with mud. As he came close, my nose told me that it was not mud but horse dung. “Sir, that was the most famous fun. I rubbed down a horse. I gave the ostler sixpence and he said I was a regular out-and-outer.” In his joy, he let out a whoop of delight. We were now standing beneath the very windows of the house where George Wavenhoe lay dying. I looked over Charlie’s head at Miss Carswall. I think each of us expected the other to reprove the lad for making so much noise. Instead we smiled. Then Miss Carswall went briskly into the house and left me to wonder what she had been about to tell me. Chapter 19 (#ulink_2e95ed3f-99e4-54a6-98b5-e81c66c7e62c) In my absence, the schoolroom had filled with smoke. No one could remember the last time a fire had been lit in there. The flue of the chimney appeared to be partly blocked. The sweep was summoned for the following morning. In the meantime, Mrs Frant decided that Charlie and I should use the library on the ground floor for our lessons. We sat at a table drawn near to the fire. I set Charlie to construe twelve lines of Ovid. He was willing enough but his mind could not stay on the task for long. I too found it hard to concentrate. Then the door opened, and the servant showed Mr Noak into the room. He wore evening dress, plain but respectable. I sprang up, ready to withdraw with Charlie. The footman said sulkily that he had not realised that anyone was using the room. “Pray do not disturb yourself,” Mr Noak said to me. “If I may, I shall sit here and turn the pages of a book until Mr Frant is at leisure.” The servant withdrew. Mr Noak advanced towards the fire holding out his hands. “Good evening, sir,” Charlie said. “We met at my father’s house a few weeks ago.” “Master Charles, is it not?” They shook hands. Charlie was a well-bred little boy, and he now turned to me. “May I present my – my tutor, Mr Shield, sir?” Noak held out his hand to me too. “I believe I saw you on the same occasion, Mr Shield. We were not introduced, and I’m glad to remedy the deficiency now.” The words were gracious but Noak had a harsh, staccato way of delivery which made them sound almost insulting. I moved aside the table so he could warm himself at the fire. He looked down at the open book. “I do not approve of Ovid,” he said in precisely the tone of voice he had used before. “He may have been a great poet but I am told he was licentious in his mode of life.” Charlie stared wide-eyed at Mr Noak. I said, “We choose passages which display his genius but do not dwell on his less agreeable qualities.” “Then again, one must ask oneself what is the utility of studying the languages of antiquity? We live in a world where commerce is king.” “Permit me to remind you, sir, that Latin is the language of natural science. Moreover, the study of the language and the literature of great civilisations cannot be wasted effort. If nothing else it must school the mind.” “Pagan civilisations, sir,” Noak said. “Civilisations that passed their peak two thousand years ago or more. We have come on a little since then, I fancy.” “That we have been able to build so high is surely a tribute to the strength of the foundations.” Mr Noak stared at me but said nothing. In my present position I could hardly afford to anger anybody. Yet he had talked such obvious nonsense that I felt it my duty to advance some counter arguments, if only for Charlie’s sake. At this moment the door opened and Henry Frant came in. The almost foppish elegance of his dress was in stark contrast to Mr Noak’s sober attire. Charlie caught his breath. I had the curious impression that he would have liked to shrink into himself. “My dear sir,” Frant cried. “How glad I am to see you.” As he advanced to shake hands, I gathered up our possessions and prepared to leave. “You have been renewing your acquaintance with Charles, I see, and with Mr Shield.” Noak nodded. “I am afraid I have disturbed them at their studies.” “Not at all, sir,” I said. Mr Noak continued as if I had not spoken. “Mr Shield and I have been having a most interesting conversation concerning the place of the classical languages in the modern world.” Frant shot me a quick glance but swerved away from this subject. “I have kept you waiting – I am so sorry. It was kind of you to meet me here.” “How does Mr Wavenhoe do?” Frant spread out his hands. “As well as can be expected. I fear he may not be with us long.” “Perhaps you would prefer it –” Noak began. “I would not on any account postpone our dinner,” Frant said quickly. “Mr Wavenhoe is sleeping now, and I understand from his medical attendants that an immediate crisis is not to be expected. Nor is he expected to wake for some hours. They tell me the carriage is at the door.” Noak lingered by the fire. “I had wondered whether I might see Mr Carswall here,” he remarked. “He is Mr Wavenhoe’s cousin, is he not?” “He has indeed been here today, and may look in again,” Frant said smoothly. “But I believe he is not in the way at present.” “I had the pleasure of meeting him and his daughter briefly the other evening. Though of course I knew him by reputation already.” At the door, Noak paused, turned and said goodbye to Charlie and myself. At last the door closed and we were alone again. Charlie sat down in his chair and picked up his pen. All the colour and excitement of the afternoon had drained away from his face. He looked pinched and miserable. I told myself that a father must inspire awe in his children as well as affection. But Mr Frant always made it easier for Charlie to fear him than to love him. “We shall shut up our books for the day,” I said. “Is that a backgammon board on the table there? If you like, I will give you a game.” We sat opposite each other at the table by the fire and laid out the pieces. The familiar click of the counters and the rattle of the dice had a soothing effect. Charlie became engrossed in the game, which he won with ease. I waited for him to set out the counters again so I might have my revenge, but instead he toyed with them, moving them at random about the board. “Sir?” Charlie said. “Sir, what is a by-blow?” “It is a child whose parents are not married to each other.” “A bastard?” “Just so. Sometimes people will use words like that when they have no basis in fact, simply with the intention of wounding. It is best to disregard them.” Charlie shook his head. “It was not like that, sir. It was Mrs Kerridge. I overheard her talking to Loomis –” “One should not eavesdrop on servants’ tittle-tattle,” I put in automatically. “No, sir, but I could hardly help overhearing, as they spoke loud and the door was open and I was in the kitchen with Cook. Kerridge said, ‘the poor mite, being a by-blow’, and afterwards when I asked her what it meant, she told me not to bother my head about it. They were talking about Uncle Wavenhoe dying.” “And she said you were a by-blow?” “Oh no, sir – not me. Cousin Flora.” Chapter 20 (#ulink_ae9c5c3b-db80-5d0c-95e6-524ad7c57794) Henry Frant had miscalculated. While he was dining that evening at his club with Mr Noak, George Wavenhoe rallied. For a short time, the old man was lucid, though very weak. He demanded that his family be brought to him. By then, the Carswalls had returned to the house and were dining with Mrs Frant. Charlie was in bed, and I was reading by the fire in a small sitting room at the back of the house. Mrs Kerridge asked me to wake Charlie and bring him down when he was dressed; she could not go herself because she was needed in the sickroom. A few minutes later, Charlie and I descended to the second floor, where we found Mrs Frant in whispered conversation with a doctor on the landing. She broke off when she saw Charlie. “My love, your uncle desires to see you. I – he wishes to say farewell.” “Yes, Mama.” “You understand my meaning, Charlie?” The boy nodded. “It is not at all frightening,” she said firmly. “He is very ill, however. One must remember that soon he will go to Heaven, where he will be made well again.” “Yes, Mama.” She looked at me. Her face was very lovely in the soft light. “Mr Shield, would you be kind enough to wait here? I do not think my uncle will detain Charlie for long.” I bowed. She and Charlie went into the old man’s room. The doctor followed them. I was left alone with a footman. The man was in his evening livery, his wig a great crest of stiff white powder, his calves like twin tree-trunks encased in silk. He examined his reflection surreptitiously in a pier glass. I paced up and down the passage, pretending to look at the pictures which hung there, though I could not have told you their subjects a moment afterwards. Somewhere in the house I heard the rumble of Stephen Carswall’s voice, fluctuating yet constant, like the sound of the sea on a quiet summer night. The door of the room opened and the physician beckoned me towards him. “Pray come in for a moment,” he murmured, waving me towards him. He put his finger to his lips, lifted himself on to tiptoe and led me into the room. It was large and richly furnished in a style which must have been the rage thirty or forty years ago. The walls above the dado rail were covered with silk hangings of deep red. There was a huge chimney glass above the fire which made the room look even larger than it was. Candles on ornate stands burned at intervals around the walls. A large fire blazed in the burnished steel grate, filling the room with a flickering orange glow. What compelled attention, however, was the bedstead itself, a great four-poster with a massive carved wood cornice, hung with curtains of floral-patterned silk. Amid all this outmoded magnificence, this Brobdingnagian grandeur, was a tiny old man, with no hair and no teeth, with skin the colour of an unlit wax candle, whose hands picked at the embroidery of the coverlet. My eyes were drawn to him, as though the bed were a stage and he the only player on it. This was strange, because in many ways he was the least significant person in the room. Besides the doctor and Mrs Kerridge, who kept back in the shadows, there were four people clustered round the dying man. Near the head of the bed sat Mr Carswall, his body spilling untidily out of a little carved wooden gilt bedroom chair. Standing at his shoulder was Miss Carswall, who looked up as I entered and gave me a swift smile. Facing them across the bed was Mrs Frant, seated in another chair, with Charlie resting on one of the chair’s arms and leaning against her. “Ah, Mr Shield.” Carswall waved me forward. “My cousin wishes to add a codicil to his will. He would be obliged if you would witness his signature, along with the good doctor here.” As I stepped forward into the light, I saw on the bed a sheet of paper covered in writing. A writing box lay open on the dressing table nearby. “The lawyer has been sent for,” said Mrs Frant. “Should we not wait until he arrives?” “That would take time, madam,” Carswall pointed out. “And time is the one thing we may not have. There can surely be no doubt about our cousin’s intentions. When Fishlake comes, we shall have him draw up another codicil if necessary. But in the meantime, let us make sure that this one is duly signed and witnessed. I am persuaded that Mr Wavenhoe would wish it, and that Mr Frant would see the wisdom of such a course.” “Very well, sir. We must do as my uncle desires. And thank you. You are very good.” While this conversation was going on, the old man lay propped against a great mountain of embroidered pillows. He breathed slowly and noisily through his mouth, sounding like an old pump in need of grease. The eyes were almost closed. Carswall picked up the sheet of paper from the coverlet. “Flora, the pen.” She brought the pen and the inkpot to her father. He dipped the nib in the ink, lifted Wavenhoe’s right hand and inserted the pen between the fingers. “Come, George,” he growled, “here is the codicil: all that is required to make things right is that you sign your name here.” Carswall lifted the paper in his other hand. Wavenhoe’s eyelids fluttered. His breathing lost its regularity. Two drops of ink fell on the embroidered coverlet. Carswall guided Wavenhoe’s hand to the space below the writing. With a slowness that was painful to watch, Wavenhoe traced his name. Afterwards the pen dropped from his fingers and he let himself fall back against his pillows. The breathing resumed its regularity. The pen rolled down the paper, leaving a splatter of ink-spots, and came to rest on the coverlet. “And now, Mr Shield,” Carswall said. “Pray oblige us by doing your part. Flora, hand him the pen. Sign there, sir, beside the writing box. No, stay, before you sign, write these words: ‘Mr Wavenhoe’s signature witnessed by me’ – then write your name, sir, your full name – ‘on the 9th day of November, 1819.’” While he gave his instructions, he folded down the top of the sheet so I could not see the codicil itself, only Mr Wavenhoe’s signature. He handed the paper to Flora, who stood beside me, holding the candle so I could see what I was doing. I wrote what Mr Carswall required, and signed my name. Flora was standing very close to me, though without touching; but I fancied I sensed the warmth of her body. “When you are done, be so good as to pass the paper to the doctor,” Carswall said. I crossed the room and handed the codicil to him. Wavenhoe’s eyes were fully open now. He looked at me and frowned. “Who –?” he whispered. “Mr Shield is Charlie’s tutor, sir,” Flora said. Wavenhoe’s eyes drifted away from me and he turned his head so he could see the Frants on the other side of the bed. He looked at Mrs Frant. “Anne?” he said in a firmer voice. “I thought you were dead.” She leant towards him and took his hand. “No, Uncle, I am not Anne, I am her daughter Sophie. Mama has been dead these many years, but they say I am very like her.” He responded to the touch, if not the words. “Anne,” he said, and smiled. “I am rejoiced to see you.” His eyelids twitched and he slipped into a doze. The doctor scratched his signature and gave the paper to Carswall, who flapped it in the air until the ink was dry and then folded it away in his pocketbook. No one told me I should leave. I think the little group around the bed had forgotten my existence. I withdrew and stood in the shadows by the wall with Mrs Kerridge and the doctor. Flora sat in the chair beside her father. Mrs Frant picked up a Prayer Book from the side table beside her and looked inquiringly at Carswall who nodded. She opened it and began to read from Psalm 51: But lo, thou requirest truth in the inward parts: and shalt make me to understand wisdom secretly. Thou shalt purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Thou shalt make me hear of joy and gladness: that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice. As I listened, I thought that we were all imprisoned in a place between light and darkness, life and death, and that the only sounds that mattered in the world were the slow rasp of Wavenhoe’s breathing, the creak and sputter of coals in the grate and the rise and fall of Sophia Frant’s voice. After a few moments, Stephen Carswall pulled out his watch. He sighed loudly, pushed back his chair, the legs scraping on the oak floorboards, and stood up, snorting with the strain of manoeuvring his big, clumsy body. Mrs Frant broke off her reading at the end of a sentence. Carswall made no sign of apology or even acknowledgement. “Shall we go down to the drawing room?” he said to his daughter. “If you would not object, sir, I should prefer to remain here.” He shrugged. “You must please yourself, miss.” He glanced down at the little figure on the bed and nodded his head. It was a curious gesture: like the tip of the head a maidservant gives when she makes her obedience. He stamped across the floor and Mrs Kerridge opened the door for him. From the ground floor came a muffled knock on the front door and the subdued murmur of voices. “Ah,” Carswall said, cocking his head, suddenly all attention. “That lawyer fellow, at last, unless Frant’s back early. If it’s Fishlake, I’ll deal with him.” “My love,” Mrs Frant said to Charlie, “it is time for you to go to bed. Kiss your uncle goodnight, and then perhaps Mr Shield will go upstairs with you. We must not inconvenience him any further, must we?” Charlie detached himself from his mother’s chair. I saw his face in that instant, saw him screwing up his courage for what had to be done. He bent over the figure in the bed and brushed his lips against the pale forehead. He backed away and, avoiding his mother’s embrace, walked unsteadily towards me. George Wavenhoe coughed. Flora gasped, and all of us turned suddenly towards the bed. The old man stirred and opened his eyes. “Goodnight, dear boy,” he said softly but with perfect clarity. “And sweet dreams.” Chapter 21 (#ulink_5ed54c45-3b37-535a-bd38-47e15f50db4b) I dreamt about George Wavenhoe as I lay in my bed several floors above him: and in my dream I watched him sign the codicil yet again, and watched his little yellow fingers clutch the pen; and in my dream the nails had grown and become claws, and I wondered why no one had clipped them. I woke to the news that he was dead. Mrs Frant summoned me to the breakfast room. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red with weeping, and she did not look at me but addressed the coal scuttle. She and Mr Frant, she said, had decided that Charlie should stay with them in Russell-square until after Mr Wavenhoe’s funeral. She thanked me for my trouble and told me she had ordered the carriage to take me back to school. The conversation left a sour taste in my mouth. She had made me feel like a servant, I told myself, which to all intents and purposes I was. I packed my few belongings, said goodbye to Charlie and was driven back to Stoke Newington. As the days slipped past, I tried to absorb myself in the life of the school. But I found it hard not to think about the Frants, the Carswalls and Mr Wavenhoe. Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall filled my thoughts far more than was entirely proper. And there was much that puzzled me: what had Salutation Harmwell and Mr Noak to do with all this? Was it true that Miss Carswall was her father’s natural daughter? Nor could I ignore Mr Carswall’s behaviour. Though Mr Wavenhoe had certainly signed the codicil which I had witnessed, and Mrs Frant and the physician had seemed perfectly satisfied as to the correctness of Mr Carswall’s conduct, had the old man known what he was signing? I was not easy in my mind. There was nothing one could call suspicious, exactly, but there was much to arouse curiosity, to raise doubts. To make matters worse, a trickle of intelligence from the newspapers and certain of Mr Bransby’s correspondents revealed that Mr Rowsell’s forebodings had been amply justified. Something was very wrong at Wavenhoe’s Bank. There were reports that it might close its doors and refuse payments. Mr Wavenhoe’s death had caused a crisis in confidence. I did not appreciate how swiftly events were moving until some ten days after I returned from Albemarle-street. By this time Mr Wavenhoe was buried, and Charlie had returned to school, wearing mourning but in other respects apparently untouched by the experience. After morning school, I strolled into the village, as was my habit if the weather was dry. A green and gold carriage, drawn by a pair of chestnuts, pulled up beside me in the High-street. The glass slid down, and Miss Carswall looked out. “Mr Shield – this is a pleasure I had not anticipated.” I raised my hat and bowed. “Miss Carswall – nor had I. Are you come to see your cousin?” “Yes, indeed – Mr Frant wrote to Mr Bransby; he is to have a night in town. But I am somewhat early. I would not wish to arrive before my time. Schoolboys are such creatures of habit, are they not? I wonder if I might prevail upon you to show me a little of the village and the surrounding country? I am sure it will be better to keep the horses moving.” I disclaimed any topographical information of value but said I would be glad to show her what I could. The footman let down the steps and I climbed into the carriage. Flora Carswall slid along the seat into the corner to give me room. “How very obliging of you, Mr Shield,” she said, toying with an auburn curl. “And how fortunate that I should encounter you.” “Fortunate?” I said softly. She coloured most becomingly. “Charlie mentioned that you often take the air after morning school.” “Fortunate for me, at least,” I said with a smile. “As it was the other day, when we met in Piccadilly.” Miss Carswall smiled back, and I knew my guess had hit the mark: she had followed me from Albemarle-street that afternoon. “I suppose that sometimes one must give fortune a nudge,” she said. “Don’t you agree? And I own that I am glad to have the opportunity for a private conference with you. Would you – would you tell John coachman to drive out of the village for a mile or two?” I obeyed. She cleared her throat and went on, “I am afraid the bank is in a bad way.” “I have seen something of that in the newspapers.” “It is even worse than is generally supposed. Pray do not mention this to a living soul but my father is quite shocked. He had not realised – that is to say, there is serious cause for alarm. It seems that a number of bills were due at about this time, some for very large sums of money, and in the normal course of affairs, they would have been extended. But no: the creditors wish to be paid immediately. And then, to make matters worse, we had assumed – indeed the whole world had assumed – that Mr Wavenhoe was a very wealthy man. But it appears that this was no longer the case at the time of his death.” “I’m sorry to hear this. May I ask why –?” “Why I am telling you? Because I – I was concerned about what happened on the evening Mr Wavenhoe died. My father often appears high-handed, I regret to say. He is a man who is used to his own way. Those of us who know him make allowances, but to a stranger it can seem – it can seem other than it really is.” “I witnessed a signature, Miss Carswall. That is all.” “You saw Mr Wavenhoe sign, did you not? And you yourself signed immediately afterwards? And you could testify that there was no coercion involved, and that Mr Wavenhoe was in his right mind and knew what he was doing?” Until now her hands had been inside her muff. As she spoke, in her agitation, she took out her right hand and laid it on my sleeve. Almost immediately she realised what she had done and with a gasp she withdrew it. “I can certainly testify to that, Miss Carswall. But surely others can do the same? The doctor’s word would naturally carry more weight than mine, and Mrs Frant’s, too.” “It is possible that Mr Frant may dispute the codicil,” she said, colouring again, and more deeply. “You know how it is with families, I daresay: a disputed inheritance can wreak the most fearful havoc.” I said gently, “This codicil, Miss Carswall: why should Mr Frant wish to dispute it?” “I will be frank with you, Mr Shield. It concerns the disposition of a property in Gloucester which had belonged, I believe, to Mr Wavenhoe’s grandmother, that is to say to the grandmother whom he shared with my father. Mr Wavenhoe was sentimentally attached to it on that account, for he had childhood memories of the place. I understand from my father that it is in fact the only one of his properties that is not encumbered with a mortgage. And the codicil now bequeaths it to me.” “May I ask who would have received it if Mr Wavenhoe had not signed the codicil?” “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps my cousin Mrs Frant would have held it in trust for her son. There are a number of small bequests, but apart from those, she and Charlie are the co-heirs, and Mr Frant is appointed the executor. My father and Mr Wavenhoe had quarrelled over a matter of business, you see, so he was not mentioned in the will. Yet, in my uncle’s last hours, when Papa represented to Mr Wavenhoe that he had no quarrel with me, my uncle was much struck by the force of the argument and desired the codicil to be drawn up there and then.” “And Mr Frant?” “Mr Frant was not there. Sophie was in and out of the room but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.” Miss Carswall hesitated and then added in a voice not much above a whisper, “In fact, she put quite the wrong construction upon it. She thought that she was the beneficiary of the codicil.” I remembered her words to Mr Carswall before Mr Wavenhoe had signed the codicil: We must do what my uncle wishes. And thank you. You are very good. Miss Carswall edged a little closer to me and lowered her voice. “I understand that Mr Frant does not believe my uncle was in a fit state to make a decision of this nature, that indeed he had no idea what he was putting his name to.” I nodded without committing myself. Was it possible that Mrs Frant had been tricked, and that I had been an unwitting agent in a scheme to defraud her of an inheritance? Did that explain her altered behaviour to me on the morning after Mr Wavenhoe’s death? “It would not matter so much,” Miss Carswall burst out, “if my uncle’s affairs were not so embarrassed. My father believes that once his debts are paid there will be scarcely enough to settle the household bills. As for the bank – there is such a run on it at present that my father says there is sure to be a suspension of payments and perhaps even a commission of bankruptcy. It will go very hard on Sophie, I fear.” “And on Mr Frant.” “If the bank has run into difficulties, then he must be held at least partly responsible,” Miss Carswall said tartly. “Since my father withdrew from the partnership, Mr Frant has been largely responsible for the conduct of business.” The carriage had left the village, and was now proceeding down a country lane at a walk. Miss Carswall looked up at me. “I must go to the school.” Her voice had softened, had become almost pleading. “I – I scarcely know how to say –” “To say what?” “It is so absurd,” she replied, speaking in a rush. “And in any case it may be quite untrue. But Mr Frant is said to nurse a grudge against you.” “But why should he do that?” “It is said that he feels you should not have witnessed my uncle’s signature.” “It is said? By whom?” “Hush, Mr Shield. I – I heard him talking with my father and the lawyer on the morning after my uncle died. That is to say, I was in the next room, and they did not trouble to lower their voices.” “But why should Mr Frant object to my witnessing the signature? If I had not done it, someone else would have. Does he hold a grudge against the physician as well?” Miss Carswall did not reply. She covered her face with her hands. “Besides, your father was so pressing that I could hardly refuse him,” I said, my mind filling with the memory of Mrs Frant’s cold, pale face in the breakfast room at Albemarle-street. “Nor was there any reason why I should do so.” “I know,” she murmured, peeping at me through her gloved fingers. “I know. But men are not always rational creatures, are they?” Chapter 22 (#ulink_32adf30e-f50c-59fc-a64a-933478a2f34b) On Tuesday the 23rd November, Wavenhoe’s Bank closed its doors for ever. On the same day, two of its customers committed suicide rather than face ruin. When a bank fails, the consequences spread like a contagion through society: fathers rot in the Marshalsea or blow out their brains, mothers take in sewing or walk the pavements, children are withdrawn from school and beg for pennies, servants lose their places and tradesmen’s bills go unpaid; and so the plague spreads, ever outwards, to people who never heard of Wavenhoe’s or Russell-square. “Frant burned his fingers badly when the tobacco market collapsed,” Dansey told me as we smoked our evening pipes in the garden. “I have it on good authority that he had to turn to the Israelites to keep his head above water. Oh, and the servants have left. Always a sure sign of a sinking ship.” On Wednesday there were more suicides and we heard that the bailiffs had gone into that opulent house in Russell-square. Dansey and I stood at a window and watched Charlie Frant, arm in arm with Edgar Allan, marching round the playground and blowing plumes of warm breath into the freezing air. “I pity the boy, of course. But take my advice: have nothing more to do with the Frants, if you can help it. They will only bring you grief.” It was sound advice but I was not able to take it, for the very next day, Thursday, the sad history of the Frants and Wavenhoes reached what many believed to be its catastrophe. The first intelligence we had of the terrible events of the night came at breakfast time. The man who brought the milk communicated it to the maids, and the news set the servants whispering and swaying like a cornfield in a breeze. “Something’s afoot,” Dansey said as we sat with our weak, bitter coffee. “One doesn’t often see them so lively at this hour of the morning.” Afterwards, Morley sidled up to us, with Quird hovering as usual at his elbow. “Please, sir,” he said to Dansey, shifting from one foot to the other, his face glowing with excitement. “Something horrible has happened.” “Then I advise you not to tell me what it is,” Dansey said. “It may distress you further.” “No, sir,” Quird broke in. “Truly, sir, you don’t understand.” Dansey scowled at the boy. “I beg your pardon,” Quird said quickly. “I did not mean to –” “Someone’s been murdered in the night,” Morley broke in, his voice rising in his excitement. “They say his head was smashed into jelly,” Quird whispered. “Torn limb from limb.” “It might have been any of us,” Morley said. “The thief could have broken in and –” “So a thief has turned to murder?” Dansey said. “Perhaps Stoke Newington is not such a humdrum place after all. Where is this interesting event said to have occurred?” “Not exactly in the village, sir,” Morley answered. “Somewhere towards town. Not a stone’s throw from us, not really.” “Ah. I might have known. So Stoke Newington remains as humdrum as ever. When there is news I shall be interested to hear it. In the meantime, I do not propose to waste my few remaining moments of leisure listening to second-hand servants’ gossip. Good morning.” Morley and Quird retreated. We watched them leaving the room. “What tiresomely underbred creatures they are, to be sure,” Dansey said. “I wonder if there is some truth in what they heard.” Dansey shrugged. “Very possibly. No doubt we shall be talking about it for weeks on end. I can imagine nothing more tedious.” This was not affectation on his part. Dansey could be reticent to a fault but he rarely troubled to lie. Indeed, he rarely troubled much with anything; I sometimes wonder what might have become of him if he had. I did not have to wait long to learn more. Part way through morning school Mr Bransby’s servant came to fetch me. I found my employer in the parlour with a small man in grey, mud-stained clothes. Bransby was pacing up and down, his face redder than usual. “Allow me to present Mr Shield, one of my ushers,” he said, pausing to help himself to a large pinch of snuff. “Mr Shield, this is Mr Grout, the attorney who acts as clerk to the magistrates. I regret to say that a most shocking circumstance has come to light, one that may cast a shadow over the school.” Mr Grout had a face that was an appendage of his nose, like a mole’s. “A man has been murdered, Mr Shield. His body was found early this morning by a watchman at a building plot not more than a mile and a half away. There is a possibility that you may be able to identify the unfortunate victim.” I stared in consternation from one to the other. “But I have never been there. I did not even know –” “It is not the location which is our concern,” the clerk interrupted. “It is the identity of the victim. We have reason to believe – I would put it no more strongly than that – that he may not be unknown to you.” Bransby sneezed. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Shield, Wavenhoe’s Bank had an interest in this building projection.” “The bank hold the head-lease on the land themselves. Or perhaps I should say held.” Grout wrinkled his nose. “Owing to the scarcity of money at the present time, the man who holds the principal building-lease, a Mr Owens, was compelled to apply to them for a series of loans. Unfortunately the money the bank provided was not enough to meet his obligations. The poor fellow hanged himself in Hertford a few months ago.” Bransby shook his head. “And now poor Frant has gone to meet his Maker. Truly an unlucky speculation.” “Mr Frant is dead?” I blurted out. “That is the question,” Grout said. “The watchman believes the body is Mr Frant’s. But he met him only once, and that briefly, and he cannot be said to be a reliable witness at the best of times. At such short notice I have been able to find no one in the vicinity who knows Mr Frant. But I understand that he has – had, that is to say – a boy at the school, so I have driven over to see whether someone was able to identify the body; or not, of course, as the case may be. Mr Bransby tells me he has never met Mr Frant either, but that you have.” “Yes, sir, on several occasions. Tell me, what of Mrs Frant? Has she been informed?” Grout shook his head. “It is a delicate matter. One would not like to tell a lady that her husband had been murdered, only to discover that the victim was in fact somebody else. Mr Bransby tells me you have been a soldier, sir, that you were in fact one of our glorious army at Waterloo. I hope I am correct in inferring that the sight of a man who has died a violent death may have fewer terrors for you than it would for a mere civilian.” There was a glazed expression on Mr Bransby’s face. He gave me a tight smile and nodded. I knew I had little choice but to accept the r?le that he had allotted me. Mr Grout bowed to my employer. “Mr Shield should be back in time for dinner.” “Well, the sooner this is done the better.” Bransby fixed me with a glare. “We can only hope and pray that the unfortunate man does not prove to be Mr Frant.” A few minutes later, Mr Grout and I were driving briskly away in his whiskey. We rattled down Church-street and turned right into the High-street. It was on this road, not very far south from here, that I had met Mr Frant for the first time – in September, when I had walked to Stoke Newington to take up my situation at Mr Bransby’s school. I remembered the meeting well enough – as one does when a man more or less threatens to set his servants on one – but he had never shown the slightest recollection of it. It occurred to me that now I had a possible explanation for his presence on the road that day, one that perhaps also accounted for Mr Frant’s bad temper: he had been inspecting one of his failing investments. We turned into a narrow lane between tall hedges. As we bounced and slithered along on a surface of rutted, frozen mud, I glimpsed market gardens and scrubby pasture over the tops of the hedges. Grout squeezed the whiskey into an opening on the left that led to a large field. There was little grass to be seen – merely heaps of sand and gravel, stacks of bricks, and above all mud. Few walls were higher than my waist. The plot looked as if it had recently suffered an artillery bombardment, leaving two rows of ruins separated by an immense heap of spoil. Grout pulled up beside a wooden shed. For a moment we looked out over the dismal scene. “I believe the design is for twenty houses facing each other across a communal garden,” Grout said. “Wellington-terrace. Mr Owens drew up the plans himself. According to the prospectus, Londoners will flock to benefit from the healthy air.” “One can see why he felt obliged to hang himself,” I observed. “I agree – it is not a happy place. Nothing has gone well for the scheme from start to finish.” The door of the shed opened and a man came out, touching his hat. “Ah, there is the constable.” Grout raised his voice. “Well, where is he?” “We brought him in here, sir, just as you said.” Grout glanced at me. “Are you ready, Mr Shield? Then let us wait no longer.” We jumped down from the whiskey and followed the constable over the caked mud into the shed. My eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom. A small stove burned in the corner and filled the air with heavy, acrid fumes. A man huddled beside it, a clay pipe smouldering in his mouth. In the shadows at the back of the shed was the shape of a door laid upon trestles. On the door lay the long, dark mound of a body. I sniffed: in the smoke were other smells: the tang of spirits and the dark effluvium of the charnel house. Grout indicated the man by the stove. “This fellow’s name is Orton, Jacob Orton.” “Late of the Seventy-Third, sir,” said Orton in a mendicant’s whine. “And I have a testimonial from my company commander to prove it.” He raised the hand holding the pipe in a parody of a military salute and a shower of sparks flew like meteors through the air. “They called me Honest Jake in the regiment,” he said. “That’s my name, sir, that’s my nature.” “Are there no more lights in here?” Grout demanded. “It is a terrible dull day, to be sure,” Orton said, sucking on his pipe. Grout darted towards him and seized his lapels. “Are you sure you heard nothing in the night? Think carefully. A lie will cost you dear.” “As God is my witness, sir, I was sleeping as sound as a babe in his mother’s arms.” Orton snuffled. “I could not help it, your worship.” “You’re not paid to sleep: you’re paid to watch.” “Drunk as a pig,” said the constable. “That’s what he means, sir.” “I don’t deny I took a drop of something to keep out the cold.” “Drank so much the Last Judgement could have come without him noticing anything out of the way,” the constable translated. He nodded towards the silent shape that lay on the trestles. “You’ve only got to look at him to see he didn’t go quietly. Ain’t that right, Mr Grout?” The clerk ignored the question. He turned aside and tugged at the sacking over one of the windows, which were small and set high to dissuade thieves. The sacking fell away, revealing an unglazed square. Pale winter daylight spread reluctantly through the little cabin. Orton whinnied softly, as though the light hurt him. “Stow it,” said the constable. “He moved,” Orton whispered. “I take my oath on it. I saw his hand move. Just then, as God’s my witness.” “Your wits are wandering,” Grout said. “Bring the lantern. Why is there not more light? Perhaps we should have left the poor man where he lay.” “There’s foxes, and a terrible deal of rats,” Orton said. Grout motioned me to approach the makeshift table. The body was entirely covered with a grey blanket, with the exception of the left hand. “Dear God!” I ejaculated. “You must brace yourself, Mr Shield. The face is worse.” His voice seemed to come from a great distance. I stared at the wreck of the hand. I bent closer and the constable shone the light full on it. It had been reduced to a bloody pulp of flesh, skin and shockingly white splinters of bone. I fought an impulse to vomit. “The top joints of the forefinger appear to be missing,” I said in a thin, precise voice. “I know Mr Frant had sustained a similar injury.” Grout let out his breath in a sigh. “Are you ready for the rest?” I nodded. I did not trust myself to speak. The constable set down the lantern on the corner of the door, raised himself on tiptoe, took the top two corners of the blanket and slowly pulled it back. The figure lay supine and as still as an effigy. The constable lifted the lantern and held it up to the head. I shuddered and took a step back. Grout gripped my elbow. My mind darkened. For an instant I thought the darkness was outside me, that the flame in the lantern had died and that the day had slipped with tropical suddenness into night. I was aware of a powerful odour of faeces and sweat, of stale tobacco and gin. “He should think himself lucky,” Orton wheezed at my shoulder. “I mean, look at him, most of him’s hardly touched. Lucky bugger, eh? You should see what roundshot fair and square in the belly can do to a man. Now that’s what I call damage. I remember at Waterloo –” “Hold your tongue, damn you,” I said, obscurely angry that this man seemed not to have spent the battle cowering in the shadow of a dead horse. “You block the light, Orton,” Grout said, unexpectedly mild. “Move aside.” I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the sights and sounds and smells that struggled to fill the darkness around me. This was not a battle: this was merely a corpse. “Are you able to come to an opinion?” Grout inquired. “I realise that the face is – is much battered.” I opened my eyes. The man on the trestle table was hatless. There were still patches of frost on both clothes and hair. It had been a cold night to spend in the open. He wore a dark, many-caped greatcoat – not a coachman’s but a gentleman’s luxurious imitation. Underneath I glimpsed a dark blue coat, pale brown breeches and heavy riding boots. The hair was greying at the temples, cut short. As to the face, it was everyone’s and no one’s. Only one eye was visible – God alone knew what had happened to the other – and it seemed to me that its colour was a pale blue-grey. “He – he is much changed, of course,” I said, and the words were as weak and inadequate as the light from the lantern. “But everything I see is consonant with what I know of Mr Frant – the colour of the hair, that is to say, the colour of the eyes – that is, of the eye – and the build and the height as far as I can estimate them.” “The clothes?” “I cannot help you there.” “There is also a ring.” Grout walked round the head of the table, keeping as far away from it as he could. “It is still on the other hand, so the motive for this dreadful deed appears not to have been robbery. Pray come round to this side.” I obeyed like one in a trance. I was unable to look away from what lay on the table. The greatcoat was smeared with mud. A dark patch spread like a sinister bib across the chest. I thought I discerned splinters of exposed bone in the red ruin of the face. The single eye seemed to follow me. “Now take cavalry,” Orton suggested from his dark corner near the stove. “When they’re bunched together, and charging, so the horses can’t choose where they put their hooves. If there’s a man lying on the ground, wounded, say, there’s not a lot anyone can do. Cuts a man up cruelly, I can tell you. You wouldn’t believe.” “Stow your mag,” said the constable wearily. “Least he’s got a peeper left on him,” Orton went on. “The crows used to go for the eyes, did you know that?” The constable cuffed him into silence. Grout held the lantern low so I could examine the right hand of the corpse. Like the left, it had been reduced to a bloody pulp. On the forefinger was the great gold signet ring. “I must have air,” I said. I pushed past Grout and the constable and blundered through the doorway. The clerk followed me outside. I stared over the desolate prospect of frosty mud and raw brick. Three pigeons rose in alarm from the bare branches of an oak tree that survived from a time when the land had not been given over to wild schemes and lost fortunes. Grout pushed a flask into my hand. I took a mouthful of brandy, and spluttered as the heat ran down to my belly. He walked up and down, clapping his gloved hands together against the cold. “Well, sir?” he said. “What is your verdict?” “I believe it is Mr Henry Frant.” “You cannot be certain?” “His face … it is much damaged.” “You remarked the missing finger.” “Yes.” “It supports the identification.” “True.” I hesitated and then burst out: “But who could have done such a thing? The violence of the attack passes all belief.” Grout shrugged. His eyes strayed towards the nearest of the half-built houses. “Would you care to see where the deed was done? It is not a sight for the squeamish, but it is as nothing compared with what you have already seen.” “I should be most interested.” The brandy had given me false courage. He led me along a line of planks that snaked precariously across the mud. The house was a house in name only. Low walls surrounded the shallow pit of the cellar, perhaps two or three feet below the surface of the field in which we stood. Grout jumped into it with the alacrity of a sparrow looking for breadcrumbs. I followed him, narrowly avoiding a pool of fresh excrement. He pointed with his stick at the further corner. Despite his warning, there was little to see, apart from puddles of icy water and, abutting the brickwork in the angle of the wall, an irregular patch of earth which was darker than the rest, darker because shadowed with Henry Frant’s blood. “Were there footprints?” I asked. “Surely such a struggle must have left a number of marks?” Grout shook his head. “Unfortunately the scene has had a number of visitors since the deed was committed. Besides, the ground was hard with frost.” “When did Orton make the discovery?” “Shortly after it was light. When he woke, he found that while he slept someone had wedged the door of the shed. He had to crawl out through one of the windows. He came here to relieve himself, which was when he found the corpse.” Grout’s nose wrinkled. “First he alerted a neighbouring farmer, who came to gawp with half a dozen of his men. Then the magistrates. If there were footprints, or other marks, they will not be easy to distinguish from those which were made before or afterwards.” “What of Mr Frant’s hat and gloves? How did he come here? And why should he come at that time of evening?” “If we knew the answers to those questions, Mr Shield, we would no doubt know the identity of the murderer. We found the hat beside the body. It is in the shed now, and has Mr Frant’s name inside. And the gloves were beneath the body itself.” “That is odd, is it not, sir?” “How so?” “That a man should remove his gloves on such a cold night.” “The affair as a whole is a tissue of strange and contradictory circumstances. Mr Frant’s pockets had been emptied. Yet the ring was left on his finger.” Grout rubbed his pointed nose, whose tip was pink with cold. “The principal weapon might have been a hammer or a similar instrument,” he went on, the words tumbling out at such a rate that I realised that he, too, was not unmoved by the dreadful sight on the trestle table. “Though it is possible that the assailant also used a brick.” He scrambled out of the cellar and we walked slowly back towards the shed. “They may have come here on foot,” Grout said. “But more likely they rode or drove. Someone will have seen them on the way.” “Ruined men can be driven to desperate measures, and it is not impossible that one of those whom Mr Frant injured has had his mind overturned by his troubles, and has sought revenge.” Grout gave me a long look. “Or this might be the work of a jealous lover. Or a madman.” There was nothing more for me to do at Wellington-terrace. As Mr Grout drove me back to school, I sat in silence beside him, my mind too full for conversation. We passed the flask to and fro between us. It was empty by the time we drew up outside the Manor House School. I said, “May I tell Mr Bransby what has passed?” Grout shrugged. “He either knows or surmises everything you or I could tell him. So will the whole neighbourhood in an hour or two.” “There is the matter of the boy. Mr Frant’s son.” “Indeed. Mr Bransby must do what he thinks fit on that head.” He bobbed his nose towards me. “I do not know how the magistrates will proceed, and if I did know, it would not be proper for me to tell you. However, there will be an inquest, and you may be required to attend. In the meantime, though –” he spread his arms wide “– there will be talk. That much I do know.” Chapter 23 (#ulink_f77835c0-b454-5bde-8186-5c499bfce83b) In the evening of that terrible day, I smoked a pipe with Dansey in the garden after the boys were in bed. We walked up and down, huddled in our greatcoats. Soon after my return, Mr Bransby had summoned Charlie Frant. The boy had not been seen since. A message had been sent for Edgar Allan to take his friend’s possessions to Mr Bransby’s side of the house. “It is said a man has been arrested already,” Dansey said softly. “Who?” “I do not know.” I bowed my head. “But why did the murderer mutilate the body?” “A man in search of revenge is a man out of his senses. If it was revenge.” “Yes, but the hands?” “In Arabia, they cut off the thief’s hands. We used to do it here, I believe, or something similar. Crushing the hands in the manner you described might be another form of the practice. Perhaps Mr Frant’s killer believed his victim was a thief.” Our pipes hissed and bubbled. At the foot of the garden, we turned, and stood for a moment under the shelter of the trees looking back at the house. Dansey sighed. “Come what may, this affair will make a considerable noise in the world. Pray do not think me impertinent if I speak for a moment in the character of a friend, but I would advise you to keep your own counsel.” “I am obliged to you. But why do you make such a point of this?” “I hardly know. The Frants are great folk. When great folk fall, they bring down smaller folk in their train.” He sucked on his pipe. “It is a thousand pities you were called upon to identify the body. You should not have had to appear in this matter at all.” I shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to push from my mind the memory of that bloodied carcass I had seen in the morning. “Shall we go in? It grows cold.” “As you wish.” It seemed to me that there was a note of regret in Dansey’s voice. We walked slowly back to the house – slowly, because his footsteps lagged. The moon was very bright, and our feet crunched on the silver lawn. The house reared up in front of us, the moon full on its garden front. Dansey laid a hand on my arm. “Tom? I may call you that, may I not? Pray call me Ned. I do not wish –” “Hush,” I said. “Look – someone is watching us. Do you see? The third attic from the left.” The window belonged to the chamber Morley and Quird had shared with Charlie Frant. We quickened our pace, and a moment later passed into the house. “Moonlight plays strange tricks,” Dansey said. I shook my head. “I saw a face. Just for a moment.” That night I slept dreamlessly, though I had feared my nightmares of carnage would return after the sight I had seen in Jacob Orton’s shed. In my waking hours, the school itself was better than any medicine. For the next few days, our lives continued their placid course, seemingly unchanged. Nevertheless, news continued to reach us from the outside world. The man who had been taken into custody was the brother of the builder, Mr Owens, who had committed suicide. The brother was said to be subject to fits of ungovernable rage; reputable witnesses had heard him utter threats against Henry Frant, whom he held responsible for his brother’s suicide; he was a violent man, and had nearly killed a neighbour whom he suspected of making sheep’s eyes at his wife. But the following day, the magistrates ordered his release. It transpired that he had spent the evening of the night in question drinking at his uncle’s house, and had shared a bed with his cousin; and so his family would give him an alibi. The inquest came and went. I was not called to give evidence, much to my relief and to Mr Bransby’s. Mr Frant’s confidential clerk, a man named Arndale who had known him for the better part of twenty years, had no hesitation in identifying the body as his master’s. The jury brought in a verdict of murder against person or persons unknown. Despite the horrific manner of his death, there were few expressions of grief for Mr Frant or of sympathy for his widow. As information emerged about the collapse of Wavenhoe’s Bank and the reasons for it, the public prints hastened to condemn him. The extent of Frant’s depredations was never known for certain, but I heard sums ranging from ?200,000 to upwards of half a million. Many of the bank’s customers, secure in the good name of Wavenhoe’s, had appointed Mr Wavenhoe and Mr Frant as their trustees. As such, Frant had purchased hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of stock in the three per cent Consols. In the last three years, he had forged powers of attorney enabling him to sell this stock. Mr Wavenhoe had signed the documents put before him, though doubtless he was unaware of their significance. The name of a third partner, another of the trustees, had been forged on all occasions, as had several of the subscribing witnesses. Mr Frant had converted the proceeds from these sales to his own use, retaining sufficient funds to allow him to pay dividends to the bank’s customers, thereby preventing their suspicions from being aroused. Arndale, Frant’s clerk, claimed to have known nothing of this. (Dansey thought the man had avoided prosecution by co-operating with the authorities.) Arndale confirmed that the house had been badly hit by the withdrawal of Mr Carswall’s capital. He also testified that the bank had made many advances to speculative builders, which had rendered necessary a system of discounting, and that Mr Frant had subsequently been obliged to make further advances to these persons, in order to secure the sums in which they already stood indebted. In addition, rumours continued to circulate to the effect that Mr Frant had been addicted to play, and that he had lost large sums of money at cards and at dice in private houses. “Whoever killed him did the hangman a favour,” Dansey said. “If Frant weren’t already dead, they’d have tried him for forgery and sent him to the gallows for uttering.” At the time there was much speculation as to whether Mrs Frant had been privy to her husband’s schemes. Some found her doubly guilty by association, for was she not the wife of one partner and the niece of another? Not everyone agreed. “A man does not discuss his business dealings with his wife,” Dansey argued. “No, she is guilty merely by association. The public prefers a living scapegoat, if at all possible.” What made matters worse was that Mrs Frant had no one to speak in her defence. Mr Carswall had given her the shelter of his roof but he remained silent on this head and on all others. She was said to be suffering from a fever, her spirits quite overthrown by the double tragedy of her husband’s murder and the revelation of his crimes. As for Charlie, he stumbled like an automaton through the days. I wondered that Mr Carswall did not remove him from the school. Boys are unpredictable creatures. I had expected his schoolfellows would bait him, that they would make him suffer for his father’s crimes. Instead, most of them left him alone. Indeed, when they did not ignore him, they handled him with a certain rough kindness. He looked ill, and they dealt with him as though he were. Edgar Allan rarely left his side. The young American treated his friend with a solicitude and a delicacy of sentiment which was unusual in one so young. Delicacy of sentiment, however, was not a characteristic which could be attributed to either Morley or Quird. Nor was common decency. I came across them fighting with Allan and Frant in a corner of their schoolroom. Morley and Quird were so much older and so much heavier that it was not so much a fight as a massacre. For once, I intervened. I flogged Morley and Quird on the spot and ordered them to wait on me that evening, so that I might flog them again. “Are you sure you want to do that, sir?” Morley asked softly when he and Quird appeared before me at the appointed time. “I shall beat you all the more if you don’t take that insolent smile off your face.” “It’s only, sir, that me and Quird happened to see you and Mr Dansey the other night.” “Quird and I, Morley, Quird and I. The pronoun is part of a compound nominative plural.” “Smoking under the trees, you were.” “Then be damned to you for a pair of snivelling, spying scrubs,” I snarled, my rage boiling over. “And why were you not in bed, pray?” Morley had the impudence to ignore my question. “And we saw you and him, sir, on other nights.” I stared at him, my anger rapidly subsiding. A show of anger has its uses when you are dealing with boys, but ungovernable passion must always be deplored. “Bend over,” I ordered. He did not move. “Perhaps, sir, it is my duty to inform Mr Bransby. We must all listen to the voice of conscience. He abhors the practice of –” “You may tell Mr Bransby what you like,” I said. “First, however, you will bend over and I shall thrash you as you’ve never been thrashed before.” The smile vanished from Morley’s broad, malevolent face. “This is most unwise, sir, if I may say so.” The words were measured, but his voice rose into a squeak at the end when I hit him a backhanded blow across the mouth. He tried to protest but I caught him by the throat, swung him round and flung him across the chair that served as our place of execution. He did not move. I dragged up his coat-tails and flogged him. There was no anger in it now: I was cold and deliberate. One could not let a boy take such a haughty tone. By the time I let him go he could hardly walk, and Quird had to half carry him away. Nevertheless the incident left me shaken, though Morley had richly deserved his beating. I had never flogged a boy so brutally before, or given way to my passions. I wondered if the murder of Henry Frant had affected me in ways I had not suspected. What I did not even begin to suspect until later was that Morley may have known Dansey better than I did, and that his meaning had been quite other than I had supposed. Nine days after the murder, on Saturday the 4th December, I received a summons to Mr Bransby’s private room. He was not alone. Overflowing from an elbow chair beside the desk was the large, ungainly form of Mr Carswall. His daughter perched demurely on a sofa in front of the fire. As I entered, Carswall glared up at me through tangled eyebrows and then down at the open watch in his hand. “You must make haste,” he said. “Otherwise we shall not get back to Town in daylight.” Astonished, I looked from one man to the other. “You are to accompany Charles Frant to Mr Carswall’s,” Bransby said. “His father is to be buried on Monday.” Chapter 24 (#ulink_62812168-af59-523b-b70c-cd39f4496bec) “I am a bastard,” Miss Carswall said to me on the Monday evening after Mr Frant’s funeral. I was so shocked by her immodesty I did not know how to reply. I glanced at the door, fearing it might be open, that her words had been overheard. At the time Miss Carswall and I were alone in the drawing room of her father’s house in Margaret-street; Charlie had run upstairs to fetch a book. She fixed me with her brown eyes. “Let us call things by their proper names. That is what I wished to tell you in Albemarle-street. The day when Charlie interrupted.” “It is of no significance,” I said, feeling I must say something. She stamped her foot. “Had you been a bastard yourself, you would know how foolish that sounds.” “I beg your pardon. I did not make my meaning clear. I did not mean that it was of no significance to you, or indeed in the general scheme of things. I – I meant merely that it was of no significance to me.” “You knew, sir, admit it. Someone had told you.” Miss Carswall glared at me for a moment. She had the fair, almost translucent skin that so often goes with auburn hair. She looked captivating in a passion. “My papa does not choose to advertise the circumstances of my birth,” she went on after a moment’s silence. “Which in itself has been a matter of some inconvenience to me. It can lead to situations in which people – that is to say – they may approach me under false pretences.” “You need not trouble yourself on my account, Miss Carswall,” I said. She studied the toes of her pretty little slippers. “I believe my mother was the daughter of a respectable farmer. I never knew her – she died before I was a year old.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. When I was six, my father sent me to board at a seminary in Bath. I stayed there until I was fifteen, when I went to live with my cousin, Mrs Frant. Papa and Mr Frant were then on friendly terms, you see. Mr Frant was in America on the bank’s business, so there were just the three of us, Mrs Frant, little Charlie and me. I wish …” “What do you wish?” “I wish I could have stayed there. But my father’s wife died, so there was no longer an obstacle to my living with him. And he and Mr Frant had quarrelled, so it was not convenient for me to stay in Russell-square. So I came here.” She spoke jerkily now, as though pumping the words from a deep reservoir of her being. “As a sort of companion. A sort of housekeeper. A sort of daughter. Or even – Ah, I scarcely know what. All those things and none of them. When my father brings his friends to the house, they do not know what I am. I do not know what I am.” She broke off and sat down on the little sofa by the fire. Her bosom rose and fell in her agitation. “I am honoured you should take me into your confidence,” I said softly. She looked up at me. “I am glad the funeral is over. They always make me hippish. No one came, did they, no one but that American gentleman. You would not think it now but in his life Henry Frant had so many people proud to call him friend.” “The American gentleman?” “Mr Noak. He knew Mr Frant, it appears, and Mr Rush the American Minister introduced him to Papa and me a few weeks ago.” “I have met him, I believe. Mr Noak, that is to say.” She frowned. “When?” “He was at Russell-square once, just after his arrival from America. I saw him later, too, in Albemarle-street on the night Mr Wavenhoe died.” “But why should he come to the funeral? They do not appear to have been intimate friends, and Mr Frant’s crimes have turned his other friends into strangers.” “I do not know.” I looked into her face. “Can you not ask him yourself?” She shook her head. “I scarcely know him. We were introduced, but he has no conversation. Anyway, why should he wish to waste his time talking nonsense to a chit of a girl?” I made no reply, for none was needed, or not in words. The question hung in the air between us and she blushed. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other. Flora was never beautiful but when she smiled it made your heart leap. “Poor dear Sophie – Mrs Frant,” she said suddenly, perhaps eager to steer the conversation elsewhere. “She has nothing, you know, nothing left at all. Mr Frant even took the rest of her jewels. She had given him most of them already but on the day he went away he broke into a drawer of her dressing table and took what was left – the ones that were especially dear to her, that she hoped to save from the wreckage.” “The jewels were not found?” “No – it is presumed the murderer took them. Still, Sophie is not without friends, Mr Shield – not while I am here. She is as dear to me as an elder sister. My home shall be hers for as long as she needs it.” There were running footsteps on the stairs. Miss Carswall darted a glance at me, as if to assess the effect of her edifying sentiments, and turned aside to thread a needle by the light of the candle on her worktable. Charlie burst into the room, instantly slowing to the sedate, sober walk of one who has buried his father on that day. He wore deepest mourning but at unguarded moments his face gave the lie to his appearance of sorrow. I believed him deeply shocked by Mr Frant’s murder – how could he not be? – but I do not think he ever grieved for his father. He sat down by the fire. Miss Carswall took up a piece of embroidery. I opened my copy of Boethius’s De Consolatione. Occasionally a page rustled or the hand with the needle would move, but I do not think any of us did much work. It had been very cold that day, and I was still chilled to the bone. The gloom of the occasion afflicted us all in our different ways. Mr Frant’s funeral had been at St George the Martyr’s near Russell-square, and now his body was interred in the burying ground north of the Foundling Hospital. Somewhere above our heads lay Mrs Frant, attended by Mrs Kerridge. The widow had insisted on attending her husband’s funeral, which had brought a recurrence of the fever. It had been at Mrs Frant’s request that Charlie had been withdrawn from school for the rest of term, and that I had been hired to provide him with tuition and masculine company. According to Miss Carswall in one of her moments of indiscretion, Mrs Frant had worked herself into such a passion when Carswall initially opposed this plan that the doctors had feared for her life. Now the three of us sat in silence, pretending to be usefully occupied but in fact lost in our thoughts and waiting for the footman to bring the tea-tray. But my thirst was destined to remain unquenched, for when the man appeared, he desired me to wait on Mr Carswall. I went downstairs. The house was east of Cavendish-square, smaller in size and less fashionable in location than I had expected from Mr Carswall’s reputation for wealth. I found him in the back parlour on the floor below. Cigar in hand, he was sitting in an armchair before a large fire. “Shield, shut the door quickly, will you? It’s damned cold. Funerals always give me a chill. Stand there, man, stand in the light where I can see you.” He looked me up and down for a moment. “Charlie tells me you was a soldier. One of the nation’s heroes at Waterloo.” “I was there, sir, certainly.” He brayed with laughter, opening and then snapping shut his mouth as though catching a fly. “I could never see the purpose of lining up to be killed, myself. Still, I allow that it is valuable for the country if some of its young men think otherwise.” He took up a glass from a table at his elbow and sipped. “They tell me you saw Harry Frant dead.” “Yes, sir.” “Lying where he fell, was he? Wellington-terrace, ha! That was an unlucky speculation if you like. And all to end in a dark and gloomy cellar.” “The cellar was open to the sky, sir. The walls of the houses were not more than a few feet above the ground. Besides, though I saw where he had been killed, by the time I reached the place he had been moved. He lay in a shed nearby.” “Oh.” Carswall cleared the phlegm from his throat with a great rumble. “They never told me that. I understand the body had been much mutilated.” “That is correct.” “How? Spit it out, man. You need not mince your words. I may not have been a soldier but I am not lily-livered.” “The public journals said he had been attacked with a hammer.” “Very true. One was found in a hedgerow. There was blood on it, they said, and hairs. In your opinion, having seen the injuries, could that have been the instrument used?” “Very possibly, sir. Mr Frant had been much beaten about the head. Indeed, one eye had been quite put out.” “But you believe it was he?” “I could not be sure. The hair, the height, the clothes – even the hands: everything supported that conclusion.” “Yet the face was unrecognisable. That is the long and the short of it, is it not?” “If it was not he, there was certainly a general similarity in appearance. The cast of features, the –” “Granted,” Carswall interrupted. “But what of the hands?” “Mr Frant’s ring was on his right hand. The top joints of the forefinger on the other hand were missing.” “They were a gentleman’s hands?” I shrugged. “It is hard to say. They too had been much marked. Nor did I have either the opportunity or inclination to examine them closely. Besides, the light was not good.” Carswall consulted a watch he took from his waistcoat pocket. He sighed as though he did not like what it told him. For a moment, he stared into the depths of the fire. His cravat was loosened, his breeches were unbuttoned at the waist and the knee. His coat was crumpled and stained, his hair in disarray. But his mind was capable of such vigour, his habitual manner of speech was so emphatic, that one often forgot that he was an old, sick man. Suddenly he glanced up and smiled at me and the effect was blinding. It was as though his daughter had smiled: a similar rearrangement of features into something so different from what had been before. “You see where these questions are tending, do you not?” “The finger.” He nodded. “Were you able to form an opinion as to whether the amputation had been of recent date or not?” “In the circumstances I suspect even a medical man would have found it hard to decide.” “What of the skin beneath the clothes?” “I did not have an opportunity to examine it.” I hesitated. “The skin of a cadaver is not like that of a living man. The body had been outside all night. It was very cold. Unless there were distinguishing marks, such as a scar or a mole –” “There were not.” Carswall brooded and drank wine. Only two candles were lit, one at either end of the mantel-shelf. The room was full of shadows. I thought of the cave that Plato describes in his Republic: here were the shadows and the fire; but would I ever be able to see what lay beyond the other side of the fire, in the sunlit real world? Or would the Frants and the Carswalls keep me for ever trapped in their cave? “I will be plain with you,” Carswall said. “But first I must ask you to respect my confidence. Will you give me your word?” “Yes, sir.” “Mrs Frant tells me that on two occasions a disreputable fellow came to Stoke Newington and pestered Charlie. And that on the first occasion, he tried to assault, or perhaps seize, the boy, and that you were at hand to effect a rescue. Is that true?” “Yes, sir. Though –” “And on the second occasion, the man was sufficiently in funds to give the lads a tip.” Carswall held up a hand, preventing me from speaking. “Now here is something you don’t know. On the Friday before he died, as Mr Frant was walking through Russell-square on his way home at about midday, he was accosted outside his house by a man who answered to the description that both you and Charlie had given of the stranger in Stoke Newington. Mrs Frant chanced to be looking out of the drawing-room window. She remarked the circumstance particularly, because at that time they were much plagued by creditors. This man did not seem to be a creditor, however, or a bailiff, or anyone of that nature. Though Mrs Frant could not hear the words of their conversation, it was clear from his gestures that Mr Frant was angry and that the other man was cowed by his anger. Mr Frant came into the house and the other man walked rapidly away. Mrs Frant asked her husband when he came up who the man had been. And here is the strangest circumstance of all: Frant flatly denied that he’d been talking with anyone.” Carswall paused, poked his forefinger through the gap between two buttons of his waistcoat and scratched his belly. “Now why would he wish to do that, do you think?” “I cannot say, sir.” “I wonder. Mrs Frant believes you had private business with her husband.” “It is true that on one occasion I was able to be of service to Mr Frant.” I turned away, so that he could not see my face. “I confess I do not understand why you find this meeting that Mrs Frant witnessed to be of such significance in the matter of Mr Frant’s death.” “I should have been surprised if you had. I have not told you the whole of it yet. The drawing-room window was open, despite the cold, because Mrs Frant had been airing the room. The stranger raised his voice, and she heard him quite distinctly say the words Wellington-terrace. Moreover, she believes – though I do not know how much weight one should attach to this – that the man had an Irish or perhaps American accent.” Carswall tapped the arm of his chair with the base of the glass. “I do not deny that her ears may have heard, at least in memory, what she wanted to hear. One more thing: she is convinced that the private business you had with her husband had to do with the stranger in Stoke Newington. She is barely well enough to speak at present but she charged me to lay all this before you.” I bowed my head. A wave of shame swept over me. “You would not wish to make her suffering worse, I take it?” Carswall said. “No, sir.” “Then you can have no objection to disclosing whatever you know.” “Very well. After the man’s first visit to Stoke Newington, Mr Frant was naturally concerned for the safety of his son. I saw the man again, by chance, one afternoon in Long Acre. I gave chase and eventually ran him down and heard his story. He is an American, he told me, but of Irish descent. He called himself David Poe. The reason for his visit to Stoke Newington was not Charlie or Mr Frant. Charlie’s friend Edgar Allan was the object of his interest.” “Allan? The son of the American who lives in Southampton-row? The Mr Allan who was badly hit when the tobacco market collapsed?” “I cannot comment on Mr Allan’s business dealings, sir, but he is certainly the father of Edgar Allan – or rather the foster father. Young Edgar makes no bones about the fact that he has been adopted. This David Poe claimed to be his natural father.” “Why should he turn up now after all these years?” “He hoped for money.” I hesitated. “I think, too, there may have been an element of paternal affection in him. Or at least of curiosity.” Carswall blew his nose long and loud into a large yellow handkerchief. “I do not understand. On the second occasion, he gave them money.” “Yes, sir. I can only infer that in the interim Mr Poe’s material circumstances had considerably improved.” Carswall consulted his watch. “There is another point: Mrs Frant made it quite clear that on that first occasion the man was interested in Charlie, not in the other boy.” “I believe it probable that Poe made a mistake. I should make it clear that at the time the man seemed inebriated. Also, there is a certain resemblance between the two boys.” “A double, eh?” “Not precisely, sir. There is a similarity, no more than that.” Carswall threw the butt of his cigar into the fire. “Tell me, were you able to establish where the man lives?” “In St Giles. He would not say exactly where, but he informed me that he is often to be found at the Fountain, where he works as a screever.” “And you told Frant all this?” “Yes, sir.” “Some time after this, the man Poe reappears in Stoke Newington, with his circumstances miraculously changed for the better. Later, Mrs Frant sees her husband talking with a man, who may be this Poe, in Russell-square, an encounter her husband afterwards denies, and also overhears the words Wellington-terrace. Later still, a body which purports to be that of Mr Frant is discovered foully murdered in Wellington-terrace. Well? How does that strike you?” “On the present evidence, sir, it is impossible to judge whether these circumstances are connected, whether they are in some way linked.” Carswall hammered the heel of his left hand against the arm of the chair. “Don’t lecture me, young man. That’s the trouble with you bumbrushers, you treat the world as your schoolroom. Now – how well do you know St Giles?” “I have walked there on occasion.” “For pleasure?” When I did not answer, he gave another of his laughs, a strange, hard, almost inhuman sound that could have come from the mouth of a great bird. “Do you know the Fountain?” “It’s somewhere north of the church,” I said. “Near Lawrence-street, I believe.” “Will you go there tomorrow and seek out Mr Poe?” “I am, sir, as you remind me, a schoolmaster, and –” “Just so, just so, Mr Shield. You are also a man who has seen something of the world. And you are the only person I am aware of, with the possible exception of Mrs Frant herself, who knows what this man Poe looks like.” “But Mrs Frant has charged me to look after her son.” “God damn it, am I not paying for the privilege of your presence?” The rich assume we are in their power, and usually they are right. For now, I was scarcely more than one of Carswall’s servants. If I aroused his ire, he would speak to Mr Bransby and I would be out of my place. He pressed the repeater button on his watch and it emitted a tiny chime. “Besides,” he said gently, “I am not asking you to do this for me. I am asking you to do this for Mrs Frant herself. And I know you will not refuse me.” Chapter 25 (#ulink_848526a7-926d-55e3-8432-ef09d390ef4e) The following morning, I slipped out of the house, made my way through the market to Oxford-street, and walked eastwards towards St Giles. I had purchased an old, patched coat from the man who brought the kindling. I carried a heavy stick, borrowed from Mr Carswall. It was a foul day, the air rendered almost opaque by a yellow fog that found its way into the mouth and tasted like soot. I blundered along the pavements colliding with my fellow pedestrians, and on one occasion nearly losing my life to a passing coal cart. In the days of what they were pleased to call my lunacy, I would often wander in the Rookeries of St Giles-in-the-Fields. The worst parts were north of the church in that dark lozenge of courts and alleys and lanes that lay between Bainbridge-street, George-street and the High-street. I was never molested, though, even by the dogs that ran wild in the streets. Misery calls to misery. They had known I was one of them. As I drew nearer the black heart of the place, the smells and the noise rose up to greet me, enveloping me, sucking at me, as though they were but extensions of the fog. The Rookeries were a place where the natural order of things was reversed: where victims became beasts of prey, and preyed in turn on their natural enemy. I turned off the High-street into Lawrence-street. A woman wearing but a shift despite the cold tore at my coat with fingers as small as a child’s. I brushed past her and in my hurry stumbled over a lean pig ambling through the pool of muck extending into the roadway from the mouth of an alley. A pair of urchins ran after the animal, shouting shrill obscenities in their excitement. I hurried on. I passed a woman swathed in grey blankets, huddled in a doorway, with a baby at her breast. She held out a bare, scrawny arm to me and beckoned. “I’ll make you happy, dearie,” she cried in a thin, reedy whine. And I heard her cursing me in the same, unchanging voice as I left her behind. “And would you spare a copper for an old soldier to drink His Majesty’s health?” a husky voice inquired from the level of my knees. I glanced down and saw a red-faced man without legs, huddled on a low trolley. “Would you direct me to the Fountain? It is not far from here, is it?” “His Majesty’s health,” the man insisted. I found a penny in my pocket and dropped it into his waiting palm. His fingers closed around the coin. “There’s an alley on the left halfway between Church-street and George-street: cut up there and you’ll find it.” But his eyes darted towards a knot of drinkers spilling from an alehouse. It was enough to put me on my guard and I hurried away, swinging my stick and looking as sour and formidable as I could. Philanthropy is a luxury. You do not find it in the Rookeries, where even the indulgence of a charitable impulse may exact a price. I reached the entrance to the alley. The way was unpaved, no more than four feet wide, and its surface was thickly covered with a tide of mud and excrement, human and animal, part moist, part frozen. The passage was densely populated with sleeping, drinking and talking figures. Two little girls sat in the filth, nursing bundles of rags and making patties from dirt. Scarcely a yard away, a man and a woman groaned and grunted in an act of copulation that seemed to bring more pain than pleasure. With my stick held menacingly before me, I waded through the crowd. From the fog-filled court at the end of the alley came a slow dancing melody, “St Patrick’s Day”, played on a fiddle. I had heard that tune before, when we were quartered next to an Irish regiment. They called the Rookeries the Holy Land or Little Dublin because of the destitute Irish who drained into it from the rest of the city, and the rest of the kingdom. I reached the gloomy little court at the end of the alley. The building on the right bore a crudely executed signboard showing a fountain. I pushed open the door and, stepping over yet another crawling infant, entered what appeared to be the taproom. It was low and dark, no more than twelve-foot square, and it must have contained at least thirty people. I pushed my way through the press until I came across a woman built like a guardsman with a great leather belt round her waist from which depended a leather pouch and a bunch of keys. I swept off my hat and executed, as best I could in the confined space, a courtly bow. “Madam,” I said, “perhaps you could help me. I am looking for Mr Poe the screever.” She took a long swallow from a tankard in her hand and set it down on a nearby shelf. Turning back towards me, she wiped the foam from her moustache and said, “I am afraid you are come too late.” Her eyelids fluttered over small brown eyes like specks of dried fruit in a pudding. “A gentleman with a wonderful fund of poetry. Such recitations we had of an evening. And such a gentlemanly hand, too, he was never short of work. A petition here, a letter of advice and admonition to a beloved child there, a plea to an aged parent beyond the seas.” She took another swallow from her tankard. “Mr Poe has a style for each eventuality.” “But he is no longer with you, madam?” “Alas, no, though he had the bed by the window in my second-floor front for so long he was like one of the family. ‘Maria, my love,’ he’d say to me, ‘you treat me like a king; you are my queen and this room is our palace.’” She brought her face close to mine and grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of pink, swollen gums. I smelled the sour tang of spirits and the rich, dark odour of rotting meat. “Why, I could show you the room, if you liked, sir. ‘Such a comfortable bed,’ Mr Poe used to say, and he had no need to share it, not unless he wished to, if you take my meaning. Well? Should you like to see it with me?” “You’re too kind, madam. Unfortunately, I have pressing business with Mr Poe –” “There’s pressing and pressing, I always say,” Maria said, nudging me with her great bosom. “Not so pressing, I hope, that you may not take a glass of something warm to keep out the chill? Once this fog gets in the lungs, it can do for a man in a matter of days. My first husband was consumptive, and my third.” I recognised the force of the inevitable, and requested that she might do me the honour of taking a glass of spirits with me. She relieved me of a shilling, opened a hatch above her shelf and produced tumblers of gin and water. Shortly afterwards, my hostess became indisposed. First she leaned back against the wall and, grasping my shoulders with a pair of muscular hands, informed me that I was a fine figure of a man. She attempted to kiss me, then drank some more gin and wept a little for her third husband, who she said had touched her heart more than the others. “Mr Poe’s direction, madam,” I broke in. “You were so kind as to say you would let me have it.” “Mr Poe,” she wailed, trying without success to throw her apron over her head. “My Mr Poe has forsaken his little love bird. He has flown our happy nest.” “Yes, madam – but where?” “Seven Dials.” She sniffed, and suddenly she might have been as sober as a nun. “Got himself a job clerking for a gent, he said, needed to move nearer his new place of employment. Truth was, Fountain-court wasn’t good enough for him no more.” “Where in Seven Dials?” “He lodges in a house in Queen-street.” As she spoke, her legs gave way and she slithered slowly down the wall, with her knees rising like mountains until they touched the jutting precipices of her bosom. “There’s a man tells fortunes in the house. Ever so genteel. He has a parrot that talks French. Mr Poe said he looked at him – the man did, not the parrot – and told him he saw beautiful women at his feet, and riches beyond the dreams of avarice.” Chapter 26 (#ulink_24640272-1e4b-59cc-853d-12fddfb53500) By the time I left the Fountain, the fog had grown even worse. My eyes stung and watered. My nose streamed. I swam through the coughing, spluttering crowds down to Seven Dials. On the way, I passed through St Giles’s churchyard. The church itself loomed like a great, smoke-stained whale on the ocean floor. It was as though I were travelling through a city at the bottom of the ocean, a drowned world. The fancy had barely formed in my mind when I recalled that St Giles was indeed a place where people drowned. A few years before, within a stone’s throw of the church, an enormous vat had exploded at the Horseshoe Brewery. Thousands of gallons of beer washed like a tidal wave through the parish, sweeping away stalls, carts, sheds, animals and people. In this locality, many people live in cellars. The beer flooded into these underground homes, and eight people were drowned in ale. The thought of this vengeful wave sliding through the streets and lanes lent weight to a growing suspicion that I was pursued. The sensation crept upon me by imperceptible degrees, gradually more palpable like a hint of damp in one’s sheets. Though I turned and looked over my shoulder again and again, the fog made it difficult for me to identify individuals in the mass of humanity that pressed immediately upon my heels. I stopped at a street corner to get my bearings, and a set of footsteps behind me also seemed to stop. I turned right into New Compton-street, away from Seven Dials. By now I had convinced myself that someone truly was following me. I continued in a westerly direction, and then swung down and round into Lower Earl-street, and so towards Seven Dials. My conviction wavered. I could hear so many footsteps around me that I could not identify the ones that I thought had been following me. I crossed Seven Dials and walked slowly up Queen-street, keeping to the left-hand side and peering into each establishment I passed. Roughly halfway down, I found a little shop with a parrot’s cage discernible on the other side of its grimy window. I pushed open the door and went inside. The parrot squawked, a strange harsh call with three syllables, instantly repeated. In another instant the squawk became words and acquired meaning. “Ayez peur,” cried the bird. “Ayez peur.” The room was no more than eight feet square, and it stank of coal fumes and drains. For all that, it was a sweeter-smelling place than the street and certainly a warmer one. A man sat hunched over a stove at the back of the shop. He wore a coat that trailed to the ground, a muffler and a greasy skullcap of black velvet. A blanket covered his legs to shield him from the draughts. He turned to greet me, and I saw a clean-shaven face with fleshy features beneath a lined but lofty brow. “Fortunes; ballads, whether political or amorous by nature; medicines for man and beast,” he intoned in a deep, cultivated voice, with a method of delivery that would not have been out of place in the pulpit; “remedies for the afflictions of venery; charms of proven efficacy to satisfy all human desires in this world or the next; rooms by the week or by the day. Theodore Iversen is at your service, whatever your pleasure may be.” Not to be outdone in the matter of civility, I took off my hat and bowed. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the owner of this establishment?” “Ayez peur,” said the parrot behind me. “I hold the lease, though whether I shall be able to afford to do so next year is another matter.” Iversen laid down a pipe on the table beside the stove. “You do not want to know the future, I suspect, nor do you want a charm. That leaves medicine and accommodation.” “Neither, sir. I understand that one of your lodgers is an old acquaintance of mine, a Mr David Poe.” “Ah, Mr Poe.” He turned aside to stir a small iron saucepan standing on the stove. “A refined gentleman. A martyr to the toothache.” “And is he at home at present, sir?” “Alas, no. I regret to say he has left the shelter of my roof. Or so I assume.” “May I ask when?” Mr Iversen raised his eyebrows. “Two days ago – no, I tell a lie: it was three days. He had kept to his room for a day or two before that with his toothache, a sad affliction at any age; to my mind, we are better off without teeth entirely. I offered to give him something to ease the pain, but he declined my assistance. Still, if a gentleman wishes to suffer, who am I to stand in his way?” “And did he say where he was going?” “He said nothing to me whatsoever. He stole away like a thief in the night except, unlike a thief, he stole nothing. No matter – he has paid for his lodging until the end of the week.” “So he has not left the room for good?” “That I cannot say. I have a number of infallible methods of revealing what the future holds – and as the seventh son of a seventh son, I am of course gifted with second sight as well as extraordinary powers of healing – but I make a rule never to use my skills of prognostication for my own benefit.” “Ayez peur,” said the parrot. “Damn that bird,” said Mr Iversen. “There is a piece of sacking on the chair behind you, my dear sir. Be so good as to drape it over the cage.” Turning, I caught the impression of movement in the corner of my eye. Had someone been peering at us through the window? The glass was grimy and contained impurities which made objects on the other side of it ripple as though under water. It was not impossible, I told myself, that my imagination had transformed such a ripple into a spy. I covered the cage and turned back to the shopkeeper. “If you believe that Mr Poe may return,” I said, “does not that suggest that his bags are still in his room?” Mr Iversen smirked. I said: “I have a fancy to see my friend’s room. Perhaps it contains some indication of where he has gone.” “I make it another rule that only lodgers are allowed in my rooms. Present lodgers and, of course, prospective lodgers, who may quite reasonably express a wish to inspect the outlook, the dimensions, et cetera.” “So there would be no objection to my seeing the room if I were a prospective lodger? If I had arranged, perhaps, to take the room for a day when it should become vacant.” “None in the world.” Mr Iversen beamed at me. “Five shillings a night for sole use of the room and the flock mattress. Shared pump in the yard. Extra charges should you wish the girl to bring you water or clean sheets and so forth.” “Five shillings?” “Including a shilling for sundries.” I drew out my purse and paid his extortionate rate for a room I would never sleep in. “Thank you,” he said, tucking the money away in his clothing. “And now I shall require your assistance.” He swept the blanket from his legs. I saw that he wore not a coat, as I had thought, but a long, black robe, like a monk’s habit, upon which were embroidered alchemical or astrological symbols, though age and dirt had so obscured them that they were barely visible in the dim light of the shop. On his feet was a pair of enormous leather slippers. The removal of the blanket also revealed the chair on which he sat. A set of wheels had been fixed to the legs; a shelf on which Mr Iversen could rest his feet projected from the front; and a handrail had been attached to the top of the chair-back. He unhooked a bunch of keys from the belt that encircled the robe. “I would be obliged if you would be so good as to push me through that door. Fortunately Mr Poe’s chamber is on the ground floor. The stairs are a sore trial to me.” He snuffled. “My dear father’s apartment is on the floor above us, and it grieves me deeply that I cannot run up and down to satisfy his little wants.” Iversen was a heavy man, and it was no easy matter to push him through the doorway. Here we entered another world from the dusty little shop, one that was almost as heavily populated as Fountain-court had been. There were people visible in the kitchen at the back, and people on the stairs. Washing had been draped across the hall, so we had to struggle through grey curtains of dripping linen. Men were singing and stamping their feet on the floor above, and the sound of hammering rose from below. “We have a shoe manufactory in the cellar,” my host told me. “They make the finest riding boots in London. Would you care to bespeak a pair? I’m sure they would give you, as a fellow tenant, a very special price indeed.” “I would not have a use for them at present, thank you.” As we passed the foot of the stairs, Iversen called up: “Pray do not agitate yourself, Papa. I shall be with you in a moment.” There was no reply. We stopped outside a door near the kitchen. He leaned forward and unlocked it. The room was a dark little cell, no more than a closet, with just space for a small bed and a chair. The glass in the tiny window was broken, the hole plugged with rags and scraps of paper. A full chamber-pot stood beneath a chair, with an empty bottle on its side next to it. The bed was unmade. Iversen pointed under the bed. “His valise is still there.” “May I look inside?” I asked. “It may contain some clue as to my friend’s whereabouts, and it would be in his own interest if I could find him.” He gave a laugh which turned into a cough. “I regret it infinitely, but it will be another shilling if you wish to open it.” I said nothing but gave him the money. The valise was not locked. I rummaged through its contents – among them a pair of shoes that needed re-soling, a patched shirt, a crayon drawing of the head and shoulders of a lady with large eyes and ringlets, her hair dressed in the fashion of twenty or thirty years before. There was also a volume containing some of Shakespeare’s plays: the book had lost its back cover and had the name of David Poe on the flyleaf. “Do you know where he found employment?” I asked. Iversen shook his head. “If a man pays his rent and makes no trouble, I’ve no cause to poke my nose into his business.” “Where are his other belongings?” “How should I know? Perhaps this is all he has. As a friend of his, you are no doubt better informed about his circumstances than I am.” “Is there anyone here who might know where he has gone?” “There’s the girl who brings the water and takes the slops. You could ask her, if you wish. It’ll cost you another shilling, though.” “Have I not paid enough already?” He spread his hands. “Times are hard, my dear young friend.” I gave him the shilling. He bade me push him into the kitchen, where babies wailed and two women quarrelled obscenely over a heap of rags, then through a low-ceilinged back kitchen where three men played at dice while a woman boiled bones, and finally into the small yard beyond. The foetor rising from the overflowing cesspool made me reach for my handkerchief. “There,” my guide said, pointing to a wooden shed the size of a commodious kennel, which leant against the back wall of the yard. “That’s where Mary Ann lives. You may have to wake her. She’s had a busy night.” I picked my way through the rubbish-strewn yard and knocked on the low door of the shed. There was no answer. I knocked again and waited. “I told you,” the shopkeeper called. “She may be asleep. Try the door.” The rotting wood of the door scraped on the cobbles of the yard. There was no window, but the light from the doorway showed a small woman huddled under a pile of rags and newspapers in the corner. “No need for alarm, Mary Ann. I am a friend of Mr Poe’s, and I wish to ask you one or two questions.” Slowly she raised her head and looked at me. She gave a high, wordless sound, like the cry of a bird. “I mean you no harm,” I said. “Do you remember Mr Poe – who lodges in the room by the kitchen?” She sat up, pointed her finger at her mouth and again emitted that wordless cry. “I’m trying to discover where he has gone.” At this, Mary Ann sprang to her feet, backed into the corner of her wretched dwelling and, still pointing at her mouth, made the same sound again. At last I understood what she was telling me. The poor girl was dumb. I bent down, so my eyes were level with hers. She was not wearing a cap, and her thin, ginger hair was alive with grey lice. “Do you remember Mr Poe?” I persisted. “Can you hear me? Nod your head if you do and if you remember him.” She waited a moment and then slowly nodded. “And he left here three days ago?” Another nod. “Do you know where he went?” This time she shook her head. “Or where his place of work was?” She shook her head with even more vigour than before. “Did he take a bag with him when he left?” She shrugged. The light from the door was full on her face, and her eyes flickered to and fro. I thrust my hand in my pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers which I placed in a column on the floor beside her. To my intense embarrassment, she seized my hand in both of hers and covered it with kisses, all the while emitting her bird-like squeals. “You must not agitate yourself,” I said awkwardly, tugging my hand free and standing up. “Pray excuse me from disturbing your sleep.” She made a gesture, requesting me to wait, and burrowed into the layers of clothing that armoured her frail body against the world. She squeaked and squealed continually, though now the sounds were gentler, reminding me of the murmuring of wood doves. At last, her face glowing, she handed me a crumpled sheet of paper which looked as if it had been torn from a memorandum book. On it was a pencil drawing of a boy’s head and shoulders, that much was obvious, though not a boy who could have existed in real life. It was the sort of drawing a man does with his hand while his mind is occupied elsewhere. I smiled as though the sight of it pleased me and tried to hand it back to Mary Ann. She squealed and cooed and made it clear with her hands that she wished me to keep it. I slipped the paper inside my coat and said goodbye. She smiled shyly at me, gave me the slightest of waves and dived back beneath her bedclothes. Iversen was still waiting in his chair at the back door. “You’ve made a conquest, my dear sir, I can tell that. We rarely have the pleasure of hearing Mary Ann so loquacious.” I ignored this attempt at wit. “Thank you. If there’s nothing more you can tell me, I shall take my leave.” “Now you’re in the yard, it will be more convenient for you if you go down the entry.” Iversen indicated the narrow passage beside the privy, a noisome tunnel leading through the depth of the house to the street on the other side. “Unless you want your fortune told, that is, or a charm to make the lady burn with passion for you.” I shook my head and walked into the passage. I hurried along the entry towards the foggy bustle of the street beyond. The air smelled particularly dank and rotten. A great grey rat ran over my foot. I took a swipe at it with my stick but missed and hit the wall instead. My mind was full of pity for the girl and anger towards Iversen, who I suspected was her procurer. The attack took me completely by surprise. I was two-thirds of the way down when a man propelled himself out of nowhere into my right shoulder. I fell back against the opposite wall and tried to raise my stick. But the narrowness of the passage and the man’s body itself impeded me. I had an instant in which to realise that a side door from the house opened into the passage. The door was recessed, with enough room for a man to lurk on the step. Not just one man but two: the second flung himself at me. Both wore dark clothes. I twisted in the grasp of the first. Metal chinked on the brickwork. I smelled hot, stale breath. A voice swore. I heard footsteps running through the muck from the street. “God damn you,” a man howled. A great blow hit my head. Pain fogged my vision. The last thing I heard was another man yelling: “Mother of Christ! Get the God-damned blackbird!” Chapter 27 (#ulink_b67c6dc7-bce4-52a4-bd47-7f106663598a) I retain little memory of what happened next. I lost all awareness of my surroundings for several seconds, perhaps longer. Nor, when I regained it, was I much the better for the achievement. It was only with an immense effort of the intellect that I was able to determine that the fog was as heavy as ever, and that for some reason someone was half carrying, half dragging me through a crowd of jostling people. I gasped for air. A man shouted something very near to my ear, and a moment later I found myself being bundled into a hackney. I collapsed on to the seat. “Brewer-street,” said a man beside me. “He’s foxed,” said a second voice. “No. He’s fainted. Nothing more.” “If he flashes the hash in there –” I heard the chink of coin, and the voices fell silent. A moment later the hackney began to move. Our progress was slow. I huddled in the corner with my head in my hands. The swaying of the carriage made me feel nauseous, and for a while I thought the coachman’s fears would be justified. Time ceased to mean anything. The light hurt my eyes. My companion did not attempt to speak to me. I doubt if I could have answered him if he had. The hackney pursued a zigzag course and in time its swaying became familiar, almost a source of comfort rather than of unease. I opened my eyes and squinted outside. There, looming out of the fog, was the unmistakable shape of St Ann’s Church with its slatted belfry and swollen spire. The recognition gave my mind a jolt which seemed to free some internal mechanism: the cerebral processes began to flow smoothly once more. What the devil was I doing in a hackney? Had I been kidnapped? Try as I might, I could remember nothing between being thrust into the carriage and, at some undefined point earlier, Iversen the shopkeeper watching me as I went through the contents of Mr Poe’s valise. Slowly I turned my head, and the movement made the ache worse. “Ah,” Salutation Harmwell said. “The colour has returned to your face, Mr Shield. That is a good sign.” “Mr – Mr Harmwell. I don’t understand.” “You remember nothing?” “No – there seems a gap in my memory.” Even as I was speaking, that mysterious void disgorged a fragment of information. “The blackbird.” “I beg your pardon?” “I remember someone – damned if I know who, or when, or why – an Irish voice, I think – someone saying something about a blackbird. And in St Giles, as I recall, the word is commonly used –” “To describe a man of colour?” “Precisely. Pray, Mr Harmwell, can you enlighten me as to how I come to be here?” “I chanced to be walking down Queen-street when I heard the sound of an affray. I looked into the passage of the shop I was passing and saw you engaged in a struggle with two desperate ruffians. Not that I recognised you at this point – all I knew was that some poor innocent was in the process of being beaten and robbed. So I knocked one of them down. The other ran off and I judged it prudent that we should withdraw as soon as possible.” I glanced down at his hand and saw that his knuckles were badly grazed. “I am much obliged to you, sir.” I rubbed the side of my head where a bruise was already forming. “I – I do not know what I would have done if you had not happened to be passing.” “You have lost your hat, I am afraid. Indeed, I think it must have taken the full force of the blow, and you would have been in a much worse state if it had not been there. I believe you had a stick, too, but that has gone as well.” I nodded. I had not noticed the absence of either. I bit back the observation that it was surely a remarkable coincidence that Harmwell should have happened to be passing. The fact that the coincidence had been of great service to me was neither here nor there. “Do you still have your purse?” I felt in my pocket. “Yes.” “That is something.” I knew only that I must be cautious, not why. I said slowly, “Perhaps I was passing along the street, and they dragged me into the passage in order to rob me.” “That is unlikely,” Harmwell replied. “I think I should have seen you, despite the fog. It is more probable that you entered the passage from the other side, or possibly from a side door of one of the houses it serves.” The hackney moved steadily westwards, wriggling through the bustling streets into the heart of Soho. At last we reached Brewer-street. Harmwell directed the coachman to a house on the north side, near the corner with Great Pultney-street. He waved aside my attempt to pay the fare. The dizziness returned when I stood up. Harmwell helped me down and lent me the support of his arm as we went into the house. A servant with a blank face and shabby livery conducted us upstairs. It appeared that Mr Noak had taken the whole of the first floor. There was a sitting room at the front, and Harmwell settled me on a sofa beside the fire and told the servant to bring me a glass of brandy. He went in search of his master. By the time he returned with Mr Noak, I had swallowed half the brandy and regained a few more of my wits. But I still could not remember what had happened in the interval of time between my being in Mr Poe’s room in Queen-street and Harmwell bustling me into the hackney. God-damned blackbird? As I heard that coarse voice in my mind, an image from those lost moments of my life slipped into the forefront of my memory: that of a small, childlike creature seizing my hand and kissing it. The memory was so clear that I saw the grey lice moving in her sparse ginger hair. I rose to my feet as Mr Noak entered and found I could stand without support. He gave me his hand and asked me how I did. I stumbled out my thanks to Harmwell for saving my life, and to Mr Noak himself for his hospitality. “Harmwell did no more than his plain duty as a Christian,” Noak said in his hard New England voice. “It was providential he should have been passing.” “Indeed,” I said. “Pray be seated.” Noak settled himself in an armchair on the other side of the fire. “The last time we met, Mr Shield, we disputed about the value of reading Ovid. I do not know London well but I understand from my clerk that he came across you in a part of town which is not the usual haunt of schoolmasters.” “Mr Carswall sent me there upon an errand.” “Mr Carswall? Yes, I had the pleasure of seeing him recently, though on a melancholy occasion.” He looked sharply at me. “Forgive my curiosity, but I thought you were employed at a school outside London.” “I am, sir, but at the present I am staying with Mr Carswall in Margaret-street so that I may give lessons to Charles Frant.” Noak’s mouth tightened. “We must applaud Mr Carswall’s charity in providing a home for Mrs Frant and her fatherless boy.” He paused, seeming plunged in gloomy reflection. Time passed. My own thoughts were scarcely happy either. Mrs Frant might not have needed Mr Carswall’s charity if I had not witnessed George Wavenhoe’s signature on his deathbed. At length he continued: “Are you able to remember who attacked you? No doubt you will wish to lay information against them in Bow-street.” “I regret that I cannot remember the circumstances of the attack, nor of Mr Harmwell’s rescue.” “How very unfortunate. Still, you know where it happened, and Harmwell saw your assailants.” Harmwell coughed. “The passage was gloomy, sir. I did not have a clear view of them.” “And St Giles is a lawless place,” I pointed out. “The men who attacked me will no longer be there.” Noak glanced from Harmwell to myself. “What about the people of the house? Were they concerned in the attack?” Harmwell shrugged. I said, “I recall nothing beforehand to show that they must have been.” “But they might, eh?” “It is impossible to say.” I winced from the pain in my head. “I – I cannot remember. I shall consult Mr Carswall on my return, sir, but I believe it is likely that he would advise me to let sleeping dogs lie.” “I see,” said Mr Noak, and I had the uncomfortable suspicion that he saw more than I liked. “I must not trespass any further on your good nature,” I said. “Mrs Frant and Mr Carswall will be becoming anxious.” “Harmwell will take you back.” “But I could not possibly trouble you or him any longer.” “It is no trouble,” Noak said abruptly, rising to his feet. “Or not to me. Even if it were, you have had a bad blow on the head and it is my duty as a Christian to ensure your safe return, just as it was Harmwell’s duty to come to your assistance.” He nodded farewell to me and left the room. Harmwell rang the bell for the servant. Within ten minutes we were in another hackney, moving so slowly through the fog that it would have been faster to walk. Neither of us spoke. After a while, the silence became oppressive and I blundered into speech. “What are your impressions of London, Mr Harmwell?” “Why, it is so vast and so varied that one scarcely has time to form an impression before another comes along and overturns it. There is so much wealth here, the mind can hardly comprehend it.” “But you Americans have great wealth in the United States, too, I am sure.” “I am not American, sir. I am from Canada. My father was from Virginia but he moved north with his master after the Revolution.” “They were Loyalists? Did your father sustain severe losses by the move?” “No, sir, he gained everything.” Harmwell turned and gave me a level stare. “He gained his freedom. Mr Saunders was granted an estate in Upper Canada and my father continued to work for him. So did I until I enlisted in the army in the late war with the United States.” A harsh note entered his voice. “If the family had not died out in the meantime, I should have returned to their employ on my discharge from the army.” “I am sorry – yet you found another position?” “Mr Noak was kind enough to offer me a clerkship.” My curiosity had already led me considerably further than good manners allowed so I turned the conversation to more general subjects. We talked mainly about New York and Boston. Harmwell did not volunteer information easily but he showed himself a man of sense in his replies. It was after three o’clock by the time we had crossed the restless river of humanity that filled Oxford-street. When we reached Margaret-street, I begged him to descend and take some refreshment. Harmwell hesitated, and then said that if there were no objection, he would pay a call on Mrs Kerridge, if she were at liberty, as she had promised to write out a receipt for him to send to his mother in Canada. He spoke so solemnly, his face a picture of filial piety, that I almost burst out laughing when I recalled the way his hand had brushed her breast that afternoon in Piccadilly, and how she tapped him on the cheek as a punishment. Once we were in the warmth of the house, a servant took Harmwell down to see Mrs Kerridge. Mr Carswall was at home but I wished to wash my face and change my coat before I saw him. I went upstairs to my room and lit a candle because it was already so dark I could barely see the hand in front of my face. There was still an inch or two of cold water in the jug on my washstand. I poured it into the bowl. As I peeled off my coat, a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. I bent down and picked it up. It was a page torn from a memorandum book. I held it up to the flickering flame of the candle and saw a crudely executed pencil sketch of a boy’s head and shoulders. Something stirred in my memory. The picture had no resemblance to any living child. Yet, the shape of the skull – the high forehead, the curve of the cheek – reminded me of both Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan. The flame was now behind the paper and shining through from the other side were ghostly traces of writing. I turned it over. Written in ink were the words: 9 Lambert-place. There was no indication who had written the words, or when, or why. As I stared at them in the light of that candle, I was tempted to slide the tip of the paper into the flame and forget it had ever existed. My memory of those lost moments still had not returned. Nevertheless I sensed I was being drawn into a scheme whose nature, purpose and extent I could not begin to understand. The Wellington-terrace murder, Carswall’s errand in St Giles, the attack on me outside Mr Iversen’s shop, Harmwell’s providential intervention – all these things must make a pattern, I told myself, and I found Dansey’s words ringing uncomfortably in my mind: When great folk fall, they bring down smaller folk in their train. The corner of the paper darkened and a wisp of smoke rose into the air. With a muffled cry, I snatched it from the flame. After all, I told myself, I needed something to show Mr Carswall for my day’s work. There was also the fact that I did not like to own myself beaten. Time reveals as well as conceals: it uncovers our lies, even those to ourselves. Now I think I rescued the paper for one reason alone. Because if I had nothing to show Mr Carswall, he would send me back to Stoke Newington; Charlie would be withdrawn from Mr Bransby’s; and I would never see either Miss Carswall or Mrs Frant again. Chapter 28 (#ulink_34bba327-7f70-555c-9ee9-c7e4f32914ce) “Noak’s nigger,” said Mr Carswall, his mouth twisting in distaste. “Shut your eyes and listen to him and you’d hardly know he wasn’t as white as you or me. But it won’t do. Never does. An educated nigger is an abomination in the sight of God. And why didn’t you tell me you was here? I knew nothing of it until Pratt told me.” It was Pratt, a weasel-faced footman, who had climbed unwillingly to my chamber and brought his master’s summons. The man had smiles for the Carswalls, and sneers for everyone else. “I beg your pardon, sir. When Mr Harmwell brought me back, I needed –” “Harmwell!” Carswall interrupted, his mind returning to its former topic. “There’s a fine name for him. The trouble with these damned Abolitionists is they never study the nigger in his natural surroundings. I saw enough of them on my plantations. No better than animals. If these prating hypocrites took the trouble to find out what goes on in the slave quarters, they’d soon change their tune.” Though it was not yet four o’clock in the afternoon, and Mr Carswall had not dined, he was not himself. He was not exactly drunk but he was not exactly sober, either. He was sitting before the fire in the tobacco-scented back parlour that served as his private sitting room. The shutters were across the window and the candles lit. He wore an embroidered dressing gown and slippers. I wondered whether Pratt had also told his master that Mr Harmwell was still downstairs, pursuing his filial researches into Mrs Kerridge’s receipts. Carswall fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and brought out his watch. “You’ve taken your time about it, Shield, in all events. Well? What news? What the devil were you doing with the nigger?” I summarised what I had discovered: that Mr Poe had left his lodgings in Fountain-court, apparently because he had found a new position, and moved down to Queen-street in Seven Dials. According to his landlord there, he had been suffering from the toothache. Three days ago, he had vanished, leaving at least some of his possessions behind. “Three days?” Mr Carswall said. “So he’s been seen after the murder? So what of Noak’s nigger?” “Yes, sir. But to revert to Mr Poe for one moment more. There is the question of the toothache.” “Ah – you mean his face was covered? So the man might not have been Poe?” “It is at least a possibility. Unlike the woman in Fountain-court, Mr Iversen – Poe’s landlord, that is to say – does not appear to have known him well, or for long.” I had a splitting headache and was finding it hard to order my thoughts and frame my words. On the other hand, since finding the sketch of the boy, my amnesia had receded like the fog rolling back, and I could now remember most of what had occurred in those missing moments. I told Mr Carswall about the dumb maidservant and handed him the sketch with the address on the back. He studied the drawing of the schoolboy for a moment and then turned it over and examined the address on the back. “Lambert-place? Where’s that?” “I am not sure, sir. But there is more: as I was walking through the passage that led from the yard at the back of the house to the street, I was attacked by two ruffians.” “In league with the landlord?” “Not necessarily. They could have come from the street. Fortunately my cries attracted the attention of Mr Harmwell, who came to my rescue.” “Ah, the nigger. So we come to him again. What was he doing there?” “He and Mr Noak would have me believe it was coincidence.” “The alternatives are that he was in league with the landlord, or that he followed you.” “At one point as I walked from Fountain-court to Seven Dials, I thought someone might be behind me. But the fog was so thick I could not be sure. And when I was in Mr Iversen’s shop, I wondered whether someone was spying on us through the window to the street.” Carswall tugged his lower lip and gave a great sigh. “How did they treat you, he and Mr Noak?” “Nothing could have been kinder. Mr Harmwell bore me off in the hackney to Mr Noak’s lodgings in Brewer-street, and they gave me a glass of brandy. They did not press me for information. Then Mr Noak told Mr Harmwell to bring me back here. They would not even allow me to pay the fare.” “In the morning, find Lambert-place and discover whether the people of number nine know anything of a visitor from Queen-street.” “Should I be looking for Mr Frant, sir, or for Mr Poe?” Carswall glared at me. “How the devil should I know?” “I thought perhaps the handwriting –” “A couple of words? What use is that?” “The drawing appears to be of a schoolboy.” “Charlie, you mean? Or the American? Well, that gets us no further, does it? Nor is there anything to show that the hand that wrote the address is the hand that made the drawing. But perhaps Mrs Frant might know whether Frant amused himself with a pencil – yes, ring the bell there.” I obeyed. A moment later the footman returned and Carswall inquired how Mrs Frant did. Pratt replied that she had come down to the drawing room for a few minutes, with Miss Carswall to keep her company. It was, I knew, the first time she had left her bedchamber for several days, apart from attending the funeral. Charlie was with her, too. With uncharacteristic consideration, Carswall told the man to inquire whether it would be convenient for him to wait upon her. While he was waiting for an answer, Carswall hauled himself to his feet. Swaying, he supported himself on the mantelpiece. “We shall go down to the country in a few days’ time,” he said. “Mrs Frant and her son will of course go with us.” “He is not to return to Mr Bransby’s?” Carswall shook his heavy head. “I cannot see the justification for the extra expense, particularly as Mrs Frant will no longer maintain a London residence. I have discussed the matter with her, and she agrees with me: it will be kinder to the boy to remove him promptly from the school. The circumstances of his father’s ruin and disappearance must weigh heavily against him there.” The intelligence came as a blow to me, though I had half expected it. I stood in miserable silence while Carswall whistled tunelessly. Mrs Frant must know that Mr Carswall had cheated her out of her Uncle Wavenhoe’s last bequest. Yet she was so reduced in her circumstances that she had no choice but to follow the advice of the man who had made her son a beggar. At last the footman returned with a message from Mrs Frant. She begged to be excused: she did not yet feel equal to the exertion. Mr Carswall muttered to himself, “Still, it don’t signify. She shall talk to me soon enough. They all like to tease.” He stood there for a moment, scratching himself like an old pig in a sty. Then he appeared to recollect he was not alone. He sat down heavily in his elbow chair, looked up at me and smiled, disconcerting me again with that glimpse of Miss Carswall in his ugly face. “I’m much obliged to you, sir, much obliged for all you have done. You have not had an easy time of it, I am afraid. And it is good of you to undertake to be my eyes and legs.” He felt in his waistcoat pocket for his watch. “If only there were more time,” he said, staring at the dial. “Still, I must not detain you any longer – you have your pupil to attend to. I shall see you on your return tomorrow.” Thus dismissed, I made my way slowly upstairs. I was sadly out of humour. My spirits were depressed by the prospect of returning to the school which had so recently been a haven to me. As I reached the first-floor landing, however, the drawing-room door opened. A black dress fluttered and my nostrils caught the scent of Parma violets. “Mrs Frant! I – I hope I find you better.” “Yes, thank you, sir,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I have been very ill, but I am now somewhat improved.” Her face was white and hollow-cheeked, and her eyes blazed as though she was still in the grip of a fever. She glanced hurriedly along the landing and up the stairs. I began to speak, hardly aware of what I was saying: “I cannot say how much I regret –” “Mrs Kerridge tells me you were hurt,” she interrupted in a low, urgent voice, and it was as well for me that she did not allow me to finish my sentence. “That you were attacked by ruffians.” My hand flew to the bruise on my head. “It is of no significance, madam. Pray do not be concerned about it.” “Oh, but I am. Come here, by the mirror – let me see it.” A candelabrum stood on a marble-topped pier table, with its candle flames reflected in the tall mirror on the wall above it. I stood with my head bowed. Mrs Frant raised herself on tiptoe and peered at the spot on the right side of my temple where the blow had landed. “A little closer,” she commanded. “There, I see – there is swelling and a bruise. Fortunately the skin is grazed rather than broken.” “My hat took the force of the blow.” “Thank God!” I felt the tips of her fingers brush against my forehead. A thrill ran through me, and I steadied myself on the table to conceal the tremor of excitement. “Ah! It is still painful. Does your head ache?” “Yes, madam.” “You were on an errand for Mr Carswall, I collect?” “Yes. Fortunately I lost nothing but my hat and my stick. Mr Noak’s clerk was passing and came to my rescue.” She drew away and I saw that her colour was rising, the blood vivid in her pale face. “You must rest this evening. Charlie will stay with me for the present. I will have them send you up a cold compress and something to eat. Nothing too heavy, though. A little broth, perhaps, and a glass of sherry.” She looked at the drawing-room door, through which came the sound of voices. “I trust you will be fully restored by the morning.” “Thank you. Madam – Mr Carswall informs me that Charlie will not be coming back to school.” She turned her face away from me. “That is correct, Mr Shield. Charlie and I are in Mr Carswall’s hands now, and he has decided that it will be better for Charlie and me to go down to the country for a time, after so great a change in our circumstances.” She hesitated and then rushed on. “I am naturally desirous of sparing Mr Carswall any unnecessary expense.” She looked away and added with an unmistakable note of irony in her voice: “He has done so much for us already.” I bowed, sensible of the compliment she had paid me in speaking so frankly. “We shall miss him at school.” Her lips trembled. “And he will miss you all. I am very much obliged to you.” She took a step away from me, turned and took a deep breath. “You – you will not mind if I ask a question – one that may seem a little indelicate? But I hope a widow may be excused.” “Pray ask me whatever you wish, ma’am, and I will answer to the best of my ability.” “Am I correct in thinking that you were one of the first to see my late husband? After – after his body was found?” I nodded. “I believe that when he left the house that day, he had in his pocket a small box – made of mahogany, inlaid with tulip wood, with a shell pattern on the lid.” I remembered what Miss Carswall had confided in me on the evening of Mr Frant’s funeral. “A jewel box, perhaps?” “Yes – though the box itself is dearer to me than the contents. It was no longer in his pocket, but I thought it might have fallen on the ground.” “I wish I had seen it, ma’am – but I did not.” Mrs Frant gave me a wan smile. “It doesn’t signify, truly. It is merely that I had a foolish fondness for it, and for the memories attached to it. But I must not detain you – you must rest.” We wished each other goodnight. Once again she moved away, and once again she paused and turned back. “Pray – pray be careful, Mr Shield,” she murmured. “Especially in your dealings with Mr Carswall.” A moment later, I was alone on the landing with my headache and the smell of her scent. I had no reason to be happy, but I was. Chapter 29 (#ulink_759ec6e3-9e05-5af7-8b4e-169670f6d6b9) London may be the greatest city the world has ever known, but it is also a cluster of villages – flung together by the currents of history and geography, but each retaining its individual character. Even in newly built neighbourhoods, the pattern reasserts itself: mankind is drawn to the village and fears the metropolis. I learned from the street directory that Lambert-place was in the network of streets west of the Tottenham Court-road, at no great distance from either Margaret-street or the Rookeries of St Giles. I walked there through the fog. A low, blood-red sun struggled in vain to dispel the murk but its feeble rays succeeded only in producing wild and singular effects of light. I was not perfectly recovered from the events of yesterday, and at times it seemed to me that I was wandering through a phantasmagoria rather than a city of bricks and mortar. My spirits had not yet emerged from the shadow of the attack in Queen-street, and I was painfully alert to the slightest circumstance that might betoken danger. As I drew nearer my destination, the nature of the neighbourhood, of this accidental village, became apparent to me. Gentlemen lived in and around Margaret-street, and necessarily gave the vicinity its character. In the Rookeries were the worst examples of vice and poverty the capital could offer, and these left an indelible stamp upon the parish of St Giles. But the little district around Lambert-place was different again – quiet and respectable, given over to small tradesmen and artisans. The street itself was a cul-de-sac containing twelve small houses and the entrance to a mews serving two larger streets running parallel to it. I knocked at the door of number 9. It was opened by a tired little woman with two children clinging to her skirts and a third in her arms. I inquired for my friend Mr Poe. The woman shook her head, and the baby began to cry. I described my friend as a well-set-up man perhaps with his face muffled against the toothache. “Why didn’t you say so before?” she demanded. “It’s Mr Longstaff you want.” She turned her head and called over her shoulder: “Matilda!” She stood back to allow me to enter. As I did so, a door opened at the back of the hall and an old woman emerged. “There’s a gent here for Mr Longstaff.” The younger woman towed her children towards the stairs. “And I’ll be obliged if you would remind him about the last week’s rent, Matilda. I can’t pay the butcher with hot air and promises for ever.” “I’ll speak to him.” The old woman looked up at me and her cracked voice rose to a polite whimper. “You’re fortunate, sir – it happens that Mr Longstaff is quite at leisure at present. Pray step this way.” I followed her into a small room overlooking the yard at the back of the house. In front of the window was a high-backed elbow chair in which was sitting a man who seemed even smaller than the woman who had ushered me in. The chair was fixed to the floor with iron brackets. Its occupant sprang to his feet as I entered, and I saw he was very much younger than the woman. He was short and broad-shouldered, with a crooked back and one leg shorter than the other. He gave a lopsided impression, like a man walking across a steep slope. “Well, sir, whatever you desire for your teeth, you’ll find it here,” he said in a rush. “The cauterising of nerves, fillings, simple extractions performed with such skill and rapidity they are almost painless. Transplanting, though, is my speciality, sir – a practice endorsed by Mr Hunter, under whom I studied as a young man. I use only teeth from living sources, sir, those from corpses never take, though lesser practitioners will attempt to fob you off with them. Should you wish it, I can manufacture for you a complete set of false teeth that may be worn for years together, and are an ornament to the mouth, and greatly assist clarity of speech. I have made them from mother-of-pearl, silver and even enamelled copper in my time, sir. But I recommend walrus or human teeth, they discolour less than the others.” As the torrent of words was tumbling out, Mr Longstaff approached very close to me. With a trembling hand, he put on a pair of spectacles with lenses as thick as penny pieces and looked fixedly at my lips. “Pray open your mouth, sir.” “I do not at present require treatment,” I said. “I am come to ask after a friend of mine whom I believe you may have treated the other day.” “The gentleman with the extraction,” the old woman said loudly, and so immediately that I suspected they had had no other patients within the last few days. “You remember.” “He did not give you a name, I suppose?” I asked. “I am not fully persuaded that it was my friend.” “Not that I recall.” “Then what did he look like, sir – you will have seen his face.” “I look in their mouths, sir, not at their faces; but his was not a pretty sight.” I swung round to the old woman. “And you, madam? Did you remark his appearance?” She burst out laughing, exposing a fine set of false teeth, made of what might have been ivory. “Bless you, sir, there’s not much I see clearly nowadays.” She lifted her face to mine and the light from the window fell in full upon it. All at once, her meaning burst upon me. The eyes exhibited a singularly blurred and unfocused appearance, as different from healthy eyes as a stagnant pond is from running water. I turned from one to the other, my frustration mounting. “Pray, can you tell me what his voice was like?” The man shrugged but the woman nodded vigorously. “A deep voice. There might have been a brogue in it. Later he sounded more like a West End gentleman. But I don’t know: all the time he was most indistinct.” “Indeed, Mother, that was on account of the toothache.” The dentist snickered. “Afterwards, he had no time for talking and too much blood in his mouth to speak at all.” “He couldn’t get away fast enough,” the dentist’s mother confided. “They’re often like that. Bless you, sir, they’re so terrified we have to strap them into that chair. And when we unstrap them, they’re away like a startled rabbit.” “If you know where he lodges, you could take his bag,” the dentist said. “His bag, sir?” “He had several with him. But he was in such a hurry to depart that he left a satchel behind.” “Sobbing, he was,” the woman observed, and smacked her lips. “Hush, Mother,” said the dentist, turning to me, and once again the torrent of words began to flow. “In my profession, sir, it is inevitable that even the most skilled practitioner must inflict the occasional moment of pain upon his patient. Laudanum and brandy may blunt its edge, but they cannot resolve the difficulty altogether. And operations involving the removal of a wisdom tooth can be particularly painful. The posterior molars are invariably the most difficult to extract.” I felt a sympathetic twinge in my own teeth. “If you would like, sir, I will undertake to reunite my friend with his satchel.” “You will be doing us a service, sir,” said the dentist. “But you must give us a receipt,” the woman said sharply, turning those unsettling orbs towards me. “Of course, madam.” Taking out my memorandum book, I scribbled a receipt while the dentist fetched the satchel which had been hanging all this time from a peg on the back of the door. It was made of brown leather, much scuffed, and its straps had broken so the flap was now secured with string. I tore out the page with the receipt and took my leave. The dentist begged me to consider his services should I need treatment for my teeth, and even offered to give me an examination, gratis, upon the spot. I declined and hurried away. I walked rapidly to a tavern in Charlotte-street, where I found an empty booth and ordered ale. When the girl had gone I tugged at the knots that secured the satchel. My hands were cold and the knots obstinate. I lost patience and sliced through the string with my penknife. The fog outside seemed to serve as a pretty metaphor for the fog inside my own mind. I opened the satchel, and the first thing I saw, traced in blotched ink on the inside of the flap, was the name David Poe. The letters had faded to the colour of dried blood. The satchel’s contents spilled on to the scrubbed surface of the table. My fingers explored the little heap of possessions – a small flask which had once contained brandy, a shirt of fine quality but in need of a wash, a grubby neckcloth and a cigar case made of leather. I opened the case and shook out its contents. As I did so, I was thinking that, every time I turned up what I thought was a fact, it seemed that the more I inspected it, the more it retreated into the realms of hypothesis. I longed for certainty, for indisputable facts. Now it seemed probable, but of course by no means certain, that the dentist’s patient had indeed been David Poe, the American. In this case, of course, it followed that there was no longer any reason to suppose that the dead man in Wellington-terrace had been anyone other than Henry Frant. But such speculation was as fragile as a dandelion’s feathery pappus. A breath of wind would suffice to destroy it. Behind me, and above my shoulder, came a sharp intake of breath. I turned quickly. The girl had brought my ale. The tray was trembling in her hands. She was staring not at me but at an object on the table. There followed a moment of superhuman clarity, of prodigious ratiocination: my mind accelerated and packed into an instant thoughts which would normally fill a minute, an hour, a day. “I am a student of medicine,” I snapped. “What are you gawping at? It is nothing but a rare specimen of digitus mortuus praecisus lent me by the professor himself. If you value your position, do not spill beer on it.” I covered it with the neckcloth – casually, as though making room for her to set down her tray without risk of spillage. The girl laughed – still nervous, but the reassuring opacity of the Latin words had soothed her alarm. Despite my warning, though, a few drops of beer slopped on to the table. Her hand flew to her mouth; she muttered an apology and scuttled away. I took a long pull of ale. When I was alone, and safe from observation, I twitched aside the neckcloth. The object was rust-coloured in part, but mostly dirty yellow. On one end was a long fingernail spotted with what might have been ink. The trouble with wishes is that they sometimes come true. I had at last found something which no matter how long I looked at it would not dissolve into a mere speculation. I had discovered an indisputable fact. And I wished with all my heart that I had not. Chapter 30 (#ulink_84a09473-f062-5948-a89c-9c3efe7e95a5) “My dear young fellow,” said Mr Rowsell, bouncing to meet me with his hand outstretched. “How delightful to see you. Mrs Rowsell was asking if I had news of you only the other day.” He shook hands most cordially and pressed me to take some refreshment. My mind was in a whirl. At this juncture in my affairs I would have given much for the advice of a disinterested friend. I was sensible of Mr Rowsell’s recent kindnesses to me, and I was sorely tempted to lay the whole matter before him. But I was not sufficiently intimate with him to know whether I might trust him entirely. My own position had become delicate, and indeed susceptible to misinterpretation. In the last two days I had pursued the trail of David Poe, telling packs of lies as I went. I was by no means certain that I was not compounding a felony by my failure to alert the authorities to what I already knew and suspected. I needed the comfort of a friend’s company, but not a friend’s counsel. Or rather – I needed counsel badly, but I dared not ask for it. It was possible that Mr Rowsell would feel it his duty to alert the authorities himself. Nor would it be fair to him to ask him to keep a secret that might place him on the wrong side of the law. “Well, dear boy, I must say – and do not think me impertinent, I beg – but you seem in low spirits.” “It is the fog, sir. It gets into my lungs.” “Very true,” he said comfortably. “Is that a bruise I see upon your temple?” “I – I must blame it once again upon the fog. I tripped and fell against a railing.” “And what brings you here?” I explained that I had been asked to spend a few days in London with Charlie Frant, and that we were staying at the house of his cousin, Mr Carswall, in Margaret-street. “Mr Carswall sent me on an errand, and finding that I had a few moments I might call my own, I decided to see whether you were at leisure.” “Mr Carswall? You are staying with him?” “Not for long. The family intend to remove to the country in a day or two.” “To Mr Carswall’s estate in Gloucestershire, no doubt. And will the boy and Mrs Frant go with them?” “I believe so, sir.” Rowsell shook his head sadly. “I feel for Mrs Frant and her son. How are the mighty fallen! I understand they have not sixpence to call their own.” Mr Rowsell opened a corner cupboard and took out a decanter and glasses. “It is an unlucky family. Mr Henry Frant brought the bank down around his ears because of his appetite for gambling, and his father and his uncle were the same. Forty years ago, the Frants were considerable landowners, both here and in Ireland.” I looked up sharply. “I had not realised that the Frants had Irish connections.” “Oh yes. I believe the Irish estate was the last to go.” Mr Rowsell set down the decanter and glasses on the table and stood there for a moment, stroking his stomach, which as usual looked as though it were on the verge of bursting out of his waistcoat. “For your aunt’s sake, Tom, I must tell you that Mr Carswall’s reputation is not entirely unblemished. I would not wish you to injure your prospects by associating with him. He is very rich, of course, but riches are not everything, particularly riches gained as his are said to have been gained.” I was calmer now, my agitation to some degree soothed by Mr Rowsell’s familiar voice. On the floor by my chair, however, was David Poe’s satchel. Inside it was the cigar case with its dreadful contents. Mr Rowsell poured the wine and handed me a glass. Before I drank, I said, “They are withdrawing Charlie Frant from the school. There is no reason why I should see any of them again. So Mr Carswall has a reputation of being a gambler, as his partner was?” “He’s not so foolish as Frant. No, but there were rumours about his dealings during the late war with the United States. Nothing was ever proved, you understand, but it is certain that he came out of it much richer than he went in. As did Frant himself.” We drank in silence for a moment. Then Mr Rowsell got up and went to the window, and peered down at the fog which lay as thick as clotted cream, as poisonous as choke-damp in a mine, obscuring even the ground below. “Mr Frant acted as Wavenhoe’s agent in North America for a while,” Rowsell said, picking his words with care. “In the early years of the war. He was made a partner in the bank on his return. Then there was some sort of falling out, and Carswall withdrew his capital.” “These rumours, sir: may I ask – what did they amount to?” “There is no secret about it – the matter is widely spoken of. The bank purchased an army contractor’s business in Kingston, in Canada, and it is said there were irregularities about the sale of supplies. And a story went the rounds – and I hardly like to repeat it in case walls have ears, for it would certainly mean an action for slander – a story that some of the supplies purchased for the use of our troops found their way eventually into the hands of the Americans. And not just supplies, either. In some quarters, accurate intelligence about our intentions and the dispositions of our troops commanded a very high price indeed.” “Surely Mr Carswall –” “Would not have been so foolish? On the other hand, Frant was in Canada and in those days Frant was Carswall’s creature. In any case, that is why not everyone is happy to receive Mr Carswall.” I promised I would be on my guard. Rowsell returned to his chair and his wine. “Do not mind my saying so, Tom, but you look quite fagged. Mrs Rowsell has it that you do not eat enough. Which reminds me, if Mr Bransby permits, would you care to eat your Christmas dinner with us? Mrs Rowsell was most pressing that I should attempt to secure your company.” “My duty and best compliments to Mrs Rowsell, sir. I shall be happy to wait on her.” “Good, good. It will be just ourselves and some of Mrs Rowsell’s family.” He paused in raising his glass to his lips, and stared at me, a frown cutting into his smooth pink forehead. “There is nothing amiss, I trust?” “Nothing in the world, sir.” “And you are quite settled at Mr Bransby’s?” “Yes, indeed.” “I rejoice to hear it.” He swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Should you ever desire a change of profession, you could do worse than try the law. I believe I could put you in the way of something with fair prospects of advancement. In Holborn, perhaps, or the City. It would take time and application, of course. As for the matter of lodgings, why, I am sure Mrs Rowsell would be glad to see a respectable person in our front garret.” I was still weakened from the day before. I felt tears fill my eyes at this undeserved kindness. “Thank you, sir,” I said and lowered my head. Neither of us spoke. Mr Rowsell paced up and down, pausing to look at the fog when he reached the window. It seemed to me that for a moment my own inner fog had lifted. Chapter 31 (#ulink_fb2c266f-afbd-5390-90b7-f3506ef40589) “What infernal luck,” Stephen Carswall said. “A man who looks only inside mouths, and a woman who sees the next best thing to nothing at all.” “The woman thought she might have heard a brogue. And then the accents of a gentleman.” “That’s neither here nor there. Frant could slip into a brogue as soon as look at you. When he was a boy, he used to visit the family’s place in County Wicklow, and he could sound like a regular Paddy if he wished. So the mere fact of a brogue does not allow us to distinguish between Frant and Poe. As for sounding like a gentleman, who is the judge? The mother of a tooth-puller? Her opinion is not worth having.” He paused and stared down at the object in his palm. “But this is something else.” “It does not appear to come from a gentleman’s hand.” “True. But there is nothing to say that it belonged to Poe, either.” Carswall tilted his palm and slid the finger into the cigar case, his face betraying no emotion other than weariness. He hobbled to the open bureau – his gout was painful that day – and slipped the case into a drawer. “Let us assume that the man who had his tooth extracted is Frant, and that in order to make the world believe he was dead, he killed Poe and mutilated the corpse. But why should he hold on to the finger he had cut from Poe’s hand?” “That I do not know, sir. Unless he was biding his time until he found a safe place to destroy it.” “No, no. He could have thrown something as small as that on the fire. Or into a cesspit. Or the river, for that matter. God damn it, we are no nearer proof, one way or the other.” I thought, but did not say aloud, that this might have been just what the man who left the satchel had intended. Nor did I mention that the finger looked oddly shrivelled and yellow. What had happened to it since it had been parted from the rest of the hand? Was there some clue in its present appearance to where it had been kept? Could one even be sure it was a forefinger? “I am obliged to you, nonetheless.” Carswall took out his watch. “There is nothing more we can do at present.” Then without any change in tone he went on: “I have written to Mr Bransby and told him you will be returning tomorrow.” I bowed. “I daresay you will be relieved to resume your normal duties. I shall make a point of saying to Mr Bransby that you have given satisfaction, and shown yourself trustworthy.” Carswall pawed his watch. “I am awaited in the City. You may spend the rest of the day with Charlie.” A moment later I trailed up the stairs to the drawing room, where Pratt, the footman I disliked, had told me I would find Charlie. There was no schoolroom in the house in Margaret-street, and in any case the drawing room was warmer and more comfortable. I will not disguise the fact that as I mounted the stone treads of the staircase my heart beat a little faster at the thought of whom I might find with Charlie. Miss Carswall looked up as I entered the room, her face breaking into a smile. She was alone, sitting by the fire with a screen to shield her face. A folded newspaper lay upon her lap. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “They told me Charlie was here.” “He will be down presently, Mr Shield. He has run up to his mama for a few moments. Pray come and wait by the fire. The cold is bitter, is it not?” I was glad to fall in with this suggestion. I saw that she had been reading the Morning Post and my eye caught the word “murder” on the page lying open before her. “Am I to understand that Mrs Frant has had a relapse?” I asked. “She seemed much improved when I saw her yesterday.” “I am rejoiced to say that she is much better. But she tires easily, and her physician recommends that she rest in her room during the afternoon.” Miss Carswall looked directly at me – there was a frankness about her demeanour, an openness, which I found most appealing – and said: “While we are on the subject of health, you are looking rather better than I feared you would. Mrs Frant told me that you were attacked.” “It was unpleasant rather than serious.” “I suspect you make light of it.” She shivered deliciously. “We are none of us safe!” “No harm was done. Mr Harmwell beat back my assailants, and then he was kind enough to escort me home in a hackney.” Miss Carswall’s smile broke out like the sun from behind clouds. “Is it possible that his motives were not entirely disinterested, sir? Bearing in mind that touching scene we witnessed in Piccadilly?” I grinned at her. “I understand that Mrs Kerridge has been copying out receipts for Mr Harmwell’s mother.” The smile turned into a giggle. “Tell that to the Marines.” As she spoke, Miss Carswall moved in her chair and the hem of her skirt rose up, exposing pretty ankles and elegant calves encased in French-silk stockings. “Why, it seems unnatural for Kerridge to have a follower. She must be old enough to be my mother.” At this, she coloured and fell silent, for the remark was not the best of taste, especially from one situated as Miss Carswall was. I wondered, not for the first time, if there was more than met the eye in Harmwell’s interest in Mrs Kerridge. She was better placed than most to know exactly what was going on in this family. She was Mrs Frant’s maid, the only servant who remained from that lost house in Russell-square. She had also looked after Miss Carswall when she had lived with her cousin for upward of two years while Mr Frant was in Canada, and of course she had known Charlie since he was a baby. The three of them held her in great affection, and often confided in her. On account of this, perhaps, Mrs Kerridge wielded an influence over the other servants out of proportion to her official standing among them. “Mr Carswall tells me you are soon to remove to the country,” I said, to break the silence before it grew awkward. “We are indeed. Papa is so provoking. He talks of unnecessary expense, which is nonsense. But he will not listen to reason.” She spoke these words in a self-mocking manner, which converted them from a criticism of her father to a commentary on her own shortcomings. “You prefer the town, I think, miss?” “Oh, indeed. I remember how delightful it was when I first came to live with Sophie in Russell-square, and suddenly Bath itself seemed no more interesting than a village. I know Town is practically empty now, and it will be even emptier after Christmas. But even in that condition, it is far more agreeable to me than the vacant prospects and unpolished inhabitants of the countryside. I – I shall miss my friends, too. In London, one knows so many people that one may to a large extent choose with whom one associates. But it is quite different at Monkshill. We have a very limited acquaintance.” She paused a moment and then added, with peculiar emphasis: “Yes, I shall miss certain friends very much.” She had been gazing at the paper on her lap, but when she spoke those last few words, she raised her face to mine, which gave what she said a particular force, and made it difficult not to place a particular construction upon the words. Miss Carswall smiled at me and was about to say something else. But at this interesting moment, the door of the drawing room flew open and Charlie burst in on us. “Cousin Flora!” he cried. “Mama says I do not have to go back to school!” Chapter 32 (#ulink_c9613c93-1f5d-5609-889e-978af4f54685) I returned to Stoke Newington on Thursday, the 9th December. As the month progressed, the weather grew worse. The cold and the lengthening nights were perfectly in tune with my gloomy spirits. Sometimes I slipped into a fit of wild despair. When my mind was unoccupied, two faces rushed to fill the vacancy, those of Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall. I was amazed by my own folly: if it were ludicrous to pine for one lady so far removed from my own sphere of society, then how much more absurd to pine for two? Yet however much I brought philosophy to my aid, I could not expel those two lovely images from my thoughts. “You are out of sorts, Tom,” said Edward Dansey one evening as we sat over the dying fire. “It is merely a fit of the dumps. I beg your pardon – I do not wish to be a plague.” “One’s spirits have their seasons, just as the weather has. What is it you are reading?” I passed the book to him. “The Carmina of Catullus?” He held the book up to the candle and turned over the pages. “Charming, charming,” he murmured. “All the passion of youth is here, and all its folly. I should not let Mr Bransby see you reading it, however.” “I am re-reading the poems not for their matter but for their metre,” I said. “Yes, there are elements of interest in Catullus’s use of phalaecians and scazons. As for the hexametric poems, it is undeniable that he handles the metre with far more elegance than Lucretius contrives, though to my mind a greater employment of enjambment would have improved them still further. His elegiacs, on the other hand, do not merit the compliment of imitation, and his pentameters are often positively uncouth.” He looked up, saw my face and turned his lopsided smile on me. “You must not mind me, Tom, I am a little out of sorts myself.” He returned the volume. “Have you heard the news? Quird is to be withdrawn from the school.” “I cannot say I am sorry to hear it.” “It appears that his father was badly hit when Wavenhoe’s collapsed. The family has lost nearly all it had.” “It is, I’m afraid, a common enough story.” I held out my hands to the fire. “I hope they are not in actual want?” “Not quite. It is a dreadful business.” Dansey’s eyes glowed orange in the candlelight. “But of course few have suffered as Mrs Frant has suffered. Is it true that she is entirely dependent on the charity of her cousin Mr Carswall?” “I believe so.” I heard a trace of agitation in my tone, for I remembered that fatal codicil that had removed, with my unconscious assistance, her last hope of financial independence. I forced myself to continue: “And Charlie, too, of course.” Dansey waved a long-fingered hand. “At least he is young. Youth has astonishing resilience. But Mrs Frant’s position must be truly wretched.” I mumbled agreement, not trusting myself to speak. “No doubt she loved him?” I made no reply, though Dansey waited for one. “Yes, but then love is a curious emotion,” he went on in a moment, as though I had answered in the affirmative. “We commonly use one word where at least three are required. When poets speak of love, they describe a passionate attachment to another individual. It is perhaps less an attachment than a form of hunger. However they dress it up in the language of sentiment, it is at bottom a physical appetite for the sexual act, a desire to enjoy the last favour. It is an extraordinarily powerful appetite, it is true, and one directed with remarkable intensity at a single individual, an intensity that may border on madness – as, perhaps, it did for poor Catullus with his Lesbia. Yet it is usually short-lived. I have known many young men who fall in love once a week. And when such a man marries the beloved of the moment, the passion rarely lasts at the pitch it attained before it was satisfied.” I stared at the fire. Dansey’s voice had taken on a slow, dreamlike quality. I wished I were alone in a silent room. “As to the second meaning,” he said after another pause, another opportunity for me to speak. “On many occasions love is little more than a respectable synonym for lechery, a universal appetite for copulation, for unbridled carnality. The word love casts a veil of propriety over it. It is an attempt to disguise its nature, to shield it from the strictures of moralists. But, truly considered, the phenomenon is no more lovely or unlovely than the behaviour of a pig at a trough.” I stirred in my chair. “Pray do not be uneasy,” he said quickly. “The taxonomy of the emotions should be the province of the natural philosopher, as well as that of the poet. And, to the unbiased observer at least, it is clear that a mature person may feel for – for – another person a category of emotion which may properly be called love; indeed it may be argued that it deserves the appellation more than the previous categories. This would be my third definition of the word. I refer to an individual’s calm and disinterested concern for the well-being of another.” I suppressed a yawn. “It sounds remarkably like friendship. Or a mother’s feeling for a child.” “No, Tom, not exactly. It does not exclude passion, you see. Passion may play a part, albeit guided by reason, by experience. One sees it sometimes in married couples, in whom it may flourish after their initial ardours have subsided. One sometimes sees it, too, in friendships between members of the same sex, very commonly in soldiers or sailors who have braved terrible dangers together. If one had to characterise this type of affection, one could, I think, usefully entertain the notion of completeness. The lover feels incomplete without the beloved. It is an emotion that may flourish unobtrusively in unexpected places. Though it may embrace the sexual sphere, it is not confined to it.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. I saw twin candle flames burning in his eyes. It is a terrifying thing to glimpse the depth of another’s need. I pushed back my chair and stood up. “Ned – pray excuse me – it has been a long day. I shall fall asleep if I stay another moment. You will not take it amiss if I withdraw, will you?” “No,” Dansey said. “No, of course not. You were falling into a doze. I warrant you hardly heard a word I’ve been saying.” I wished him goodnight. At the door, he called me back. “You will want this,” he said. “Your Catullus.” Chapter 33 (#ulink_1d59b34f-ad38-52f8-a5a1-3190db8c7057) Neither of us referred to this conversation again. It was possible that Dansey believed, or affected to believe, that I had been on the edge of slumber during the latter part of it, and had not heard all he said, or comprehended the general drift of his remarks. So we lived and worked together on our old amicable footing. Yet something had changed. After that evening, I rarely sat with him late into the night beside the dying warmth of the schoolroom fire, or strolled smoking with him across the frosty lawn after the boys had gone to bed. Nevertheless, I found my thoughts recurring to his remarks upon the subject of love on more than one occasion. If it were true that the tender passion could be divided into three categories, which category embraced what I felt for Sophia Frant – or, indeed, for Flora Carswall? I saw with peculiar vividness in my mind’s eye the picture of Dansey’s pig at his trough. I could not say that I was looking forward to the end of term, to the six weeks of the school’s Christmas holiday. Though a few boys would remain, the establishment would be considerably reduced, and Dansey and I would inevitably be thrown much together. I had agreed to eat my Christmas dinner with the Rowsells, but I had no other engagements or diversions in hand. About a week before Christmas, I met young Edgar Allan on the stairs and he said to me, in that hurried and peculiarly breathless way that small boys have: “Sir, please, sir, but Frant begs me to give you his compliments and hopes you may be able to accept.” I stopped. “Accept what, Allan? His compliments?” “You have not heard, sir?” “Unless I know what I am supposed to have heard, I cannot tell, can I?” Something in the logic of this must have appealed to him, for the boy burst out laughing. When his mirth had subsided, he said: “Frant wrote me to say that his mama is inviting me to stay at Mr Carswall’s during the Christmas holiday. And Mr Carswall is to write to my ma and pa, and to Mr Bransby, requesting that you should be allowed to accompany me, though I should be perfectly safe in the care of the coachman, but Charlie says that women always fuss and sometimes it is wise to let them have their head.” “I have as yet heard nothing of this projected expedition,” I said. “I am not convinced that it will be perfectly convenient.” I watched Allan’s face change, as though a cloud had passed over his good humour. “However, we shall have to see what Mr Bransby has to say about it.” The boy took this as a form of agreement. He bounded happily away, leaving me to wonder whether his information was accurate, and, if it were, whether Mr Bransby would permit me to go, and whether it would be wise for me to do so or not. Wise or not, I knew what I wanted. Lofty thoughts about the taxonomy of love in general, and about pigs and troughs in particular, were all very well in the abstract but I no longer had any desire to pursue them. The following afternoon, Mr Bransby relayed Mrs Frant’s invitation. “There is some uncertainty as to when you will return,” Mr Bransby went on. “Mr Carswall does not feel that young Frant has been minding his book with sufficient attention since he left us. He may desire you to remain longer with them, to coach the boys and perhaps to escort Edgar Allan back to school at the beginning of term – Charles Frant, of course, will not be rejoining us. You are not expected elsewhere, I suppose, on Christmas Day?” “As a matter of fact, I was, sir. But it is of no importance.” That evening, I sat down by the fire in the schoolroom to write to Mr Rowsell, regretting that I would not be able to eat my Christmas dinner with them after all. I had hardly begun when Dansey came in. “Mr Bransby tells me you are taking young Allan down to the country,” he said abruptly. “Is it true you will remain there the entire vacation?” “It’s possible. Mr Carswall will decide.” Dansey flung himself into a chair. “Are you sure this is wise, Tom?” “Why ever not?” I spoke with more heat than I had intended. “A change of scene will be beneficial.” “And a change of company, no doubt.” I murmured that I was perfectly happy in my present situation. “I beg your pardon,” Dansey continued after a moment. “I have no right to advise you. You will go with young Allan, I collect?” “I wonder that Mr Allan has permitted him to go. It is only a month since Mr Frant’s death.” “I imagine he did it to oblige Mr Carswall. Wealth is a passport to esteem. Forgive me; I do not mean to pry – but are you altogether easy in your mind about this?” “Why should I not be?” Dansey hesitated. “I am a rational man, as you know. But sometimes I have an intuition when all is not well. I daresay I am being fanciful.” He stood there for a moment, his lopsided mouth working in his Janus face as though he wanted to say something else but could not persuade his lips to mouth the words. He turned on his heel and slipped out of the room. I stared down at the sheet of paper, the few words on it flickering and shifting in the candlelight. It was another freezing evening, and I shivered. Dansey had an intuition, but it occurred to me that I had more substantial grounds for caution: the manner in which first Mr Frant and now Mr Carswall had entangled me in their affairs; the codicil that had cost Mrs Frant an inheritance; the mutilated cadaver at Wellington-terrace; and the severed finger I had discovered in David Poe’s satchel. Chapter 34 (#ulink_2efa6f2d-c31c-548e-a8ca-2222606c19ba) In 1819, Christmas Day was a Saturday. Mr Bransby decreed that term should officially end on the previous Tuesday. On the afternoon of that day, I travelled down to London with Edgar Allan. We put up for the night with his foster parents in Southampton-row. Mrs Allan, an anxious, vapourish woman with a hypochondriacal tendency, alternately caressed and ignored Edgar. In the late afternoon, Mr Allan returned from his place of business. He was a grim-faced man, much preoccupied. In their presence Edgar seemed to glow with vitality and intelligence; he was as different from them as chalk from cheese. “If you go to Cheltenham,” Mrs Allan said over dinner in her high, wavering voice, “you must stay at the Stiles Hotel. Do you remember, my love?” she said to her husband. “The people there were most attentive.” “But they’re not going to Cheltenham,” Mr Allan said. An uneasy silence settled over the dinner table, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and the footsteps of the servant. I had assumed until now that it was Charlie who needed Edgar’s company. Now I recalled Edgar’s enthusiasm for the proposal, and wondered if it might not be the other way round. After dinner, Mr Allan retired to his private room on the plea of needing to cast up his accounts. Mrs Allan sat in the drawing room and played cards with Edgar. While she played, she talked incessantly of her friends and family, her homesickness for Richmond, Virginia, her fear of seasickness, and the number and nature of her ailments, which were, it seemed, matters of constant surprise and interest to her medical attendants. After we had drunk tea, I made my excuses and went out. Like a sentimental fool, I walked up to Russell-square and stood for a moment on the pavement outside the house where the Frants had lived. There was a lantern above the door, and lights showed in the cracks between the shutters. A sense of my own folly overwhelmed me. I walked rapidly away, as though the faster I walked, the sooner I would leave my folly behind. At length I found myself outside a tavern in Lambs Conduit-street. I spent forty minutes in the taproom, smoking and drinking brandy. All the while, I could not rid myself of the single thought that ran round my head like a rat in a trap: tomorrow I shall see her. I walked back to the Allans’ house, where I fell into a restless sleep. The human mind is a perverse creature. When I awoke, I realised the face I had seen most often in the magic-lantern show of my dreams was that of Flora Carswall. Chapter 35 (#ulink_f4621387-831b-57d9-bc04-09fa346d3200) In the morning, I had time to call at Mr Rowsell’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. It seemed churlish to be so close to him and not to pay him a visit; and I wished to say farewell and send my apologies to Mrs Rowsell. He welcomed me with his customary good humour and sent out Atkins, his clerk, for coffee. His face lengthened, however, when I told him where I was going. “I cannot pretend I like this plan, Tom,” he said, “though of course it is no concern of mine. But the children will miss you sorely on Saturday. Is Mr Bransby happy to see you go?” “He is disposed to consider that on the whole the advantages outweigh the drawbacks.” Rowsell nodded. “There are financial considerations, no doubt, and he would be fully alive to their importance. How long do you stay?” As I was answering him, there was a knock at the door and Atkins ushered in the boy with the tray. The clerk glanced at me with tiny eyes like specks of mud and averted his round, pale face. Rowsell sat in silence until we were alone. I knew him well enough to apprehend that he was not easy in his mind. I thought his solicitude as misplaced as Dansey’s. He poured the coffee and handed me a cup. “You remember we were discussing Mr Carswall and Mr Frant’s conduct in the late war with America?” “Why, yes, sir.” “I was in the City the other day and I heard another story about Wavenhoe’s that I did not altogether like. In fairness, it may be no more than a story. But it came from more than one source, so I suspect there may be some truth in it.” He tasted his coffee and screwed up his face. “It concerns what precipitated this entire ugly affair – the collapse of the bank, that is, the discovery of Mr Frant’s criminal dealings and his eventual murder. It appears that the bank was liable for certain bills, amounting together to a considerable sum, that became due at the end of October. Most of them concerned building speculations in which the bank had invested.” I nodded, for Miss Carswall had told me something of this when she waylaid me in Stoke Newington. “There was no money to pay them?” “That was not in itself the difficulty. In the normal run of things, Frant could quite reasonably expect to negotiate extensions to the terms of the bills. However, it appears that a few weeks before the debts became due, a number of the bills changed hands. They were purchased by a commercial house which often acts as a go-between in transactions where the principal does not wish to have his name known. At the end of the month, these bills were presented for payment, and Frant found he could not negotiate extensions to any of them.” “So you believe that an enemy of Mr Frant’s may have contrived his ruin?” “Not contrived, not exactly – that’s putting it too strong. Frant’s corrupt dealings made the bank’s eventual downfall inevitable. No, if true, what this circumstance suggests to me is that the collapse of the bank may have been brought forward, perhaps by several weeks, or even months.” Rowsell paused to pour us more coffee. “What would be the advantage in that?” I asked. “At this point we cannot tell. But in order to put into effect such a scheme, a man would need to have the command of considerable wealth, and also to regard Mr Frant with inveterate malignancy. Why else would one buy control of the debts of a failing concern? On the face of it, the scheme’s success would involve its perpetrator in considerable financial loss. Since Wavenhoe’s closed its doors, those bills are hardly worth the paper they are written on.” “Aye,” I said. “I see what you are driving at, sir.” “Not what,” Mr Rowsell said, spreading out his arms so vigorously that a few drops of coffee flew out of his cup and splattered in an arc of black spots on the floor. “Who.” “Oh. You – you cannot mean Mr Carswall?” Demure as a maiden, he looked at me over the brim of the tiny cup. His big pink face was empty of guile, empty of all emotions except a generalised benevolence and a mild curiosity. Chapter 36 (#ulink_c98207d1-b8ee-54ee-b6e2-2fbf82c08ced) In the freezing, fog-bound evening, Edgar and I boarded the Gloucester Mail. I was grateful that Mr Allan had indulged us in the luxury of inside seats. As we inched our way down Piccadilly, I stared at the throngs of people on the pavement, their faces lit by the unhealthy glare of the street lights. Edgar sat very still, his eyes huge in his face, watching and listening, yet deaf to my attempts at conversation; he was like one under an enchantment. Slowly we picked up speed. By and by the motion and the monotony set the boy’s head nodding to and fro on his shoulders, bouncing between me and a grocer’s wife, between sleep and wakefulness. One by one, our fellow passengers followed his example. I wished I might do the same. A journey is full of excitement when one leaves or arrives, but the intervening period is commonly characterised by discomfort and boredom. The coach whirled through the darkness. A dwarfish clergyman snored on the seat opposite mine. The windows were tightly closed, at the request of the grocer’s wife, who slumbered steadily, rousing herself when she heard the screech of the horn at turnpike gates and recruiting her strength from a bottle in her reticule. The interior of the coach filled with the fumes of Jamaica rum and water. The clergyman had a nightmare; his limbs twitched helplessly; and his tiny feet pushed their way out of the blanket that covered him and kicked my shins. The only moments of interest came as we clattered through the silent country towns along the road. I raised the blind, rubbed the glass and looked out at empty streets. Here and there a light would burn in an upper window. There is something mysterious about a sleeping town; like a ship abandoned by its crew, it becomes an entirely different entity when bereft of human purpose and human animation. Then the coach would swing under an archway into the inn yard, and suddenly all would be light and bustle, the shouting of ostlers and tap-boys, the changing of horses, passengers climbing down and climbing up, voices rising and falling with jokes, curses, advice and farewells. So perverse is the human mind that within seconds of entering an inn yard I would begin to hunger for the darkness and the solitude of the countryside. Once the horses were changed, we were on our way, mile after mile. All the inside passengers were going to Gloucester or further still to Hereford or Carmarthen. At some point in the dark hours before dawn I fell into a deep slumber, from which I was rudely awakened, along with the other passengers, when the coachman misjudged the turn into an inn yard and jarred the nearside rear wheel against the jamb of the arch. After that I did not go back to sleep. The night slowly gave way to the long grey twilight of a winter dawn. One by one, my travelling companions woke to face the day. All the excitement of the previous evening had gone. We were unwashed, unshaven, unfed and unrested. Our bodies ached from the hardness of the seats. We reached Gloucester before midday and were set down with our luggage at the Bell Inn in Southgate-street. Mr Carswall’s carriage had already arrived. The horses were baiting and the groom was anxious to leave. We snatched a late breakfast in the coffee room. Afterwards I risked the groom’s displeasure and found a barber to shave me. Curiosity moved me as much as vanity; barbers know everything. “By the way,” I said as the man was stropping his razor, “I believe the late Mr Wavenhoe owned property in this city.” “Wavenhoe? Oh yes, sir. Though the old gentleman lived in London mostly. He died last month.” I jingled the coins in my pocket. “What was the property?” “Oxbody-lane, sir – a pretty little inn, and also some of the neighbouring freeholds. It’s all let, of course.” Head on one side like a robin, he darted a glance at me. “If you’re interested, I could give you the direction of an attorney who would be able to tell you more.” “No,” I said abruptly. “There is no need.” Mr Carswall’s seat, Monkshill-park, lay some ten or twelve miles south and west of Gloucester in the direction of Lydmouth. We made good time when we left the city because the first part of our journey lay along turnpike roads. The last few miles lay on smaller roads and lanes. Time dragged. Edgar fidgeted. My body ached with the undeserved weariness of the sedentary traveller. By the time we swung off the road, the afternoon was turning to twilight. A grim-faced lodge-keeper opened the gates. We followed a winding, gradually ascending drive through parkland. Trees swayed like maenads against a gloomy sky. The wind threw drops of rain against the carriage windows. The house burst into view, a great rectangular block with three storeys and five bays, faced with stone that gleamed coldly against the darkening landscape. We were clearly awaited, for as we drew up at the door, two footmen ran out with umbrellas and ushered us through the driving rain and up the steps into the hall. I recognised one of them as Pratt, the thin-faced sycophant whom Mr Carswall must have brought down with him from town. Charlie Frant flew to greet his friend, followed at a more sober pace by the two ladies, arm in arm. “Edgar!” Charlie cried. “Let me show you our room. Oh, we shall have such larks.” His mother touched his shoulder and reminded him of my presence. Blushing, he turned to me. “Mr Shield, sir, how good of you to come.” Mrs Frant shook my hand and gave me her gentle smile. “My father is closeted with his agent on estate business,” Miss Carswall told me. “But you will meet him at dinner.” She glanced at the hovering footmen. “Pratt will show you to your room. I daresay you will want to rest after the fatigue of your journey. But not for long, I am afraid – we dine at half-past five o’clock. We keep country hours at Monkshill.” I mounted the stairs in the wake of the footman. Far above me was an oval skylight which seemed less a means of admitting light than a way of emphasising the height of the house and the breadth of the stairwell. Monkshill was on the grand scale, a residence fit for giants. I was sensible of a stillness beneath me, as if the women in the hall below were holding their breath. My room was large, a little shabby and very cold. I washed and changed as quickly as I could. Somewhere in the house a clock was striking five when I went in search of the drawing room. Lamps and candles lighted the landings and the stairs. But they failed to expel the darkness from the immense spaces of the mansion. In the hall, I hesitated, wondering where the drawing room was. A figure detached itself from the shadows to my right. “Good evening, sir.” Startled, I swung round. “Why, Mrs Kerridge! I trust I find you well?” “As well as can be expected.” She nodded towards the door on my right. “If you want the boys, they’re in the drawing room.” She left as suddenly as she had arrived, the abruptness of her manner reminding me of my ambiguous status, neither gentleman nor servant. I knocked lightly on the door and went in. The drawing room was filled with the shifting, faded yellow light of a dozen candles. Mrs Frant was sitting almost in the grate, with a book in her hand. The boys were huddled on the sofa, engaged in a whispered conversation. “I – I beg your pardon, ma’am,” I said. “Am I early?” “Not at all, Mr Shield,” Mrs Frant said. “Pray sit down. And, on the way, I wonder if you would be so kind as to ring the bell. We need more coals for the fire.” I did as she asked and then sat opposite her. It is curious the effect that widow’s weeds have on those that wear them. Some women drown in their dark folds; they become their mourning. Mrs Frant, however, belonged to the second category: the very simplicity of her plain black gown set off her beauty. “My cousins will be here in a moment,” she said. “You are not cold, I hope?” “Not at all,” I lied. “This is a cold house, I’m afraid,” she said with a faint smile. “We have not been here long enough to warm it.” The door opened and Miss Carswall came into the room. Her face broke into a smile. I may have been mistaken, but I thought I heard Sophia Frant add in a whisper: “And an unlucky house, too.” Chapter 37 (#ulink_123200a7-bb28-56cc-9230-dad7227616d1) Five of us sat down to dinner – Mr Carswall, Miss Carswall, Mrs Frant, an elderly lady named Mrs Lee, and myself. Mrs Lee was the aunt of a local clergyman, and I understood she was paying a long visit to Monkshill-park. There was little conversation apart from that which emanated from Mr Carswall himself. He ate sparingly, but drank deeply, working his way through glass after glass of claret. “I took it upon myself to investigate the state of Charlie’s Latinity,” he announced. “The Rector called the other morning, and I asked him to interrogate the boy on his knowledge of the Eton Latin Grammar. He was shocked – shocked, Mr Shield – when he plumbed the depths of the lad’s ignorance. Why, he could not even distinguish between a gerund and a gerundive. What does Mr Bransby teach them?” “He has not had much opportunity of teaching Charlie anything, sir. Nor has any of us. Charlie attended the school for less than a term, and for much of it he was absent.” Mrs Frant turned her face away. “It has not been an easy time for him,” put in Miss Carswall. Carswall shot his daughter a glance. “True enough, my dear,” he rumbled. “Still, that don’t alter the case. The boy wants instruction, and I daresay Edgar Allan does too. You had better stay for the rest of their holidays, Shield, and read with them in the mornings.” I bowed. “If the arrangement is quite convenient for Mr Shield?” Mrs Frant said, looking at me. “Of course it is,” Carswall said. “Mr Bransby raised no objection when I put it to him, so why should he? Neither of them will be the loser.” “And I’m sure Mr Shield will make himself useful in other ways,” Miss Carswall said. “He will be quite an addition to our little society. You like a game of chess in the evening, do you not, Papa, and I’m sure he can make a fourth at whist. If the weather is bad, one hardly ever sees anyone in the country, especially in winter.” “People did not mind the weather when I was a boy,” Carswall grumbled. “We were more sociable then.” “Why, Papa, we are sociable still. Or we try to be. Did not the Rector ride over the other day? And in the rain!” The meal continued to its weary end. There was some hesitation about which lady should give the signal to withdraw. In the end, Miss Carswall was the first to rise. I held open the door for them. Mrs Lee and Mrs Frant hurried past, their faces averted, but Miss Carswall smiled up at me. The cloth was removed. Carswall beckoned me back to my seat and pushed the decanter towards me. “You will not dine with us every night,” he said. “Yes, sir.” “Mind you, Flora may have a point. Do you play chess or piquet? Whist?” “Indifferently, I’m afraid.” “No matter. You play – that is the main thing.” Carswall stared into his glass. “We exchange few visits in this part of the country.” We drank in silence. A clock ticked. Whereas Mr Rowsell drank wine because he enjoyed it and its effects, Mr Carswall drank it as if it were his bounden duty. “I did not wish to alarm the ladies at dinner,” he said after a while, “but this afternoon I received intelligence that there is a band of housebreakers in the vicinity. We must be on our guard. So it is no bad thing to have another man in the house, particularly a former soldier.” The old man gnawed his lower lip for a moment and then bade me ring the bell. When the butler came, Mr Carswall ordered him to lock up with particular care. Then, to my relief, he gave me permission to go. I left him to his wine and his fire and went to the drawing room in search of tea. Only Miss Carswall and Mrs Lee were there, one on either side of the fire. Mrs Lee was asleep. Miss Carswall’s face was uncharacteristically sad, though she looked up with a smile when I entered and patted the sofa beside her. “Sit down and have some tea, Mr Shield. I cannot tell you how pleased Sophie and I are to see you. Papa becomes quite bearish without masculine company. I am sure you will do an admirable job of drawing his fire. Isn’t that how you military men put it?” I smiled back and said I would do my best. As I spoke, I glanced in the direction of Mrs Lee. “You must not mind her,” Miss Carswall murmured. “Mrs Lee is very short-sighted and rather deaf: in other words, one could not ask for a better chaperone.” “She is a near neighbour?” “No. In fact, I had not met her before she came here on Tuesday. She seems most amiable, though, and I will not hear a word against her. It appears that all her relations are clergymen, which constitutes her principal charm in Papa’s eyes.” I burst out laughing. “But it is true,” she went on. “Papa feels that neither Sophie nor I is quite the thing, albeit for different reasons. He is anxious that we should be accepted in the neighbourhood, that we should take our proper position in society. Hence Mrs Lee. She has such a store of respectability that she cannot help but shed her surplus on those around her. She is a perfect paragon in every way, and one of her nephews was acquainted with Sir George Ruispidge when they were up at Oxford.” Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Believe me, Mr Shield, there can be no higher recommendation.” “I’m afraid I do not know of the gentleman.” “What? How can this be? Sir George Ruispidge is our very own none-such. He lives nearby at Clearland-court. They say his rent-roll brings in six or seven thousand a year.” She looked down at her lap but I saw the smile on her face. “And the dear man has coal mines besides, as well as a charming house in Cavendish-square and a seat in Parliament. His family have been here for generations – they know everybody, go everywhere. So you will understand that we find him a most agreeable neighbour.” She raised her head just in time to catch me with an answering smile. “And the general opinion among the ladies is that he is a very handsome man, too.” “And what is your view, Miss Carswall?” Her eyelashes fluttered. “It would not be seemly for me to disagree with an opinion held so firmly by the majority of my sex, Mr Shield. But you may soon be able to judge for yourself. We may see the Ruispidges in church on Christmas Day. Certainly my father hopes so. He has a very pressing reason for wishing it.” “And may I ask what that is?” For an instant the skin tightened over the bones of Miss Carswall’s face. “Why, he hopes that Sir George will make an offer for me.” Chapter 38 (#ulink_58a83b7f-0292-5a15-9822-ecec9b321af2) Flora Carswall was her father’s child in more ways than one. Their virtues and their vices went hand in hand. Both of them spoke their minds, and both lacked cant; but both could also be shockingly frank. Carswall was almost certainly wealthier than Sir George Ruispidge but the Ruispidges were one of the first families of the county, and had been for generations. One might say that Carswall wished to purchase a form of immortality by allying his family with them. No doubt he would have had no trouble in buying a gentleman, even one with a title, a man prepared to ignore the father’s mean birth and the daughter’s illegitimacy for the sake of the dowry she would bring. But it is human nature to desire what one cannot easily obtain. Carswall wanted a gentleman who was not on the brink of ruin, or already deep in that bottomless abyss. He wanted a gentleman who held his head high in the world. So much I had already inferred, not merely from my conversation with Miss Carswall on the night of my arrival at Monkshill but also from what I knew of her father. What I did not then know was that there was another reason why Sir George Ruispidge was so pre-eminently suitable for the r?le of Mr Carswall’s son-in-law. Looking back, however, I realised that I received a hint of it on my very first evening. I had left the drawing room and was climbing the stairs towards my own chamber when I heard a door close and footsteps above. At the head of the flight I met Mrs Kerridge. I presumed she had been attending Mrs Frant. I made some remark in passing about the size of this house relative to those in Margaret-street and Russell-square – a pleasantry, merely, suggesting that we had risen in the world. “He can never rise high enough for this house,” Mrs Kerridge hissed. “Not for Monkshill – and he knows it.” “I beg your pardon?” She came close to me. “I spoke plain enough, did I not?” “Who can never rise high enough? Mr Carswall?” “Who else could I mean? All the other men in this house are servants.” She raised the candle she carried in her left hand and gave me a hard, considering look. “Mrs Kerridge –” She cut me off with a laugh. “None of our affair, though, is it? Master Charlie’s asleep, by the way – I looked in on him earlier. His friend was reading, but I made him blow out his candle.” She walked away from me, turning as she went to throw a few more words over her shoulder: “It won’t do you no good, you know, coming here. This place does no one any good. You should have stayed at that school of yours.” Chapter 39 (#ulink_6ed00a4f-7461-5ca7-beb5-a1e481668e58) The next day, Friday, was Christmas Eve. In the morning the two boys and I continued our long march through the Eton Latin Grammar. In the afternoon, we walked in the park. It was exceptionally cold that year. Everywhere the ground was hard and white with frost. The mansion-house stood at the southern end of a ridge. The boys took me north along a path running up the ridge’s spine, which commanded a prospect of the river’s sinuous, shining curves beyond the turnpike road in the valley below. No expense had been spared to accentuate the picturesque nature of the spot. An obelisk surrounded by seats artfully constructed of rustic stone marked the highest point of the park and also the place where six paths intersected. We followed the widest of them, which led north-west and gently downwards to a small lake formed by damming a stream that drained down to the river. To the north and west, beyond the stretch of frozen water, lay dense woods. Charlie pointed to the trees. “Mr Carswall has ordered the gamekeepers in the covers to shoot strangers on sight. There are poachers at work, he says, and some of them may be housebreakers too.” Edgar stared at him. “Surely they would not dare come here?” “What is to stop them? We can hardly send for a constable if we see them.” The ways of great estates were foreign to me. But before I had been twenty-four hours at Monkshill-park, I had begun to suspect that something was wrong. The domestic economy of a large establishment should run as smoothly as Mr Carswall’s watch. A well-tended park should show everywhere the presiding hand of its owner. Monkshill was a splendid house, in a splendid park. There was no shortage of money. Yet it seemed to me that neither of the ladies had been entrusted with the direction of the indoor servants, and that the master did not care to interest himself in the estate. Instead, Mr Carswall had hired people to do these things. This would not have mattered if he had ensured that those he had hired were doing their jobs. But everywhere one saw small signs of neglect: from the spots of grease on the footmen’s liveries to the gate with a broken hinge in the park palings. It was possible, I thought, that Mr Carswall was not habituated to the responsibilities of such an establishment. But I knew too much of his capabilities to believe that he could not have remedied the shortcomings, had he desired to do so. It puzzled me at first. An older man would have seen the reason directly. Mr Carswall was old; he knew that his powers were declining; and he was husbanding his energies for a purpose I did not then understand. Chapter 40 (#ulink_e3607130-782b-562d-b907-320f7bc2c802) The Christmas Eves of my youth had left me with many happy memories. My father was a cool, grave, remote man who took no part in the festivities of the season. But my mother would take me to the house of an aunt. She had married a whitesmith and, though comfortable, the family was not in such prosperous circumstances as we believed our own to be. But on a single Christmas Eve in their house, there was more laughter than in ours the whole year round. In my aunt’s kitchen, there was always a great sprig of mistletoe, and we boys had the privilege of kissing the girls beneath it; and for each kiss, a berry was plucked from the bush. This circumstance led to much frenzied arithmetic, for when all the berries had been plucked, the privilege ceased. I spent my last Christmas Eve in Rosington at my aunt’s house. This was after my parents had died, when I was teaching at the grammar school. Fanny, the daughter of the school’s new master, had paid a visit. That day I kissed her for the first time, and it was underneath my aunt’s mistletoe bush. Usually the memory of her made me feel melancholy. Not this year, however – instead, the thought crossed my mind that if I had not kissed Fanny under the mistletoe five years before, I should not be at Monkshill-park today. Not that Mr Carswall encouraged any sign that it was Christmas Eve in his house. Rustic festivities would have been out of place in this great stone block, this temple to modern taste. None of the chaste marble fireplaces was large enough to hold a Yule log, even if such a thing had been available. That evening I was invited to dine again with the Carswalls, Mrs Lee and Mrs Frant. Mr Carswall brought the conversation round to the subject of church. “I had a note from the Rector,” he said. “Sir George is bringing a party over from Clearland-court.” Miss Carswall cast her eyes up to the ceiling. “How fortunate I purchased that new pelisse before we left town.” She glanced across the table at me, and I thought I saw amusement in her face, and an invitation to share it. “And will Captain Jack make one of the party? And their mama?” “I do not know,” Carswall said. “I should think it likely.” His eyes slid from Miss Carswall to Mrs Frant, and then he turned to me. “You and Mrs Lee will join us. We have two pews. I think it proper that you should sit behind us with the boys.” “Yes, sir.” “Captain Ruispidge distinguished himself in the Peninsula,” Mr Carswall said. “Should he condescend to address you, you may wish to bear that in mind.” “Yes, sir,” I repeated. If anything was designed to prejudice me against a man, it was the intelligence that he had distinguished himself on a field of battle. “Sir George is patron of the living, is he not?” Mrs Frant asked. Carswall grunted. “He must have four or five in his gift. By rights the owner of Monkshill should have the right of presentation at Flaxern Parva. But my predecessor Mr Cranmere sold it to Sir George’s father.” The conversation lagged until at last the rich, tepid meal was over. The ladies withdrew; the cloth was removed and the wine set out with the nuts. Mr Carswall turned his chair to face the fire and waved at me, indicating that I should do the same. “So what do you think of Monkshill, eh?” he demanded, and did not wait for an answer. “It is a fine house, is it not? Do you know the architect? Sir John Soane himself, the very man who designed the Bank of England. Mind you, Soane don’t come cheap, and didn’t come cheap even then, thirty-odd years ago. And no expense was spared in the building. Not that I had to pay for that, sir, not a brass farthing. Reap what others sow: it is a fine motto in life, young man, mark it well: and remember that the man with ready money is king. No, Mr Cranmere spent so much in tearing down the old house and building this that he could not afford to live in it. He struggled on until 1815 but in the end he had to sell in a hurry. For a fraction of its worth: it was either that or the bailiffs. The folly of mankind never ceases to amaze me.” Carswall poured himself another glass of wine and stared into the fire. “Yes, though I say it myself, it is an establishment to be proud of, worthy of any gentleman in the county; any gentleman in the land, come to that.” He rumbled on in this vein for twenty minutes. There I sat, an audience of one, chained to my seat. Gradually his enunciation became slurred, and the pauses between sentences grew longer, then the pauses between phrases and words. He had his feet on the fender and his shoes had fallen into the hearth. His breeches were unbuttoned and spotted with stains of wine and gravy. The last thing he said before he dropped into a doze lodged in my memory, simply because it was so out of tune with what had gone before. “When my grandfather came to Monkshill, he touched his hat to the proprietor. Now I am the proprietor.” He glared at me with eyes half concealed behind straggling eyebrows, like a beast in a thicket, as though I had dared to contradict him. “So who is master now, hey? Tell me that. Who is master now?” Chapter 41 (#ulink_87e92f10-176f-584d-bc0c-42d0a3f373af) On Christmas morning, there was some debate at breakfast on the subject of how our party should travel to church. There were three equipages at Monkshill: a big coach, which at a pinch would hold six; the chaise that had brought Edgar and me from Gloucester, and which would hold three at most; and finally a low pony-phaeton for the ladies, which was judged quite unsuitable for the gravity of the occasion. Mr Carswall had been of the opinion that the chaise should be harnessed as well as the coach, but Miss Carswall pointed out that they could easily accommodate six in the coach, especially in that two of them were only boys. Then, as she realised the implications of what she had said, her eyes turned towards mine in silent apology. The arithmetic was stark: Mr Carswall, Mrs Lee, Mrs Frant, Miss Carswall and the two boys made six. There was not a seat for me. It was a perfectly clear statement of my position at Monkshill, all the clearer because I believed it unintended. Her father said with a slight air of disappointment, “I suppose we might make do with just the coach. But I would not like it to seem that that was all we had at our disposal.” “Papa, I do not think that likely.” “It is such a lovely day,” Mrs Frant said. “I am sure the boys would like to walk.” “Yes, indeed,” cried Miss Carswall. “That would answer very well. I daresay they would enjoy it, and we would not have to squeeze up in the coach.” Once more she turned to me. “That is, Mr Shield, if you would be kind enough to escort them.” I bowed my assent. “How far is Flaxern Parva?” “Not above a mile and a half,” she replied. “It is nearer three if one goes by the drive and the road, but there is a path across the park, and the church is on the nearer side of the village.” She clapped her hands. “How I envy you. The air is so refreshing.” Later in the morning the boys and I stood on the steps outside the front door and watched the Carswalls’ coach rolling round to the front of the house, rising and sinking on its long springs like a ship at sea, and glittering like a gigantic, brightly varnished child’s toy. There was a coat of arms on each door. A crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. The coachman wore a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a curly wig the colour of corn. Two liveried footmen, one of them Pratt, lolled on the box behind, carrying bouquets and gold-headed canes. Carswall came out of the house and looked with childlike glee at his toy. “I got the machine for a hundred and fifty guineas when Cranmere sold up,” he said, beating the brass ferrule of his stick against the stone of the step. “A bargain, hey? It was hardly a month old. He hadn’t even paid for it.” The boys and I set off across the frosty park. The sky was a dark, clear blue and the air was so cold it cut into the back of one’s throat like neat spirits. Our way took us past the lake we had visited the previous day. The boys ran ahead to slide on the ice. I pretended not to notice. A church bell tolled beyond the trees on the other side of the lake. “Come now,” I ordered, “we must hurry. Mr Carswall will be displeased if we are late.” They took this as an invitation to slither across to the further shore of the lake, the one nearer the trees, and I hurried along the bank after them. Charlie left the lake and plunged down the path that ran between two enclosed covers. I hoped no one was at hand to observe their behaviour: it was most unbecoming that two young gentlemen should behave in such an undignified way as they walked to divine service on one of the holiest days in the church’s calendar. We hurried down a path through woodland. Charlie warned us with ghoulish relish not to venture among the trees without one of the keepers by our side for Mr Carswall had planted mantraps among the covers against the poachers. At last the woods came to an end. To my relief, I saw the little church no more than three hundred yards away. It had a low tower, constructed of the rust-coloured local sandstone, and a sagging roof of stone tiles fissured with cracks and blotched with lichen. The churchyard was crowded with villagers in their Sunday best. The coach had not yet arrived. The path led directly to a small gate set in the wall of the churchyard. Two grooms were walking a chaise and a curricle up and down the adjacent lane. Charlie, with a confidence I envied, made for the knot of gentlefolk standing near the church porch. Just then Mr Carswall’s coach burst into view. With a great clatter of hooves, rumbling of wheels and cracking of whips, it careered down the high road, forcing a party of villagers to press against the churchyard wall to avoid being run down. The coachman drew up outside the lych-gate. He artfully contrived to rein the horses up more tightly so they champed their bits and arched their necks as though better bred than they were. “Damn me,” said a young gentleman standing with his back to me. “Travelling en prince, eh? I must say I’d –” A second man, a little older than his companion, had caught sight of us on the path and stopped the speaker in mid-sentence with a hand on the arm. They watched – we watched – as the footmen alighted at breakneck speed, as they opened the door and pulled down the steps, as Carswall emerged, inch by inch, like a great snail from its glistening shell, his bright little eyes darting from side to side to mark who was watching. When the old man reached the safety of the ground, he turned, swaying, leaning heavily on his stick, and held out his arm for Mrs Lee, in a gesture which was designed to be courtly but seemed merely theatrical. The old lady stepped down, blinking in the sunlight. Next came Sophia Frant, and I heard one of the gentlemen in front of me draw in his breath. Finally Miss Carswall appeared in the doorway of the carriage. For an instant she paused, glancing round like an actress surveying her audience, and smiling at the crowd in the churchyard with dazzling impartiality. Then she fluttered down the steps and took Mrs Frant’s arm. The bell tolled on. The villagers fell back to either side of the path as Carswall’s party advanced slowly towards the porch. Beside me, the two gentlemen removed their hats and bowed. There was a marked contrast between the quiet elegance of their dress and the magnificence of Carswall’s. “Sir George!” Carswall exclaimed as they drew level with the elder of the two. “The compliments of the season to you. And to you, my dear sir,” he added, turning in the direction of the second gentleman. “How is Lady Ruispidge? I trust she is well?” “Indeed,” said Sir George. “She is already in church.” He and the other gentleman, whom I took to be his brother, bowed again to the ladies. Carswall introduced Charlie and Edgar, and the party passed into the porch, which was thickly hung with Christmas greenery in the old-fashioned country manner. Inside the church itself, members of the little orchestra in the gallery were tuning their instruments. Miss Carswall glanced back at me and made as though to put her hands over her ears, raising her eyebrows in mock horror. The Ruispidges occupied two pews set apart in a separate enclosure at right angles to the rest of the congregation, and facing the pulpit. Carswall had taken the two pews at the front of the nave, and on the southern side: which brought us immediately to the left of Sir George and his family. The Ruispidge brothers joined two ladies who were already seated in the family pews. One was elderly, dressed in black and with a long, bony face resembling a horse’s, as the faces of well-bred humans so often do once the bloom of youth has worn off. The other lady was much younger, and when I caught sight of her, a thrill of recognition ran through me. It was Fanny! An instant later, I realised that I was mistaken. Yet the lady still reminded me of the girl whom I had kissed in another time and another place under the mistletoe in my aunt’s kitchen. She had the same high colouring, the same black, lustrous hair, and the same well-developed figure. She reminded me of someone else, too, a lady I had seen more recently, but for the life of me I could not remember whom or when. At length the service began. The parson was a well-built, red-faced man, who looked as though he belonged not in the pulpit but in the saddle with a fox and a pack of hounds in full cry in front of him. I hoped from this that his sermon would be brief, bluff and to the point. Appearances proved deceptive, however, for he spoke in a thin, scholarly drone for more than fifty minutes on the subject of how we should observe the ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing the feast not merely as a day of thanksgiving but also one of rejoicing. This was straightforward enough, but he supported the correctness of his opinions with frequent and lengthy references to the work of the Fathers of the Church. We sat in unhappy silence imbibing the wisdom of Theophilus of Caesarea and St Chrysostom. My attention wandered. The Ruispidges were still and attentive. The dark-haired lady, however, sometimes glanced to her left, into the nave where the rest of us were sitting, and once her eyes caught mine. There was a moment of welcome relief when the bass viol fell with a clatter to the floor of the balcony, no doubt because its owner had dropped into a doze. I regret to say that Mr Carswall, too, nodded off and had to be brought back to consciousness with a jab in the elbow from his daughter. I repressed a yawn, and then another. In search of diversion, I glanced at the two mural tablets on the wall beside me. The words “Monkshill-park” at once caught my eye. The first tablet recorded the death of the Honourable Amelia, daughter of the first Lord Vauden and wife of Henry Parker, Esquire, of Monkshill-park, in 1763. Beneath this was another tablet commemorating the manifold virtues of the Parkers’ daughter, Emily Mary, who had died in 1775. All at once I was fully awake. With a sense of foreboding creeping over me, I re-read the inscription on the second tablet. Emily Mary, beloved wife of William Frant, Esquire, of Monkshill-park. Had the Frants once owned Mr Carswall’s house? Chapter 42 (#ulink_054766ab-7725-5bf6-a668-a3ddd380edd5) When at last the service was over, the Ruispidges were the first to file out of the church into the sunlight, with Mr Carswall’s party hard at their heels. The rest of the congregation followed us outside, and an air of festivity and freedom filled the little churchyard. The villagers were like children let out of school. Even their betters acquired an air of holiday. Charlie and Edgar played a discreet game of tag among the gravestones. I did not have the heart to stop them. Mr Carswall hobbled as fast as he could after the baronet and contrived to pin him in a corner between the wall of the church and a buttress. “Sir George,” he cried. “Was not that an edifying sermon?” Sir George nodded, and I noted his eyes straying away from Mr Carswall towards Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, who were now in conversation with his mother Lady Ruispidge and the dark-haired lady from their pew. Captain Ruispidge hovered gracefully between the two younger ladies. “We should be very glad to see you at Monkshill, Sir George, you and the Captain, and Lady Ruispidge, too, if she would not find the drive too fatiguing.” Sir George remarked that it was very good of Mr Carswall. Miss Carswall had said Sir George was accounted handsome, as perhaps baronets often are, but I thought he looked like a hungry greyhound. He had to a nicety the art of making civil remarks which lacked warmth and substance. “I believe you have not yet met my cousin, Mrs Frant, sir,” the old man went on. “Pray allow me to rectify the omission.” Sir George bowed. “Thank you, I shall be glad to meet her.” He added, his voice and face studiously neutral, “I was acquainted with her husband, the late Mr Frant, when we were boys.” Mr Carswall bowed very low, as if in acknowledgement for this remarkable condescension. He led the baronet towards the knot of women. It so happened that I was standing at the side of the path, engaged partly in eavesdropping, partly in keeping an eye on the boys and partly in attempting to digest the implications of the unexpected intelligence about Henry Frant that I had recently acquired. Carswall had his head turned towards the baronet, but he was aware of my presence. With his arm he nudged me aside, off the path and on to the grass. It was carelessly done, and without malice, as one would push aside a dog that blocked the doorway of a room, or scoop a cat from a chair. He did not look at me, and he did not break off the flow of his remarks to Sir George. I own I was angry and perhaps hurt, not least because I had been so treated in full view of the four ladies, the Ruispidge gentlemen, my two pupils and the entire population, or so it seemed, of Flaxern Parva. I felt the colour flooding into my cheeks. I watched as Carswall and Sir George joined the others, and the introductions were made. Miss Carswall had already met the Ruispidges, but none of the other party was acquainted with Mrs Frant. “Why, Mrs Johnson,” said Miss Carswall to the dark-haired lady. “Have you news of the gallant lieutenant? Is he still on the West Indies station?” “Yes,” said the lady, and made as if to turn away. “Did I not see you in Town a few weeks ago?” Miss Carswall asked, in that little innocent voice she used when she was up to mischief. “I thought I glimpsed you in Pall Mall the other week – you was going into Payne and Foss’s – but there was such a crush I could not be sure, and then the carriage moved on and it was too late.” “No,” Mrs Johnson replied. “You must be mistaken. I have not been further than Cheltenham these six or seven months.” At that moment, I recalled when and where I might have seen Mrs Johnson before. I was not perfectly convinced, mind you, not then. “You must not hesitate to step out of your garden into the park, ma’am,” Carswall interrupted, addressing Mrs Johnson. “You must treat it quite as your own. I shall tell my people so. A word of caution, though: keep away from the covers. We have had such a plague of poachers in the last few months that I have had to sow the woods with a number of surprises. I would not wish a friend to fall foul of one of them.” Mrs Johnson bowed. A moment later, I saw her watching Mr Carswall as he turned back to Sir George and, for an instant, I surprised upon her face an expression of distaste that amounted almost to hatred. “I say, George,” said Captain Jack, who until now had been chatting with Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, “I was acquainted with Mrs Frant’s father. He was most kind to me when I went out to Portugal in the year nine. Colonel Marpool of the Ninety-Seventh, you know, though at the time he was seconded to the Portuguese army. A most distinguished officer – he played a great part in the recovery of Oporto, and he gave Mass?na himself a drubbing at Coimbra.” Mr Carswall beamed, as though the exploits of Mrs Frant’s father were in some mysterious way his own. He pulled out his watch and showed it to the company. “I think it very likely that Mass?na had a timepiece from the same workshop that produced this. They say Napoleon himself was one of Breguet’s patrons.” “I beg your pardon, sir?” Sir George said, his forehead wrinkling. “But who is Breguet?” “Abraham-Louis Breguet, sir – the finest watchmaker in the world.” Mr Carswall glanced fondly at the timepiece in his palm. “Certainly a number of Napoleon’s officers are known to have had these watches, for they are accurate to a tenth of a second, proof against sudden shocks, and capable of running for eight years without being overhauled, and without going slow. They say – and Captain Ruispidge will I’m sure correct me if I’m wrong – that many of the Emperor’s victories can be attributed to his genius for timing, and it is not far-fetched to imagine that this accuracy in the matter of time depended on a Breguet watch.” So the old man ran on, to an audience of blank faces. I was mortified on his behalf, despite the way he had slighted me, and turned aside to look for the boys. I did not see them in this part of the churchyard, so I walked back towards the porch, meaning to circumnavigate the church until I found them. “Mr Shield,” Miss Carswall said, just behind me. Startled, I swung round. She had broken away from the others, and stood at my elbow. “Would you be so good as to do me a favour?” “Of course, Miss Carswall.” “I have foolishly left my handkerchief in the church, in the pew where we were sitting.” “Then you must allow me to fetch it for you.” I passed through the porch into the church and walked down the nave. A moment later, I heard the door open again behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. There was Miss Carswall, smiling. “Mr Shield, I do so apologise. It was in my muff all the time.” She held up the wisp of embroidered silk. “I sent you on a fool’s errand.” I retraced my steps. “It don’t signify.” She waited on the threshold, her hand on the door. “Oh, but it does,” she said quietly. “Particularly as I knew the handkerchief was in my muff all the time.” “I’m afraid I do not understand.” “It is very simple. I wished to apologise for my father’s behaviour.” I felt myself blushing once again and turned aside. “I know I should not say this of my father, but I cannot ignore the fact that he sometimes acts in a manner that –” “You must not distress yourself, Miss Carswall. It is of no moment.” She stamped her foot. “He treats you like a servant. It is not just. I saw him pushing you out of his way. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Or – even better – swallow him.” “I beg of you, do not be disturbed on my account.” She turned her head, as though about to leave, but then looked back at me. “Pray, do not take it amiss, my talking to you in this way. You must think me very forward. I should beg your pardon.” “On the contrary, I think you most considerate of an inferior’s feelings.” “Oh?” Miss Carswall waited for me to go on. “Is that all?” “I honour you for it.” “Oh!” she said, with a different inflection, and darted into the porch. I followed her under the canopy of evergreen leaves and branches. She stopped in the middle of the porch and looked at me. Beyond the archway into the churchyard I saw the green of the grass, the grey of the gravestones and the blue of the sky. The path from the lych-gate made a right angle as it turned towards the porch. I heard the voices of other people, but I saw no one except Miss Carswall; and no one could see us. “In the church,” I said, “there was a tablet on the wall which –” “Hush.” Flora Carswall laid her hand on my arm, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. Shocked, I sprang back, jarring my elbow against the great iron latch on the door. Her perfume filled my nostrils, and the warmth of her lips burned like a brand on my skin. She smiled, and this time her face was full of mischief. “This is the time and the place where such liberties are permitted, sir, or at least condoned,” she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “Look.” She pointed upwards and I saw that hanging from the vault above her head was a great bush of mistletoe studded with white berries. My heart pounded in my chest. “You must pick off one of the berries now,” she said in the same caressing voice. “But there are still plenty left.” She turned away and stepped into the blinding sunshine of Christmas morning. Chapter 43 (#ulink_ae270801-e69c-55fa-8161-bed5aed79981) The fine, cold, clear weather continued. On the morning of St Stephen’s Day, the household went to church again. On this occasion, Carswall ordered the chaise as well as the coach, and we rumbled in procession through the winding lanes to Flaxern Parva. Alas, Mr Carswall was doomed to disappointment. The Ruispidges’ pews were empty. When we returned to the mansion, the boys were in tearing spirits, partly from the holiday and partly from want of exercise. They fell in willingly enough when I proposed a walk. “You should take Mr Shield to see our ruined abbey,” Miss Carswall suggested, looking up from her bureau; though it was Sunday, she was at work on her accounts. “It is a vastly romantic spot, and one generally sees cowled figures flitting from pillar to pillar.” She bent her head over her account book. She and I had not spoken in private since what had passed between us in the church porch on Christmas Day. I did not know what to think about her feelings, or indeed about my own. I was aware that we had both behaved improperly, yet somehow I contrived not to dwell on that side of the matter. “Yes, sir,” put in Charlie, “please let us go to the abbey. Edgar, they say the monks buried treasure there.” Mrs Frant, who had been writing a letter at a table in the window, looked up at this. “Don’t fill Edgar’s head with such nonsense, Charlie. It is only a foolish story that country people tell.” I looked at her, sitting in the cold winter sunlight, and said, “Are the ruins extensive, ma’am?” “I have not seen them, Mr Shield. My cousin will tell you.” “You must prepare to be disappointed,” Miss Carswall said. “A few stones, that is all. It was not even a true abbey. The Rector told Papa that all the land around here was owned by the monks at Flaxern Magna, which is down by the river. He believes that our little ruins mark the site of one of the monks’ outlying farms. Papa was most put out. He wanted a veritable abbey, not a tumbledown farmhouse.” “But the monks were there. So I expect there are ghosts,” Charlie said, with the air of one dangling a further bait. “And treasure. It’s more likely they’d hide it there than in the abbey, isn’t it? That’s the first place people would look.” Mrs Frant smiled at him. “When the park was laid out, I believe a few silver pennies were found among the foundations. Perhaps that may be the origin of the story of treasure. Country people are very credulous.” “Where were they found?” She busied herself in folding her letter. “I don’t know, Charlie.” “Then who told you about the silver? I can ask him if he knows where it was dug up.” “You cannot ask him, I’m afraid. It was your papa.” She looked at her son. “When he was a little boy he lived here – not in this house, in the old one that was here before. His grandpapa laid out the park. You can see his name on the obelisk.” “We lived here? Monkshill was ours?” Mrs Frant coloured. “It was never ours, my love. Your grandpapa sold the property to Mr Cranmere many years ago.” Charlie leaned on the back of her chair and had the wit to change the subject. “Come out with us, Mama. You can show us where the treasure might have been found.” “There was no treasure,” she said. “But there was money,” Miss Carswall said. “Silver coins. Is not that treasure?” Mrs Frant laughed, and so did we all. “I suppose it is.” “Well then,” Charlie said. “There may be more. We won’t find it if we don’t look.” Mrs Frant glanced out of the window, at the silver expanse of the park lying beneath the hard blue dome of the sky. “I believe it would do me good to take the air. Will you join us, Flora?” Miss Carswall said she would prefer to sit by the fire. I tried to catch her eye but she had returned to her figures. A quarter of an hour later, the boys were running along the path while Mrs Frant and I followed at a more sedate pace. We walked quickly, however, because of the cold. The air brought spots of colour into Mrs Frant’s usually pale cheeks. We inspected the obelisk, found the inscription that recorded the virtues of Charlie’s great-grandfather, and took a path leading eastward into a shallow valley. The boys scampered ahead, and were soon out of earshot. By this time, any embarrassment caused by the mention of Mr Frant had been entirely dissipated. “I hope you do not find us too dull,” Mrs Frant said. “You must be used to a deal of noise and bustle, I daresay. Charlie tells me that you lived in London before you entered Mr Bransby’s school, and that before that you were a soldier.” “All the more reason why I should relish the calm of the countryside.” “Perhaps.” She darted a glance at me. “My father served in the army too. Colonel Francis Marpool – I do not suppose you knew him?” “No. I enlisted in the army only in 1815. As a private soldier.” “You fought at Waterloo?” “I was wounded there, ma’am.” She gave me a look of admiration that filled me with shame. I said, “I did not fire a single shot, however. I was wounded at an early stage of the battle, and then had a horse fall beside me, which prevented me from moving. I was a most inglorious soldier.” “I honour your frankness, Mr Shield,” she said. “Had I been a man, and on the field of battle, I’m sure I should have been terrified.” “To be blunt, I was terrified.” She laughed as though I had said something wonderfully witty. “That merely confirms me in my opinion that you are a man of sense. You did not run away: that is glory enough, surely?” “I could not run away. A dead horse on top of oneself is a powerful argument against motion of any sort.” “Then we must be thankful that Providence afforded you its protection. Even in the form of a dead horse.” She pointed to the crest of a low hill we were ascending. “When we reach the top, we shall see the ruins below.” The boys appeared on the skyline as they reached the brow of the declivity. Whooping like a pair of savages, they ran down the far side. Mrs Frant and I reached the summit. The ground sloped down to a little valley, on the floor of which were the remains of several stone walls. Some way beyond these scanty signs of habitation was a line of palings, which marked part of the demesne’s northern boundary. The grey roofs of a substantial cottage were visible on the other side of the fencing. “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Frant, pressing her hand into her side. “They might kill themselves!” She ran down the hill. The boys were swarming like monkeys up the tallest of the few remaining walls of the ruin, which at its highest point was no more than eight feet above the ground. “Charlie!” she cried. “Be careful!” Charlie ignored her. Edgar, less accustomed to Mrs Frant’s nervous disposition, paused in his climb and looked over his shoulder. Her foot caught on a tuft of grass and she stumbled. “Mrs Frant!” I cried. She regained her balance, and ran on. From the ruins came the sound of a shout. I tore my eyes away from her. Charlie was sitting astride the wall at its topmost point, bellowing with the full strength of his lungs. His words were inaudible, but his agitation was unmistakable. An instant later, I saw Edgar, a crumpled figure on the ground below. I thundered like a cavalry charge down the slope to the ruins, passing Mrs Frant on the way. In a moment I was bending over Edgar. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. A procession of potential calamities flocked through my mind, ranging from the loss of my position to the boy’s death. Charlie landed beside me with a thud. “Is he breathing, sir? Will he live?” “Of course he will live,” I snapped, fear bringing anger in its train. I took Edgar’s wrist. “There is a pulse. A strong one.” “Thank God,” murmured Mrs Frant, so close to me that I felt her breath brush my cheek. Edgar opened his eyes and stared up at our faces poised above him. “What – what –?” “You fell,” I said. “You’re quite safe.” He struggled up to a sitting position, but at once gave a cry and fell back. “What is it?” said Mrs Frant. “Where does it hurt?” “My ankle, ma’am.” I probed the injured limb with my fingers, and moved it gently this way and that. “I cannot feel a break. You may have twisted it as you fell, or sprained it.” I stood up and helped Mrs Frant to her feet. She drew me a yard or two away from the boys. “Are you sure the ankle is not broken, Mr Shield?” “I believe not, though I cannot be certain. But I learned something of these matters while helping my father with his patients; he acted the surgeon as well as the apothecary upon occasion. Besides, if the ankle were broken, I think the boy would feel more pain.” “So foolish of me. If I had not called out, he –” “You must not think that. He might have fallen in any case.” “Thank you.” Her fingers squeezed my arm and then released it. “We must get him back to the house.” “He should be carried.” I calculated the distance in my mind, and knew I could not comfortably bear Edgar’s weight for the whole of it. “It would be better to fetch help. He should not trust his weight to the ankle until the extent of the injury has been determined. Besides, he would be more comfortable on a hurdle.” “Look,” Charlie said. “Someone’s coming.” I followed his pointing finger. Beyond the ruins, near the palings, was a woman, her dark cloak flapping about her as she strode towards us. Mrs Frant turned her head to look. She expelled her breath in a sound expressing either pain or perhaps irritation. “I believe it is Mrs Johnson,” she said in a quiet, toneless voice. We watched in silence as she drew closer. Mrs Johnson was undeniably a fine-looking woman but there was something hawk-like in her countenance that made me wonder whether her husband was less accustomed to leading than to being led. “Well!” said she. “The boy took a nasty tumble, Mrs Frant. Is he able to walk if supported? We must get him to the cottage and summon help.” I cleared my throat. “I suggest Charlie runs back across the park.” “Oh yes,” he cried. “I’ll go like the wind.” “That is very kind of you, ma’am,” Mrs Frant said. “But we cannot possibly put you to so much trouble.” “It is no trouble whatsoever,” Mrs Johnson replied. “It is no more than common sense.” “Then thank you.” There was colour in Mrs Frant’s cheeks, and I knew she was angry, but not why. “Charlie, will you give Cousin Flora my compliments, explain that Edgar has hurt his ankle and that Mrs Johnson has invited us into her cottage, and desire her to send the chaise with Kerridge.” Mrs Johnson’s large, brown, slightly protuberant eyes ran down me from head to foot. Without a word, she turned back to Mrs Frant. “Could not this – this gentleman go? Surely he would reach the house sooner than your son?” “I think it would not answer. We shall need Mr Shield to carry Edgar.” Mrs Johnson glanced back at her own house. “I could send to the village for –” “Pray do not trouble yourself, ma’am. If Mr Shield will be so obliging, we shall manage very well as we are. I would not want us to put you to more trouble than we need. By the by, I do not think you have met my son’s tutor. Give me leave to introduce Mr Shield. Mr Shield, Mrs Johnson, our neighbour.” We bowed to each other. A moment later, Charlie ran off to fetch help. I lifted Edgar on to my back and plodded down the valley to the palings, where a gate led directly into Mrs Johnson’s untidy garden. She led us to the front of the house. It was not a large establishment – indeed, it barely qualified as a gentleman’s residence – and it was evident at a glance that it was in a poor state of repair. “Welcome to Grange Cottage,” Mrs Johnson said with a hard, ironical inflection in her voice. “This way, Mr Shield.” She flung open the front door and led us into a low, dark hall. A portmanteau and a corded trunk stood at the foot of the stairs. “Ruth! Ruth! I want you!” Without waiting for a reply Mrs Johnson ushered us into a small parlour lit by a bow-window. A tiny fire burned in the grate. “Pray put the boy down on the sofa. You will find a footstool by the bureau. Perhaps you would be so kind as to put more coals on the fire. If we wait for my maid to do it, we shall wait an age.” Wincing and murmuring thanks, Edgar sat on the sofa. He was very pale now, the skin almost transparent. Mrs Frant knelt beside him, helped him out of his coat and chafed his hands. The servant came almost at once, despite her mistress’s poor opinion of her, and Mrs Johnson ordered blankets, pillows and sal volatile drops. “Perhaps we should send for the surgeon,” I suggested. “The nearest is two or three miles beyond Flaxern Parva,” Mrs Johnson said. “The best plan will be to wait until you are back at Monkshill, and then have them send a groom over.” “I am sorry we are the cause of so much inconvenience to you,” Mrs Frant said. Mrs Johnson did not reply. The silence extended for longer than good manners allowed. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, and a floorboard creaked beneath me. The sound seemed to act as a trigger. “Not at all, Mrs Frant,” said Mrs Johnson smoothly. “It is a pleasure to be of service to a neighbour. It is fortunate that you find me still here, in fact – Lady Ruispidge has asked me to stay for a week or so; her carriage will be calling for me this afternoon.” There was another, shorter silence. “And – and how was Lieutenant Johnson when you last had news of him?” Mrs Frant said. “Not in the best of spirits,” Mrs Johnson said harshly. “He does not like the West Indian station, and since the Peace there is little hope of either promotion or prize-money.” “I understand many naval officers are now on half-pay, but he is not. So surely the Admiralty must place a high value on his services?” “He would like to think so.” Mrs Johnson sat down. “Any employment, he says, is better than none. But the ship is old, and is likely to be sold out of the Service or broken up. So he will have to find another captain in need of a first lieutenant.” “I am sure his merits must win him many friends.” “I fear your optimism may be misplaced. It is influence, not merit, that counts. Still, we should not grumble. After all, it is a harsh world, is it not, Mrs Frant?” Mrs Frant’s colour rose in her cheeks. “There are many who are less fortunate than us, no doubt.” “You have given up your house in town, I collect?” “Yes.” “It was in Russell-square, was it not? It is not a part of London I am familiar with.” I looked sharply at Mrs Johnson. She was staring with a curious fixity of expression at Mrs Frant, almost as though daring her to disagree. “It is very pleasant,” Mrs Frant said. “It is quieter than in the West End, of course, and less populous.” The ladies’ words were scrupulously polite but their silences and expressions told a different story, one with darker undercurrents. Though it may sound absurd to say such a thing of them, they acted like a pair of dogs looking for an opportunity to fly at each other’s throats. As so often in my acquaintance with the Carswalls and the Frants, I had the sensation that everyone else knew more than I did, a sensation that familiarity had not made any less disagreeable. Nor was this the only mystery that concerned Mrs Johnson. As she and Mrs Frant were exchanging their barbed platitudes, I recalled Miss Carswall’s remarks outside the church on Christmas Day about seeing her in Pall Mall, and Mrs Johnson vehemently denying she had been in town during the autumn. She protested too much, just as Fanny had done. Just as Fanny – The thought of the girl I had once loved, and whom I was now relieved not to have won, brought another memory to mind. I recalled the dark-haired lady I had seen climbing into a hackney in Southampton-row in October when I called at Russell-square to take Charlie Frant to school. She, too, had reminded me of Fanny, as Mrs Johnson did; and the more I considered the matter, the more I thought it at least possible that the lady had in fact been Mrs Johnson herself. Southampton-row led into Russell-square. But Mrs Johnson had gone out of her way to deny all knowledge of the neighbourhood. “Ruth is taking an age,” Mrs Johnson said after another pause in the conversation. “How very convenient it must be to have a large number of well-trained servants at one’s beck and call.” “I am sure we are giving her a great deal of extra work.” Mrs Frant cleared her throat. “It was very pleasant to meet Captain Jack Ruispidge yesterday. He spoke so kindly of my father.” “Yes, my cousin Jack is nothing if not amiable.” Mrs Johnson hesitated in the way a fencer hesitates, timing his thrust to perfection. “If he has a fault, it is that he likes to be liked, especially by the ladies.” At that moment, the maidservant appeared with the blankets, the pillows and the smelling salts. To allow her room to approach the sofa, I stood up and retreated into the recess formed by the little bow-window. I glanced outside. A small, overgrown shrubbery had crept close to this wall of the cottage, and the dark green leaves of the laurels crowded against this side of the window. An involuntary exclamation burst from my lips. For an instant, peering out of that tangled foliage, I glimpsed a face with staring eyes. “Why, what is it, Mr Shield?” Mrs Frant asked. Chapter 44 (#ulink_3b03953f-981b-5f63-ad08-03e53f169f1e) How could I have known that Mrs Johnson, for all her poverty and her retired situation, was a person of great importance in the drama unfolding around me? True, she was one of those creatures who find it difficult to dissemble their emotions. I suspected already that she disliked Mr Carswall. After the visit to Grange Cottage with Edgar, I was convinced that she also disliked Mrs Frant to the point of hatred. But at that stage I had no idea of the reason. Indeed, I blundered through this entire affair in a state of ignorance almost from start to finish. As soon as Mrs Kerridge and Charlie arrived in the chaise, we bade our hostess farewell with almost indecent haste. Even with the seat in the middle pulled out, the chaise could take no more than three, so Charlie and I walked home through the park. As we went, I glanced back at the cottage in its ill-kempt garden. “What are you looking for, sir?” Charlie asked. “I thought I saw a man in the garden while we were in the cottage,” I said, knowing I must answer frankly because Edgar would tell him what had happened. “But Mrs Johnson was sure I was mistaken, and said there had not been a man about the place since she discharged the gardener in October. I saw only part of a face, and only for an instant. It might even have been a woman.” “A housebreaker?” Charlie suggested. “Wouldn’t that be a lark, sir?” “It’s unlikely to be a housebreaker in broad daylight, and with company in the house.” I smiled down at him. “More likely a beggar.” When we reached the mansion, we found Edgar in the ladies’ sitting room. He was arranged on the sofa with Mrs Lee and Mrs Frant fussing over him, while Miss Carswall sat by the fire, glancing through a newspaper. The surgeon had been sent for but Mrs Lee shared my belief that the injury to the ankle was no more than a sprain; she brought out a host of anecdotes concerning the misfortunes of her sons, brothers, nephews and cousins to support the diagnosis. Certainly the boy looked better – his colour had returned and the face he turned towards Charlie and me was almost as lively as ever. “I wish they wouldn’t fuss so,” he murmured to Charlie. “My ankle hardly hurts at all now if I do not put any weight on it. And we had not even begun to look for the treasure.” All day I was restless. I could not forget the face I had seen at the window of Grange Cottage. I tried to persuade myself that it had been no more than a trick of the leaves and the light. I reminded myself that I had had no more than the briefest glimpse, and that Mrs Johnson was a rational woman who had no reason to lie. I turned over in my mind whether I should mention my suspicions, insubstantial though they were, to Mr Carswall. In London he and I had established the possibility that Henry Frant was still alive, though the corpse at Wellington-terrace had been identified as his at the inquest and was now rotting under his name in the burying ground of St George the Martyr. Even if he had survived, however, he could not afford to run risks – he was a bankrupt, an embezzler, and very possibly a murderer too. But there was not a sliver of proof that he was still alive. No proof: merely shadows glimpsed moving out of the corner of an eye, half-heard hints, a yellowing finger in a satchel left on a tooth-puller’s door. But there remained the possibility that the man at the window had been Henry Frant. I found myself pacing up and down the hall. The library door opened a few inches. I heard the harsh tones of Mr Carswall’s voice, speaking so low I could not make out the words, and a reply in a higher, lighter voice that I recognised with a thrill of interest as Mrs Frant’s. I did not intend to eavesdrop and I was in the act of withdrawing, when suddenly they began to speak more loudly. “Take your hand from me, sir,” cried Mrs Frant, and her words were followed by the sound of a sharp impact, perhaps a slap. “I would not entertain it for a moment.” “Then you’re a damned fool, madam,” said Carswall. “Think who bought you that dress, who puts food in your belly, who pays for your son to grow up a gentleman.” I drew back into the recess of a doorway. I no longer had any desire to confide my suspicions to Mr Carswall. Sophia Frant emerged from the library, her face blazing with colour. She ran lightly across the hall to the stairs. At the foot of them, she paused and glanced back. She saw me standing there. I wanted to say: I was not listening on purpose, I did not mean to pry. Also, I wished I might help her, for I had overheard enough to understand the nature of the conversation. She stared at me. Her lips were slightly parted, her hand rested on the newel post. It was a graceful pose, and curiously formal, as though her limbs had been arranged at the whim of a portrait painter. She gave a queer little sob, turned, and pattered up the stairs and out of sight. Chapter 45 (#ulink_2b8b1837-18ff-5dda-b007-7ccb39d3780b) The next day, the Monday after Christmas, brought unexpected news. One of the servants rode out to collect the letter bag, returning shortly after midday. The bag was taken to Mr Carswall in the library but its arrival sent a ripple of anticipation throughout the house. A few minutes later, Mr Carswall came into the ladies’ sitting room. “I have here a letter from Mr Noak, my dear,” he said to Miss Carswall. “He is at present taking the waters at Cheltenham Spa, on the recommendation, I understand, of Mr Allan. He proposes to travel to South Wales next week, where he has an interest in some mining machinery. He inquires whether it would be convenient for him to call as he will be passing so near.” He glanced at the two boys who were trying to make themselves as small as possible in the corner of the room. “He promised Mrs Allan that he would send her news of Edgar if that were possible.” “I am sure we should be delighted to see him, Papa,” Miss Carswall replied. “If he is to dine with us, no doubt you would like to offer him a bed for the night?” “One can hardly expect him to travel on our lanes at this time of year, and in this weather, after sunset. No, I think we should invite him to spend a few days with us. He is a very considerable man in his way, and I would not want to be backward in showing him every civility.” He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand and then at me. “He writes that he is travelling with his clerk. You remember him, Mr Shield? The nigger.” I bowed. Mr Carswall took a turn about the room while the rest of us waited in silence. There was an element of agitation about him that I found hard to explain. At that moment, I remembered the very first occasion I had met Mr Noak, when he had arrived at the Frants’ house in Russell-square and the servant had tried to deny him entry until he wrote Carswall’s name on his card and sent it in to Mr Frant. “Mama,” said Charlie suddenly. “There are horses on the drive.” This intelligence caused a flurry of excitement. Mr Carswall joined the boys at the window, followed almost immediately by Miss Carswall. A moment later a curricle swept into view. “It is Sir George and Captain Ruispidge,” Miss Carswall cried. “Heavens, I am not fit to be seen!” She broke away from the group at the window. “My gown! And my curls need frizzing. I must find Kerridge – you do not mind if I borrow her, Sophie? – my maid is so stupid she will take an age. Do not under any circumstances let them leave.” I opened the door for her. She smiled up at me as she passed out of the room, and I swear one of her eyelids drooped in the suggestion of a wink. She was inviting me to join her in mocking her own vanity; she had a way of making a man she wanted to please into her conspirator. And I could not help but smile back. As I did so, I saw over her shoulder that Mrs Frant had raised her head and was looking at us. Mr Carswall was almost as excited as his daughter. Sir George had sent a servant to inquire how Edgar did after his accident, but this was the first time that he had done us the honour of calling in person at Monkshill. The condescension was all the more marked in that Captain Ruispidge had accompanied him. Mr Carswall was most put out when he recalled that a fire had not been lit in the drawing room that day, on the grounds of economy. He rang the bell. “The fire must have been laid. We shall have it lit.” “But it will be much more natural if we receive them here, sir,” Mrs Frant said coldly. “They will not want us to make a fuss over them, not for a morning call from neighbours. They will feel more easy if they find us here, engaged in our ordinary occupations. Besides, it will take an age for the drawing room to warm up.” Carswall looked sharply at her but then nodded. “I daresay you know what you’re about. Very well.” A moment later Sir George and Captain Ruispidge were announced. First they established that the ankle, the ostensible reason for their call, was as well as could be expected; thanks to Mrs Johnson, the news of the boy’s mishap had already spread to Clearland-court. Lady Ruispidge, it appeared, had interested herself in the case, and inquired most particularly after Edgar. “She recommends the joint be fomented with vinegar, or camphorated spirits of wine,” Sir George informed Mrs Frant. “If excessively painful, a few drops of laudanum may be added. The treatment should be frequently renewed. And of course the injured part should be kept in a state of rest.” “How very kind of her,” Mrs Frant said. “Pray thank her for the advice.” Captain Jack fell to praising the park – he praised the house – he praised its appointments – he compared Clearland-court unfavourably to it – at least, with a glance at his brother, in some respects. Then, somehow, he was sitting beside Mrs Frant and engaging her in conversation. I was too far away to hear what was said but once or twice I noticed her grave face breaking into a smile. Meanwhile, Sir George and Mr Carswall began to discuss agricultural topics. Owing to Mr Carswall’s ignorance of these, they passed rapidly from the price of corn to politics. When Miss Carswall returned, however, having dressed her hair and changed her gown, Sir George’s attention turned from her father to her. The couple’s conversation had the stately inevitability of an old-fashioned country dance. He inquired whether she preferred the country to the town, to which she replied that they both had much to recommend them. He discovered that she played a little and painted a little. He wondered whether it would interest her to look through some of his mother’s music. Later, after her delighted response to this proposal had run its course, he suggested that when the weather was warmer, it might amuse her to sketch the ruins of Flaxern Abbey down by the river. He could undertake to show her a number of particularly fine viewpoints. Then he turned to the world of literature. I knew already that Miss Carswall enjoyed sighing over novels and the more sentimental varieties of modern poetry, and that, unlike most of her sex, she read the newspapers assiduously. It soon became apparent, though, that Sir George’s tastes were altogether more serious. Fortunately he did not inquire too closely about her reading but instead described his own. Like many gentlemen, he was convinced of the importance of his own opinions and the manifold advantages that would accrue to those who heard them. He recommended several religious works of an evangelical persuasion and expatiated on the moral beauties of Cowper’s poetry. Miss Carswall played her part gamely but I do not think it came easily to her. The boys and I said little. There were no r?les for us to play in the billing and cooing between the Carswalls and the Ruispidges. I sat forgotten in my corner. Charlie and Edgar were called over to meet Captain Jack, but their conversation did not last long. Soon it became apparent that the boys were bored. Edgar took matters into his own hands. He was a headstrong boy, unlike the pliant Charlie, and persuaded Mrs Frant to allow the three of us to withdraw on the grounds that moderate exercise would complete the cure of his ankle. Once outside, Edgar refused to take my arm but accepted a stick. We walked as far as the kitchen gardens and back. On the way, I learned that the boys had not given up their intention of searching for the monks’ treasure. “They would not hide it in the grange,” Edgar said. “Any more than in the abbey itself. They would be the first places where King Henry’s men would look.” “They might bury it somewhere near,” Charlie suggested. “Or find a cave. But I think it very likely they would have hidden it up at Monkshill rather than down by the Abbey. It would be far safer.” As we were returning to the house, we heard the sound of the curricle receding down the drive. We found the rest of the party still in the small sitting room. Mr Carswall was standing by the window and rubbing his hands with pleasure. “They are engaged to dine with us when Mr Noak will be here,” he told me, for he needed to tell someone whom he had not told before. He turned back to Miss Carswall. “We must have game, Flora. Nothing but the best. If only Lady Ruispidge will be able to accept as well.” He ran on in a similar vein for much of the day. There came a moment when Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant were out of the room; I was waiting for the boys to bring down their books; and Mr Carswall was enlarging upon his plans for the dinner party to Mrs Lee. Mrs Lee was his ideal interlocutor for she rarely said anything of significance but knew to perfection when to insert into the flow of someone else’s words those little phrases of assent and interest that are so agreeable and encouraging to the other party. “I have half a mind to invite Mrs Johnson, too,” Carswall said in his harsh, carrying voice. “After all, it was she who was kind to Edgar. It would be a very proper attention, too: she is a cousin of the Ruispidges, as well as a neighbour. And it would look most odd if we did not ask her, particularly if she is still staying at Clearland.” Mrs Lee cleared her throat loudly, an action so unusually emphatic that he stared at her in surprise. “I do not know whether you are aware of a certain unhappy circumstance in Mrs Johnson’s early life, sir,” she said in a low tone. “It might be prudent to consider the wisdom of such an invitation very carefully.” “What? Speak plainly, madam. I cannot understand you if you talk in riddles.” Mrs Lee drew back in her chair, and the features of her face trembled. But her voice was perfectly steady, though even quieter than before, so quiet I had to strain to hear it: “You must be the best judge, sir. It was merely that I wondered whether you were aware that, before Mrs Johnson’s marriage, there was – or rather it was believed that there was – what they call an understanding between her and Mr Henry Frant.” Chapter 46 (#ulink_5ee5e583-69b8-505b-b815-a7276af88c8e) Mr Noak was due to arrive on Monday, the 3rd January. The Ruispidges had been invited to dinner the following day. The weather continued very cold – as I have mentioned, it was an exceptionally cold winter that year. I cannot say that we were a cheerful household. By his very nature, Mr Carswall engendered a domestic strain that affected us all, even the boys, even the servants. Now, after the exchange I had overheard in the library, I knew of another, more specific source of discord. I watched and said nothing. I noted that Mrs Frant avoided an open breach with Mr Carswall but rarely spoke to him or allowed herself to be alone with him. Once I glimpsed an expression of despair on her face when I came across her walking in the garden and believing herself unobserved. One evening I heard the sound of sobbing as I passed her door. The boys and I were happiest outside. Sometimes we went down to the lake and skated on the ice. I had grown up in the Fens, where the combination of cold winters and an inexhaustible supply of water made skating an acquirement one picked up almost as soon as the ability to walk. The boys lacked this early training, and gave me undeserved credit for my skill on the ice. One afternoon I saw Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant watching us from the bank. At the time I was skating slowly on the far side of the lake, with a boy attached to either hand. I released Edgar, in order to raise my hat to the ladies. His arms flailed, his body twisted to and fro, but he kept his balance. Vanity prompted me to abandon my charges, and to skate across the lake at speed, and with many graceful pirouettes, on the spurious errand of discovering whether there was anything we might do for our visitors. “How I envy you,” Mrs Frant said with unusual animation. “To travel so quickly, to be so free.” “I’m sure it is capital exercise,” put in Miss Carswall. “Look at the boys – their cheeks are as red as pippins.” “Better than dancing, even,” Mrs Frant continued. “It must be like gliding through another element, like flying.” “I am sure there are more skates at the house,” Miss Carswall said. “I wonder if we might find pairs that would fit us.” Her cousin gave a little shudder. “You need not look like that,” Miss Carswall said with a laugh. “One cannot always have new things. Besides, I believe Mr Cranmere’s family were all excessively well bred.” As she spoke, she twisted her face into a painfully genteel expression. Mrs Frant and I burst out laughing. “But how would we learn?” Mrs Frant objected. “It must be very difficult.” “We might have a chair brought down, if you wished,” I suggested. “Then I could push you on it across the ice.” “But I do not want to be pushed,” she said with a smile. “I want to skate by myself. I’m sure my cousin does, too.” “Then if you would permit me, I could teach you, as I have been teaching the boys.” I looked from one to the other. “Though it is largely a matter of teaching oneself. The principal difficulty at the beginning is that of retaining one’s balance. Once one has the trick of that, the rest will follow.” As if to illustrate my point, the boys were now zigzagging across the frozen water towards us. Their progress was slow, and no one would have called it elegant, but progress it was. Miss Carswall took a gloved hand from her muff and laid it on her cousin’s sleeve. “Oh, pray let us try it, Sophie. I am sure the boys and Mr Shield will make sure we come to no harm.” The ladies’ skating lessons began that very afternoon. Chivalry dictated that I should take them by the hand, just as I had the boys, one on my left, one on my right. There we were in the very dry, very cold air, with no sound but the hissing and scraping of the blades beneath us, the panting of our breath and the occasional bursts of laughter. Physical exertion can act as a form of intoxication, as can excitement; and sometimes it seemed to me that I was doubly drunk. Mrs Frant fell twice, Miss Carswall five times. In order to help a lady up, I had to put my arm around her, to feel her weight. I cannot deny that I enjoyed these upsets, and I suspect that Miss Carswall fell more often than she needed. In sum, the hours we spent together on the ice were peculiarly intimate – not indecorous, but on the other hand not something that was discussed in Mr Carswall’s hearing. In the intervals of skating, the boys continued their hunt for the monks’ treasure. They ranged over the park, exploring every nook and cranny they could find. They tried excavation in one of the kitchen gardens but the head gardener did not share their antiquarian enthusiasm and in any case the ground was too hard for their spades. The treasure hunters had high hopes of a shell grotto on the shore of the lake. It was in the form of a short, barrel-vaulted tunnel ending in an apse, where stood a ghostly statue of Aphrodite. Moisture dripped through the roof and glittered on the shells that studded the interior. When one held up a lantern, it was as though one confronted a beautiful and almost naked woman in a cold cave of sparkling diamonds. The boys’ hopes were dashed when Mr Carswall, overhearing their excited conversation on the subject, told them that according to the estate records the grotto had been constructed on Mr Cranmere’s orders not fifteen years before. During this period Sir George Ruispidge and his brother were frequent visitors. Usually, but not always, they rode or drove over together. They came on the slightest pretext – to inquire yet again after Edgar’s ankle; to return a borrowed volume; to bring a newspaper newly arrived from London. The brothers’ manner towards me did not encourage undue familiarity. On one occasion they came down to the lake. Sir George stayed on the bank but Captain Ruispidge requested the loan of my skates and soon showed himself an able performer on the ice. He took my place beside the ladies, and I fancied he exerted himself to be agreeable, more so than mere courtesy required. All this time, I continued to turn over in my mind the events of the last few weeks that might suggest that Henry Frant was still alive. The intelligence from Mrs Lee concerning a former understanding between him and Mrs Johnson had naturally aroused my suspicions. Mrs Johnson denied visiting London recently, but there was reason to believe that she might have done so on at least one occasion. Finally, I considered the man I had glimpsed at the window of Grange Cottage. Puzzling and even suspicious as these circumstances were, could I deduce from them that Mrs Johnson was sheltering her former lover? The more I subjected the possibility to rational analysis, the less plausible it seemed. In the first place, a youthful attachment, however ardent, was no guarantee of a present one, as my own experience showed. In the second place, if Henry Frant were still alive, surely he would avoid Monkshill-park, where so many people who knew him intimately had gathered? If Frant had contrived his own murder, it must have been with the intention of creating a new life for himself somewhere, under a new name. In order to do that with any security, it would be necessary for him to flee abroad. He was a man who had lived too much in the world to be safe from discovery anywhere in his native country. One morning, when the boys were examining the ruins of the monks’ grange, my eyes wandered to Mrs Johnson’s cottage. The boys were absorbed in a game of make-believe so I sauntered across to the palings and through the gate. The house and garden seemed even more forlorn and unloved than on my last visit. The shutters were across the ground-floor windows. No smoke came from the chimneys. Mrs Johnson was still at Clearland-court, and even her servant had gone. I walked round the house. At the back was a small stable and a row of outhouses. As I walked back through the yard, I noticed a footprint frozen in the patch of mud by the pump. Judging by the size, it was a man’s. I returned to the park. I knew there were a dozen perfectly innocent explanations for that footprint. Yet the sight of it was enough to feed that state of uncertainty that had become so uncomfortably familiar to me. When I reached the ruins, the boys were no longer there. I walked up the slope, shouting for them. I had nearly reached the lake, approaching it from the east, when I heard an answering call from the edge of the wood between the water and Flaxern Parva. Mindful of the mantraps, I ran and slid across the ice to the west bank of the lake. I found the boys not among the trees but in a defile that cut into the flank of the ridge perhaps fifty yards from the lake. The defile’s mouth was angled away from the lake and faced north towards the dark mass of the woods. It was connected by a path to the track running round the shores of the lake. Both the path and the defile’s entrance were partly obscured by a heap of stones, loose earth and several fallen trees, one of them a sweet chestnut of considerable size. The boys were digging like a pair of badgers into the pile of spoil around the uprooted trees. My anger evaporated. “I do not think you will find the treasure there,” I observed mildly. “Why not, sir?” Edgar said. “One could hide anything here.” “It is a most capital spot,” Charlie put in loyally. “That may be so. But I don’t think the monks would have done. The chestnut can’t have been lying there for more than a month or two. Look, it still has some of its leaves.” Edgar paused in his labours. He was as filthy as a gypsy. “There’s also that doorway, sir.” He pointed to a stone archway that closed off the far end of the defile. “Does it not look older than the Crusades?” “It most probably leads to an ice-house,” I said. “Perhaps it does now,” he said. “But who is to say what was there before?” I scrambled over the d?bris towards it, with the boys frisking after me. The door within the archway was in two leaves, constructed of stout oak and strengthened with iron. Charlie took the handle and rattled it. The door hardly moved in its frame. “Perhaps there’s another entrance,” Charlie suggested. “We’ll go round the hill until we find it,” Edgar said. “I’ll race you.” The boys cantered out of the defile and were soon out of my sight. I followed more slowly. As I rounded the spur of the ridge that concealed the mouth of the defile from the lake, I saw on the path below a man and a woman, arm in arm, walking slowly with their heads close together in the direction of the shell grotto and the obelisk. With a lurch of unhappiness, I recognised them as Captain Jack Ruispidge and Sophia Frant. Chapter 47 (#ulink_364ad1ec-62d3-51c9-a4f8-8a3662fd8111) On Monday afternoon, Mr Noak arrived from Cheltenham in a hired chaise. Carswall made much of him – in truth, I believe he was becoming bored in the country and welcomed the stimulus of company; he was not a man who took easily to life in a retired situation. With Mr Noak came Salutation Harmwell; and on the same day Mrs Kerridge appeared in a new gown. Perhaps, Miss Carswall murmured to me, the two circumstances were not entirely unconnected. The following morning, Charlie came to me after breakfast, begging that the start of our morning lessons might be deferred. “Mrs Kerridge has an errand at the ice-house, sir, and says Edgar and I may come as well. And you too, if you wish. I am sure the Romans and the Greeks had ice-houses, so it would be most instructive. May we, sir? It would not take above twenty minutes.” I knew the expedition would take at least forty minutes, perhaps an hour, but the morning was fine and the prospect of a walk was tempting. So the three of us met Mrs Kerridge in the side hall. We found Harmwell in attendance, carrying the basket and a lantern. “Mr Harmwell is most interested in the construction of ice-houses and wishes to inspect ours,” Mrs Kerridge explained. “And if he comes it will save me having to find a gardener. Besides, they speak so strangely in these parts I can scarce understand a word they say.” Harmwell’s presence solved a minor mystery: why Mrs Kerridge, a lady’s maid who was fully aware of the dignity of her position, had volunteered to run an errand for the cook. The boys and I took the lead, while the other two followed more slowly, deep in conversation. We turned left at the obelisk and took the path leading to the western side of the lake. After the shell grotto we climbed the gentle slope to the defile in which the ice-house lay. The boys ran ahead and rattled the handle of the door. “We must frighten the ghosts!” Edgar cried, and Charlie echoed him: “Frighten the ghosts!” Mrs Kerridge drew out a large key and inserted it in the door. Mr Harmwell crouched to light the lantern. The two leaves of the door opened outwards on squealing hinges. The boys tried to plunge into the darkness beyond like terriers down a rabbit hole. Mrs Kerridge put out an arm to bar them. “Please, dear Mrs Kerridge, let us go first,” Charlie said. “Edgar and I have a most particular reason for wanting it.” “You will wait and do as you’re bid,” I said. “Or else you will go straight back to your lessons.” Mrs Kerridge sniffed the air. “It stinks like a charnel house.” “It is indeed very bad,” Harmwell agreed. “Though few ice-houses smell sweet at this time of year.” “They say the drain is blocked.” “So the melt-water cannot escape?” He glanced over his shoulder at the lie of the land. “It drains down into the lake, I suppose, so the outlet may be frozen.” “No, sir, they believe that the drain itself is blocked higher up.” “Can they not clean it out?” “They cannot reach it without digging.” Mrs Kerridge waved her hand at the boulders and fallen trees that cluttered the slopes of the defile. “The storms in October caused much damage in the park, and not all of it has been made good again.” Harmwell had the lantern alight now. At Mrs Kerridge’s request, he led the way down the narrow passageway that burrowed into the side of the hill. After five or six feet, we came to another door, with two leaves made of thick deal planks and edged with leather to provide an airtight seal. Beyond, there was another length of passage, ending in a great mass of barley straw. The smell grew worse. Harmwell and I pulled aside the insulating straw, slimy with decay, and pushed it into the alcoves on either side of the passage. There at last was another two-leaved door, this one set at a slight angle to the perpendicular. It required another key to open it. “I’m told there’s a hook for the lantern inside,” Mrs Kerridge said. “On the left.” Harmwell pulled back the leaves. Covering my nose and mouth with a handkerchief, I edged forward so that I could look over his shoulder. Illuminated in the lantern’s fitful yellow light was a dome which at its highest point was perhaps a foot above the ceiling of the corridor. As a whole the chamber resembled the interior of a gigantic egg, with its broader end at the top. It comprised a vault and a well, both faced with dressed stone glistening with moisture. A variety of bundles hung from hooks in the side of the dome. I crouched and looked down into the well itself. Some six or seven feet below was a dark mass of ice, water, straw. I made out at least a score of packages lying half submerged. “Aye, the drain is blocked,” said Harmwell. “Nothing is so injurious to an ice-house as want of dryness. Ice will not melt in the hottest sun so soon as in a close, damp cellar.” “Will they ever get rid of this foul smell?” I inquired. His teeth flashed white in the gloom. “They should empty the chamber without delay. Then, in this weather I would leave the doors standing open to air the place. They should put down quicklime, too, for it absorbs moisture.” “The master has a sudden fancy for venison,” Mrs Kerridge said. “That’s all we need. There should be a haunch in one of the sacks on the left. They are all labelled.” “How long has it been there?” Harmwell asked. “Two months or more, I believe.” “Then I fear it will be rotting in this atmosphere, ma’am.” “That is not our affair, Mr Harmwell. Let Cook be the judge, eh? Will those rungs bear your weight? Pray be careful.” The black man edged into the chamber. Rungs for the feet and the hands had been set in the side of the dome, with a line of hooks above. He moved slowly across to the cluster of sacks and examined the labels at their necks, angling them so they caught the light, while Mrs Kerridge kept up a stream of admonition. At last he found the venison, unhooked the heavy sack and made his crab-like way back to us. He passed the sack to me. The stink was now overpowering. The boys retreated to the open air. “Dear God,” I said, fighting an urge to vomit. “What the master wants,” Mrs Kerridge muttered to Harmwell, “the master has.” She pursed her lips and fell silent. Mr Carswall was not popular with his servants. He was harsh and autocratic by nature and, added to this, displayed a sort of petulance, a habit of making impracticable demands upon a whim, that was perhaps a symptom of his advancing age. The unexpected desire for venison was clearly an example of this. I wondered, however, whether there might be a deeper reason for Mrs Kerridge’s resentment towards him. Though Carswall paid her wages now, she had served Mrs Frant for many years. Perhaps Mrs Kerridge had acquired a knowledge of Mr Carswall’s intentions with respect to her mistress. Despite the smell, Edgar wished to pursue his researches by scrambling round the interior of the ice-house. I refused to sanction this intrepid plan but I permitted the boys to help pile the straw back against the inner door. This activity made them wet and filthy, and thus was profoundly satisfying to them. As we were walking to the house, I learned from the boys’ conversation that the subject of the monks’ treasure was still in their mind. Charlie made the not unreasonable point that the ice-house was such a modern structure that it could not have been used by the monks nearly three hundred years earlier. But Edgar replied with the ingenious suggestion that the ice-house had been built in that spot because there was already some sort of cavity, bringing forward in support of this theory the observation that the stone facing on the interior of the ice-house had looked very similar to the stones used in the ruins of the monks’ grange near the cottage. I had not the heart to point out to them that practically every building of any substance within a five- or ten-mile radius of Monkshill was constructed of the local sandstone, the colour of a faded claret stain, so this circumstance was not necessarily of any significance whatsoever when one came to date the construction. The boys and I were walking at a smart pace. Harmwell and Mrs Kerridge, chaperoned by their rotting haunch of venison, lingered on the way. Glancing back as we approached the door to the kitchen gardens, I discovered that a bend in the path had put them out of sight. A moment later, the house reared up in a great cliff of stone in front of us. We walked along the terrace towards the side door. I glanced at the window of the ladies’ sitting room. Someone was standing on the other side of the glass, as shadowy as a ghost. The outline convinced me it was a woman. It could not be Mrs Lee, because she had a disease of the spine which bent her over and caused her much pain. The shape vanished, withdrawing into the gloomy interior of the room. Miss Carswall or Mrs Frant, I wondered: that was the question. Indeed, in those days that was always the question. Chapter 48 (#ulink_2c114e90-b702-568f-ba41-b082e18da8dc) Mr Carswall rarely entertained in the country, and he had never been honoured by such guests as the Ruispidges. As the day of the great dinner drew near, his voice was heard all over the house, raised in expostulation. With drawn faces, the servants scurried about in their stained and frayed finery, following orders that five minutes later would be countermanded. It suited Mr Carswall’s sense of propriety that the numbers around his table should be evenly distributed between the sexes. There would be five ladies – as well as the three at Monkshill-park, both Lady Ruispidge and Mrs Johnson had accepted invitations. (After Mrs Lee’s revelation concerning Mrs Johnson, Carswall had deliberated long and hard over whether to invite her; his hand was forced by the fact that Mrs Johnson was still staying with her cousins at Clearland-court.) There were to be five gentlemen, so that each lady would have an arm to lean on when they went into dinner: Mr Carswall himself, Mr Noak, Sir George and Captain Ruispidge, and – according to the original plan – the Rector of Flaxern Parva, who providentially was a widower and so did not have a wife to unbalance the numbers. After breakfast, however, the Rector sent over a groom with a note. “Damn him,” Carswall said to me as I was the only other person in the room. “He’s confined to bed with piles. He trusts to the mercy of Almighty God, the application of steam to the afflicted part, and an electuary as a mild laxative. I wish Almighty God may give him inflammation of the bowels. That will serve him.” He screwed up the letter and threw it into the fire. “You will have to sit down with us, Shield, there’s no help for it. It could be worse. Mrs Frant tells me that you were intended for the Church: is that true?” “Yes, sir.” “And in your best coat you look a gentleman-like fellow. You need not say very much. Make yourself useful to the ladies and do not get in the way of the gentlemen.” The old man hesitated, standing there with his back to the fire in the library, raising his coat-tails so the warmth would reach him. “Or perhaps I should have Charlie instead. He is a fine boy, one of the family, and the ladies like a lad to pet.” He scratched his thigh with a claw-like fingernail. “No, it would not answer. If Charlie dined with us, and not Edgar, Noak might not like it – he and Allan are mighty thick, and they all have that damned Yankee pride. Besides, one can never tell with children – an excess of animal spirits is always a possibility. In this case first thoughts are best. So I will expect you in the drawing room before we go in to dinner.” When I joined the party in the drawing room later that day, Sir George and Mr Carswall were discussing the weather while around them conversations among the other members of the party flared and spurted like damp fireworks. “I make no apologies, ma’am,” Mr Carswall said to Lady Ruispidge as he led her into the dining room. “I do not have fancy foreign dishes on my table.” There is nothing like food and drink for filling up awkward silences. For the first course, we were served capons and boiled beef, a forequarter of lamb and a calf’s head, oysters and mushrooms. These were followed by a fillet of veal stuffed and roasted, stewed hare, partridges in a dish, marrow-pudding, squab pigeons, and asparagus. I looked in vain for venison. Lady Ruispidge grew quite animated as the meal proceeded, and when she tasted the partridge she burst into speech. “This is a young bird, I fancy,” she said in a high, cracked voice. “You are aware, sir, of the characteristics of age as it relates to the partridge? One should examine the bill and the legs. If the bill be white and the legs have a bluish cast, the bird is old. But if the bill is black, and the legs yellow, it is young. One should also look at the vent. If it be fast, then the bird is new, if it is open and green, then depend on it the bird is stale.” “I am glad it is to your liking, ma’am,” Carswall said. “May I help you to a little hare?” She understood the gesture if she did not hear the words. “Is it leveret?” she inquired. “I prefer leveret to hare, the flavour is more delicate. To discover the true leveret, of course, you must feel near the foot on its foreleg, and if you find there a knob, or small bone, it is a leveret. But if destitute of this, it must be a hare.” Carswall tried to rally, but the spirit had gone out of him. Lady Ruispidge had made up her mind that he was to share her interest in the preparation and consumption of food. Her deafness rendered futile his attempts to introduce other subjects of conversation. She swept them aside and told him instead of the best way to salt hams in the Yorkshire manner, and the criteria by which one should judge a turbot. I was seated between Mrs Johnson and Mrs Lee. Neither gave me much opportunity for conversation. Mrs Lee ate steadily, as usual; she was a lady for whom food was important, and she did not care for conversation at table. When Mrs Johnson talked, she spoke chiefly to Mr Carswall, who was on her right. She looked very striking that evening in a gown of pale yellow silk, and the candlelight softened the harshness of her features and increased the lustre of her dark eyes. Miss Carswall sat between Sir George and Mr Noak. In a lull in the general conversation, I heard Sir George say to her: “And will you be honouring us with your presence at the assembly next week, Miss Carswall?” “There is a ball?” She spoke so artlessly that I instantly suspected that the information did not come as a surprise. “Indeed there is. We have them once a month during the winter months, at the Bell in Gloucester. I’m sure tickets could be arranged.” Miss Carswall turned towards her father. “Oh, may we go, Papa?” The old man looked up from his plate. “Eh?” “They are most respectable affairs, sir,” Captain Ruispidge said. “Ain’t they, George? We go to one or two of them every year, and sometimes the Vaudens, as well. But of course Mrs Frant –” “Pray do not concern yourselves about me,” she said. “I would not prevent your enjoyment for the world.” “But would it be quite proper for Papa and me to go to a public assembly?” Miss Carswall inquired of Sir George, with touching confidence in his judgement. “Mr Wavenhoe was Papa’s cousin, and he died not two months ago.” He smiled at her. “You need not trouble your head on that score, Miss Carswall. It would be thought perfectly proper. After all, the connection was not close, and we would never see anyone in the country if we allowed half-mourning to stop us.” “It is a considerable way for a winter drive,” said Mr Carswall slowly. “And at night – all the way back from Gloucester. And what if we have snow, hey? It seems to me very likely that we shall have snow.” “Those who have far to come usually arrange to spend the night,” Sir George said. “I daresay we should meet all sorts of interesting people,” Miss Carswall put in. “Perhaps, perhaps.” Carswall nodded his heavy head. “It is most kind of you to suggest it, Sir George.” “Shall you go, ma’am?” Miss Carswall asked Mrs Johnson. “Yes,” she said, her voice harsh and hoarse as if she had been shouting. “Lady Ruispidge has kindly asked me to accompany her.” “There may still be rooms you could engage at the Bell itself,” Captain Ruispidge said. “Not that I would recommend it. Nothing could be more convenient for the ball but the establishment will be in an uproar because of it.” He turned to Mrs Frant and said in a lower voice: “I regret that you would not be able to honour us with your presence.” Mrs Frant inclined her head. “Yes,” Mr Carswall said, waving his fork. “Perhaps we should go to the ball. A little diversion would do us all good.” “Dancing is healthy exercise, sir,” the Captain added. “And the boys shall come, too,” Mr Carswall cried, his enthusiasm for the project growing by the second. “I am afraid Charlie must beg to be excused, sir,” said Mrs Frant. “For the same reason as I must.” “Eh? Ah – yes, of course.” “It is a pity,” said Captain Ruispidge. “I am convinced the boys would have enjoyed it immensely. These are country affairs – we don’t stand on ceremony.” He bowed to Mrs Frant. “Charlie will come another time, I trust. And his mama.” “Boys?” Lady Ruispidge said loudly, cupping her hand into a makeshift trumpet for her right ear. “Boys? A sore trial, I agree.” She turned to Mr Noak, who was on her right. “Do you have boys, sir?” He finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed it. “I had a son, ma’am,” he said calmly. “But he died.” “Dined? He has already dined?” “Died, Mama,” said Sir George. He raised his voice: “Died.” “Ah,” she replied, “yes, as I said, a sore trial. One can never tell what they will do next.” The ball provided material for the conversation until it was time for the ladies to withdraw. I held the door for them. Miss Carswall paused as she passed me. “Pray encourage Papa not to linger,” she murmured. “We shall have cards – he does so enjoy cards.” The cloth was withdrawn. Mr Carswall, who had drunk steadily throughout the meal, refilled his glass. “Sir George,” he cried, “a glass of wine with you, sir.” “Thank you, sir.” “Refill your glass first,” Carswall said. “I can see the air in it. Let us drink proper bumpers.” Sir George dribbled a few more drops into his glass, and the two men drank. “I hear your keepers caught a brace of poachers the other day,” Carswall said. “Desperate fellows indeed,” replied Sir George. “We have increasing numbers coming up before us on the bench. Since the Peace, every Tom, Dick or Harry thinks he has the right to steal my game.” “I tell my people to shoot on sight,” Carswall said. “Do you rely on other precautions, apart from your keepers’ vigilance?” “Traps, do you mean? Or spring guns?” “Aye. I have seen both used to great effect in the West Indies. There, naturally, the planters have a preference for the trap – with the gun, there is a great risk of killing the poacher. A dead slave is no good to anyone, but even a maimed one may still have years of useful work in him.” “I use both devices in my covers, and I make sure the fact is widely known. In my experience, they act as a prophylactic. A poacher may often know where your keepers are and so avoid them. But they find it harder to pin down a well-laid trap, or a cunningly concealed spring gun.” “Very true, sir,” rumbled Mr Carswall. “Mind you, you must move them frequently.” “The labour is worth it. One must also bear in mind that when they catch a poacher in commission of his crime, the effect on the neighbourhood as a whole can be most salutary.” Carswall chuckled. “We bagged a fellow from the village a few weeks ago. Damned near took his leg off.” He raised his glass, saw that it was empty and said to Mr Noak: “A glass of wine with you, sir.” “With all my heart,” said Mr Noak politely. He had drunk more today than usually, and spoken less. “Do you use traps in the United States, sir?” Sir George asked the American. Mr Noak passed a hand across his forehead, as though wiping away unwelcome thoughts. “They are not uncommon in the South. I am more familiar with those designed for smaller prey.” “Are they traps on similar principles to ours?” Sir George asked. “Spring-loaded, that is to say, and with jaws that snap shut?” “Exactly so. There is quite an art to their use – even more, perhaps, when one is employing them to trap animals in the wild rather than humans breaking the law. Harmwell – my clerk, you know – became quite expert when he lived in Canada. We use them for marten, sable, mink, otter and beaver, principally, and also for bear.” “I have seen a man enticed to a trap,” Mr Carswall said. “It is a simple matter: one merely lays a bait. The nature of the lure varies with the circumstances. In this case, it was a boat on the bank of a river.” “Similar techniques are used with lesser breeds, sir.” Mr Noak sniffed his wine. “Though with them the hunter has a wider range of ploys at his disposal. In many cases, nothing as crude as bait is required. One relies instead upon the animal’s acute sense of smell.” “Ah,” said Sir George, looking interested. “I have heard of fish oil being used for otter.” “Yes, sir, fish oil is a favourite with us, too. We also use castoreum, musk, asafoetida, and oil of anise.” “It is indeed ingenious,” said Captain Ruispidge. “To turn a creature’s strength into its weakness, its Achilles’ heel.” “A glass of wine with you, Captain,” cried Mr Carswall. “Come, fill your glass. Shield, help the Captain to some wine.” “So you do not use dogs?” Noak asked the table in general. “Not in the covers, sir,” Sir George replied. “You cannot be sure they will leave the game alone, and there is always the risk they will fall foul of the traps.” Carswall nodded. “We keep our dogs out of the covers as well. Mastiffs are valuable animals, one would not want them injured.” He swallowed another glass of wine and the colour of his face darkened still further. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Noak turned back to Carswall. “Have you visited British North America, sir?” “Never. It is a country of many opportunities, I am sure, but I have never been north of New York.” “But I understood you had interests in that part of the world,” Noak said gently. “During the late war, was not Wavenhoe’s Bank tolerably active there? And as a partner you must –” “Pooh – as to that I know very little.” Carswall threw himself back in his chair so violently that the joints creaked. “Yes, sir, I believe we did have Canadian interests, but you must understand that I was not involved in the active direction of the bank or any of its concerns. Poor George Wavenhoe was the man for that. I was only a sleeping partner, as the commercial men say.” “But Mr Wavenhoe would not have gone to Canada himself, surely?” Noak said. “He must have had a subordinate there, I imagine, someone to deal with the day-to-day running of the business.” “Very likely,” Carswall agreed. “In that case it may well have been someone I ran across,” Mr Noak observed. “I spent a number of weeks there on family business immediately after the war.” “I cannot call to mind who represented us. If I ever knew.” Carswall’s eyes slid away from Mr Noak and glided swiftly round the table. Whether from the warmth or the wine, his face shone with perspiration. “As I say, I left all that sort of thing to my cousin Wavenhoe. He may have found a local fellow.” Carswall beckoned me. “Come, Mr Shield, a glass of wine with you, sir.” I did not believe what Carswall had told Noak for a moment. He and I drank solemnly to one another and then Mr Carswall and Sir George fell into an impassioned conversation about the ingratitude of tenants. Mr Noak looked at Captain Ruispidge. “I wonder if you number any officers of the Forty-First among your acquaintance?” “No, sir. I was never in North America, whereas the Forty-First spent most of their time there.” “I see.” Noak held Captain Jack’s eyes, and when he spoke next, he raised the volume of his voice a trifle. “No matter. It is merely that it occurred to me that you might have met my son.” “He was in the Forty-First?” Mr Carswall broke off his remarks to Sir George in mid-sentence and stretched out his hand for the wine. “Yes, sir.” Mr Noak picked up an orange and squeezed it gently in his hand. “At the time of his death, he was a lieutenant.” “Lieutenant Noak,” Captain Ruispidge said. “If I meet any officers of the Forty-First, I will inquire after him. You may depend upon it, sir.” “They will not have heard of Lieutenant Noak,” Mr Noak said, his voice harsher than ever. “He was known as Saunders.” He began to peel the orange with small, delicate fingers, working his way over the surface of every ridge and hollow. But he was looking at Carswall all the time. “Saunders, sir? Saunders?” Carswall had abandoned the pretence that he was not listening. “I could not help hearing – you’ll not mind my asking, I hope – but – but – the circumstance was surely a trifle unusual? The son of a prominent American citizen holding the King’s commission? At a time when our two countries were at war?” It was a shockingly ill-bred thing to have said, and I doubt even Carswall would have done it had he not been drunk. Sir George contemplated the contents of his wine glass, while Captain Ruispidge drummed his fingers on the table edge. “The explanation is quite simple,” Mr Noak replied, his eyes still fixed on Mr Carswall’s face. “My late wife’s name was Saunders. In the Revolutionary War, her brother fought on the Loyalist side, and when the war was over he emigrated along with many others to Upper Canada. He and his wife had no children, and some years later they offered to adopt my son as their heir on condition that he took their name.” “A common enough practice, I’m sure,” Sir George said. “Without it, half the great names of England would have died out generations ago.” I chanced to look at Mr Carswall. He was sitting back in his chair, his hand raised to his face, his ruddy complexion mottled with patches of dirty white. “My son had a taste for soldiering,” Noak continued calmly, “and Mr Saunders bought him a commission. Mr Saunders had served in the Forty-First as a young man. He was present at the capture of Martinique and St Lucia.” “Did not Wellington himself serve in the Forty-First?” Captain Ruispidge asked. Noak bowed his acknowledgement of the question, and perhaps of the Captain’s tact as well. “For a year or so, I believe, in ’88 or ’89. My brother-in-law was proud of the connection.” Carswall glanced from side to side of the table. He seemed to have shrunk a little inside his clothes. He was aware, I think, somewhere in his drink-sodden mind, that his curiosity had overstepped the mark. But was there more to it? He looked to me as one who has received a blow, or at least a shock. “Forgive me, sir,” he said slowly. “Forgive me, that is, if my question just then was ill-judged.” Noak turned to him and made a civil inclination of his head. “Not at all, my dear sir.” He fed a piece of walnut into his mouth and chewed slowly. “And now perhaps,” Carswall went on, speaking more quickly and stumbling over his words, “now it is time for us to join the ladies. I promised them they would have cards.” Chairs scraped back on the polished boards. Carswall swayed as he stood, and was forced to support himself on the back of his chair. I held the door for the others to pass through. Afterwards, as I walked across the hall, Captain Ruispidge lingered and fell into step with me. “You’re a wise man, Mr Shield – you listen much and say little.” He spoke with a smile and I smiled back at him. “Mrs Frant tells me that you were at Cambridge.” “Yes, sir. But I did not complete my degree.” “One cannot always finish what one begins. Do you regret it?” “Extremely.” “Sometimes one begins a thing without knowing how it will end. Or, to put it another way, an action, perhaps blameless in itself, may lead to an undesirable consequence.” I stared into his bland face, floating above the white perfection of his neckcloth and the starched points of his collar. “I’m afraid I do not understand you, sir.” “You will not object to a word of advice, I trust?” he murmured. “I saw you on the ice, the other day – with the young ladies. I remarked a – how shall I put it? – a certain familiarity, which might be liable to misconstruction. A lady’s reputation is such a fragile thing.” “Sir, I assure you that –” “I’m sure I need say no more. Verbum sap, eh, verbum sap?” Captain Ruispidge nodded affably and preceded me into the drawing room, where Mr Carswall was calling for coffee. Soon the place was a hive of activity, with the servants setting out the card tables and bringing coffee and tea; Mr Carswall talking loudly and wildly about nothing in particular; and the ladies full of animation, as though relieved not to be left to their own society any longer. Miss Carswall beckoned me over. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You have rescued us, and rescued my father, too, I fancy.” “I wish I could take the credit, Miss Carswall. But I did nothing.” Her smile flashed out at me. “You are too modest, Mr Shield. You are always too modest.” When the tables were ready, Mr Carswall clapped his hands. “We have time for a rubber, I hope? Now, four into ten won’t go, so two of us must stand down.” He crossed the room to Mr Noak’s chair and towered over the small spare American. “You will join us, I hope, sir?” “Thank you, no. I never touch cards.” “No. Well – just as you please, sir. I had hoped to match you with Lady Ruispidge –” “You must not concern yourself, Papa,” Miss Carswall said. “Lady Ruispidge was telling me that she never plays with any other partner but Mrs Johnson if she can help it. They have a system, I fancy.” In a few moments, the card players had been allocated to their tables: at one, Miss Carswall and Sir George would play against Lady Ruispidge and Mrs Johnson; at the other, Captain Ruispidge and Mrs Frant would play against Mr Carswall and Mrs Lee. “I am vexed Papa did not consult you,” Miss Carswall said quietly. “You may take my place, if you wish.” “Not for the world.” At that moment, Sir George came to hover over her with a fine proprietary air, ready to lead her to the card table. Mr Noak took up a book. I put a newspaper on my knee to give myself the appearance of occupation and wondered whether I should withdraw. A few minutes later, the room was almost entirely silent, apart from the crackle of the logs on the fire and the chink of china. I brooded on Captain Ruispidge’s advice and wondered which lady’s reputation was at risk from my undue familiarity. By and by, Mr Noak looked up from his page, his finger marking his place, and stared into the fire. The room was well lit and it seemed to me that his eyes gleamed unusually brightly in the candlelight. I offered to help him to some more coffee. At first he did not hear me. Then he started and turned towards me. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was a thousand miles away. No – further than that.” “May I fetch you another cup of coffee, sir?” He thanked me and gave me his cup. He watched me as I refilled it. “You must forgive me if I am a little melancholy this evening,” he said, when I handed him his coffee. “Today was my son’s birthday.” He studied my face. “You have a look of him, if I may say so. I remarked the resemblance as soon as I saw you.” He fell silent, and to fill the emptiness I ventured to suggest that it must be a consolation to know his son had died a soldier’s death. “Not even that, Mr Shield, not even that.” He shook his head slowly from side to side, as though trying to shake the pain out of it. “I regret to say that we had been estranged for many years. He adopted the principles of his mother’s family, in politics and in all else. Frank was a fine boy, but he had a sad tendency towards obstinacy.” He shrugged thin shoulders, too small for the coat. “I do not know why I bore you with my affairs. Pray excuse me.” “There is nothing to excuse, sir.” I thought it probable that the wine Mr Noak had taken at dinner had depressed his spirits while lessening his habitual reserve. “I could have borne a soldier’s death, even in the service of King George,” Mr Noak went on, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “Or even if disease had snatched him away in the prime of his life. But not this: face-down in a Kingston gutter: they said he drowned when he was drunk.” He turned his head sharply and looked at me with eyes glistening with tears. “That was hard to bear, Mr Shield, that was hard. To know that the world thought my son a drunken sot who died needlessly because of his intoxication. Bad enough, you would think. Aye, but there was worse to come, much worse.” He seemed suddenly to recollect himself and broke off. “But I must not weary you with the recital of my son’s woes.” He gave me a stiff smile and returned to his book. The tips of his ears were rosy-pink. I sipped the rest of my coffee. I had no doubt that Mr Noak’s grief was genuine but I was not convinced that his frankness was as artless as it seemed. The card players were wrapped in the wordless communion of their kind. Captain Ruispidge put down a card and drew the trick he had won towards him. He stared across the table at Mrs Frant, his partner. She looked up and smiled her acknowledgement. Despair moved within me. How intimate a connection is a partnership at cards, how private the solitude it creates. I drank my coffee to the bitter, gritty dregs and forced my mind to consider a less painful matter. What, I wondered, had Noak meant? What could be worse for a father than the knowledge that his son had died estranged from his parent and as a result of a drunken accident of his own making? The discovery that his son had been culpably involved in a criminal undertaking? Frank was a fine boy, but he had a sad tendency towards obstinacy. As an epitaph it suggested Lieutenant Saunders had inherited at least one quality from his father. But it did not suggest there had been anything criminal or sinful about him. So in that case, what was worse than your son – a fine boy – dying as a result of a self-induced drunken accident? Why, it could only mean that he had died for some other reason. Not disease, it appeared. So he must have been killed. But if killed lawfully, he would not have been reported as having died in an accident. So had Mr Noak’s son therefore been killed unlawfully? In other words, had Lieutenant Frank Saunders been murdered? Chapter 49 (#ulink_c46e8c9c-564f-5016-9dff-247324825c06) Sir George most obligingly rode over on Thursday morning with the news that a suite of apartments in a house in Westgate had become available for the night of the assembly. Lord Vauden and his party had taken them for several nights but the sudden illness of a near relation from whom he had expectations had compelled him to withdraw. Sir George had taken the liberty of bespeaking the apartments in Mr Carswall’s name, though of course this conferred no obligation upon Mr Carswall, and it would be the work of a moment to cancel the arrangement if it did not suit because Captain Ruispidge was engaged to dine in Gloucester that very evening. This was just the encouragement Mr Carswall needed. Not only was he flattered by Sir George’s kind attention but the suggestion removed the chief practical obstacle to the scheme. Sir George added that his mother was greatly looking forward to renewing her acquaintance with Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant. When we were sitting in the drawing room after dinner, Mr Carswall returned to this condescension on the part of Lady Ruispidge. “But Papa,” Miss Carswall said, “you know Sophie cannot come to the ball.” “Of course not. But there is no reason why she should not come to Gloucester with us, is there?” He turned to Mrs Frant who was seated at the tea table. “You will enjoy the shops, I daresay, eh? We have been very cooped up here at Monkshill, and it will do us good to have a change.” “Yes, sir,” she said. Groaning with the effort, he leaned on the table and patted her hand with his great paw. “You cannot mope for ever, my dear. You shall buy something pretty for yourself. And something for the boy, perhaps, too.” Mrs Frant pulled her hand away and began to gather together the tea things. “Sir George brought me a note from Mrs Johnson today,” Miss Carswall said brightly. “She enclosed a receipt for eel soup from Lady Ruispidge. So obliging. I wonder how many of us will go to Gloucester, and how many beds are spoken for us. One would not like to be cramped or thrown together with people one does not care for.” “No,” said Mrs Frant. “I can think of nothing worse.” The ball at the Bell Inn was on Wednesday, the 12th January. It formed the principal topic of conversation at Monkshill-park in the week before – where our party would lodge, what they should wear, whom they would encounter and whom they would like to encounter. The boys and I were to stay at Monkshill. On Monday, two days before the ball, I came into the small sitting room to look for my pupils and found Miss Carswall with her nose in a book on the sofa by the fire. I explained my errand. “Why not let them run wild this afternoon?” She yawned, exposing very white, very sharp teeth. “There is nothing so fatiguing as a printed page, I find.” “What is it you are reading?” She held out a cloth-bound duodecimo volume. “Domestic Cookery, and Useful Receipt Book,” she said. “It is a treasure house of valuable information. Here it tells you how to make a mutton-ham, which sounds a monstrous contradiction, and probably tastes like one too. And here are two and a half pages devoted solely to the laundry maid and her duties. It is so lowering. I had not realised there was so much useful knowledge in the world. It seems quite boundless, like the Pacific Ocean.” I said something civil in reply, along the lines of being sure that a student of her ability would soon acquire all the knowledge she needed. “The study of books does not come easily to me, Mr Shield. You must not think me a blue, far from it. But Papa believes that every woman should know domestic economy.” Her eyelids fluttered. “He bids me model myself in that respect on Lady Ruispidge.” Her hand flew to her left eye. “Oh!” “What is it, Miss Carswall?” “I believe I have something in my eye.” Miss Carswall rose unsteadily to her feet, pouting with vexation, and examined her face in the mirror above the fireplace. “I cannot see anything in it but the light is so bad over here. It is such an irritation.” “Shall I ring the bell?” “They will take an age to come, and then they will have to find my maid. No, Mr Shield, would you be very kind and come with me over to the window and see if you can see it? Whatever it might be. It is unlikely to be a fly at this time of year. Perhaps a speck of soot or a hair. Even an errant eyelash can have such a profound and disproportionate effect on human happiness.” I followed her to the window where she turned and held her face up to me. I came close to her and peered into her left eye. When you are near a woman, you smell her scent, not just the perfume she is wearing but the entire olfactory nature of her – a compound of perfume, the odour of her clothes, and the natural animal smell underlying all. “Pray turn your head a little to the left,” I said. “There – that is better.” “Can you see anything? In the corner.” “Which corner?” She giggled. “I am not thinking clearly. The inner corner.” I brought my face a little closer so that I could see more clearly and, simultaneously, she raised herself on tiptoe and turned her face an inch or so to the right. Her lips brushed mine. I gave a startled yelp and jumped back. “I’m so sorry, Mr Shield,” she said with complete composure. “I – I beg your pardon,” I muttered wildly, my heart beating like a drum. “Not at all. At first I thought the hair had been dislodged but I think it is still there. I wonder if I might trouble you to have another look.” She raised her face up to me again and smiled. I brought my mouth down on hers and felt her lips move and for an instant part against mine. Then her hands caught mine and she took a step back. “Come away from the window,” she murmured, and like figures in a dance we moved a few paces together, as one creature, and then began to kiss again. She rested her hands on my shoulders and I ran my palms over her hips. Her warmth enveloped me like a flame. Thirty seconds? A minute at most. There was a clatter on the other side of the door. We sprang apart. In an instant, I was contemplating the view across the terrace to the river far below, while Miss Carswall was seated on the sofa, turning the pages of Domestic Cookery with an expression of rapt concentration on her face. A plump maid with a damp red face carried a scuttle of coals into the room. She made up the fire and tidied the grate. While she was still rattling the fire irons, the boys rushed in. “Mr Harmwell is going to show us how to trap rabbits,” Charlie said proudly. “Ain’t it famous? If we was shipwrecked, you know, like Robinson Crusoe, we could dine like kings on rabbits.” “How very kind of Mr Harmwell,” Miss Carswall said. “He is a very kind man,” Charlie said simply. “Edgar says he is quite different from the niggers they have at home.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Most of the ones we have in Richmond are slaves, sir,” the American boy said. “But Mr Harmwell is as free as you or I.” The maid curtsied and left the room. The boys followed, banging the door behind them. “And how free is that?” I said. Miss Carswall giggled. “Free enough in all conscience. I approve of freedom. I am a natural radical.” She rose and came to stand beside me. She glanced out of the window, and the excitement left her face. “Look. Sophie’s coming.” We moved apart and re-arranged our limbs and our feelings. Mrs Frant passed the window as she made her way along the terrace towards the side door. I coughed. “Do I understand from Harmwell’s continued presence that Mr Noak stays for a while longer?” “Yes, had you not heard? At least until after the ball.” Miss Carswall laughed; she appeared wholly self-possessed. “I had the reason from Sophie who had it from Mrs Kerridge, who had it from Harmwell himself. You recall that Kerridge and Harmwell are sweet on one another? It is touching, is it not, and especially at their time of life? Anyway, according to Harmwell, Mr Noak is contemplating the purchase of some property from my father. A warehouse in Liverpool, or some such thing. And there is talk of other investments – you know what gentlemen are like when they begin to talk of their investments. They become like girls talking of their beaux – there is the same blend of fantasy with obsession, the desire for secrecy, the lust for acquisition.” She had moved away from me now, and sat down again on the sofa. I felt half relieved, half cheated. A moment later, Mrs Frant came into the room and held out her hands to the fire. “Mrs Johnson is still at Clearland-court, I collect?” she said to Miss Carswall. “I believe so. I had understood from Sir George that she was staying with them until after the ball. Why?” “I was walking near the ruins and I saw a man in the garden of Grange Cottage.” “Her gardener?” “But she has no gardener now. Only the one maid of all work, Ruth, and she is not there at present. I was too far away to see him clearly but he seemed to catch sight of me, and moved away at once. Do you think we should inform Mrs Johnson?” “It would be the neighbourly thing to do,” Miss Carswall said. “Could you describe him?” “Tall and well built. He wore a long brown coat and a broad-brimmed hat. I can tell you nothing about his face. He was so far away, and the collar was turned up, and the brim of the hat was –” “I will write a note to Mrs Johnson,” Miss Carswall cut in. “If she thinks there is something suspicious, she will consult with Sir George about what to do. I would not for the world want to worry her, but one cannot be too careful in such matters. Perhaps we should send someone to investigate before we raise the alarm.” “If you like,” I said, “I could walk there now.” To tell the truth, I welcomed the chance of escaping from that snug parlour. I always found it unsettling to see Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall together, and rarely more than I did on that occasion. I was not proud of my feelings yet I could not pretend that I did not desire them both: though not entirely for the same reasons, and not in the same way. I found my hat and stick and set out. I was surprised how soon I reached Grange Cottage. Perturbation of the mind and discomfort of the body encourage rapidity of movement. In a sense, perhaps, I was attempting to hurry away from the unholy confusion of my own feelings. Nothing had changed since my previous visit. The building had the desolate appearance of an untenanted house – somehow reduced in importance by the absence of its owner as is a body by the absence of its animating spirit. The shutters were still up. I tried the doors: all were locked. As I had done before, I walked round to the kitchen yard at the back. I inspected the muddy patch beside the pump, and found only a confusion of ridges and furrows, brittle with frost, where before there had been an outline of a man’s footprint. By and by, I returned through the park, walking more slowly than before. I scarcely knew the reason for my unease – whether it was what I might have left behind at Grange Cottage or what I might be walking towards at Monkshill. I skirted the lake by the longer, western route and took the opportunity to investigate both the approach to the ice-house and the shell grotto. I found nothing out of the way, and nor had I expected to do so. I was not following a rational purpose: I wanted to postpone my return, I suppose, and that part of the mind that is mysterious even to its owner was obliging enough to suggest plausible excuses for delay. In the end, though, my powers of invention were exhausted. I took the path to the house, walking ever more slowly. Images of Mrs Frant, images of Miss Carswall, whirled through my mind. I could not think clearly, and even derived a gloomy pleasure from my plight: was I not the very pattern of a romantic hero? As I was walking along the wall of the kitchen gardens, immersed in gloomy thoughts, the boys ran whooping like redskins through a doorway. They hurled themselves into me with such force that I staggered and almost fell. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Edgar, glancing at Charlie. The boys burst into giggles. I pretended to roar at them and they scampered away with cries of simulated terror. I chased them through the walled gardens and seized both of them by the scruffs of their necks. “Juvenal tells us maxima debetur puero reverentia,” I said. “Translate, Edgar.” “The greatest reverence is due to a boy, sir.” “But Juvenal is inaccurate on this occasion. The greatest reverence is due to a boy’s master.” I pretended to cuff them and they ran off, shrieking. Soon they would grow older and more serious. Time was running out for their boyhood. For that matter, time was running out for us all, and running faster and faster. I thought of Mr Carswall and his watch: for all his wealth the old man was time’s slave, as completely in its power as any of his niggers had ever been in his. As for me, my sojourn at Monkshill was slipping away. In a few short weeks, I would take Edgar Allan back to Stoke Newington, and leave behind whatever was happening here. Worst of all, I would leave Sophia Frant and Flora Carswall. At that moment, the prospect of losing them seemed an insupportable fate. They had become my pleasure, my pain and my necessity. They had become my meat and drink, my Alpha and Omega. I was enslaved to them, I told myself, and to what they represented: and in my addiction I was no better than an opium-eater tapping a coin on the druggist’s counter as he waits for his heaven and his hell in a pill-box. Chapter 50 (#ulink_5fcc2254-4db1-5de2-bf81-5533eed89ce1) The following day, Mr Noak sent down to say that he was unwell. He had a severe cold. Harmwell explained that his master would be obliged to keep to his bed for at least a day or two. Owing to boyhood illnesses, Mr Noak’s chest was weak. The greatest care was needed if he was to avoid fever, a severe and debilitating cough and possibly pneumonia. The news spread throughout the house long before Mr Carswall announced it formally at dinner, which gave Miss Carswall ample opportunity to consult her brown duodecimo volume. “You must not be anxious, Papa,” she said when he told us the news with a long face. “I have already instructed Harmwell to dose Mr Noak regularly. I have prescribed a spoonful of syrup of horehound in a glass of spring water, into which he should stir ten drops of the spirit of sulphur: I am reliably informed that this is a remedy that will generally relieve the severest cold.” “A very proper attention,” he said. “But I was depending on him for our excursion to Gloucester.” For an instant his lips formed the pout I had seen more than once on Miss Carswall’s face. “It is so provoking.” “I suppose the poor man cannot help his health.” “I do not say that he can.” Mr Carswall took another sip of wine. “But I shall miss his conversation. And Harmwell could have made himself useful when we passed through a turnpike, and in Gloucester. There are always arrangements to be made, errands to be run.” “Surely there is at least a partial remedy immediately to hand? We should invite Mr Shield to accompany us in Mr Noak’s place.” Carswall gestured for his glass to be refilled and stared down the table at me. “Aye, that might answer. You shall accompany us, Shield. Not to the ball itself, however – there will be no need for that. No doubt you will enjoy the change of scene. Yes, it will be quite a treat for you.” I bowed and said nothing. Mr Carswall liked to give the impression that consulting his own comfort was merely the indirect means of doing someone else a favour. In my absence, the boys would be left in the care of Mrs Kerridge. On the Wednesday morning, Mr Carswall plunged into a morass of indecision. He consulted his watch – he glanced at the dark, grey sky – he prophesied snow. What if we should become stuck in a snowdrift? What if a wheel should break while we were in the depths of the country? What if we had not allowed enough time for a journey at this time of year, and we were benighted on the road and froze to death? As he grew older, Mr Carswall lived in a world of terrifying possibilities, a world whose dangers increased in proportion to his own frailties. Miss Carswall soothed him. There would be a constant stream of travellers. Most of our way would lie along the newly cut turnpike road beside the river. We would never be far from a pike-house, a farm or a village. Mr Shield, the coachman and the footmen were all able-bodied men capable of wielding a shovel or walking for assistance. Besides, it was not yet snowing, and even if it had been, there was no reason to fear that the road would be blocked. At last Mr Carswall’s anxiety subsided sufficiently for us to leave. Miss Carswall’s maid and his own man had already gone on ahead to make our apartments ready, so the five of us travelled inside the great coach – the three ladies, Mr Carswall and I. Mr Carswall’s splendid equipage was nothing if not luxurious. We glided along the macadamised surface of the turnpike road. The coach’s big wheels and long springs combined with the perfectly flat gravelled surface to create an impression of rapid but almost effortless motion. I was in close proximity to both Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall; indeed I sometimes felt a gentle pressure from the latter’s foot upon my own. There was pleasure, too, in leaving behind Monkshill-park, that elegant and spacious prison. We came into Gloucester by the Over Causeway, a circumstance which caused Mr Carswall much agitation, for the river was rising and the masonry of the arches was already in a ruinous condition. To his relief, we crossed the Westgate Bridge and entered the city while it was still light. Our lodgings were in Fendall House in Lower Westgate-street, not far from St Nicholas’s Church with its stunted spire. Bowing and scraping, the owner of the house conducted our party up to the apartments on the first floor, formerly reserved for Lord Vauden. Nothing could have been more obliging, and nothing (I suspected) could have been more expensive. The accommodations consisted of a large parlour with two tall windows at the front of the house, facing the south-west, and four bedrooms – one each for Mr Carswall and Mrs Lee, one for Miss Carswall and Mrs Frant, and a fourth which had been designed for Mr Noak. Having settled Mr Carswall in an elbow chair by the fire, our host handed him a letter which Sir George Ruispidge’s man had delivered not half an hour earlier. Grunting, Carswall perused it. “Sir George asks a favour,” he said, addressing Miss Carswall. “He has heard that Mr Noak is not come with us, and begs to inquire whether Mrs Johnson might be able to take his place. It seems that the chamber reserved for her in their lodgings in Eastgate has been damaged by fire, and there is at present no other suitable accommodation available. He adds that Mrs Johnson would be most gratified to extend her acquaintance with Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, so the arrangement would kill two birds with one stone.” “It is a very civil note, Papa. But what about Mr Shield?” “I see no difficulty there.” Mr Carswall glanced up at the landlord, who was hovering in front of him. “The boys’ tutor has come in place of Mr Noak, but he will not be coming to the ball and in any case he is a plain man with simple needs easily satisfied – eh, Shield?” I bowed. “I’m sure you can find him a bed, hey?” Carswall said, addressing the landlord. “Yes, sir. We have a small chamber in the upper storey, and I have taken the liberty of having it prepared.” “Capital.” The old man waved at Miss Carswall, as if repelling an objection she had not voiced. “You see? Shield would be perfectly happy in a hammock, I daresay. Indeed, in my experience young men prefer to rough it a little. And he will enjoy the independence, too – and not having the rest of us coming in late and disturbing him.” The landlord murmured how very obliged he was to Mr Carswall, and how very obliged Sir George would be. He shot a sharp, sideways glance at me, which made it clear that he had assessed my position in Mr Carswall’s household with tolerable accuracy. A squat and surly hall-boy took my bag and showed me to my room. I wondered if I would ever be able to find it again. Like many buildings in this city, Fendall House was a misleading place. To the front, all was neat, new, airy and spacious. Most of the establishment, however, lay to the rear and was an elderly warren of narrow staircases, small dark rooms, winding passages, low ceilings and creaking floorboards. The tiny bedchamber to which I was shown, though indubitably a garret nestling under the tiles, had the dignity of its own staircase at the side of the house leading to an ill-lit lobby with its own door to the street. My dormer window looked across a dark little shrubbery to a fine modern wing built of redbrick to match the frontage. We dined together in Mr Carswall’s parlour, and at an early hour because of the ball. Mrs Johnson was not yet come: she was to join our party after the ball, for Lady Ruispidge desired her attendance beforehand, and to return with the Carswalls and Mrs Lee to Fendall House afterwards. Mr Carswall, Mrs Lee and Miss Carswall were already arrayed in their finery. Mrs Frant and I were required to admire those going to the ball, and when we had finished, those going to the ball admired each other. Mrs Frant looked wistful and said little. Around us, the house was in even more of a bustle than before, for other, lesser apartments had been let, and their occupants were also going to the ball. Though the parlour door was closed, we were constantly aware of hurrying footsteps, of slamming doors, shouted greetings and instructions. When we had finished dinner, the time dragged. The only person who seemed content was Mrs Lee: she sat staring at the fire, her hands idle in her lap, an unopened book on the table beside her; she was well used to waiting upon the convenience of others. Mrs Frant sat sewing on the sofa, rarely speaking unless one of the Carswalls addressed her. I sat at the table with a copy of the previous week’s Gloucester Journal spread out before me. Miss Carswall was never still for long – sometimes she would rush to the window to look down at the street; sometimes she would dart to the mirror; sometimes she would fly to Mrs Frant to hold a whispered conversation. There was a vitality about her that I had rarely seen at Monkshill-park. Society was meat and drink to her, and she fairly glowed with the prospect of nourishment. I could not suppress a pang at the knowledge that I was excluded. There was a quality of happy anticipation about Miss Carswall’s fidgets. But Mr Carswall could not settle, either, and his restlessness was a darker matter. At first he tried with little success to engage Mrs Frant in conversation. There was a strain of gallantry in much of what he said, which could not but be offensive to the recipient. Then, still talking, he took out his watch and looked at the time. Ten minutes later he repeated the action. As the evening crept towards the hour of the ball, he fell silent; the level in the decanter sank and he consulted his watch with increasing frequency. Finally, he left the timepiece open in the palm of his hand all the time and stared at the dial with a look of strained fascination upon his face. The arrival of the tea things at seven o’clock brought a moment’s relief. Here at last was something to do. With the best will in the world, though, we could not take tea for ever. Soon that uncomfortable silence descended upon the room once more, punctuated by brief spurts of speech. Even Miss Carswall fell silent. “Half-past eight o’clock,” said Mr Carswall, reverting to a subject that had been touched upon many times that evening. “That would not be unreasonably early, I believe.” “Papa,” cried Miss Carswall, “no one you would want to speak to would be there so early.” “But should we not send for the coach? That will take a little time. We should want a place by the fire, after all.” “The only people there would be tradesmen and their families,” his daughter replied tartly, for her upbringing had given her a finer notion of gentility than her sire. “They will still be tuning the fiddles! You may depend upon it, everyone else will dine much later and therefore come later.” Carswall grumbled, Miss Carswall protested; but I knew from the way Miss Carswall’s feet were tapping on the carpet that secretly she longed to be in the Assembly Rooms. In the end she and her father compromised on nine o’clock and they sent for the coach. The hands of Mr Carswall’s watch crept around the dial until the noises inside the house and in the street made it clear that the Carswalls would not suffer the ignominy of being the first people at the ball. A few minutes before the hour, Mrs Frant’s dress rustled as she rose to her feet. I pushed back my chair. “Pray do not disturb yourself, Mr Shield.” She raised her voice, addressing the Carswalls and Mrs Lee: “I – that is, I find the excitement of the day has tired me out. You will forgive me if I retire?” I held the door for her. As she passed me, no more than a few inches away, I felt the familiar pull, as iron filings to a powerful magnet. She looked up, and for an instant I thought – I hoped – that she had felt it too. Then she smiled up at me, wished me a quiet goodnight and slipped away. “Poor Sophie,” Miss Carswall said, moving to the window, drawn by the sound of carriages arriving. “So mortifying not to be able to enjoy oneself – and the poor love will be in mourning for months and months.” She parted the folds of heavy curtains and peered into the street. “Oh!” “What is it?” Carswall asked. “It is snowing. Look – great big flakes like saucers.” “There! What did I tell you? We should never have come.” “You must not let it prey on your mind, Papa. Ten to one the snow won’t settle. Everyone says it is milder today. Besides, here we have warmth, food, society and comfortable beds. If the worst should come to the worst and we are snowed in, not that we shall be, it would at least be in agreeable circumstances.” She glanced outside again. “Look at the press of carriages! Oh – there is ours pulling up at the door! Would it not be heaven if we reached the Bell just after the Ruispidges? Then we might encounter them in the passage, and enter with them. It would look very well, would it not? It would seem as if we were come together.” Mrs Lee suddenly emerged from her torpor. “My dear, you must wear your wrap when we go out in the passage at the Bell. The draughts are most dangerous. Oh, I do hope they have swept the floor properly this time – after the last ball, the hem of my dress was quite black with dust. And it was the passage to blame, I am sure of it.” Miss Carswall stood on tiptoe and twirled, admiring herself in the mirror between the windows. “Thank heavens I bought this wrap. It sets off the colour of the dress to perfection.” In the brackets flanking the mirror the candle flames seemed to nod in agreement. I murmured, “It matches your eyes, too, Miss Carswall, if I may say so.” She looked at me, her face grave as a nun’s but her eyes sparkling. “You are too kind, sir,” she said softly. “My gloves, my gloves,” cried Mr Carswall. “Who has taken them?” “I believe I see them on the arm of your chair, sir,” I said. “I hope there will still be a place by the fire,” croaked Mrs Lee. “If only we had not waited so long.” At last the three of them were gone and I was alone. I listened to their voices and footsteps fading on the stairs and in the hall. The front door closed. Silence flowed into the parlour. I sat down at the table again and turned a page of the newspaper. I tried to read. But the newspaper bored me. I was aware of noises outside the room – the hurrying of servants’ feet, the ebb and flow of carriages in the street below, raised voices, and distant snatches of music. Miss Carswall was right. There is nothing so sad as sitting alone and listening to the sounds of others enjoying themselves in society. I was not sleepy. I could have gone out and settled in the corner of a taproom or a coffee house but I was not in the mood for company. Instead, I fetched pen and paper and settled down to write overdue letters to Edward Dansey and Mr Rowsell. I must have written for well over an hour. I could be entirely frank, of course, with neither man, though for different reasons. But there was plenty of matter for my pen in describing the splendours of Monkshill-park and the characters of its principal inhabitants. I was nearing the end of the second letter when there came a tap on the door. I looked up, expecting a maidservant. Instead it was Sophia Frant, still in the dress she had worn at dinner. “I beg your pardon, Mr Shield,” she said hurriedly in a voice that was not altogether steady. “I hope I do not disturb you.” “I am entirely at your service, ma’am.” “I wish to consult with you on a matter of – of some delicacy.” I drew up a chair to the fire. “Pray sit down.” “A moment ago, I happened to go to one of the windows in our chamber,” she began in a low voice. “The sashes were rattling, and I wished to wedge them. The window on that side overlooks the lane running up to Westgate-street. I looked down, and I saw a woman.” She hesitated. “I – I must request you to treat this as a confidence, Mr Shield.” “Of course, ma’am.” “I knew I might rely on you.” She was calmer now, fully in control of herself. “The fact of the matter is this: a shaft of light fell across the lane from a doorway of a tavern, and it showed the face of the woman. It was Mrs Johnson.” “But I thought she was with the Ruispidges, at the assembly.” “So did I. But wait, there is more. Mrs Johnson was wearing a cloak with a hood. But the hood had fallen backwards from her head. She did not have a cap, and her hair was quite loose, falling in disarray to her shoulders. I – I watched her walking up to Westgate-street. She swayed from side to side, and once she slipped and nearly fell. A man came out of the tavern and put his hand on her arm and she pushed him away. Then she turned the corner and I saw her no more. And the man followed her.” “She is indisposed?” It was my turn to pause. “Or –?” “Or something worse,” Mrs Frant finished for me. “It is possible that she entered the house once I lost sight of her. I went to the chamber set aside for her – it is just along the passage from ours. Her luggage is come but there was no sign of her. Not that I thought it likely, because we would have heard her knocking on the door.” “Might she be below-stairs?” “No, she is not – I rang for the maid and asked if she had seen Mrs Johnson this evening. I pretended I had a message for her – I did not like to say the truth. I do not know whether the people here are trustworthy. And if Mrs Johnson is not herself …” Her voice died away. “No,” I said. “I understand your drift, ma’am. May I suggest that I go in search of Mrs Johnson? It will not take me a moment to fetch my hat and greatcoat. The part of the building where I am lodged has a separate flight of stairs that runs down to a side entrance. I am sure I could slip out without attracting attention.” “Let us hope so.” Mrs Frant stood up. “I am infinitely obliged to you, Mr Shield. If you allow me two minutes.” “Madam – you cannot accompany me.” “Why not?” “It would not be fitting. If you were seen –” She was already at the door. “I shall not be seen.” “It is still snowing, ma’am.” “A little snow will not harm me. I too have a cloak with a hood. You must be sensible of Mrs Johnson’s feelings if she were to suspect that a man were pursuing her at this time of night. Especially if her wits are at all disordered.” “But she knows me.” “She does not know you well. No, Mr Shield, my mind is quite made up. I shall be perfectly safe under your protection. And if we find – when we find – Mrs Johnson, she need feel no uneasiness at being accosted by a lady.” Chapter 51 (#ulink_d48d0d95-2efc-5ca9-a690-7308bd43464e) As to time, Mrs Frant was as good as her word. Hooded and cloaked, with a pair of pattens in her hand, she met me in the passage. We passed no one as we threaded our way across the upper floors of the house to the flight of stairs that descended to the lobby and side door. Impatient to be gone, she lead the way down to the dingy hall, which was lit by a solitary lamp. The door was bolted, not locked. It opened on to a narrow alley on the other side of the house from the lane with the tavern. Mrs Frant slipped on her pattens and took my arm. We picked our way through the gloom to the lights of Westgate-street. People were still abroad. The paved footways on either side were covered with a feathery layer of snow; the cobbles of the pitching were coated with rutted, partly frozen slush. We saw no one resembling Mrs Johnson in either direction. “Let us walk up towards the crossroads,” Mrs Frant suggested. “If she did not call in at the house, we must assume she went in that direction.” So we set off, looking into the dark mouths of doorways and alleys, glancing into brightly lit taprooms, examining every passer-by. We did not speak. The hood of Mrs Frant’s cloak was across her face, so nothing was visible of her except a pair of eyes. I feared she might fall, for there were patches of black ice concealed beneath the powdering of snow. I listened anxiously to the sound of her pattens clinking and scraping on the pavement, ready to hold her more tightly if she should slip. We passed St Nicholas’s Church. A few yards beyond was another of the city’s principal inns, the King’s Head on the corner of Three Cocks-lane. Two servants loitered in the doorway, no doubt waiting to light their masters home. They were smoking and, despite the cold, had the air of men who were at their leisure. I asked if they had seen a lady in the last quarter of an hour, not in the best of health, perhaps, and wearing a long cloak. “Hear that, Joe? The gent here’s looking for a lady.” He poked the stem of his pipe towards Mrs Frant, waiting some yards away with her back to us. “Another lady.” Joe chuckled. “Ain’t we all? Could be in luck. Plenty of ladies tonight. If you ain’t too particular.” I felt in my pocket and produced a shilling. “A lady in a cloak. She came up from the lane beyond Fendall House. You know where I mean?” The shilling was on the palm of my hand and I let the light fall on it from the lantern beside the door. “She is not well – we are looking for her.” Joe scooped the shilling from my hand. “Aye, sir. There was a skirt come up from there – ill, you say? I’d say she was lushy. Slipped on some ice, fell on her arse in the gutter, and let fly like a trooper.” “Which way did she go?” “They went up Westgate.” “They?” said Mrs Frant just behind me. “She was not alone?” “No, ma’am.” Joe studied her and would have come closer if I had not taken a step forward to prevent him. “A gent come running up from behind when she fell down, and he helped her up and gave her his arm.” “What did he look like?” “I don’t know. Big fellow. Well set-up. I expect you’d know him, sir, eh? I expect he’s one of her friends as well.” There was no mistaking the impudence, though it was phrased in such a way that there was no objecting to it either. The shilling had not been enough to buy respect as well as information. Mrs Frant took my arm again and we hurried down the street which sloped gently upwards to the ancient crossroads at the centre of the city. A burst of ribald laughter followed us. “Loathsome men,” she murmured. “Not loathsome,” I said. “Merely ordinary.” I felt her hand tighten on my arm but she said no more. I knew she was upset. Joe and his fellow servants might indeed be ordinary men, but they were not ordinary men of the type with which she was familiar. It shocked her to discover that Mrs Johnson had sunk to become a figure of fun, a drunken woman to be ridiculed when she fell on the street rather than helped to her feet; a woman whose morals were perhaps suspect in all matters – at least in the opinion of those ordinary men. The snowflakes still floated silently down from the great darkness of the sky, though less urgently than before. It was as cold as charity. We hurried onwards as fast as we dared. We reached the crossroads, and lingered for a moment on the corner by the Tolsey, the building where the city’s business was transacted. “What shall we do?” Mrs Frant said. “She might be anywhere. Should we go on?” “But in which direction?” “I fear for her safety.” “At least she is not alone.” “Some companions may prove worse than solitude.” “I think we should retrace our steps,” I said. “Is it not more likely that they turned into one of the alleys we passed? Or went into one of the inns or alehouses?” Mrs Frant shivered. “We cannot abandon her. We must try something. Anything might have happened to her. Should we not find a constable?” “If we cannot find her, then we must.” “I shudder to think of the scandal.” “Listen,” I said. Someone close at hand was crying quietly. Mrs Frant’s hand tightened its grip on my arm. Suddenly, a man burst out of a doorway on the other side of Westgate-street. He ran across the road, slipping on the cobbles, and into a lane below the Fleece. The sobbing continued. Mrs Frant tugged her arm, trying to free it from my grasp, but I would not let her. “Wait,” I said. “Let me investigate first.” “We shall go together,” she said, and I knew that nothing short of brute force would change her mind. We moved cautiously across the road. The sobbing came from outside an old house used as a bank. We drew nearer. The storeys above projected into the street, and there was enough light to read below the first-floor windows the words COUNTY FIRE OFFICE PROVIDENT LIFE OFFICE “Is anyone there?” Mrs Frant said. The crying stopped. My eyes made out a patch of deeper darkness among the shadows along the base of the bank’s frontage. I heard a whimper. “Mrs Johnson?” I said. “Is that you, ma’am?” “Let me alone, damn you.” Mrs Johnson’s voice was so thick and weary that it was barely recognisable. “Let me die.” Mrs Frant tore her arm away from mine and knelt beside the unfortunate woman, who lay curled on her side in the bank’s doorway, with flecks of snow on her mantle. “Mrs Johnson, we are come to find you.” “I do not wish to be found. I wish to stay here.” “Indeed you shall not. You will catch your death of cold. Are you hurt?” Mrs Johnson did not answer. “Come, ma’am, Mr Shield is here too, and you may lean on my arm on one side and his on the other.” “Let me alone,” Mrs Johnson murmured, but this time there was more habit than conviction in her tone. “No, of course we shall not,” said Mrs Frant briskly, as though Mrs Johnson were a sick and foolish child. “Lady Ruispidge would worry, so would we all, and that would never do. Let me help you up.” Between us, Mrs Frant and I raised Mrs Johnson and propped her against the door. Her head lolled against my arm and she muttered something I could not distinguish. Mingling with the unpleasant odours of the street was the sharp tang of brandy. “Who was the man who ran away?” Mrs Frant said. “I don’t know,” Mrs Johnson said. “What man?” She jabbed her elbow in my side with unexpected force. “This man? Who are you?” “My name is Shield, ma’am. I –” “Oh, yes – the damned tutor.” The voice was slurred but the malignancy as clear as a curse. “You’re no good. No, no, no.” “You will be more comfortable directly,” Mrs Frant said, ignoring this. “In any case, I did not mean Mr Shield. I meant the man who ran away as we came up to you. Who was he?” Mrs Johnson did not reply for a moment. Then: “What man? There was no man. No, no, you must be mistaken. Oh, dear God, I feel so ill. So terribly ill.” She began to weep all the harder. A moment later, she turned to retching, then gave a great groan and vomited. I sprang back just in time to prevent her fouling my greatcoat. “We must get her to Fendall House,” I said. “A pair of men might carry her upon a door, if we cannot find a cart or a sedan chair.” “No,” Mrs Frant said. “That would not do. She – she is too ill to be seen like this. Besides, moderate exercise might be beneficial. I believe that if we supported her –” “Murder,” said Mrs Johnson quietly. “No, no.” “What is it, ma’am?” Mrs Frant cried. “What do you mean?” “What – was I dreaming?” Mrs Johnson tried to stand up. “Oh, pray take me home, Mrs Frant. I do not feel at all the thing.” Mrs Frant pulled and I lifted; and between us we brought Mrs Johnson to her feet. For a moment she swayed to and fro. But her knees held out and she remained upright, clinging to our arms. “You felt faint,” Mrs Frant said firmly. “That is what we shall say if we encounter anyone on our way back. You felt faint, and no doubt that is why you are not at the ball. I suggested to you that fresh air might be the best medicine, and Mr Shield was obliging enough to escort us while we took a turn up and down the street. Your stomach is upset, and there is the possibility of an inflammation of the bowels.” Mrs Johnson groaned. “Do you understand?” Mrs Frant said. “If we meet anyone, pray remain silent. Mr Shield or I will say whatever needs to be said.” I own that Mrs Frant’s behaviour both surprised and impressed me. I had not anticipated such firmness of character, such presence of mind in a crisis. We made our way slowly, painfully, back to Fendall House. Mrs Johnson leaned heavily on our arms but did not fall. Gradually the fresh air and the motion revived her slightly, and she took more of her weight herself. I glanced down at her as we came into a circle of lamplight, and saw her haggard face, her disordered hair, and, beneath the stained cloak, a bedraggled ball dress. But she had not changed her shoes: in other words, she had never reached the assembly rooms at the Bell: which suggested that she had intended to go to the ball but something, or someone, had diverted her from her purpose. We walked, or rather staggered, in silence for most of the way, our feet slithering on cobbles made triply treacherous by their covering of snow and by patches of ice. Fortunately the servants were no longer idling outside the King’s Head so we were spared their catcalls. The only people abroad seemed as drunk as Mrs Johnson. They avoided us, and we avoided them. The snowflakes fell even more thickly than before, which was a blessing because the passers-by kept their faces sheltered from the weather. At Fendall House, we faced another difficulty, that of avoiding servants. We guided our unstable burden into the tunnel-like alley. The little door was still unbolted. The lobby was empty, though there were voices somewhere in the back of the house. On the stairs, Mrs Frant pulled, I pushed, and Mrs Johnson showed an inclination to collapse. “You must not,” Mrs Frant hissed. “Come, ma’am, it is only a few steps more.” “Why must I not?” wailed Mrs Johnson. “What does it matter?” “You must go on because otherwise I will pinch you until you shriek,” Mrs Frant replied with such resolution in her voice that Mrs Johnson gathered up her skirts and fairly cantered up the remaining stairs. The burst of energy did not last. She clung to us as we steered her through the labyrinth of passages to the front of the inn, where the Carswalls’ apartments were situated. She moaned almost continuously, a low, mournful drone strangely wearing on the nerves. At one point she muttered, “I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.” “We will all be dead soon enough,” Mrs Frant told her. “Cold, unfeeling woman!” whispered Mrs Johnson. “No wonder –” “In the meantime, however,” Mrs Frant interrupted, “I am persuaded you will feel much better in the morning.” We were fortunate to meet no one. At last we attained our own part of the house. Lamps burned in the passage, but when we opened the door of the chamber where Mrs Johnson was to sleep, we found the room beyond lit only by a sullen orange glow from the fire. I helped Mrs Frant lower Mrs Johnson on to the bed and went in search of candles. When I returned a moment later, I found Mrs Johnson lying flat on her back, snoring quietly, still in her sodden ballroom finery. “Would you be so good as to attend to the fire, Mr Shield?” Mrs Frant said. “Mrs Johnson is very cold.” So indeed was I. I jabbed the fire with a poker, added a few more coals, and soon there was a respectable blaze in the grate. A moment later, Mrs Frant joined me, and we stood there by the fire, warming our hands. A few yards away behind us, the air pumped noisily in and out of Mrs Johnson’s lungs. I glanced at Mrs Frant, whose cheeks looked flushed in the firelight. “Should you like me to fetch a doctor, ma’am?” “I think not.” She turned and looked at me. “Her clothes must be changed, but then the best medicine for her condition is rest and warmth. I know I need not ask you to be discreet.” I inclined my head. “We were fortunate not to encounter anyone.” She sat down on the chair by the fire and passed her hand across her forehead. “But we are not safe yet.” “Has Lady Ruispidge sent a maid for her?” “I doubt it. If only Kerridge were here.” “Then we must ring for Miss Carswall’s maid.” “There is a risk of scandal –” Mrs Frant began. “There will be a worse risk of scandal if she is not made comfortable. We have to trust someone on Mrs Johnson’s behalf, do we not? She cannot be found like this, ma’am, and you cannot shut yourself up here with her without arousing comment. We should tell the maid that Mrs Johnson is indisposed, and leave it at that.” “You are in the right of it. I – I might mention to her – the maid, that is – that earlier in the evening Mrs Johnson attempted to revive herself with a glass of brandy.” “That will be wise.” Our eyes met. A spark of amusement leapt between us. “Let us say you went for a stroll,” she continued, “and you chanced to meet her at the Bell, and offered to escort her back. She felt faint, and needed air. You brought her back and came in with her by the side door, to avoid troubling the servants.” “It will serve, ma’am. And the Ruispidges?” “I shall write to Lady Ruispidge directly.” “If you wish, I will deliver your note to their lodgings myself. They will naturally be anxious.” I knew we understood each other perfectly. Leaving Mrs Frant to minister to the invalid, I returned to the parlour and rang for the maid. In one respect, I was not entirely surprised by the turn the evening’s events had taken. Even in the smallest village, one sees the effect that an unhealthy dependence on liquor has on women as well as men. If a woman might drink in the purlieus of the Strand or in Seven Dials, so too might her more affluent sister in Belgrave-square or indeed Clearland-court. I had noted Mrs Johnson’s high colour from the first, and marked a slurring in her speech; and she was irritable with servants for no good reason. But there remained much that was puzzling. Why had Mrs Johnson left the Ruispidges so early, though by her dress she had clearly intended to accompany them to the ball? Why had she found it necessary to drink a great deal in a very short time? Why had she left the warmth and safety of the Bell or the Ruispidges’ lodgings? Above all, was her extraordinary behaviour connected with the man who had run away as Mrs Frant and I approached the corner where she lay? If so, who was the stranger? At last the maid came, her cap awry, her pert face flushed and liquor on her breath. I told her that Mrs Johnson was unwell, that Mrs Frant was at present with her and that she was to take her place and settle Mrs Johnson for the night. I sweetened this intelligence with half a crown I could ill afford, after which the woman’s expression softened. I led her into the passage, where I tapped on Mrs Johnson’s door. As the maid slipped inside, Mrs Frant handed me a pencilled note for Lady Ruispidge. A moment later I left the house by the side door and walked briskly up Westgate-street to the Cross. The music from the Bell was loud and clear in the night air, and there was a press of people and carriages outside the inn. The Ruispidges’ lodgings were in a fine, ashlar-fronted mansion at the far end of Eastgate-street. I explained my errand and asked for Lady Ruispidge’s maid. She positively ran into the hall. “Thank God you’re come, sir,” she said in a rush, her face as shiny as a polished apple. “Is Mrs Johnson safe? I’ve been fretting about her, not knowing what to do for the best.” Relief made the woman garrulous, and she needed little encouragement to tell her story. Mrs Johnson’s lack of consideration gave her narrative the spice of malice. A boy had brought a letter for Mrs Johnson soon after the party’s arrival in Gloucester, and its contents had depressed her spirits. The maid hinted that it had probably been a bill, and also that such occurrences were not uncommon in Mrs Johnson’s life. She had dashed off a reply, which the boy had taken, and had been in the sullens thereafter. The party from Clearland-court had dined together before the ball. Mrs Johnson complained of tiredness and the headache and decided to rest on the sofa, which did not please the servants, who had hoped for a few hours to themselves. The Ruispidges had gone to the Bell without her, on the understanding that Mrs Johnson would join them later. Her luggage had already been sent down to Fendall House. An hour later, a servant of the house had gone to make up the fire and found her gone. He had not thought to mention the circumstance, assuming she had followed the others to the Bell. Lady Ruispidge’s maid had not discovered Mrs Johnson’s disappearance until twenty minutes before my arrival. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/andrew-taylor/richard-and-judy-bookclub-3-bestsellers-in-1-the-american-bo/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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