Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death - Andrew Taylor

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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?

       11

      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

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