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

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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.

       28

      “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

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