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

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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?”

       41

      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

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