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

“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!”