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

“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.”