Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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softened, had become almost pleading. “I – I scarcely know how to say –”
“To say what?”
“It is so absurd,” she replied, speaking in a rush. “And in any case it may be quite untrue. But Mr Frant is said to nurse a grudge against you.”
“But why should he do that?”
“It is said that he feels you should not have witnessed my uncle’s signature.”
“It is said? By whom?”
“Hush, Mr Shield. I – I heard him talking with my father and the lawyer on the morning after my uncle died. That is to say, I was in the next room, and they did not trouble to lower their voices.”
“But why should Mr Frant object to my witnessing the signature? If I had not done it, someone else would have. Does he hold a grudge against the physician as well?”
Miss Carswall did not reply. She covered her face with her hands.
“Besides, your father was so pressing that I could hardly refuse him,” I said, my mind filling with the memory of Mrs Frant’s cold, pale face in the breakfast room at Albemarle-street. “Nor was there any reason why I should do so.”
“I know,” she murmured, peeping at me through her gloved fingers. “I know. But men are not always rational creatures, are they?”
On Tuesday the 23rd November, Wavenhoe’s Bank closed its doors for ever. On the same day, two of its customers committed suicide rather than face ruin.
When a bank fails, the consequences spread like a contagion through society: fathers rot in the Marshalsea or blow out their brains, mothers take in sewing or walk the pavements, children are withdrawn from school and beg for pennies, servants lose their places and tradesmen’s bills go unpaid; and so the plague spreads, ever outwards, to people who never heard of Wavenhoe’s or Russell-square.
“Frant burned his fingers badly when the tobacco market collapsed,” Dansey told me as we smoked our evening pipes in the garden. “I have it on good authority that he had to turn to the Israelites to keep his head above water. Oh, and the servants have left. Always a sure sign of a sinking ship.”
On Wednesday there were more suicides and we heard that the bailiffs had gone into that opulent house in Russell-square. Dansey and I stood at a window and watched Charlie Frant, arm in arm with Edgar Allan, marching round the playground and blowing plumes of warm breath into the freezing air.
“I pity the boy, of course. But take my advice: have nothing more to do with the Frants, if you can help it. They will only bring you grief.”
It was sound advice but I was not able to take it, for the very next day, Thursday, the sad history of the Frants and Wavenhoes reached what many believed to be its catastrophe. The first intelligence we had of the terrible events of the night came at breakfast time. The man who brought the milk communicated it to the maids, and the news set the servants whispering and swaying like a cornfield in a breeze.
“Something’s afoot,” Dansey said as we sat with our weak, bitter coffee. “One doesn’t often see them so lively at this hour of the morning.”
Afterwards, Morley sidled up to us, with Quird hovering as usual at his elbow. “Please, sir,” he said to Dansey, shifting from one foot to the other, his face glowing with excitement. “Something horrible has happened.”
“Then I advise you not to tell me what it is,” Dansey said. “It may distress you further.”
“No, sir,” Quird broke in. “Truly, sir, you don’t understand.”
Dansey scowled at the boy.
“I beg your pardon,” Quird said quickly. “I did not mean to –”
“Someone’s been murdered in the night,” Morley broke in, his voice rising in his excitement.
“They say his head was smashed into jelly,” Quird whispered. “Torn limb from limb.”
“It might have been any of us,” Morley said. “The thief could have broken in and –”
“So a thief has turned to murder?” Dansey said. “Perhaps Stoke Newington is not such a humdrum place after all. Where is this interesting event said to have occurred?”
“Not exactly in the village, sir,” Morley answered. “Somewhere towards town. Not a stone’s throw from us, not really.”
“Ah. I might have known. So Stoke Newington remains as humdrum as ever. When there is news I shall be interested to hear it. In the meantime, I do not propose to waste my few remaining moments of leisure listening to second-hand servants’ gossip. Good morning.”
Morley and Quird retreated. We watched them leaving the room.
“What tiresomely underbred creatures they are, to be sure,” Dansey said.
“I wonder if there is some truth in what they heard.”
Dansey shrugged. “Very possibly. No doubt we shall be talking about it for weeks on end. I can imagine nothing more tedious.”
This was not affectation on his part. Dansey could be reticent to a fault but he rarely troubled to lie. Indeed, he rarely troubled much with anything; I sometimes wonder what might have become of him if he had.
I did not have to wait long to learn more. Part way through morning school Mr Bransby’s servant came to fetch me. I found my employer in the parlour with a small man in grey, mud-stained clothes. Bransby was pacing up and down, his face redder than usual.
“Allow me to present Mr Shield, one of my ushers,” he said, pausing to help himself to a large pinch of snuff. “Mr Shield, this is Mr Grout, the attorney who acts as clerk to the magistrates. I regret to say that a most shocking circumstance has come to light, one that may cast a shadow over the school.”
Mr Grout had a face that was an appendage of his nose, like a mole’s. “A man has been murdered, Mr Shield. His body was found early this morning by a watchman at a building plot not more than a mile and a half away. There is a possibility that you may be able to identify the unfortunate victim.”
I stared in consternation from one to the other. “But I have never been there. I did not even know –”
“It is not the location which is our concern,” the clerk interrupted. “It is the identity of the victim. We have reason to believe – I would put it no more strongly than that – that he may not be unknown to you.”
Bransby sneezed. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Shield, Wavenhoe’s Bank had an interest in this building projection.”
“The bank hold the head-lease on the land themselves. Or perhaps I should say held.” Grout wrinkled his nose. “Owing to the scarcity of money at the present time, the man who holds the principal building-lease, a Mr Owens, was compelled to apply to them for a series of loans. Unfortunately the money the bank provided was not enough to meet his obligations. The poor fellow hanged himself in Hertford a few months ago.”
Bransby shook his head. “And now poor Frant has gone to meet his Maker. Truly an unlucky speculation.”
“Mr Frant is dead?” I blurted out.
“That is the question,” Grout said. “The watchman believes the body is Mr Frant’s. But he met him only once, and that briefly, and he cannot be said to be a reliable witness at the best of times. At such short notice I have been able to find no one in the vicinity who knows Mr Frant. But I understand that he has – had, that is to say – a boy at the school, so I have driven over to see whether someone was able to identify the body; or not, of course, as the case may be. Mr Bransby tells me he has never met Mr Frant either, but that you have.”
“Yes,