Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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a charm. That leaves medicine and accommodation.”
“Neither, sir. I understand that one of your lodgers is an old acquaintance of mine, a Mr David Poe.”
“Ah, Mr Poe.” He turned aside to stir a small iron saucepan standing on the stove. “A refined gentleman. A martyr to the toothache.”
“And is he at home at present, sir?”
“Alas, no. I regret to say he has left the shelter of my roof. Or so I assume.”
“May I ask when?”
Mr Iversen raised his eyebrows. “Two days ago – no, I tell a lie: it was three days. He had kept to his room for a day or two before that with his toothache, a sad affliction at any age; to my mind, we are better off without teeth entirely. I offered to give him something to ease the pain, but he declined my assistance. Still, if a gentleman wishes to suffer, who am I to stand in his way?”
“And did he say where he was going?”
“He said nothing to me whatsoever. He stole away like a thief in the night except, unlike a thief, he stole nothing. No matter – he has paid for his lodging until the end of the week.”
“So he has not left the room for good?”
“That I cannot say. I have a number of infallible methods of revealing what the future holds – and as the seventh son of a seventh son, I am of course gifted with second sight as well as extraordinary powers of healing – but I make a rule never to use my skills of prognostication for my own benefit.”
“Ayez peur,” said the parrot.
“Damn that bird,” said Mr Iversen. “There is a piece of sacking on the chair behind you, my dear sir. Be so good as to drape it over the cage.”
Turning, I caught the impression of movement in the corner of my eye. Had someone been peering at us through the window? The glass was grimy and contained impurities which made objects on the other side of it ripple as though under water. It was not impossible, I told myself, that my imagination had transformed such a ripple into a spy. I covered the cage and turned back to the shopkeeper.
“If you believe that Mr Poe may return,” I said, “does not that suggest that his bags are still in his room?”
Mr Iversen smirked.
I said: “I have a fancy to see my friend’s room. Perhaps it contains some indication of where he has gone.”
“I make it another rule that only lodgers are allowed in my rooms. Present lodgers and, of course, prospective lodgers, who may quite reasonably express a wish to inspect the outlook, the dimensions, et cetera.”
“So there would be no objection to my seeing the room if I were a prospective lodger? If I had arranged, perhaps, to take the room for a day when it should become vacant.”
“None in the world.” Mr Iversen beamed at me. “Five shillings a night for sole use of the room and the flock mattress. Shared pump in the yard. Extra charges should you wish the girl to bring you water or clean sheets and so forth.”
“Five shillings?”
“Including a shilling for sundries.”
I drew out my purse and paid his extortionate rate for a room I would never sleep in.
“Thank you,” he said, tucking the money away in his clothing. “And now I shall require your assistance.”
He swept the blanket from his legs. I saw that he wore not a coat, as I had thought, but a long, black robe, like a monk’s habit, upon which were embroidered alchemical or astrological symbols, though age and dirt had so obscured them that they were barely visible in the dim light of the shop. On his feet was a pair of enormous leather slippers. The removal of the blanket also revealed the chair on which he sat. A set of wheels had been fixed to the legs; a shelf on which Mr Iversen could rest his feet projected from the front; and a handrail had been attached to the top of the chair-back.
He unhooked a bunch of keys from the belt that encircled the robe. “I would be obliged if you would be so good as to push me through that door. Fortunately Mr Poe’s chamber is on the ground floor. The stairs are a sore trial to me.” He snuffled. “My dear father’s apartment is on the floor above us, and it grieves me deeply that I cannot run up and down to satisfy his little wants.”
Iversen was a heavy man, and it was no easy matter to push him through the doorway. Here we entered another world from the dusty little shop, one that was almost as heavily populated as Fountain-court had been. There were people visible in the kitchen at the back, and people on the stairs. Washing had been draped across the hall, so we had to struggle through grey curtains of dripping linen. Men were singing and stamping their feet on the floor above, and the sound of hammering rose from below.
“We have a shoe manufactory in the cellar,” my host told me. “They make the finest riding boots in London. Would you care to bespeak a pair? I’m sure they would give you, as a fellow tenant, a very special price indeed.”
“I would not have a use for them at present, thank you.”
As we passed the foot of the stairs, Iversen called up: “Pray do not agitate yourself, Papa. I shall be with you in a moment.”
There was no reply.
We stopped outside a door near the kitchen. He leaned forward and unlocked it. The room was a dark little cell, no more than a closet, with just space for a small bed and a chair. The glass in the tiny window was broken, the hole plugged with rags and scraps of paper. A full chamber-pot stood beneath a chair, with an empty bottle on its side next to it. The bed was unmade.
Iversen pointed under the bed. “His valise is still there.”
“May I look inside?” I asked. “It may contain some clue as to my friend’s whereabouts, and it would be in his own interest if I could find him.”
He gave a laugh which turned into a cough. “I regret it infinitely, but it will be another shilling if you wish to open it.”
I said nothing but gave him the money. The valise was not locked. I rummaged through its contents – among them a pair of shoes that needed re-soling, a patched shirt, a crayon drawing of the head and shoulders of a lady with large eyes and ringlets, her hair dressed in the fashion of twenty or thirty years before. There was also a volume containing some of Shakespeare’s plays: the book had lost its back cover and had the name of David Poe on the flyleaf.
“Do you know where he found employment?” I asked.
Iversen shook his head. “If a man pays his rent and makes no trouble, I’ve no cause to poke my nose into his business.”
“Where are his other belongings?”
“How should I know? Perhaps this is all he has. As a friend of his, you are no doubt better informed about his circumstances than I am.”
“Is there anyone here who might know where he has gone?”
“There’s the girl who brings the water and takes the slops. You could ask her, if you wish. It’ll cost you another shilling, though.”
“Have I not paid enough already?”
He spread his hands. “Times are hard, my dear young friend.”
I gave him the shilling. He bade me push him into the kitchen, where babies wailed and two women quarrelled obscenely over a heap of rags, then through a low-ceilinged back kitchen where three men played at dice while a woman boiled bones, and finally into the small yard beyond. The foetor rising from the overflowing cesspool made me reach for my handkerchief.
“There,” my guide said, pointing to a wooden shed the size of a commodious kennel, which leant against the back wall of the yard. “That’s where Mary Ann lives. You may have to wake her. She’s had a busy night.”
I picked my way through the rubbish-strewn yard and knocked on