Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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Try the door.”
The rotting wood of the door scraped on the cobbles of the yard. There was no window, but the light from the doorway showed a small woman huddled under a pile of rags and newspapers in the corner.
“No need for alarm, Mary Ann. I am a friend of Mr Poe’s, and I wish to ask you one or two questions.”
Slowly she raised her head and looked at me. She gave a high, wordless sound, like the cry of a bird.
“I mean you no harm,” I said. “Do you remember Mr Poe – who lodges in the room by the kitchen?”
She sat up, pointed her finger at her mouth and again emitted that wordless cry.
“I’m trying to discover where he has gone.”
At this, Mary Ann sprang to her feet, backed into the corner of her wretched dwelling and, still pointing at her mouth, made the same sound again. At last I understood what she was telling me. The poor girl was dumb. I bent down, so my eyes were level with hers. She was not wearing a cap, and her thin, ginger hair was alive with grey lice.
“Do you remember Mr Poe?” I persisted. “Can you hear me? Nod your head if you do and if you remember him.”
She waited a moment and then slowly nodded.
“And he left here three days ago?”
Another nod.
“Do you know where he went?”
This time she shook her head.
“Or where his place of work was?”
She shook her head with even more vigour than before.
“Did he take a bag with him when he left?”
She shrugged. The light from the door was full on her face, and her eyes flickered to and fro. I thrust my hand in my pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers which I placed in a column on the floor beside her. To my intense embarrassment, she seized my hand in both of hers and covered it with kisses, all the while emitting her bird-like squeals.
“You must not agitate yourself,” I said awkwardly, tugging my hand free and standing up. “Pray excuse me from disturbing your sleep.”
She made a gesture, requesting me to wait, and burrowed into the layers of clothing that armoured her frail body against the world. She squeaked and squealed continually, though now the sounds were gentler, reminding me of the murmuring of wood doves. At last, her face glowing, she handed me a crumpled sheet of paper which looked as if it had been torn from a memorandum book. On it was a pencil drawing of a boy’s head and shoulders, that much was obvious, though not a boy who could have existed in real life. It was the sort of drawing a man does with his hand while his mind is occupied elsewhere.
I smiled as though the sight of it pleased me and tried to hand it back to Mary Ann. She squealed and cooed and made it clear with her hands that she wished me to keep it. I slipped the paper inside my coat and said goodbye. She smiled shyly at me, gave me the slightest of waves and dived back beneath her bedclothes.
Iversen was still waiting in his chair at the back door. “You’ve made a conquest, my dear sir, I can tell that. We rarely have the pleasure of hearing Mary Ann so loquacious.”
I ignored this attempt at wit. “Thank you. If there’s nothing more you can tell me, I shall take my leave.”
“Now you’re in the yard, it will be more convenient for you if you go down the entry.” Iversen indicated the narrow passage beside the privy, a noisome tunnel leading through the depth of the house to the street on the other side. “Unless you want your fortune told, that is, or a charm to make the lady burn with passion for you.”
I shook my head and walked into the passage. I hurried along the entry towards the foggy bustle of the street beyond. The air smelled particularly dank and rotten. A great grey rat ran over my foot. I took a swipe at it with my stick but missed and hit the wall instead. My mind was full of pity for the girl and anger towards Iversen, who I suspected was her procurer.
The attack took me completely by surprise.
I was two-thirds of the way down when a man propelled himself out of nowhere into my right shoulder. I fell back against the opposite wall and tried to raise my stick. But the narrowness of the passage and the man’s body itself impeded me. I had an instant in which to realise that a side door from the house opened into the passage. The door was recessed, with enough room for a man to lurk on the step.
Not just one man but two: the second flung himself at me. Both wore dark clothes. I twisted in the grasp of the first. Metal chinked on the brickwork. I smelled hot, stale breath. A voice swore. I heard footsteps running through the muck from the street.
“God damn you,” a man howled.
A great blow hit my head. Pain fogged my vision. The last thing I heard was another man yelling: “Mother of Christ! Get the God-damned blackbird!”
I retain little memory of what happened next. I lost all awareness of my surroundings for several seconds, perhaps longer. Nor, when I regained it, was I much the better for the achievement. It was only with an immense effort of the intellect that I was able to determine that the fog was as heavy as ever, and that for some reason someone was half carrying, half dragging me through a crowd of jostling people.
I gasped for air. A man shouted something very near to my ear, and a moment later I found myself being bundled into a hackney. I collapsed on to the seat.
“Brewer-street,” said a man beside me.
“He’s foxed,” said a second voice.
“No. He’s fainted. Nothing more.”
“If he flashes the hash in there –”
I heard the chink of coin, and the voices fell silent. A moment later the hackney began to move. Our progress was slow. I huddled in the corner with my head in my hands. The swaying of the carriage made me feel nauseous, and for a while I thought the coachman’s fears would be justified. Time ceased to mean anything. The light hurt my eyes. My companion did not attempt to speak to me. I doubt if I could have answered him if he had.
The hackney pursued a zigzag course and in time its swaying became familiar, almost a source of comfort rather than of unease. I opened my eyes and squinted outside. There, looming out of the fog, was the unmistakable shape of St Ann’s Church with its slatted belfry and swollen spire. The recognition gave my mind a jolt which seemed to free some internal mechanism: the cerebral processes began to flow smoothly once more.
What the devil was I doing in a hackney? Had I been kidnapped? Try as I might, I could remember nothing between being thrust into the carriage and, at some undefined point earlier, Iversen the shopkeeper watching me as I went through the contents of Mr Poe’s valise. Slowly I turned my head, and the movement made the ache worse.
“Ah,” Salutation Harmwell said. “The colour has returned to your face, Mr Shield. That is a good sign.”
“Mr – Mr Harmwell. I don’t understand.”
“You remember nothing?”
“No – there seems a gap in my memory.” Even as I was speaking, that mysterious void disgorged a fragment of information. “The blackbird.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I remember someone – damned if I know who, or when, or why – an Irish voice, I think – someone saying something about a blackbird. And in St Giles, as I recall, the word is commonly used –”
“To describe a man of colour?”
“Precisely. Pray, Mr Harmwell, can you enlighten me as to how I come to be here?”
“I chanced