Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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last the woods came to an end. To my relief, I saw the little church no more than three hundred yards away. It had a low tower, constructed of the rust-coloured local sandstone, and a sagging roof of stone tiles fissured with cracks and blotched with lichen. The churchyard was crowded with villagers in their Sunday best. The coach had not yet arrived.
The path led directly to a small gate set in the wall of the churchyard. Two grooms were walking a chaise and a curricle up and down the adjacent lane. Charlie, with a confidence I envied, made for the knot of gentlefolk standing near the church porch.
Just then Mr Carswall’s coach burst into view. With a great clatter of hooves, rumbling of wheels and cracking of whips, it careered down the high road, forcing a party of villagers to press against the churchyard wall to avoid being run down. The coachman drew up outside the lych-gate. He artfully contrived to rein the horses up more tightly so they champed their bits and arched their necks as though better bred than they were.
“Damn me,” said a young gentleman standing with his back to me. “Travelling en prince, eh? I must say I’d –”
A second man, a little older than his companion, had caught sight of us on the path and stopped the speaker in mid-sentence with a hand on the arm. They watched – we watched – as the footmen alighted at breakneck speed, as they opened the door and pulled down the steps, as Carswall emerged, inch by inch, like a great snail from its glistening shell, his bright little eyes darting from side to side to mark who was watching.
When the old man reached the safety of the ground, he turned, swaying, leaning heavily on his stick, and held out his arm for Mrs Lee, in a gesture which was designed to be courtly but seemed merely theatrical. The old lady stepped down, blinking in the sunlight. Next came Sophia Frant, and I heard one of the gentlemen in front of me draw in his breath. Finally Miss Carswall appeared in the doorway of the carriage. For an instant she paused, glancing round like an actress surveying her audience, and smiling at the crowd in the churchyard with dazzling impartiality. Then she fluttered down the steps and took Mrs Frant’s arm.
The bell tolled on. The villagers fell back to either side of the path as Carswall’s party advanced slowly towards the porch. Beside me, the two gentlemen removed their hats and bowed. There was a marked contrast between the quiet elegance of their dress and the magnificence of Carswall’s.
“Sir George!” Carswall exclaimed as they drew level with the elder of the two. “The compliments of the season to you. And to you, my dear sir,” he added, turning in the direction of the second gentleman. “How is Lady Ruispidge? I trust she is well?”
“Indeed,” said Sir George. “She is already in church.”
He and the other gentleman, whom I took to be his brother, bowed again to the ladies. Carswall introduced Charlie and Edgar, and the party passed into the porch, which was thickly hung with Christmas greenery in the old-fashioned country manner. Inside the church itself, members of the little orchestra in the gallery were tuning their instruments. Miss Carswall glanced back at me and made as though to put her hands over her ears, raising her eyebrows in mock horror.
The Ruispidges occupied two pews set apart in a separate enclosure at right angles to the rest of the congregation, and facing the pulpit. Carswall had taken the two pews at the front of the nave, and on the southern side: which brought us immediately to the left of Sir George and his family.
The Ruispidge brothers joined two ladies who were already seated in the family pews. One was elderly, dressed in black and with a long, bony face resembling a horse’s, as the faces of well-bred humans so often do once the bloom of youth has worn off. The other lady was much younger, and when I caught sight of her, a thrill of recognition ran through me.
It was Fanny!
An instant later, I realised that I was mistaken. Yet the lady still reminded me of the girl whom I had kissed in another time and another place under the mistletoe in my aunt’s kitchen. She had the same high colouring, the same black, lustrous hair, and the same well-developed figure. She reminded me of someone else, too, a lady I had seen more recently, but for the life of me I could not remember whom or when.
At length the service began. The parson was a well-built, red-faced man, who looked as though he belonged not in the pulpit but in the saddle with a fox and a pack of hounds in full cry in front of him. I hoped from this that his sermon would be brief, bluff and to the point. Appearances proved deceptive, however, for he spoke in a thin, scholarly drone for more than fifty minutes on the subject of how we should observe the ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing the feast not merely as a day of thanksgiving but also one of rejoicing. This was straightforward enough, but he supported the correctness of his opinions with frequent and lengthy references to the work of the Fathers of the Church. We sat in unhappy silence imbibing the wisdom of Theophilus of Caesarea and St Chrysostom.
My attention wandered. The Ruispidges were still and attentive. The dark-haired lady, however, sometimes glanced to her left, into the nave where the rest of us were sitting, and once her eyes caught mine. There was a moment of welcome relief when the bass viol fell with a clatter to the floor of the balcony, no doubt because its owner had dropped into a doze. I regret to say that Mr Carswall, too, nodded off and had to be brought back to consciousness with a jab in the elbow from his daughter.
I repressed a yawn, and then another. In search of diversion, I glanced at the two mural tablets on the wall beside me. The words “Monkshill-park” at once caught my eye. The first tablet recorded the death of the Honourable Amelia, daughter of the first Lord Vauden and wife of Henry Parker, Esquire, of Monkshill-park, in 1763. Beneath this was another tablet commemorating the manifold virtues of the Parkers’ daughter, Emily Mary, who had died in 1775.
All at once I was fully awake. With a sense of foreboding creeping over me, I re-read the inscription on the second tablet.
Emily Mary, beloved wife of William Frant, Esquire, of Monkshill-park.
Had the Frants once owned Mr Carswall’s house?
When at last the service was over, the Ruispidges were the first to file out of the church into the sunlight, with Mr Carswall’s party hard at their heels. The rest of the congregation followed us outside, and an air of festivity and freedom filled the little churchyard. The villagers were like children let out of school. Even their betters acquired an air of holiday. Charlie and Edgar played a discreet game of tag among the gravestones. I did not have the heart to stop them.
Mr Carswall hobbled as fast as he could after the baronet and contrived to pin him in a corner between the wall of the church and a buttress. “Sir George,” he cried. “Was not that an edifying sermon?”
Sir George nodded, and I noted his eyes straying away from Mr Carswall towards Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall, who were now in conversation with his mother Lady Ruispidge and the dark-haired lady from their pew. Captain Ruispidge hovered gracefully between the two younger ladies.
“We should be very glad to see you at Monkshill, Sir George, you and the Captain, and Lady Ruispidge, too, if she would not find the drive too fatiguing.”
Sir George remarked that it was very good of Mr Carswall. Miss Carswall had said Sir George was accounted handsome, as perhaps baronets often are, but I thought he looked like a hungry greyhound. He had to a nicety the art of making civil remarks which lacked warmth and substance.
“I believe you have not yet met my cousin, Mrs Frant, sir,” the old man went on. “Pray allow me to rectify the omission.”
Sir George bowed. “Thank you, I shall be glad to meet her.” He added, his voice and face studiously neutral, “I was acquainted with her husband, the late Mr Frant, when we were boys.”
Mr Carswall bowed very low, as if in acknowledgement for this remarkable condescension. He led the baronet towards the knot of women. It so happened that I was standing at the side of the path, engaged partly