Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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Kerridge or indeed Mrs Frant would have liked. Whether at his own request or at his mother’s whim, Master Charles was wearing a beautifully cut olive greatcoat with black frogs. He carried under his arm a hat from which depended a long and handsome tassel; he clutched a cane in his left hand.
“They’re bringing the carriage round, sir,” Mrs Kerridge said, “and Master Charles’s valise is in the hall. Would you like anything before you go?”
The boy hopped from one leg to another.
“Thank you, no,” I said.
“There’s the carriage.” He ran over to the window. “Yes, it is ours.”
Mrs Kerridge looked up at me, squeezing her face to a frown. “Poor lamb,” she murmured in a tone too low for him to hear. “Never been away from home before.”
I nodded, and smiled in a way I hoped the woman would find reassuring. When we opened the door, a footman was waiting by the front door and a black pageboy, not much older than Charles himself, hovered over the valise. Charles Frant, smiling graciously at his father’s servants, marched down the steps with a dignity befitting the Horse Guards, a dignity only slightly marred by the way he skipped up into the carriage. Mrs Kerridge and I followed more slowly, walking behind like a pair of acolytes.
“He is very young for his age, sir,” Mrs Kerridge muttered.
I smiled down at her. “He’s a handsome boy.”
“Takes after his mother.”
“Is she not here to say goodbye to him?”
“She’s away nursing her uncle.” Mrs Kerridge grimaced. “The poor gentleman’s dying, and he ain’t going easy. Otherwise Madam would be here. Will he be all right, sir? Boys can be cruel little varmints. He don’t realise. He don’t know many boys.”
“It may not be easy at first. But most boys find there is much to enjoy at school as well. Once they are used to it.”
“His mama frets about him.”
“It often happens that an event is more distressing in anticipation than it is in actuality. You must endeavour to –”
I broke off, realising that Mrs Kerridge was no longer looking at me. She had been distracted by the sight of a carriage whirling into the square from Montague-street. It was an elegant light chariot, painted green and gold, and drawn by a pair of chestnuts. The coachman slipped between two carts and brought the equipage to a standstill behind our own, the wheels neatly aligned within a couple of inches of the kerb. He sat back on the box with the air of a man well pleased with himself.
“Oh Lord,” muttered Mrs Kerridge, but she was smiling.
The glass slid down. I glimpsed a pale face and a mass of auburn curls partly concealed by a large hat adorned with grogram.
“Kerridge!” the girl called. “Kerridge, dearest. Am I in time? Where’s Charlie?”
Charles jumped out of the Frants’ carriage and ran along the pavement. “Do you like this rig, Cousin Flora? Mighty fine, ain’t it?”
“You look very handsome,” she said. “Quite the military man.”
He held his face up for her to kiss him. She leaned down and I had a better view of her. She was older than I had thought – a young woman; not a girl. Mrs Kerridge came forward to be kissed in her turn. Then the young woman’s eyes turned to me.
“And who is this? Will you introduce us, Charlie?”
He coloured. “I beg your pardon. Cousin Flora, allow me to name Mr Shield, an usher at Mr Bransby’s – my school, you know.” He swallowed, and then gabbled, “Mr Shield, my cousin Miss Carswall.”
I bowed. With great condescension, Miss Carswall held out her hand. It was a little hand that seemed to vanish within my own. She wore lilac-coloured gloves, I recall, which matched the pelisse she wore over her white muslin dress.
“You were about to convey my cousin to school, no doubt? I shall not detain you long, sir. I merely wished to say farewell to him, and to give him this.”
She undid the drawstring of her reticule and took out a small purse which she handed to him. “Put it somewhere safe, Charlie. You may wish to treat your friends.” She bent down, kissed the top of his head, and gave him a little push away from her. “Your mama sends her best love, by the by. I saw her for a moment at Uncle George’s.”
For an instant the boy’s face became perfectly blank, drained of the fun and excitement.
Miss Carswall patted his shoulder. “She cannot leave him, not at this moment.” She looked over the boy to Mrs Kerridge and myself. “I must not delay you any longer. Kerridge, dearest, may I drink tea with you before I go? It would be like old times.”
“Mr Frant is within, miss.”
“Oh.” The young lady gave a little laugh, and a look of understanding passed between her and Mrs Kerridge. “Good God, I had almost forgot. I am promised to Emma Trenton. Another time, perhaps, and we shall have a good old prose together.”
Miss Carswall’s departure was the signal for ours. I followed Charlie into the Frants’ carriage. A moment later we turned into Southampton-row. The boy huddled into the corner and turned his head to stare out of the far window. The tassel on that ridiculous hat swayed and bounced behind him.
Flora Carswall could never have been called beautiful, unlike Mrs Frant. But she had a quality of ripeness about her, like fruit waiting to be plucked, demanding to be eaten.
I found it difficult to sleep that night. My mind was possessed with a strange excitement that would not let me rest. I felt that during the day I had crossed from one part of my life into another, as though its events formed a river between two countries. I lay in my narrow bed, my body twitching and turning and sighing. I measured the passage of time by the striking of clocks. At last, a little after half-past one, my restlessness drove me from the warmth of my bed to smoke a pipe.
Mr Bransby held that snuff was the only form of tobacco acceptable to a gentleman so Dansey and I found it necessary to smoke outside. But I knew where the key to the side door was kept. A moment later I walked down the lawn, my footsteps making no noise on the wet grass. There were a few clouds but the stars were bright enough for me to see my way. To the south was a faint lessening of the darkness, a yellow haze, the false dawn of London by night, the city which never went to sleep. Beneath the trees it was completely dark. I smoked in the shelter of a copper beech, leaning against the trunk. Leaves stirred above my head. Tiny crackles and rustles near my feet hinted at the passage of small, secretive animals.
Then came another sound, a screech so sharp and hard and unexpected that I jerked myself away from the tree and almost choked on the smoke in my mouth. It came from the direction of the house. There was another, quieter noise, the scrape of metal against metal, followed by a smothered laugh.
I crouched and knocked out the pipe on the soft, damp earth. I moved forward, my feet making little sound on the leaf mould and the husks of last year’s beech nuts. By now my eyes had grown accustomed to the near darkness. Something white was hanging from an attic window in the boys’ wing. The room behind it was in darkness. I veered aside into the slightly deeper darkness running along the line of a hedge.
The attic was not in the same wing of the house as my own and Dansey’s. Most of the boys slept in dormitories, with ten or twelve of them crammed together in one of the larger rooms below. But in this part of the attic storey, two or three boys might share one of the smaller rooms if their parents were willing to pay extra for the privilege.
Once again, I heard the gasp of laughter, snuffed out almost as soon as it began. Suddenly, and with an anger so sharp that it stabbed me like a knife, I knew what I had seen. I went quickly