The Scent of Death (11 page)

‘And who the devil are you?’ he demanded, swaying as he spoke.

‘My name is Savill, sir. Have I the honour of meeting Captain Wintour?’

‘Indeed, sir. The honour is entirely mine.’ Wintour attempted a bow, staggered forward and righted himself. ‘You must be the gentleman from the American Department. My father told me.’

‘Yes, sir. You have—’

The parlour door opened and Mrs Wintour almost ran to her son, an extraordinary exhibition of physical energy from the old lady. She embraced him. The Captain closed his eyes and patted her shoulder. With his other hand he scratched his nose.

Next came the Judge, more slowly. He looked his son up and down.

‘I am happy to see you home, John,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. And – and I to be here.’

‘You are – you are fatigued?’

‘It has been a long day, sir, and my health is not yet quite restored.’

‘Then perhaps you should rest – after you have seen Bella, of course. Let Abraham take your coat.’

Mr Wintour took his wife’s arm and drew her from her son. The Captain held out his arms and let the slave ease the coat away from him.

No one looked in my direction. I thought they had forgotten me.

There were footsteps on the stairs. I turned. Mrs Arabella was rounding the bend at the half-landing. She paused at the top of the last flight down to the hall.

First she must have seen me. She let her eyes drift past me to the group in the hall below. I could not see her expression because the light was dim and the flame of the candle she held was below the level of her chin.

But the candlelight revealed two things about Mrs Arabella. It showed her slim white neck. It showed that she was swallowing repeatedly, as if trying to force down an unpalatable morsel. And the flame also picked out her hand holding the top of the newel post, and how the fingers gripped it so tightly that the skin wrinkled.

The Captain looked up. ‘Ah – there you are, madam. My pretty, witty wife.’

Townley was a hospitable man, who talked easily to anyone, and perhaps let his tongue wag more freely than a gentleman should. But I enjoyed his company because he was almost always cheerful and had a pleasant wit.

I would sometimes sup with him, either alone or with two or three of his friends. On those occasions I saw another side of New York, for the gentlemen around the table were Loyalists of course but, unlike those who came up to my office in Broad Street, they were on the whole content with their lives.

‘I bless the day,’ Townley confided to me in a fit of drunken confidence, ‘when those damned Yankees dumped the tea in Boston Harbour. Indeed, sir, it has been the making of us here.’

We were sitting at table in a small private room in the King’s Arms. The shutters were up and a fire of unseasoned wood crackled and spluttered in the grate. Two other men, a contractor and a commissioner for the harbour administration, made up the party. But they were oblivious to our conversation for they were engaged in an animated discussion about the need to bring in professional actresses at the John Street Theatre.

‘Surely it must be difficult for you,’ I said to Townley. ‘Since so many goods are in short supply, there must be a constant—’

‘Supply and demand, sir,’ Townley interrupted. ‘That’s what the students of political economy call it. It is a beautiful thing, for the supplier at least. If the available stock diminishes, you raise the price of what you have. Or, if demand remains keen when the supply is exhausted, you simply sell promises instead, which is like selling air. No, for a man with his wits about him, this war has been a blessing.’

He hesitated, frowning. I ran my finger round the rim of my glass and tried not to smile.

‘Of course, sir, I do not mean to suggest that the war is – well, in any way, even in the slightest, a desirable thing, but
– taken, as a whole, you understand, considered in the round –
there is no harm in a man looking to his own interests.’ Townley wagged his forefinger in front of my face. ‘Always with the proviso, my dear sir, that His Majesty’s interests must be served, first and foremost, without fear or favour, in any—’

‘Sir,’ I said gently, ‘I believe I understand you perfectly. Should we drink a toast to His Majesty?’

‘Indeed.’ Townley seized the bottle and burst out laughing from sheer animal spirits. ‘And damnation to his enemies. Good God, I had not realized it was so early. Shall we call for the punchbowl?’

By the time the party broke up it was nearly midnight. As we went outside, I almost recoiled from the cold. November was well advanced now, and so was winter.

Townley and one of the other men had servants to light them home. The third man took a waiting hackney chair. I decided to walk back to Warren Street. It was only a step away and the exercise would clear my head. Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets were still busy, for the city came alive at night with theatre parties, musical entertainments, suppers and dances. I knew my way perfectly and I believed, if a man was cautious, there could be no danger.

On the other side of the road, facing the fields, I saw the silhouettes of the prison and the poorhouse looming square and black against the sky. As I drew level with them, I turned up towards King’s College.

It was darker here and there were fewer people about. Someone ahead was whistling. A dog barked in the distance, somewhere near Freshwater Pond. The ferrule of my stick tapped against the paving stones. The change of direction brought me into the wind, which was blowing hard from the north. I felt its chilly bite on my neck above the collar of the greatcoat, and it cut through the thin silk of my stockings.

It was the wind that saved me. It was the wind that made me slacken my pace to adjust my muffler, which had worked loose.

Directly ahead, a man shot out from a dark entry between two buildings. But for my change of pace, he would have collided with me. Simultaneously, I heard footsteps behind me, whose presence I had already registered, footsteps that now were speeding up.

‘It’s him,’ said a man’s voice behind me.

I’m trapped.

I raised the stick above my head and turned sharply to the right, which brought my back to the blank wall of the building beside me.

The man in front leapt at me. I slashed the stick down in a diagonal arc. I heard a cry of pain. Metal chinked on stone.

I reversed the direction of the stick and swung it blindly backwards. I shouted, a wordless cry. The stick landed on something soft. It twisted like a live thing. I lost hold of it and swore at my assailant.

As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. There were more running footsteps. My two attackers darted into the alley. A couple of men gave chase, whooping and hallooing as if they were chasing hares.

‘Run, boyo, run,’ someone cried in great excitement, his voice bouncing against the walls of the alley.

I leaned back against the wall, hunched over and drawing breath in great shuddering gasps. As the danger subsided, my mind filled with all the stories I had heard of assault and robbery on the streets of New York, of the brutish attacks by drunken soldiers and vulgar criminals which the military authorities so rarely troubled to check.

‘Sir?’ It was an English voice, a gentleman’s. ‘Are you hurt?’

I looked up. ‘Thank you, no.’

‘Good God, this town is a perfect nursery of crime.’

Another man came running up to us, this one bearing a lantern. By its light I made out that my rescuer was a middle-aged naval lieutenant, with a footman to light his way.

‘Your arrival was providential, sir.’ I paused, for I still found it hard to breathe. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

‘I can’t take the credit, sir – a pair of soldiers chased the villains away.’

His servant picked up my stick and handed it to me.

‘Footpads,’ my rescuer said, gripping the hilt of his dress sword. ‘Sprang on you like – like a pair of tigers on a goat. Saw that happen once, sir, in the East Indies. Not a pretty sight, believe me.’

‘Did you see the rogues, sir?’ I asked.

‘No, sir. Too dark to see more than the shape of them. Tell you what, though: I’d lay ten to one they were negros. You know that musty smell their clothes have, sir?’ The lieutenant sniffed, as if to illustrate his point. ‘I’ve often remarked it. Thieving magpies, the whole pack of them. They’d steal their grandmother’s teeth if they could.’

I shifted position and one of my shoes kicked against something that scraped on the pavement. I bent down and picked up the object, holding it so the light from the lantern fell upon it.

For a moment no one spoke. In my hand was a knife with a crude horn handle. The blade was about eight inches long and sharpened to a tapering point.

The lieutenant touched the blade with a fingertip. ‘After your purse and your rings, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But if need be, I dare say they would not have scrupled to murder you while they were at it.’

Fear has a terrible habit of breeding fear; it spreads like maggots through rotting meat.

Once the danger was past I began to tremble. My rescuer kindly ignored my shameful weakness and escorted me to Warren Street. No one was about, except for servants. The lieutenant would not stay – his ship sailed at dawn tomorrow. I would have welcomed the company of anyone, even Captain Wintour, whose conversation, I had discovered, was not always agreeable. Instead I drank rum and water alone in the parlour, huddled over the banked-up fire, and the alcohol seemed to have no effect on me whatsoever.

My mind raced to and fro. It was as if it were under the influence of a powerful stimulant. When at last I retired to bed, I could not sleep.

Time and again, I ran over what had happened and what might have happened. The memory of my own unheroic conduct made me toss and turn in the smothering embrace of the featherbed.

Time and again, I returned to that terrible moment when the man had bounded out from the alley in front of me, and the footsteps behind had speeded up.

It’s him
. That’s what the man behind me had said.
It’s him
.

After a sleepless night, I walked through the rain-slicked streets to Headquarters and asked to see Marryot. His servant ushered me into the Major’s private room. A masked white figure was sitting by the window. Two blue eyes, gleaming bright as if illuminated from within, stared out of the blank white face. For an instant I believed my mind had given way under the strain.

The moment dissolved and reformed itself: Marryot was swathed in a sheet, with his scalp and face lathered white. A regimental barber stood to one side, sharpening his razor on a strop. The blade slapped to and fro, glinting as it passed through a shaft of weak sunshine from the window.

I bowed.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ the Major said, revealing the vivid pink of his mouth and an irregular palisade of blackened teeth. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand.’

‘Of course. I’m obliged to you for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘And how may I serve you?’

I glanced at the barber. ‘I wished to speak privately. Shall I wait until you are at leisure?’

‘You could wait all day for that and most of tomorrow as well. The General is to inspect the fortifications at King’s Bridge, and I am ordered to accompany him.’ Marryot looked up at the barber. ‘Wait outside. Send for more hot water.’

We waited in silence until the man had withdrawn, closing the door behind him.

Marryot did not ask me to sit. ‘Well, sir? What is it?’

‘I was set upon last night. It was about midnight – I was walking back to Warren Street after supping with Mr Townley at the King’s Arms.’

‘Were you robbed?’

‘No. Two soldiers came to my aid and chased the villains off.’

‘Were you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘All in all, a happy escape,’ he said. ‘I congratulate you, sir. And now, if that is—’

‘Sir, I am not altogether easy in my mind about this. There was something … something contrived about the attack. It was as if they had been lying in wait.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I felt as if I had walked into a trap, sir. There was a man in front and a man behind.’

‘But perhaps you
had
walked into a trap. Robbers work in pairs often enough.’

‘They had been waiting for me.’ I paused. ‘For
me
. Not for any passer-by that might have had a purse in his pocket.
It’s him
. That’s what one of them said.’

‘Well? All that means is that they had picked you out earlier as a likely mark.’

‘No, sir, I do not think so. Or they would not have made their attempt with so many witnesses about.’

Marryot sighed. ‘In my experience a robber can be as foolish as any man alive.’

‘Would you assist me in one thing at least? It would greatly set my mind at rest if I might talk to the two soldiers who chased them off. They may be able to tell me more about the men who attacked me. Besides, I should like to reward them. They may well have saved my life.’

‘Did you see their facings?’

‘No, sir. To all intents and purposes it was dark.’

‘So for all you know, they might have been from Provincial or militia—’

‘I heard them shouting, sir,’ I said, thinking,
Run, boyo, run
. ‘I believe I detected that one of them had a Welsh accent. Of course they may have come from a Loyalist regiment, but it is more probable that they did not.’

‘Very well.’ The lather on Marryot’s face was drying: cracks appeared, revealing the pink skin beneath. ‘I shall have enquiries made. And I suppose Mr Townley may learn something from his own informants.’

There was nothing to be gained by prolonging the meeting. I took my leave. But as I reached the door—

‘One other thing, sir,’ Marryot said. ‘How do they do in Warren Street?’

‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

‘And Captain Wintour? Pray, how is he?’

‘He improves every day, I believe,’ I said. ‘But his wound and the privations he endured have left their mark.’