Theft of Life (34 page)

Cutter planted his feet sturdily and tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Most sensible thing I’ve ever heard you say, Mr Sharp. And I’ve heard you say a lot.’

‘And what am
I
to do with my time?’ Francis asked.

‘I would tell you to go home and rest your bones, but I shouldn’t think you will. I am supposed to take the dogs out today. Will you take my place?’ He scratched the back of his head. ‘A day’s walking in the spring air will do you good and you’ll know you’re doing something that needs to be done in the same moment.’ He picked his way carefully across the room, treading as lightly on the broken stories as he could, and pulled a map from his coat pocket. It was already a little soft with being folded and refolded. ‘We’ve marked on where we’ve been. The dogs are at Scudder’s. Go, and don’t come back till dusk is coming on. And when you come back, go to your supper, your lodgings and your bed. We’ll have the place back and looking like your kingdom by the morning.’

Francis took the map and turned it in his fingers, his expression doubtful. ‘You’ll take care of Eustache? He’s been bent double over these …’ His gesture took in the pages around him and he felt his throat close.

‘He’ll be of help putting them in order again,’ Walter said stoutly.

‘And you’ll explain to Joshua that I don’t think him a curse and he did well running to fetch the Watch?’

‘I shall, Francis. Now please, get away with yourself and let me be of assistance for once in my life.’

It had been decided – and Francis was too tired in his head and heart to resist them.

When Eustache arrived at the bookshop with William and his leather folder clutched in his arms, he had a great deal of trouble fighting the urge to burst into tears. He felt personally harmed by the attack on the books, and a swelling of pity for them lifted in his chest. He wanted to scratch someone’s eyes out. Cutter was on his knees in one corner of the room examining each volume and deciding what harm had come to it. He looked up and saw Eustache and William in the door.

‘Ah, there you are, Master Eustache, Mr Geddings! We have work a-plenty for you today, young man!’

William looked concerned. ‘I am certain Mr Graves would not want Master Eustache in the way. Equally, if you need another hand to help, I am just as sure he’d want me to stay.’

Cutter got to his feet and dusted his hands off on his jacket. ‘No, we have want of Master Eustache indeed, but with him we have all the hands we need, Mr Geddings.’

‘Was there a robbery?’ William asked.

‘No, it seems not. Just some evil spite. We’ve sent Mr Glass away until we can get cleaned up. The poor lad felt it hard.’

‘And Joshua?’ Eustache asked.

‘A little snivelly still, but fine in himself. He’s in the back room ready to help you make sense of all them piles of manuscript, Mr Eustache. You’ll be brave now, won’t you? You had it lovely neat in there, better than Mr Glass does and he’s a stickler for order in the general run of things. You got the stomach to put it all back together for him?’

Eustache hesitated, then nodded and headed for the back office. William watched him go, and having exchanged final civilities with Cutter, headed back out into the street.

H
ARRIET ASKED TO SEE
William as soon as he returned to the house. She had written out the results of her calculations from the previous evening on a sheet of paper and kept nervously picking it up and putting it down. She had snapped at Dido that morning and been able to take nothing but coffee at breakfast. William seemed to take a very long time getting back from the city.

He came in at last and she stood at once and put the note in his hand. He unfolded it and looked at the numbers, then back at her again. ‘I do not understand, Mrs Westerman.’

She found it easier to pace while she spoke. ‘As an ordinary seaman, you were due a certain share in each prize. I have been checking exactly what prizes were taken while you were … before you were free. I am afraid my husband was not entirely scrupulous even in putting aside the quarter of what you were actually due while taking the rest.’

‘Mrs Westerman …’

‘Please let me finish, William. I worked out what you were due from each prize, actually due. Then there was the matter of your wages for those years. It all came to a rather neat sum, but then I calculated the compound interest, given, you should have had it in ’seventy-nine at the latest, and that,’ she pointed to the note, ‘is what you are owed.’ He had raised his eyebrows when she mentioned compound interest and she saw it. ‘Stephen helped me.’

‘Mrs Westerman …’

‘Please do not try and persuade me you should not have it, nor that it is not necessary. It is
entirely
necessary to me, and to Stephen. You shall have it, William.’

He looked down at the note. It was a large sum indeed. He hesitated. ‘Very well. May I keep this?’

She nodded, a little unsure, and watched him fold it up with his certificate of manumission. ‘William, the money is yours to do with as you will, of course. But I wondered what you might think of building a house just on the edge of Hartswood? It would be convenient if you were willing to take on the role of steward of the estate. I was thinking a salary of perhaps forty pounds per annum? And I would buy you a horse.’

He smiled suddenly, fully, and Harriet felt some of the tension leave her. ‘Yes, that would indeed be acceptable, Mrs Westerman. I shall put off my livery when we leave town and buy a coat with buttons large enough to terrify your tenants.’

‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ Harriet said, putting her hand on her chest and William laughed.

Eustache and Joshua worked steadily in the back room gathering the papers into piles and then beginning to sort them. It was not as difficult as they had feared. Only a very few of the pages were damaged at all, beyond a few creases, and most had fallen in clumps as if they had struggled to huddle together when attacked. Eustache even began to find his own reports on the various manuscripts he had read for Mr Glass in the last few days. It was not until late in the afternoon that he began to suspect that the most recent one, the important one, was missing.

A message from Molloy arrived in Berkeley Square at midday. It gave a place and a time. The household breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mrs Westerman would still be pacing, but now the message was come, at least she would be pacing the Square rather than the confines of the house itself.

F
RANCIS HAD NEVER BEEN
fond of dogs and was ready by mid-afternoon to throttle both brown and white spaniels and throw their useless carcases in the New River. They had found nothing but rabbits in the woods and so, believing his quest failed and that all now rested on Miller’s ability to intimidate the cabman, Francis turned back down Hornsey Lane and then down Devil’s Lane footsore and frustrated.

It had been meant as a kindness, getting him out of the city, but with nothing but the fields to look at, and nothing to occupy his mind but memories of Eliza, he did not feel improved for it. The sun was settling lower in the sky. The horizon was normally hidden from him by the buildings of London, but now there was a sky so much greater than what he was used to. The hedgerows were thick with the stars of Queen Anne’s Lace, and the hawthorn bushes heavy with blossom – and the quiet cut through him. He wished that Eliza were there. It was a wish deeper than words. He closed his eyes and rested for a moment against the fence-post, tried to fight his grief, then surrendered to it. Great sobs shook his whole body and he turned away from the sunset as if he was ashamed. He had no idea how long he spent there. The world – his life – had ceased to be a thing that could be measured in time; there was nothing but an awareness of hope stolen away. When finally he returned to himself he stood up slowly and tasted dusk in the air. The sky had become a riot of reds and pinks, long clouds of dusty purple and a solid gold blaze of the sinking sun.

He looked around him, but the dogs were out of sight, barking at something where the road bent down into a narrow valley. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face then set off in pursuit of the noise, his mind still blank and his limbs carrying him without his will taking any part in it. The dogs were some hundred yards down the track, snuffling and yapping self-importantly not at a verge or ditch, but rather at the gateway set back from the road and half-hidden by the shadows of the ash trees planted alongside it.

He put the dogs back on their leashes and tried to pull them away, but the dogs were stubborn and insistent. He saw something in the long grass under the wall and bent down to look. A cashbox. He bent down and picked it up, and it carried him like a charm back into Eliza’s shop. He could see her closing the lid and tucking it under the counter. She smiled at him. He opened his eyes and looked about him. Could Penny have been buried here, on this verge? But there was no sign of disturbed earth, and there was no doubt the dogs wished to go through the gates. He set the cashbox down tenderly in the grass again and pushed at them. They swung back without a sound and he went through them, the dogs pulling hard at him. At the end of a short driveway, and completely screened from the road by the trees, he saw a very elegant villa. There were lights showing on the ground floor. The sight seemed almost a mirage, especially coming upon it like this when daylight was changing subtly into the bronzed shades of evening. It was a beautiful house, unusual to be built so far away from fashion and on such a lonely and inconvenient road, but the square garden was full of new spring blooms surrounding green lawns.

The dogs tugged him up the path and began scrabbling at the door. Francis was shaken by the excited certainty of the animals. If they had led him to an outhouse perhaps, or to some side garden, he might have believed them, but it seemed incredible that Penny might have been carried or dragged through this front door. The dogs looked up at him, large-eyed and whining. He knocked. After a minute or so the door was opened by a maid. She was older than most of the girls Francis saw opening doors and scrubbing steps. The dogs strained forward. Now that the door was open Francis could hear music playing and a male voice singing – a light tenor and clear, rounded. The woman looked him up and down.

‘Go away,’ she said at last and began to shut the door again.

Francis put his hand out to stop it closing and his weight behind it. ‘One moment, madam,’ he said. The music stopped and a man’s voice called out: ‘Who is it, Mrs Rogers?’

‘No one,’ the woman said, and tried to push the door to. Francis pushed harder till it sprang back and the woman was forced into the hallway.

He stepped over the threshold and saw: a wide-open vestibule, a shining marble floor with the occasional white and pink Turkish carpet; ironwork on the staircase – and such a feel of light and air about the place it seemed to have been made from thistledown. The maid looked at him and he saw himself through her eyes: African, grubby and red-eyed, his cravat none too clean and a fresh whip-strike on his cheek.

‘Forgive me, I mean you no harm. My name is Francis Glass. I have come in search of a girl named Penny,’ he said. She did not reply. ‘The dogs seem to think they have followed her scent here. I am a friend of Mrs Smith – Penny’s mistress. She was killed and we are worried about Penny’s safety. Please, miss, I know I look a fool but have you seen a girl? She is nineteen or so, with dark hair. We fear she may be injured or have been taken against her will.’

There was a footstep from inside the house and a tall young man emerged from a door on the left of the hall. Francis stared at him in amazement. He wore no wig, just his own hair, close-cropped, and his skin was a dark gold. He hesitated as he saw Francis, then lifted his chin.

‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘There is no Penny here, just myself and Mrs Rogers. Leave at once.’

Francis bent down and released the dogs. They yelped in happy amazement and went dashing into the hall, then barking loudly, they ran straight up to the first floor, their white feathered tails wagging furiously and their claws tapping on the uncarpeted marble stairs.

Francis bowed. ‘I shall leave, but not before I have seen what trail these dogs are following.’ He walked past them.

The young man was astonished. ‘I shall call the footman and have him throw you out.’

Francis was too tired to care. ‘Then call him.’

He climbed the stairs two at a time and found the dogs snuffling and scratching at one of the doors which led off the landing. He tried the handle but found it locked. The young man had hastened up the stairs behind him.

‘Open the door for me,’ Francis said. ‘If you do not, I shall break it down.’

The other man sighed very deeply, produced a fat key from his waistcoat and handed it over with a slight bow.

Francis unlocked the door and the dogs tumbled in. It was a bedroom, on the south-east corner of the house, with windows on two sides. The dogs dashed up to the bed and sat on their haunches in front of it, panting and proud. Francis walked quickly over. There was a body lying under the covers. He pulled the sheet down until he could see the face.
Penny
. There was a bandage wrapped around the side of her head and her breathing was loud and laboured, but she was breathing. Francis closed his eyes and thanked God. The young man was still standing in the doorway. Francis took in the elegance of his clothing, and the beauty of his face.

‘How came she here?’

The man shrugged. Francis looked around him. There was a table in front of the fireplace with armchairs on either side. He took one facing the bed and slung his bag onto the floor beside him. The young man crossed the room with a slightly swaying walk, and took the other, then crossed his legs and put his chin in his hands.

‘I must make a confession. I am afraid I have no footman.’

Francis almost smiled. He had not had the heart to open the pack that Scudder had handed him when he left the house that morning. Now he did so, he found two bottles of beer, bread and cheese, and a pair of pistols complete with powder and ball. That explained the weight of the pack at least.