Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
by a drunk in the village during the afternoon. I added that I had been on hand to deal with the man, so no harm had been done.
“He pestered young Frant, you say?” Bransby was in a hurry (he never lingered before or after evening prayers because he dined immediately afterwards). “Well, no harm done. I’m glad you were at hand to deal with him.”
“I believe I may have seen the vagabond in Town the other day, sir. He claimed acquaintance with Allan’s father.”
“These fellows try their luck everywhere. What are the magistrates doing, to let them roam the streets and pester honest folk?”
Mr Bransby said nothing further on that occasion. But there was a sequel the following week. On the twentieth, he desired me to wait upon him after morning school.
“Sit down, Shield, sit down,” he said with unusual affability, taking a pinch of snuff and sneezing. “I have had a letter concerning you from Mrs Frant. It seems that Master Charles sent her a highly coloured account of your dispute with the vagabond the other day. You are quite a hero among the little boys, I find.”
I inclined my head but said nothing.
“There is also the point that tomorrow is the fourteenth anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, and therefore a half holiday for the school.”
I was well aware of this, as was everyone else in the school. Mr Bransby had a cousin who had distinguished himself in the service, who had seen action at Trafalgar, and who had once shaken Lord Nelson himself by the hand. As a result, Mr Bransby had a great respect for the achievements of the Royal Navy.
“Mrs Frant proposes that the boy spend his half holiday with her in London. She has invited Allan as well. I understand he too performed heroically in the great battle of Stoke Newington.”
Bransby looked expectantly at me. He was neither a subtle humorist nor a habitual one, and I found his efforts so unnerving that all I could manage was a weak smile.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “Mrs Frant suggests that you accompany the lads. I trust you will not find that an inconvenience?”
I bowed again, and said that it would be no trouble in the world.
The following afternoon, the carriage was waiting for us after the boys’ dinner. Both Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan were in an ebullient mood, and eager to be away from school.
“Shall you call on your parents while you are in Town?” I asked the American boy.
“No, sir. They are away from home.”
“And they are not his parents, sir,” said Charlie, squirming with the excitement of being privy to information that he believed I lacked. “They are his foster parents.”
I glanced at Edgar. “Indeed?”
Charlie reddened. “Should I not have said? You do not mind, Edgar?”
“There is no secret.” Allan turned to me. “Yes, sir, my parents died when I was an infant. Mr and Mrs Allan took me into their home and have always treated me as a son.”
“I’m sure you repay their kindness,” I replied and gestured at random at the world beyond the window of the Frants’ carriage. “Is that a swallow or a house-martin?”
The distraction was clumsy but effective. We talked of other matters for the remainder of the journey. When we got to Russell-square, I went into the house with the boys to discover when Mrs Frant wished me to return for them. Loomis, the butler, desired me to step upstairs with the boys. He showed us into the drawing room. Mrs Frant was seated by one of the windows with a book in her hand. Charlie, no doubt aware of the presence of Allan and myself, was very cool and composed with her, submitting to her embrace rather than returning it. A moment later, she turned to me, her hand outstretched.
“I must thank you, sir,” she said. “I shudder to think what might have happened to Charlie had you not been at hand to help him.”
“You must not magnify the danger he was in, madam,” I said, thinking that her hand was soft and warm like a living bird.
“But a mother can never exaggerate the dangers that face her child, Mr Shield. And this is Edgar Allan?”
As she was shaking hands with him, Charlie piped up: “His grandpapa was a soldier, Mama, like mine. They might have fought each other. He was a general in the American Revolutionary army.”
Mrs Frant looked inquiringly at Edgar.
“Yes, ma’am. That is to say, he is widely known as General Poe among his friends and neighbours, but my foster father Mr Allan has informed me that he did not in fact hold that rank. I believe he was a major.”
“And his mama was a famous English actress,” Charlie went on, though I could see the conversation was causing Edgar some embarrassment.
“How charming,” Mrs Frant said. “You come from a talented family. What was her name?”
“Elizabeth Arnold, madam. Though English, she acted mainly in the United States. And it was there that she died.”
“You poor boy.” She turned the conversation: “Perhaps you should visit cook before you do anything else. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had baked something for you.”
The boys clattered out of the room, relieved to be away from the company of their elders. For the first time I was quite alone with Mrs Frant. Her dress rustled as she crossed the room from the window and sat down upon a Grecian sofa of carved mahogany. The air moved around me as she passed, and I smelt her perfume. I was seized by a crazy desire to kneel at her feet, throw my arms around her and bury my head in the sweet softness of her lap.
“Would you care for some tea, Mr Shield?” she asked.
“Thank you, madam, but no.” I had spoken abruptly, and I hastened to smooth the refusal with a lie. “I have several errands I must complete. When would you like me to return?”
“I have ordered the carriage for half-past six o’clock. If you wish to come earlier, perhaps at six, the boys will be having their supper and I’m sure you could join them.” There was a delicious touch of pink to her pale complexion, and she began to speak faster. “I would ask you to dine with us, but my husband prefers to sit down at a later time.”
I bowed my acknowledgement of her condescension and a moment later said goodbye. When the door of the drawing room was safely closed behind me, I dabbed my forehead and felt the sweat. I was terrified by the strength of my own desire.
I walked slowly down the stone steps to the hall. Loomis was waiting at the bottom. As I drew nearer, he gave a gentle cough.
“Mr Frant desired me to ask you to step in and see him on your way out, sir.”
I followed the servant to the book-room at the back of the hall. He knocked at the door, opened it and announced me. Mr Frant was seated at his bureau, as he had been on the other occasion I had visited him here. This time, however, my welcome was altogether more cordial. He looked up from a letter he was reading, and a smile spread across his pale features.
“Mr Shield – I am rejoiced to see you. Pray sit down. I will not delay you long.” He folded the letter and locked it away in a drawer. “My wife informs me that you rendered us a considerable service the other day.”
“It was nothing of consequence, sir,” I said, embarrassed that the Frants were making so much of the incident.
“Nevertheless, I am obliged to you. Tell me, would you describe to me exactly what occurred?”
I explained that an older boy had sent Frant and Allan upon an errand – I did not judge it prudent to enlarge upon its nature – and that the man had approached them on their way back. I added that I had been fortunate enough to witness the moment when the man accosted the boys.
“What exactly did he do, Mr Shield?”
“He took Charles