Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
of confidence, you see. All business must depend on it, and banking more than most. If you lose the esteem of those you do business with, you might as well shut up shop. No, my boy, to return to your own case, if you wish to keep your money safe, there is much to be said for the Consolidated Funds.” Mr Rowsell stared glassily at me and at last continued to speak, though slowly and with elaborate care of his consonants. “You will not become rich, but you will not become bankrupt, either.”
He stopped. He blinked rapidly. His mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came. He bowed like a great oak falling, stately even in ruin. His head hit the table, knocking over the glass. He began to snore.
As the weeks slipped by and the weather grew steadily colder, the friendship between Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan flourished. Like many schoolboy friendships it was partly a defensive alliance, a strategy for dealing with a world full of Morleys and Quirds. Though similar in looks, they were different in temperament. The American was a proud boy who would not take insults lightly, who when teased would fly at his tormentors. Charlie Frant was gentler, and well supplied with pocket money. If you offended one of them, you had a taste of Edgar Allan’s anger, which was formidable. If you pleased one or both of them, however, you were likely to be among the beneficiaries when Charlie Frant next paid a visit to the pastry-cook’s.
As for myself, I felt the life of the school settle around me like an old coat. But one part of my life was incomplete. I own that I dwelt overmuch in my daydreams during this period. When I was in this unsatisfactory state I no longer thought much of Fanny, the girl whose ghostly presence had lingered in my mind for years. Instead, I frequently encountered both Miss Carswall and her cousin Mrs Frant. Daydreams have this advantage over real life: one is not obliged to be constant.
There was nothing to warn me of the troubles that lay ahead. One evening, however, Mr Bransby summoned Dansey and myself to his private room.
“I have had a disturbing communication from Mrs Frant, gentlemen,” he said. “She writes that her son and young Allan have been accosted in the village by the ruffian who approached them before. The man’s effrontery beggars belief.”
“We have heard nothing about this from the boys, sir?” Dansey said.
Bransby shook his head. “He did not linger. And there was no unpleasantness. No, it seems that he simply came up to them in the High-street, gave them a half-sovereign apiece, told them to mind their book and walked away.”
“How extraordinary,” Dansey said. “I gained the impression that he was not the sort of man who had a ready supply of half-sovereigns.”
“Just so.” Mr Bransby fumbled for his snuff-box. “I have interrogated Frant and Allan, of course. Frant mentioned the meeting to his mother in a letter. They had nothing substantial to add to what they had told her, except to emphasise that the man’s behaviour was noticeably more benevolent than on the previous occasion. Allan added that he was more respectably dressed than before.”
“So we may infer from all this that he is in more comfortable circumstances?”
“Indeed. But Mrs Frant is understandably somewhat agitated. She does not like the idea that boys of this establishment, and in particular her son, should be at the mercy of meetings with strange men. I propose to inform the boys that they must report any suspicious strangers in the village to me at once. Moreover, Mr Dansey, I would be obliged if you would alert the innkeepers and tradesmen to the danger. You and Mr Shield will circulate a description of the man in question.”
“You believe he may return, sir?”
“It is not a question of what I believe, Mr Dansey, but rather a matter of trying to allay Mrs Frant’s fears.”
Dansey bowed.
I could have revealed the identity of the stranger. But it was not my secret to tell. Nor did I think it would be kind to Edgar Allan. The gap between father and son was too wide to be easily bridged, especially in that the boy had no knowledge whatsoever of his natural father and believed him to have died long ago in the United States. It could only come as a shock to the lad to learn that David Poe was an impoverished drunkard on his very doorstep.
I said, “You do not think it likely he will venture to return, sir?”
“For my part, I doubt it. He will not show his face here again.”
In that, at least, Mr Bransby was entirely correct.
All this time, George Wavenhoe lay dying in his fine house in Albemarle-street. The old man took his time, hesitating between this world and the next, but by November matters had come to a crisis, and it was clear that the end could not be far away. Once again I was summoned to Mr Bransby’s private room, this time without Dansey.
“I am in receipt of another letter from Mrs Frant,” he said with a trace of irritation. “You are aware that her uncle, Mr Wavenhoe, has been very ill for some time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“His medical attendants now believe him to be at death’s door. He has expressed a wish to say farewell to his great-nephew. Mrs Frant requests that you convey her son to Mr Wavenhoe’s house, where she and the rest of his family have gathered. And she further requests that you remain with him while he is there.”
I confess my heart leapt at the prospect of being under the same roof as Sophia Frant for a few days. “But surely that will be most inconvenient for the conduct of the school, sir? Could she not send a servant instead to collect him?”
Bransby held up his hand. “Mr Wavenhoe’s establishment is in some disorder. Both Mrs Frant and the boy’s old nurse are fully occupied in nursing Mr Wavenhoe. She does not wish her son to be neglected, or to mope, while he is with them.” He took a pinch of snuff and sneezed. “As to the inconvenience, that is to some extent mitigated by the fact that Mrs Frant is prepared to pay handsomely for the privilege of having your company for her son. It should only be for a day or two.”
For an instant, a wild hope surged through me: could Mrs Frant have invited me for her own sake, rather than her son’s? A moment’s reflection was enough to show me my folly.
“You will leave this afternoon,” Bransby said. “I could wish it otherwise. Sooner or later the boy must learn to stand on his own two feet.”
When Charlie Frant heard that I was to take him to his uncle Wavenhoe’s, and why, his face aged. The skin wrinkled, the colour fled. I glimpsed the old man he might at some point in the future become.
“May Allan come with me, sir?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. But you must bring your books.”
Later that day we drove up to town. Charlie resisted my efforts at conversation, and I was reminded of that other journey, when I had taken him back to school in disgrace. Although it was only the middle of the afternoon, it was such a raw, damp, grey day it felt hours later than it really was. When we turned from the noise and lights of the bustle of Piccadilly into Albemarle-street, what struck me first was the quiet. They had put down straw to muffle the sound of wheels and bribed the organ grinders, the beggars and the street sellers to take themselves elsewhere.
Mr Wavenhoe lived in a substantial house near the northern end of the street. The servant took our hats and coats in the hall. Men were talking in raised voices in a room on the right of the front door. There were footsteps on the stairs. I looked up to see Flora Carswall running towards us, her feet flickering in and out on the stone steps. She stooped and kissed Charlie who shied away from the embrace. She smiled at me and held out her hand.
“Mr Shield, is it not? We met briefly outside my cousin’s house in Russell-square.”