The American Boy

by Andrew Taylor

The man rubbed his unshaven chin. “He were right. One of the big ones in East Cover was sprung last night.”

  “The wood beyond the lake?”

  “Aye.” He spat. “That thieving bugger had the luck of the devil. The teeth caught his coat, look, tore off a piece. A few inches to the left and we’d have had his leg.”

  “A poacher? And a poacher could have been responsible for poisoning the dogs?”

  He looked beyond me at the little procession moving down the central path of the garden, the men’s panting breath loud in the surrounding silence and the sledge’s runners slithering on the icy ground. “Who else would it be, sir?”

  “Where precisely was the mantrap set?” I asked.

  He looked askance. “I told you, sir – East Cover. We got several in there, Master had them put down in the autumn, but this one was near a place we call Five Ways, where five paths meet. We move them around, though. It’s no good leaving them in the same place, is it? You’d never catch anyone that way, even those chuckle-headed numskulls from Flaxern Magna.”

  I left him and walked on. East Cover, the larger of the two enclosures near the lake, lay on the right of the broad path leading to Flaxern Parva and the church. On the other side of the wood was the undulating open parkland that sloped down to the monastic ruins, with Grange Cottage on the far side. If Mrs Johnson had wanted to go by the shortest way from Grange Cottage to the mouth of the defile which led to the ice-house, then passing through the middle of East Cover might have been the best way for her to do it, assuming that she was not troubled by the thought of mantraps and armed gamekeepers. I would have liked to examine the paths in the wood and the mantrap itself, but I did not feel sufficiently intrepid to do so without a gamekeeper to guide me; and I dared not make my interest too obvious, in case Mr Carswall heard of it.

  Yet there was something not quite right with this: we had been approaching the lake when we heard the clang of the mantrap closing its jaws. If the trap had been sprung by Mrs Johnson, I did not think she would have had time to come through the cover, work round the northern bank of the lake, negotiate the defile and fall to her death in the chamber of the ice-house. Had she done so, we must have heard her movements, particularly as she went up the awkward broken terrain of the defile. Moreover, we should have found traces in the snow of such a recent passage. And her body would still have been warm to the touch.

  The conclusion followed inescapably: someone else had sprung the trap. I remembered the sound of hooves I had heard last night, after we had found the boys, the sound that had worked its way into my dreams. Who would be out on horseback at such a late time? The night had been moonless, the ground treacherous with snow and ice.

  I approached the ice-house warily, alert to the possibility that Mr Carswall might have placed a guard on it. But there was no one in sight, and the doors stood wide open. Fumbling in the pocket of my greatcoat for the stump of my bedroom candle, I entered the passage. At once I heard the sound of stealthy movement in the chamber beyond. I tiptoed forward and looked down. The light of a lantern flickered on the domed ceiling. Harmwell stood in the pit below, lantern in hand. He must have heard something because he was looking directly at me, the whites of his eyes very bright.

  “Why, Mr Shield. What brings you here?”

  “A very good day to you, Mr Harmwell. I might ask you the same question.”

  He waved his arm. “As you are aware, I have made a study of the construction of ice-houses. I am particularly interested in the commercial applications. Crystal-clear block ice, that is what the modern world requires –” he pointed down at the slush on the floor “– not this poor, polluted substitute dragged here from any frozen ditch, however dirty. No society can call itself truly civilised that allows ice of such degraded quality on its table.”

  While he was talking, I swung myself on to the ladder and climbed down to the floor of the ice chamber. “You are a persuasive advocate, sir. But I confess I still do not understand why you are here.”

  Harmwell backed away from me and leaned against the wall, affecting a nonchalance I did not think he felt. “The explanation is perfectly simple: it lies there.” He pointed at the great circular drain in the middle of the chamber. The cartwheel which served as the drain’s grid was still propped up against the chamber wall and the opening to the sump was a great black disc.

  “I do not follow, sir.”

  “The ice-house at Monkshill is particularly well drained – or at least it should be. The man who designed it knew what he was about.” He squatted and held the lantern over the sump. “See – this will take a crouching man with ease. And the drain that leads from it is remarkably broad. It will have several other grills, I fancy, rather finer than this wheel, to keep out rats and other undesirable invaders. You can see the first of them below, like an iron gate dividing the sump from the drain proper. As straw and other débris descend into the sump, the grills become blocked, and the melt-water backs up into the chamber itself. Hence the foulness of the air.”

  “I think I recall Mrs Kerridge mentioning a shaft?”

  He straightened up to his full height, and his shadow ballooned out into most of the chamber. “You are perfectly correct – a shaft, allowing access to the drain from the outside world and no doubt also serving as a vent. I understand that it is now unfortunately blocked, but the principle is sound: it permits both the drain and the sump to be periodically cleaned out, even when the ice-house is full. Such a refinement is most unusual.”

  “So this should be a veritable nonpareil among ice-houses?”

  “Exactly so. I had hoped to have a sight of the original plans, but Mr Noak tells me that Mr Carswall is not able to lay his hands on them.”

  “I confess I had no idea there was so much to learn about the subject.”

  “I hope I have not prosed on at tedious length, sir. You must forgive me – it is something of a hobbyhorse, I confess – and one day, perhaps, it may be something more: there are fortunes to be made from the manufacture and trade of ice, I believe, particularly in America.”

  I crouched beside the sump. Mr Harmwell obligingly held out the lantern so its rays shone into the depths. I had no doubt whatsoever that his interest in the manufacture of ice was genuine – there was no mistaking the enthusiasm in his voice – but, as I had once observed to Mr Carswall, a man may have more than one motive for his actions. Harmwell had wished to linger in the ice-house last night, and now he had taken the first opportunity to come to it when there was nobody else there. Last night, I had assumed he wanted to search the body of Mrs Johnson: now I wondered whether his real aim had been to search the ice-house itself.

  “Look,” I said. “Is not that a little recess – there, on the left?”

  The effect of my words surprised me. I had spoken almost at random, to keep the conversation going, to avoid the awkwardness of a silence. Yet Harmwell immediately swung himself down into the sump. The drop was about four and a half feet. He shone the lantern at the small rectangle of shadow I indicated with my finger.

  “How curious,” he said. “I had not noticed. It looks as if two of the bricks have worked loose.” He put his hand into the recess and sucked in his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “Yes – how – how very curious.” He withdrew the hand and brought out a small object which he proceeded to rub against his coat and then to examine in the light of the lantern. He looked up at me and once again the whites of his eyes gleamed. “Do you know, I believe it might be a ring. See for yourself.”

  While Harmwell was hauling himself out of the sump, I examined the ring. I cleaned it with my handkerchief and discerned first the glitter of gold and then the sparkle of a diamond. Was it possible that the discovery had been made too easily? Had the ring been put there only a few minutes before Harmwell had pretended to find it?

  My companion cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mrs Johnson dropped it?”

  “Perhaps.” I knew as well as he did that this suggestio
n was absurd: why should Mrs Johnson drop a ring into the sump in the first place, and why should the ring bounce, fly neatly into the back of a recess, and cover itself with sludge, all in defiance of the principles of physics? “We should take it to Mr Carswall.”

  “Oh yes.” Mr Harmwell bowed, as if in acknowledgement of my wisdom. “After you, sir.”

  So we left the ice-house and walked briskly back towards the mansion. As we were approaching the side door, Miss Carswall came round from the front of the house.

  “Mr Shield – Mr Harmwell. I trust – why, Mr Harmwell! – you are soaking!”

  “It is nothing, miss. A trifling mishap.”

  “We have been down to the ice-house,” I said, choosing to gloss over the fact that we had returned together but met by chance. “We made a discovery in the drain in the floor of the chamber.”

  I thought it wise to share the discovery with as many people as possible. I felt in my pocket, found the ring and handed it to Miss Carswall. For the first time we saw it clearly in the broad daylight. It lay in the palm of her gloved hand, the great stone winking at us in the sunshine. Though the ring itself was of gold, the outer edge was enamelled white and delicately wrought so that it resembled a ring made of twists of ribbon rather than gold.

  “It is a mourning ring,” Miss Carswall said suddenly. “See, there is writing: and look, under the stone, there is a length of hair.”

  She held the ring against the light so we might see it. Beneath the diamond I glimpsed a rectangle of coarse brown hair.

  “What does it say around the edge?” Harmwell asked.

  Miss Carswall held it closer to her eyes and read out in a halting voice: “Amelia Jane Parker ob: 17 April 1763.”

  “I know the name,” I said.

  Miss Carswall looked up through her lashes at me and smiled. “Is she not buried in the church at Flaxern Parva? The Parkers had Monkshill before the Frants, I believe – she must have been one of Charlie’s forebears.”

  64

  Miss Carswall carried us with her into the house and took us not into the library where Mr Carswall sat but into the parlour. Mrs Lee was dozing by the fire and Sophie was reading to the boys, who were spending the day unwillingly in the rôle of invalids.

  “Such excitement, my love!” Miss Carswall cried. “Mr Harmwell and Mr Shield have found a ring in the ice-house. It is a mourning ring for Amelia Parker. We believe she must have been one of Henry’s ancestors.”

  For a moment the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The colour fled from Sophie’s cheek, and her bosom rose and fell.

  “Treasure!” Edgar burst out in a piercing whisper to Charlie. “There – what did I say?”

  Miss Carswall thrust the ring at Sophie. “So pretty,” she went on, seemingly unaware of the awkwardness she had caused, “but so morbid, too, and the diamond is cut in that dull, antique way, and the setting is dreadfully old-fashioned. Have you seen it before?”

  Sophie looked up, her face pale but composed. “No. But I know who Amelia Parker was. Her daughter married Charlie’s grandpapa, which was how Monkshill came to the Frants.”

  Charlie leaned on the arm of his mother’s chair and she allowed him to take the ring. “Mama? Will it be ours?”

  “I doubt it, dearest – mourning rings are often made for a person’s family and friends – sometimes a dozen or more. There’s no reason why we should have a right to this one.”

  He dropped it on the palm of his mother’s hand. “But she was my family.”

  “What a pity Sir George and the Captain are not still here,” Miss Carswall said. “We might have asked them if they had seen it before. Still, I am sure they will be back after they have inspected Grange Cottage.”

  “In the meantime, should we give it to Mr Carswall?” I said.

  Miss Carswall glanced at me. “Indeed, you are right, Mr Shield. I wonder if poor Mrs Johnson dropped it in her last moments. But that is by the by. In itself, it must be a ring of some considerable value, for the stone alone, and Papa should see it. But first I shall make a note of the inscription – I am sure Sir George will be interested.” She sat at the table, took pencil and paper and began to make a copy of the words. The point of her pencil broke. “Oh! How vexing!”

  “Allow me to sharpen it for you,” I said.

  She watched with flattering interest as I trimmed the point with my penknife. Afterwards, she asked me to check the accuracy of what she had written. Having thanked me prettily, she fluttered out of the room.

  “Sir George and Captain Ruispidge have conferred with Mr Carswall,” Sophie said quietly. “They have also seen their unfortunate cousin. Now they have ridden to Flaxern.”

  “They mean to return today?”

  “After they have called at Grange Cottage, they will come back through the park.”

  A moment later Miss Carswall reappeared and said that her father wished to see Mr Harmwell. The boys scampered out of the room in his wake, leaving me alone with the three ladies.

  “Such a pretty stone,” Miss Carswall said. “One could always have it re-cut and re-set. By the by, Mr Shield, I find that you have fallen out of favour with my father.”

  I bowed. “I regret to say that I have unintentionally offended him.”

  “Oh.” She waited for me to continue, though she must have known how I had offended him and how delicate the matter was. When I remained silent, she glanced from me to Sophie and then back again. “Should you like me to speak to him?”

  “You are very good, Miss Carswall, but I do not think it would answer. Besides, perhaps Mr Carswall is in the right of it: it is better that I leave.”

  Sophie looked up. “When are you going?”

  “I was to leave this morning but the death of Mrs Johnson has made it necessary to postpone my departure.”

  “I wish –” she began; but I was never to know what she wished because at that moment the door opened and there was Mr Carswall himself.

  “Shield,” he said. “A word with you.” He beckoned me into the hall and then into the library. “Close the door. Harmwell tells me it was he who actually put his hand on the ring, but it was you who saw the hiding place beforehand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He said you chanced to meet in the ice-house, and that he is interested in the construction of such buildings, and that was why he was there: is that correct?”

  “That is what he told me. I cannot express an opinion as to the truth of what he said.”

  Carswall grunted. “Sir George may need to see you: you must stay within-doors for the rest of the day. You will not dine with us, by the by. You may go.”

  I opened the door to pass out of the room. But he called me back.

  He lowered his head and glared at me through tangled eyebrows. “I hold you directly responsible for the boys’ imprudent escapade last night. It might have led to serious injury, if not worse. I shall inform Mr Bransby so.”

  What he said was clearly audible to everyone in the hall, to Harmwell and both the footmen. I did not attempt to rebut so unfair a charge because I knew it would serve no purpose. Instead, I bowed again and closed the door on that cruel, fleshy face.

  I avoided meeting Harmwell’s eyes. I went up to the schoolroom. On the way I caught the boys kneeling beside the door of the Blue Room, with Charlie peering through the keyhole while Edgar kept up a running commentary.

  “No, you great booby, look to the left and you can see the corner of the bed, and there’s a bit of black cloth, which I think might be her –”

  He broke off, turned his head and saw me. Both boys leapt to their feet.

  “Are we – are we to have lessons today?” Charlie inquired.

  “No, I believe not.” I realised that no one had thought to tell them that they would never have lessons in this house from me again. “In fact, I shall soon be leaving you.”

  “You return to Mr Bransby’s, sir?” asked Edgar.

  “Probably.” Though for how long
, I dared not guess. “You are to remain here, Edgar, at least for the time being – Mr Carswall will write Mr Allan. So, unless Mr Carswall finds you another tutor, you will have to run wild for the next fortnight.”

  Boys are strange creatures. They stared up at me in silence for a moment, their faces curiously similar, in expression as well as feature. Then, without a word, they turned and ran along the landing.

  Dusk came earlier than usual that afternoon, the colours and shapes fading steadily as though a shadowy mist were creeping through the house in search of someone or something. More than once I found myself wondering whether they had lit a lamp in the room where Mrs Johnson lay.

  I spent the rest of the day beside a small fire in the schoolroom. By now, news of my disgrace had spread far and wide. I had half expected the servants to rejoice in my downfall but to my surprise they seemed almost sorry at the prospect of losing me. The housekeeper arranged for my spare shirt to be washed and ironed. The little maid who saw to the schoolroom offered to brush and sponge my outdoor clothes, which had suffered from the adventures of the morning and the previous night.

  During the afternoon I heard the bustle of arrivals below. Sir George and Captain Ruispidge had returned. The girl who took my clothes told me that the brothers were to dine at Monkshill and spend the night. She also had a message for me from Pratt the footman, now grown too grand to run errands to a mere tutor himself: a groom would take me into Gloucester in the morning; the gig used by the servants was ordered for eight o’clock. From this I deduced that Sir George, in his capacity as a magistrate, saw no legal reason why I should be detained any longer.

  I dined early with Mr Harmwell. He was reluctant to talk about recent events and spent most of the meal sunk in thought. Afterwards he shook hands with me and said that he and his master would soon be leaving Monkshill themselves.

  “Do you go to South Wales?” I asked.

  “I believe Mr Noak has changed his plans. We shall probably travel back to London.” He gave me an unexpected smile. “How I long to return to America.”