Movement catches his eye. He glances up at the house on the corner. A maidservant carrying a lamp has entered an upper room. The light is dim, and filtered through thick, distorted glass; but as the woman moves to the window to draw the curtains across, the outline of a canopied bed appears briefly behind her.
A bed. Bedford. That is the name of the new houses. Bedford Square.
Charles slips inside the churchyard and takes the pencil and paper from his pocket. Using a gravestone as a writing slope, he prints six words in careful capitals:
OAK TREE
NIGHTINGALE-LANE
BEDFORD-SQUARE
He is in a quandary. He must not speak. Say nothing. Not a word to anyone.
Until now he has extended the prohibition to cover writing as well, for Father Viré taught him long ago in his other life that God does not split hairs, that the spirit of His commands should be considered and obeyed, not merely their literal meaning.
But surely God and Father Viré would not want him to wander the streets of London for ever? Will they pardon him if he uses those six words in his hour of need? Or will they bring down their most terrible vengeance on his head?
Chapter Forty-One
The smell of the river hung in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of the kitchen fires. The three houses were set back from the thoroughfare on the west side of Arundel Street, separated from the road by an area paved with granite setts slippery with rain.
Mr Vereker’s establishment was open for business. As Savill went towards it, an apprentice laid aside his broom and rushed to hold the door for him. A young man was polishing a large set of scales that formed a centrepiece in the middle of the shop. He set aside his cloth and bowed.
‘Good day, sir. How may I serve you?’
‘I wish to see Mr Vereker.’
‘He is at breakfast, sir. He will be down in five or ten minutes. But in the meantime, perhaps—’
‘I have not leisure to wait,’ Savill said, wishing that he himself had had time for breakfast before leaving the lodgings in Crown Street that Malbourne had procured for him. ‘Pray tell him I must see him now. I come from the magistrates’ office.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘I have a warrant.’
The assistant retreated to a curtained doorway at the back of the shop, contriving to bow as he went. The apprentice stopped sweeping and stared at Savill with interest.
There were voices above and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. A thin man with hunched shoulders came into the shop. He had a napkin in his hand and there were crumbs on his coat. His wig was askew and his chin was thick with grey stubble.
‘What’s this, sir? A magistrate?’
‘Mr Vereker? My name is Savill.’ He took out his letter of authorization and waved it. ‘As you see, Mr Ford of the Westminster Magistrates’ Office appoints me to act as his agent or deputy.’
Frowning, the old man took the letter, unfolded it and glanced at its contents. Too agitated to read it carefully, he thrust it back towards Savill. ‘But – what is this about, sir? I have not reported a robbery or—’
‘A telescope bearing your name was found at the scene of a crime, sir. It is of the utmost urgency that we establish to whom it belongs. It may lead us to the perpetrator.’
‘Dear me.’ Mr Vereker sank into a chair. ‘How very distressing. A glass of my manufacture?’
Savill took the telescope from his pocket and handed it to Vereker. When the old man held it, the signs of age and agitation dropped away from him. He extended the cylinder to its fullest extent, whipped out a cloth and polished the brass. He took a jeweller’s glass from his waistcoat pocket and screwed it into his left eye. He examined the telescope minutely.
‘Sims?’ he said, without looking up. ‘Bring me the ledger. No, not the current one. ‘Eighty-one to eighty-four.’
‘There is a number by the eyepiece,’ Savill said. ‘Eight, three, one, four.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Vereker said, almost snatching the ledger from his apprentice. He turned the pages rapidly, running his forefinger down the left-hand margin of the page. ‘Ah. It is as I thought.’
‘Eight and three signify the year eighty-three?’ Savill said.
Vereker looked up. A flicker of disappointment passed over his face. ‘Yes. The first two figures denote the year of manufacture, or rather the year it was made available for purchase. The rest of the number identifies the particular instrument. So this is nine years old.’ He held it up to the light from the window. ‘I pride myself that it represents a tolerable marriage of utility and convenience.’
Savill wanted to snatch the ledger from Vereker’s hands. ‘What happened to it, sir?’
‘Eh? Oh yes.’ The forefinger moved slowly across the page. ‘Yes, I recall the transaction perfectly. As if it were yesterday.’
‘Who bought it, sir?’
Vereker peered at the entry. ‘Mr Ogden, sir. A lawyer. He’s not a regular customer of mine, and I cannot say I’m sorry for that.’
‘Why?’ Savill said. ‘Doesn’t he pay his bills?’
‘He did in the end. But it was not just that – half my customers do not find it convenient to pay their bills as promptly as they should, and one cannot object to them because of that or one would lose half one’s connection. No, it was Mr Ogden himself – his manner, one might say. Not an easy man to do business with.’
On the way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Savill turned into a tavern and ordered breakfast. He lingered over the meal, reading the newspapers and drinking tea, since it was early for a morning call on a private residence. But he could not stay too long, for he was due back at Westminster by ten o’clock.
It was still raining when he walked on. He knew he was clutching at straws but there was nothing else to hold on to. Besides, doing anything was better than doing nothing. If he allowed himself a moment’s quiet reflection, all he could think of was Charles and where he might be. His fear for the boy coloured every thought he had.
Mr Ogden lived in a tall, thin house in a street to the north of the Fields. It was one of a terrace of some substance, set back from the street by its own carriage road, and served by its own mews.
The manservant who answered the door said that his master was not at home. But the sound of a harsh voice upstairs suggested that this was not be taken literally. Savill produced his warrant again.
The manservant left him in a dark room off the hall and went to find his master. He returned with instructions from his master that Mr Savill should send up a note stating his business.
Savill tore a page from his pocketbook and jotted down: ‘Mr Savill, from Mr Ford, Westminster Magistrates’ Office, Case of Abduction.’ The servant took the note away.
While he waited, Savill prowled about the room, trying to distract himself. He fiddled with the candlesticks on the mantel. He stared at a gloomy engraving that portrayed the ruins of an indeterminate building of antiquity. He examined a pile of books on a side table – all novels of a sentimental nature, he was surprised to see, and borrowed from Mr Bell’s British Library in the Strand. He pulled back the curtains and stared across the carriage drive to the street beyond.
About ten minutes later, an old man in a dressing gown entered the room. His face was pale, almost green in the gloom of the parlour.
‘Mr Savill? My name is Ogden. Well?’
Savill bowed. ‘Forgive me for—’
‘Let’s see this warrant of yours.’
Ogden put on a pair of glasses and studied the letter from Mr Ford. He handed it back to Savill. ‘If you want me to answer questions, sir, I suggest you show this to a magistrate and beg him to ask them on your behalf. Assuming that this document is not a forgery. I can see no reason why I should trust it, or you, without supporting testimony.’
‘Then I shall be obliged to return later, sir.’
Ogden shrugged. ‘In that case, I hope you will write and make an appointment in the usual manner. My time is too valuable to waste.’ He rang the bell. ‘I won
’t detain you longer, sir.’
The servant came at once. Ogden followed Savill into the hall. He opened the door of another room and paused.
‘Why do you want to see me, anyway?’ he said. ‘What’s this about an abduction?’
‘It involves a telescope that may have a bearing on it,’ Savill said. ‘It was purchased by you from Mr Vereker in Arundel Street.’
Ogden clutched the jamb of the door. He stared at Savill. ‘What nonsense,’ he said.
‘Why, sir? Mr Vereker remembered you. And I have seen his sales ledger.’
‘I lost the thing years ago. And it never gave me any satisfaction. Good day, sir.’
He went into the room and slammed the door. High above Savill’s head came the sound of scurrying footsteps. He glanced up but saw no one.
‘This way, sir,’ said the servant.
The old woman burst out of the mews and blurted out: ‘Sir, sir – have you news?’
Her grey hair had come adrift from her cap and straggled down to her shoulders. She wore a grey shawl over a day dress. She had slippers on her feet, not pattens. But what Savill noticed first was her ruined face.
A younger woman followed, almost at once – a servant who laid her hand on the first woman’s arm. ‘Ma’am, you’ll catch your death out here, and if Master finds out—’
‘No, no – go away.’
Savill might have walked on, for the streets of London were full of unhinged people and lost souls, had it not been for the evident respectability of the maidservant and the pathos of the mistress’s face. The rain had grown heavier and neither woman was wearing a cloak or a bonnet.
‘News of what, madam?’
‘My son, of course.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have the honour of his acquaintance.’
‘You were talking to my husband, sir. You mentioned the telescope.’
Savill took off his hat and bowed. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Am I addressing Mrs Ogden?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The lady had suffered a stroke that had caused the left side of her face to droop and become rigid, though it had not affected her speech. ‘It must be his telescope. My husband does not care for such things himself, and I know he purchased one for Dick. From – from Mr Vereker, you said?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Savill studied her face, which was wet with rain and perhaps tears as well. She must have run from the back door and through the mews in the hope of cutting him off, with the maid in hot pursuit. ‘Madam, the weather is not clement, you will—’
‘It does not signify, sir, not in the slightest. You see, there was a time when Dick had a fancy to pursue the study of astronomy … But tell me, have you seen my son?’
‘I’m afraid not. The glass was found in Somersetshire. There is reason to believe it may have been connected with a crime.’
Mrs Ogden gave a cry and clung to her maid, who scowled at Savill.
‘Forgive me for startling you – I should say that there is no evidence to suggest your son is involved.’ Not yet, Savill might have added, not yet. ‘But pray tell me more about the young gentleman. Perhaps I may be able to help.’
As he was speaking there were running footsteps in the mews.
Mrs Ogden took a piece of paper from the pocket of her dress. She thrust it at Savill, who took it.
‘Four o’clock, sir,’ she whispered. ‘Four o’clock. I am there almost every day.’
Mr Ogden’s manservant appeared, followed by a short, burly youth who was almost as wide as he was tall. Mrs Ogden cowered against the wall. Savill screwed up the paper in his hand.
‘You’re to come home directly, ma’am,’ the servant said, shouldering himself between her and Savill. ‘Master’s orders.’
He took Mrs Ogden’s arm. The maid took her other arm. They marched the old woman into the mews, half dragging and half carrying her.
The youth stayed where he was. He glared at Savill and folded his arms across his chest. He waited, seeming to inflate himself still further, blocking the mouth of the mews; and Savill looked at the retreating back of Mrs Ogden and listened to the rainwater rustling in the gutter.
Afterwards, walking to the Strand, Savill unfolded the paper. It was a printed bill, a copy of the subscribers’ conditions at the British Library.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘I cannot for the life of me understand how you permitted this to happen. First the delay occasioned by your damned tooth. And now this.’
Mr Rampton paced up and down his room. It was mid-morning now. He had arrived only a quarter of an hour ago and still wore his long travelling coat and mud-splashed boots. Age and weariness made him unsteady on his feet, but his agitation drove him to movement. There were blue pouches under his eyes.
‘Why should you let a little toothache distract you from your business? I tell you plainly, I would not have expected it of you …’ He pulled at his fingers and cracked his knuckles as if to emphasize his amazement. ‘It beggars belief! Besides, you don’t even know Charles has been brought to London. He could be anywhere. I am surrounded by fools.’
Savill let the angry words alone, allowing them to dwindle into petulance.
Rampton sat down at last. He lowered his voice. ‘It was ill-luck that you arrived on Saturday, too.’
‘Where were you?’ Savill said. ‘I went to Vardells yesterday but they said you had sent word not to expect you. But you weren’t in town, either.’
‘His Lordship called me down to the country on Saturday morning – he was most pressing, he had a sudden desire to confer with me in private – indeed, the business of this department weighs heavily on me. He relies on me entirely.’
‘The chaise was hired in town, from the Swan With Two Necks,’ Savill said after a moment, returning to the subject on hand now he was no longer the immediate target of Rampton’s fury. ‘And they returned it there on Saturday morning, about nine o’clock.’
‘Not so loud, if you please. Irwin returned it?’
‘No, the servant, Plimming, did. He must have set down Irwin and Charles on the road. It was somewhere in or near London because Irwin was seen at Slough. And it must have been near the main road – they drove like the devil to get there as soon as nine – they had no time to make diversions.’
‘They might have handed Charles over to someone long before Slough.’ Rampton had not put in his teeth. His words had no hard edges to them and too many sibilants. ‘It was a closed carriage. No one would know.’
Savill nodded. ‘Perhaps. But there’s nothing to suggest they did. Whereas we do know that Irwin himself hired the chaise in London. In the absence of any other information, that suggests he came back here. The first thing to do, surely, is to establish whether there is a connection between Irwin and the Ogdens. Are there grounds for a magistrate to—’
‘No. It’s out of the question.’
‘Why? Abduction is a crime, and—’
‘You don’t understand.’ Calmer now, Rampton leaned across his empty desk. ‘There are elements of this matter that you know nothing about, elements that have to do with the safety of the kingdom and the impending war with France. Why do you think I was obliged to wait on His Lordship so urgently?’
‘Sir, this is a question of a kidnapped boy,’ Savill said. ‘Charles is important too.’
‘I’m quite aware of that.’
‘Shouldn’t I – or someone – try to talk to the Ogdens? It is surely significant that their son once owned the perspective glass that Dr Gohlis found at Charnwood?’
Rampton waved the suggestion away. ‘You must leave all that to me. It will be looked into, and by people better qualified than you. In the meantime, you must mention nothing of this to anyone, even Malbourne. Particularly not Malbourne. Have you told him anything?’
‘Only that there has been a difficulty. I have not mentioned the abduction.’
‘Good. It must go no further than us. We cannot afford for news of this to leak into the wider world, not before we know what we
are dealing with. We must ask ourselves who is behind this. And why.’
‘If we know the one, we’ll probably know the other.’
‘No one but you has any legitimate claim on the boy. And myself, of course, as his great-uncle, and also as one who will soon be his adoptive father.’
‘The Count de Quillon does not agree.’
‘Would he kidnap Charles? You have lived with him now. What is your impression?’
‘He is imperious by nature, sir, and accustomed to his own way. It would not surprise me at all to learn that he and Monsieur Fournier were concealing a good deal from me. It is possible that he ordered me to be poisoned to prolong my illness. I believe they searched my belongings while I lay ill and went through my papers.’
‘Is he attached to the boy?’
‘I suspect it is more a question of pride. But I can believe he would go to almost any lengths to secure Charles. On the other hand, I do not think he has the resources or the subtlety to arrange what has happened.’
‘Of course that scoundrel Fournier must be a part of it.’
Savill sat down without being offered a chair. ‘If the Count is behind it, then yes, Monsieur Fournier would probably have managed the affair for him. Though that assumes he has considerable resources in this country. And I don’t know why he would do it, why he would run the risk, unless he has his own reasons to oblige the Count.’
‘It is possible that he has. The Count’s faction may be discredited, here and in France, but he still has friends, and who knows what the future will bring? Who else?’
‘My— Augusta may have had friends in France we know nothing of. Or there may be other men who think the boy is theirs. Or perhaps it is not who he is that matters, not in himself. Perhaps it is what he knows.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rampton said. ‘You talk in riddles.’
‘It is probable that he was there when Augusta died. When she was killed. He may know the identity of her murderer.’
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