The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin

by Tobin, Sophia

  ‘I will be in London for some time,’ he said. ‘May I call on you?’

  She was about to respond when a shout went up. ‘Thief!’ There was a scramble, of people turning, of men checking their watches and women their jewellery Mary had taken a step backwards towards Bond Street. Later, Alban thought he must have been emboldened by the drink still filling his blood, but he was not sure if the instinct would have overridden politeness anyway. He took her wrists, gently but firmly, and drew her out of the path of the crowds, towards him. His hands were still upon her, when she caught sight of something over his shoulder.

  ‘Here is Dr Taylor,’ she said. ‘He has come to protect me again. I keep going out alone, and it is thought to be unseemly.’

  Alban turned and saw the lumbering figure dressed all in black. He squeezed his eyes half-shut to focus, and noted the grim expression on the doctor’s face. He bowed briefly to Mary. ‘My compliments,’ he said. Then he did the same to the doctor, barely hearing Mary’s introduction of him as Mr Steele, a fine silversmith, from Chester. It was evident that the doctor wished him gone; so he went, glancing at Mary’s face, her suddenly downcast eyes.

  As he reached the junction of Grafton Street and Old Bond Street, a man in a burgundy coat tipped his hat to him. ‘I see you know Mrs Renard,’ he said.

  ‘I cannot see what business it is of yours, sir,’ said Alban. He would not have shown such sharpness, normally; he hardly knew where he was.

  The man smiled, looking around as though he sought to take in every detail of the scene. ‘A stranger,’ he said. ‘How curious.’

  He briskly joined the flow of people before Alban could say another word. Frowning with annoyance, Alban looked back over his shoulder: Mary was speaking, and the doctor was still watching him.

  As he began to walk, he dwelt on the moment when he had taken her wrists, and moved her aside. It was in that moment that he had known there was something beyond logic in all of this. Whatever he felt for Mary Renard, it was not dead.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  5th June, 1792

  Lately I have kept to myself when not working, and shied away from pursuits that might divert me, for I have needed the quiet to think on the past. But tonight I sent word to Dr Taylor that I would care for his company, and sure enough he came.

  Taylor is a good man and I prize his high connections. I first met him when I took the lease here on Bond Street; he lives nearby, and has earned a high reputation doctoring women, but is a man of great skill and learning, and now serves as a coroner. He took to me at once when we met, and has been a useful friend. He has no children, and being some fifteen years older than I, I believe he values me almost as a son, for there is something of that tenderness in his treatment of me.

  I am wont to speak to him at least with the impression of openness, and sometimes I am frank even beyond what I intend. I confided in him of my desire for a family. He, huge man that he is, had tears in his eyes. He has not spoken to me of his own marriage, which has lasted twenty years, but remained childless. Yet there was such emotion in his face when I spoke that I felt sure he knew my anguish.

  ‘None deserves that better than you,’ he said to me. ‘If it is God’s will, you will be given a son, but you must be patient.’ His words, though meant well, did not soothe me. My agitation is great.

  Digby had left the watch house late. It had been a busy night. He’d broken up three brawls, and then some house-breakers had been caught and delivered. He did not feel tired; he and Watkin had been dissecting the night’s events with good humour and vigour. So he decided to go to the Red Lion and have a pot or two of beer.

  The beer was good, but it made his head spin. He thought perhaps he’d got a good barrel for a change, before the landlord could water it down. Whatever was wrong with it, it had had a stupefying effect, as though stronger than usual, and his energy melted away. He stumbled along in a cloud of fatigue, bumping into a man or two as he walked, raising his hands in apology. ‘Half-dead with tiredness,’ he muttered, when he hit one man’s shoulder particularly hard, and was sworn at. He speeded up on Piccadilly; not long now until his bed, and he was so ready for it he knew the vermin would not disturb him.

  A flash of a burgundy-coloured coat insinuated itself into his peripheral vision as he walked slowly along, and it was half a minute or so before he realized Maynard was beside him, swinging his stick as he walked and smiling with his usual determined good humour.

  ‘Sir,’ Digby said, wondering how long he could delay the action of taking his hat off without being accused of insolence. Every movement was an effort, and especially any movement that went against his will.

  ‘What a fine morning it is, Digby,’ said Maynard, in a good-natured tone. He was slightly breathless, the colour high in his cheeks. There was an aura of enquiry about him, Digby thought, and he found the very awareness of it exhausting and disquieting. Still, though his liking for Maynard was diminishing, tempered as it was by suspicion, he did not actively dislike him. Which put Maynard above most of the people that crossed his path in the average day.

  ‘As you say, sir.’ Digby stayed on the right side of politeness.

  ‘And what a fine coincidence to see you here.’ A large woman descended regally from her carriage into their path, her enormous hat pinned precariously to her towering hair, one gloved hand holding it in place. Digby and Maynard swerved as one, Maynard tipping his hat.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Digby, in a tone which did anything but. ‘I could’ve sworn you live on Half Moon Street, yet I cannot move but you are near me.’

  ‘It is hardly my place to consider where you shall be when I walk out in the mornings,’ said Maynard, a little more loudly, but still cheerfully. ‘And shouldn’t you have been abed several hours since?’

  Digby opened his mouth, then closed it again. His bed was not a welcoming place, but he did not want to risk the truth, and he could not trust himself to utter a falsehood without making it a little smart. He had a sense that Maynard would not enjoy more smartness from his lips.

  ‘Besides,’ said Maynard. ‘You must have thought I would come and find you again. You never did answer my question the other day.’

  His hand closed around Digby’s arm, bringing him to a halt. Digby looked at the hand. Yet, for the suddenness of the gesture, Maynard’s touch was firm but unthreatening, as though they were friends, and he was simply supporting him.

  ‘Isn’t Ma Blacklock’s near here?’ said Maynard. ‘We could have some coffee. You look like you need it. And this kind of discussion is better had off the streets. Good morning, sir!’ He tipped his hat at another acquaintance. ‘Everyone’s up early, ain’t they?’ he muttered, after the man had passed by.

  Digby wondered whether he could possibly steer Maynard back to the Red Lion, but then realized it was too long a walk. ‘I don’t know how a gentleman of your sort knows of Ma Blacklock’s, sir,’ he said.

  Maynard gave a hearty laugh by way of reply, and cheerfully led the way off Piccadilly.

  Ma Blacklock’s was situated in a small courtyard, and was styled as a coffee house, but all kinds of dubious services issued from its centre. Digby watched Maynard’s face, and noticed that the man looked undisturbed, cheerfully handing a coin to the girl that came to serve them. What had once been a parlour was lined with benches and two trestle tables, panelled with dark wood, and lit by guttering reed lights. It had a stale smell, as though shut up too long, and the lights gave the air a constant smoky tinge of animal fat. After Maynard spoke briefly to the girl they were directed to a small box of a room in a section of what must have been once the back parlour, where Digby sat down and longed to put his head on the table. A coffee pot and cups were banged down next to them. ‘I didn’t know there were private rooms here,’ he said, his voice slurring with tiredness.

  ‘This is it,’ said Maynard, sitting down. ‘Apart from upstairs, of course. It’s been years since I came here last. A gentleman seasons his experiences
with places such as this. What kind of man would I be if I spoke only with the womanish Taylors of this world? You and I know what life is, Digby. I hear you carry a dagger with you rather than your watchman’s rattle.’ He took a sip of the coffee, and winced.

  Digby yawned. ‘My voice carries pretty far, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve no need of the rattle, and the knife serves me better.’

  Maynard smiled. ‘You’ve got sharp eyes, Digby,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you that – yes, a hundred times over. I always knew it; I always saw it in you. The most acute perception. Surprising.’

  Digby was unimpressed. Was this the man’s idea of flattery? ‘Just because I’m no gentleman it doesn’t mean I am dull-witted, sir. Not all of us are.’

  ‘Then we agree,’ said Maynard. ‘As I said to you the other day, I require your assistance. I am certain, as certain as I am that this coffee is mostly not coffee, that there will be many rumours about Pierre Renard’s death. Some have said he wanted the Terror brought to England.’

  ‘Hardly a reason to kill a man,’ said Digby reasonably.

  ‘Unless you’re hot-headed,’ said Maynard. ‘But like you, it seems, I think Renard’s trouble was closer to home. Recently, he had become more arrogant, and careless of making enemies, even amongst his customers. Much more to this than meets the eye, my good man, much more.’ There was an edge to his cheerful tone. ‘What have you heard?’ he said.

  The watchman raked through his recent memories for a recent titbit. ‘Bright Hemmings,’ he said, this throat croaky, ‘is telling everyone who’ll listen that Mary Renard is sweet on him, and that she’ll be his. Exham, that engraver of Renard’s, was ready to combust when he heard him say it. Chased him halfway down the street.’

  ‘And what do you think of that?’ said Maynard. ‘Drink the coffee, Digby.’

  ‘I think Bright Hemmings is an idiot who thinks more of pigs than he does of women,’ said Digby. ‘The idea that he had someone do Renard in is nonsense.’

  Maynard nodded. ‘There we agree, again.’

  Digby took a mouthful of the coffee. It tasted foul and gritty and he had to fight every instinct to stop himself from spitting it out. He swallowed it with a gulp. ‘I don’t know why you think you need me to work all this out, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Because it is not simple,’ said Maynard. ‘For Renard was the kind of man who had a thousand threads weaved together, and it will take thought to untangle it all. I want to know if there is so much as a hint of who might have wished to kill him.’

  ‘And why do you think I can get near it?’ said Digby Looking up from his coffee cup, he met Maynard’s eyes for the first time: steady, unblinking grey eyes. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘Because no one will notice me. I am not a gentleman. I am nothing.’

  Maynard left a brief pause. ‘I did not say that, Digby,’ he said.

  Offence had already risen up in Digby; he was feeling more snappish by the moment. ‘What I don’t understand is this: why do you care so much anyway? What was he to you, I wonder?’ He tried a small leer.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Maynard. ‘You may think me a hard man, but I am not – and it is the plight of his wife that touches me. I have heard she is delicate, and as Taylor seems concerned only with keeping her out of the daylight, she is not likely to make a move herself to ensure her own safety, or discover if there was some dark dealing by Renard which may come back to haunt her. I worry for her. He was a wretch, that man.’

  ‘Handsome, though,’ said Digby, thinking he would rub it in. ‘Ladies liked him.’

  ‘That too,’ said Maynard, with a grim smile. ‘But I don’t talk out of jealousy, Digby. Renard had a dark heart, and in seeking to make himself out as a gentleman . . . he took people in, people like Taylor, who should have had more sense. He thought he was clever, that he could line people up like pieces in a game of chess.’ He shook his head. ‘Shortly before his death, I heard talk that he’d promised to get votes for one of his patrons, in exchange for a big commission. God knows how he thought he was going to get them, I don’t know. Blackmail, perhaps. I was going to expose him, make the world see him for what he was.’

  ‘And now you can’t,’ said Digby ‘Speak no ill of the dead.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Maynard. ‘But the puzzle remains. What kind of bad business was Renard involved in? Surely correcting an injustice appeals to you? And protecting an innocent lady, who may still be in danger? You have a strong sense of justice, I can tell.’

  Digby swung himself off the bench with some difficulty. ‘I need to sleep. I wish you a good morning, sir, and I’ll think on it,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll call on you again sometime,’ said Maynard. ‘You’re in the Red Lion mostly, are you not?’

  ‘I am,’ said Digby, wondering how Maynard knew, but not caring to enquire any further.

  He went directly home. But when he got into bed, sleep would not come. Maynard’s words had disturbed him. Eventually, he dozed, and when he woke he panicked, going to his coat and feeling in the pocket for the watch. He decided he would buy a cheap chain for it, so he could secure it in some way even if he could not wear it openly. He raked his fingers through his hair. A headache was beginning behind his eyes. He decided to take a breath of air.

  A stagecoach had disembarked at the White Bear on Piccadilly, and to Digby’s jaded mind as he walked through the people every face seemed to shine with hope and expectation. There was a radiance about them all, he thought; young people, come from the country. Were they all so young? He wrapped his coat around him, coughing, and that created a clear enough path.

  ‘You again,’ said the landlord of the Red Lion.

  ‘And a good day to you, too,’ said Digby ‘Give me a friendly word for a change, would you? I have had precious few this last week or so.’

  ‘Well, you might be of some use,’ said the landlord. ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  Digby looked over his shoulder to see Jesse Chamac, sitting on his own. He was gulping quickly from a pint pot, and when he put it down he drummed his hands on the table. He nodded. ‘He’s been here for hours and he’s putting some of the regulars into bad humour,’ said the landlord. ‘Speak with him for his own sake. Old Paynter doesn’t like strange ’uns and I don’t want blood spilled at this time of the day.’

  Digby took his own pint and went to sit down with Jesse. ‘Visited Bond Street?’ he said, as Jesse looked up. Jesse shook his head. His eyes glowed with a kind of feverish excitement, and with every breath he exhaled the scent of an afternoon’s drinking. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  ‘Leave that, now,’ Digby said. ‘What’s ailing you?’

  ‘Woman,’ said Jesse.

  Digby said nothing, took a sip.

  ‘It’s not that!’ cried Jesse. ‘I see the way you are looking at me. She’s like a sister to me.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Digby.

  ‘She will not sh-peak to me,’ Jesse said, tilting his head, observing the grain of wood on the table closely, as though it was deeply interesting to him. ‘I keep coming to her, I keep trying. I am neglecting my work, I am neglecting my family. Today I came to her, and I said, I cannot keep inventing pretexts, madam, to visit you, but if I must protect you I must know why.’

  ‘Did she tell you?’ said Digby, swilling his beer around and rolling his eyes in the direction of the landlord.

  ‘No, shur, no, she did not. She cursed me, and said she wished I was long gone. And I said to her, but I saw you. I was visiting some of my fellows and I saw you on the street that night, that night, you know when, you passed me and you did not see me but I saw you, I would know you anywhere, and she said, what night, and I said the night your sister’s husband met his maker.’ He gave an exaggerated, triumphant nod, then clumsily mimed a sawing action to his throat. ‘She could be strung up for it. I keep it quiet, I say nothing, I ask only for a word of explanation to rest my conscience, and she curses me.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ said Digby. At Jess
e’s silence, he swallowed hard and put his pot down. In his mind he damned Maynard before he asked the question. ‘Is this about Pierre Renard?’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘Jesse, you know me. Is it him?’

  Jesse’s face changed. He closed his mouth; he shook his head.

  There was a burst of raucous laughter from the far corner of the room. In the gloom, Jesse looked about him, chewing his lip. He leaned in to Digby.

  ‘They’ve been watching me, those men,’ he said. Digby drew away from the stink of his breath and followed the direction of Jesse’s gaze to see a group of disgruntled regulars. ‘They want to steal from me. They know I’m a silversmith. They’re planning to follow me, I can see it in their eyes. I’ll give them it back tenfold, I’ll make them regret it. I have my family to think of.’ He punched one hand into a fist and smacked it into the palm of his other hand. Then, with barely a moment’s pause, his eyes welled with tears. ‘My dear Agnes,’ he said.

  Digby sighed. He must be going half-mad to listen to the ramblings of a drunk. It was the watch; it was his duties on the street; it was Maynard. He needed to calm down. He looked at Jesse. ‘Go home, man,’ he said. ‘Before you drink London out of hops. Regain your wits. Keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear any more and neither does anyone else here. Go and seek your wife at her fireside and stop worrying over troublesome wenches.’ He banged his pint pot on the table, and he was relieved when Jesse stood, and staggered his way out on to the street, mumbling to himself.