The Scent of Death

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘I don’t believe it’s necessary to trouble the Wintours. It would distress them.’

  ‘They are the only people we know that he called on,’ I said.

  ‘They barely exchanged half a dozen words.’

  I noticed a ripple running through the curtain at the end of the booth. ‘Are you hungry, sir? I believe I should like a biscuit or a slice of pie.’

  ‘Food?’ Marryot slammed down his glass on the table. ‘We haven’t time for—’

  I reached out a hand and pulled back the curtain. There, not a yard away, was Mr Townley, smiling pleasantly and with his hand raised and balled into a fist, as if the curtain had been a door and he had been about to knock on it.

  ‘Ah – I am rejoiced to see you!’ he said. ‘Noak told me I should find you in the Bunch of Grapes, and it is most convenient because I wanted particularly to speak to you both.’

  Marryot blinked at him. He half-rose and bowed. His bruised cheek was on the side away from Townley, towards the back of the booth. ‘Your servant, sir. But—’

  ‘You will not mind if I join you?’

  Townley waved to a waiter and slid on to the bench beside the Major. I wondered how long he had been standing on the other side of the curtain and how audible our conversation had been.

  ‘But why do you wish to speak to me?’ the Major said, slurring his words.

  ‘To you both, to be precise.’ Townley smiled at me. ‘I am come to invite you to the theatre.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I have taken a box for Friday. The Wintours are coming – well, the Judge is and the Captain, and Mrs Arabella, of course. I fear Mrs Wintour may not find it convenient. It’s a small return for their kindness the other evening and Mrs Arabella happened to mention to me that she had seen nothing at the theatre since Venice Preserv’d last year. And I thought – naturally I cannot leave out Major Marryot and Mr Savill from our little party. Afterwards we shall go on to supper at Fraunces’s.’

  ‘How delightful,’ I said. ‘And what’s the play we are to see?’

  ‘Othello. One cannot outdo Shakespeare for elevated sentiments, though sometimes the language is not as genteel as one would wish, and the construction not as polished.’ Townley smiled and gave a shrug, as if inviting us to join with him in mocking his essay at dramatic criticism. He turned to Marryot. ‘Will you join us, sir? I know the Wintours will be as glad to see you as myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you – I – I’m obliged.’

  The waiter arrived. We ordered more brandy, another glass and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Well – this is very agreeable,’ Townley said when the waiter had withdrawn. ‘I do not usually drink spirits until later in the evening. But the weather is so raw outside that one needs a little fire in the stomach.’ He peered at us. ‘But why so serious, gentlemen? You look as if you had been plotting something.’

  Marryot had turned his head. The flame of the candle flickered over his discoloured cheek.

  ‘Good God, sir,’ Townley blurted. ‘What the devil have you done to your face?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I was not quite sober when I returned to Warren Street before supper, which had a bearing on what happened. Alcohol unleashes the tongue. I was not drunk, though – unlike Marryot, whom Townley and I had been obliged to manhandle into a coach when we left the Bunch of Grapes.

  I found Mr Wintour studying a map. He had unrolled it on the big table in the middle of the library and was examining it by the light of a candle in his hand. The only other illumination in the room came from the small fire and from a second candle. This was guttering in the socket of the candlestick that stood in lieu of a paperweight on one corner of the map.

  ‘Ah – good,’ he said. ‘I shall have a gentleman to take a glass of wine with at supper. My son is abroad and will not be back until late.’

  I glanced down at the map and saw the name written at the top. ‘So this is Mount George, sir?’

  ‘Yes – this was Mr Froude’s plan of the estate. Or rather of the house and its desmesne. The estate as a whole is much larger. John mentioned it the other day, and Noak, too. I said I would look it out for them.’

  ‘Noak?’

  ‘Yes – my books and papers are in a sad pickle and he is helping me sort them out. It seems to be taking an age but Noak believes that the map may clarify some aspects of his classificatory system for the Froude estate.’

  The Judge lifted the candle. The light was too poor to see the details clearly. The house, the stable block and the farm buildings were over to the right. There was what looked like a large patch of woodland behind it. Otherwise the estate consisted of a patchwork of enclosures, of pastures, fields, paddocks and gardens. Unlike the painting in the drawing room, this was a purely practical representation of Mount George, something for farmers and lawyers and agents to pore over.

  ‘Mrs Wintour and I passed several months there, the summer that John and Bella became betrothed,’ the Judge said. ‘It is a most agreeable spot, and the land is extraordinarily fertile. Poor Froude. I remember at the time I thought him the luckiest of men.’

  ‘He died soon afterwards?’

  ‘Early in the war. A sad business.’ Mr Wintour moved away from the table. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘I had a letter from Mr Rampton this morning, sir. My commission has been extended, probably until the autumn.’

  ‘And will you continue here with us, Mr Savill? I’m sure you would be very welcome.’

  The business was arranged in a moment, though the Judge said that, as a matter of form, he should consult the ladies about it.

  ‘Bella says I must treat this house quite as my own,’ he said. ‘But I do not like to take advantage of her good nature. There’s no time like the present – I believe we shall find them both in the drawing room.’

  ‘First, sir, may I mention something else? I regret to say that Mr Rampton has desired me to look into Mr Pickett’s death again. It appears he had a sister in England.’

  ‘Pickett?’ Mr Wintour picked up the second candle and the map instantly constricted itself into an untidy scroll. ‘That poor young man who was killed last summer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes – Roger Pickett, was it not? They hanged a runaway for it.’

  I nodded. ‘You know what government departments are, sir. They move like snails and they want everything five times over.’

  ‘I fear I cannot help you – I met Mr Pickett only once – in this house. We never had these dreadful murders before the war, you know.’

  ‘No, sir. Did you have much conversation with him?’

  ‘Hardly any. I was obliged to go out, you see – if I remember right, Judge Jones and I were meeting to talk over what we might do to urge the re-establishment of New York’s courts. The Government will achieve nothing if they do not allow us that.’

  I bowed, unwilling to be drawn into this familiar discussion. ‘Can you remember what you talked about with Mr Pickett? How he seemed?’

  ‘It’s so long ago now … He tried to make himself agreeable enough, I fancy – though I believe he was not comfortably situated, but that is true of so many of us nowadays. But I hardly had time to say “how do you do” to him. You must ask Mrs Arabella. She was still there when I left, and of course she knew him a little beforehand, which I did not.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’m afraid you may think me unchristian, but I remember wondering if he was come to ask for a loan.’

  ‘One more thing, sir – I suppose he did not mention a box of curiosities?’

  ‘A box of curiosities?’ Mr Wintour frowned. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I gather that his sister believes he may have had one.’

  ‘Very likely he did – many gentlemen do. It was all the rage before the war. My poor brother had one, I remember – when he was in Europe he collected miniature antiquities – seals and coins and the like – and he had a case made for them in London. I wonder where it is
now. Was Mr Pickett’s box valuable?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I do not even know what he collected or whether his box ever existed.’

  There was nothing more to be said on the subject. We went along the hall to the drawing room. The ladies were sitting over the fire. Mrs Arabella was reading aloud to her mother-in-law, who appeared to be asleep.

  It took only a moment to settle my extended stay in Warren Street. The Judge wandered away, pleading a need to tidy his papers before supper; otherwise Noak would have something to say to him when he next called.

  ‘Your daughter will be sad,’ Mrs Arabella said to me.

  ‘Hetty-Petty,’ Mrs Wintour murmured, addressing the fire.

  ‘Yes, poor Lizzie,’ I said. ‘She will be disappointed, and so am I.’

  ‘Have you considered bringing her here? And your wife, of course.’

  ‘The child is very young, ma’am, and she and her mother are comfortably settled where they are. If I sent for them, they would not arrive for at least three or four months. And Mrs Savill does not find sea voyages agree with her and she dislikes to leave London at the best of times. Besides, where would they live?’

  ‘They could stay with us.’

  ‘You are very kind, but New York is not the best place to bring a child. Not at present.’

  Mrs Arabella looked down at her lap. ‘That is true, sir. Forgive me. I allowed the heart to outweigh the reason.’

  ‘There’s no shame in that, ma’am.’

  She raised her head. The firelight flickered in her eyes. ‘There may be,’ she said.

  ‘That has not been my experience.’

  I spoke more bitterly than I had intended. I turned away, holding my hands to the fire. Mrs Wintour’s chin drooped to her chest. Her mouth fell open and she emitted a gentle snore. Dear God, I thought, what a fool I have made of myself in marrying Augusta.

  ‘I am heartily sorry for it,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ My voice rose. ‘Sorry?’ I knew I should not direct my foolish anger with Augusta and Rampton at Mrs Arabella, and I tried to moderate my tone. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. In any case, I wished to speak to you of something quite different, if I may. Mr Pickett.’

  ‘Mr Pickett?’ she echoed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have been commanded to look at the circumstances of his murder again.’ I glanced at her, but she had turned away to put her book on the table beside her. ‘I believe Mr Pickett’s sister has petitioned Lord North about it.’

  ‘I know nothing of that, sir.’

  ‘He called here a few days before his death.’

  ‘Yes, but he was only here for a few minutes, and I hardly knew him to begin with. That was the long and the short of it.’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am, I do not wish to pry but it is my duty to ask for particulars of your conversation. What did you talk about?’

  ‘It was months ago,’ she said with a touch of anger, which was hardly to be wondered at since I was coming it so high and mighty with her. ‘There was nothing of importance. Oh, I believe he said he had been in Philadelphia before he came here, and everything was in confusion there because of the evacuation.’

  ‘Did he ask for anything?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A loan, perhaps,’ I suggested.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or talk of his plans? Or of his friends in the city?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘He said nothing of consequence, sir. To own the truth, I did not much like him and I was glad to get rid of him. I thought it impertinent that he should call on so slight an acquaintance. As I told you, my father was acquainted with him over some small matter of business, nothing more. He had no conversation except about himself and no breeding. I dislike men like that and would rather not talk to them.’

  I felt the blood rushing to my face, for the words were aimed at me as much as Mr Pickett.

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. One more question and I am done. Did he say anything of a box of curiosities?’

  ‘No, nothing at all,’ she said, raising her voice; Mrs Wintour whimpered in her sleep. ‘Pray have the goodness to ring the bell, sir. I cannot think what they are doing downstairs. They should have announced supper by now.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Two days later, on Wednesday morning, Marryot and I revisited the house in Beekman Street where Pickett had briefly lodged in the last days of his life. Our shared commission engendered a fragile intimacy between us.

  The woman who kept the house, Mrs Muller, was a blowsy wide-bodied widow with thick forearms, a large chin and a forehead like an ape’s.

  ‘Pickett?’ she said. ‘The man got himself killed by the negro?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘We came to search his room if you remember.’

  ‘I know you did, but you didn’t pay his reckoning, did you?’

  ‘This is not to the point,’ Marryot said. ‘Did he have any callers while he was here?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t much care.’

  Marryot said, ‘If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head and answer our questions, I’ll have your licence to keep a lodging house revoked.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know if he had any callers.’

  ‘What about your servants?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s only the girl. But she did hardly nothing for him because his pockets were to let, and my gentlemen have to pay if they want to be served. Besides, she’s sixpence short of a shilling and—’

  ‘We’ll talk to her,’ Marryot interrupted. ‘Call her.’

  Mrs Muller grumbled but shouted down the stairs until the maid came, wiping her hands on a filthy rag. She was a mulatto, as broad as her mistress, barefooted despite the cold and with eyes like sloes. She dropped a token curtsey when she saw us. Then, quite unafraid, she stared first at Marryot, then at me.

  ‘Do you recall Mr Pickett who was here in the summer?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘No money,’ Widow Muller prompted, keeping to the essentials of the matter. ‘Got himself killed in Canvas Town.’

  ‘Hold your peace, ma’am,’ Marryot said.

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  The girl stared boldly at me. ‘He wanted me to do his linen, your honour. Mistress said no, so I didn’t.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ said the widow.

  ‘Did he have any callers while he was here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did anyone ask for him or bring him anything? Try to think.’

  ‘No, sir. Well – only that beggar.’

  Marryot loomed over her. ‘What? Eh? What’s that?’

  I pushed between them. ‘What did the beggar want?’

  ‘Just asked if Mr Pickett lived here, your honour, and then he give me the letter.’

  ‘A letter for Mr Pickett, you mean? What was this man like?’

  ‘Big negro,’ she said. ‘Red coat. Someone had carved up his face like a leg of mutton.’

  We got no more out of the girl or her mistress. They knew nothing of Pickett’s sister, nothing of a box of curiosities.

  ‘The fool might as well not have existed for all the trace he left behind him,’ Marryot said as we walked back to Fort George. ‘What the devil do they expect us to do?’

  ‘What about the negro with the letter?’

  The Major didn’t answer. The negro in the red coat must have been Scarface. But why should he have called at Beekman Street? Who had the letter been from? If he had killed Pickett, why call on him beforehand as if to announce a connection between them?

  In the next few days we found answers to none of the questions. Nor did our enquiries throw any light on the whereabouts of the scar-faced negro. He had – almost literally – slipped through our fingers.

  Both Marryot and I talked to gentlemen who had encountered Pickett during his brief stay in Philadelphia; but their acquaintance had been superficial; and in any case the withdrawal of the British from the city had been on eve
ryone’s mind to the exclusion of anything else. The town had been full of strangers.

  We were hampered at every turn by the need to pursue the investigation with discretion. We could not have bills posted about Pickett offering rewards for information or advertise in the newspapers. We discussed whether we should enlist Mr Townley as an ally but decided, in the end, that even with him we would risk more than we might gain.

  ‘A man never quite knows where he is with Townley,’ the Major said in an uncharacteristic burst of frankness. ‘I – well, I sometimes wonder if he’s laughing in his sleeve at us. He’s an odd fish, even though he drinks the King’s health as cheerfully as a man could wish. To be candid, I do not altogether trust him.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because he’s American,’ I said. ‘At home people think the colonists are a species of inferior Englishmen who labour under the misfortune of living among savages on the other side of the world. But I believe they are in the wrong of it. An American may call himself a Whig or a Tory but in this respect at least a man’s loyalty to His Majesty is neither here nor there. The point is, sir, however loyal an American may be, he is not a Englishman any more. He is become quite a different animal.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  New York had only one theatre, which was in John Street. Sometimes in an access of loyal enthusiasm it was referred to as the Theatre Royal, a misleading grand name for an ugly red building little better than a barn. It stood twenty yards back from the road; a covered way led from the street to its double doors. This was a ramshackle, wooden affair, and in wet weather the roof leaked. Indeed, there was something provisional about the entire establishment.

  But I soon discovered that the very act of patronizing the theatre was in itself considered meritorious, a token of one’s loyalty to the Crown. The dramatic entertainments were put on by the gentlemen of the army and the navy for the impeccably charitable purpose of relieving the widows and orphans of those who had fallen during the war. The ladies of New York were particularly happy to support a theatrical enterprise in which the dramatic roles, both male and female, were acted to such perfection by our brave soldiers, many of whom were young, handsome, well connected and unmarried.