The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor

      She forced him to stop again. ‘It is not that you don’t want him, is it? Because he – he’s not your son?’

      ‘No …’ Savill hesitated. ‘Or rather, I do not think so.’

      ‘What is his name?’

      ‘Charles.’

      ‘Charles,’ she repeated, as if turning the name over in her mind and examining it from every angle. ‘Charles. Where is he living now? Who is looking after him?’

      ‘In England, at the house of a French gentleman, the Count de Quillon, who was obliged to leave his country because of the Revolution. Which is another complication. The Count had a kindness for your mother and, for her sake, he wishes to keep Charles with him and remain his guardian.’

      ‘But surely you would not let them take him from us? Either this Count or my uncle Rampton?’

      ‘The poor boy is alone in the world, and orphaned. He does not know us at all. I wish to do what is best for him, not for us.’

      There was a silence.

      ‘Will you pour the tea?’ he said.

      She obeyed mechanically. But as she passed him his cup she looked directly at him.

      ‘Will you ask him about my mother?’ she said. ‘Will he tell you who his father is? Do you think he knows?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Savill said. ‘I don’t know anything except that he’s your mother’s son and his name is Charles. And I shall go down to Somersetshire next week to fetch him.’

       Chapter Eleven

      The house in Crown Street was one of a gently curving terrace. The building had been newly refaced and refurbished. It must once have been a private residence but, like so many of its neighbours in the vicinity of the Palace of Westminster, it had gradually become a government office.

      Savill mounted the three shallow steps up to the front door. At his knock, a shutter in one of the door’s upper panels slid open. Savill glimpsed a fat finger that lacked a nail. He gave his name and asked for Mr Rampton.

      After a pause, he heard the rattle of a chain within and the grating of bolts. The door opened, revealing a vast porter whose bulk filled most of the height and width of the narrow hallway. He was as tall as a Potsdam grenadier but far wider. His barrel of a body balanced on tapering legs that seemed too thin and fragile to bear its weight.

      Beyond him was an inner door. Breathing heavily through his mouth, for his nose was a flattened ruin, he studied Savill and then consulted a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up. ‘You’re to go in,’ he said in a combative tone, as though Savill had expressed a wish to do otherwise.

      The porter rapped twice on the inner door. As he did so, Savill glimpsed the palm of his right hand, which was disfigured by a broad welt or burn.

      There was the rattle of another bolt. The inner door opened. A grizzled, whippet-thin clerk took Savill’s name and business without comment. He waved him into a room on the left of the passage, where two other clerks were at work. The office was divided by a tall wooden partition into unequal parts. In the larger part, nearer the fire and the window, were the clerks’ high desks. In the smaller part were four dirty wooden chairs for visitors and a row of hooks.

      ‘I dare say Mr Rampton will see you shortly,’ the clerk muttered.

      He retired behind the partition, where he pulled a handle in the wall by the fireplace and clambered on to his stool. Savill heard the ping of a distant bell. He sat, his face impassive, while the three clerks took turns to peer over the partition at the visitor. As soon as he met their eyes, they looked away.

      Five minutes passed, perhaps ten. There were footsteps on the stairs and Malbourne came into the office. He was no longer wearing the black-silk sling.

      ‘Mr Savill, sir, your servant. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. Mr Rampton’s quite at leisure now and begs you to step up.’

      ‘What is this place?’ Savill asked as he climbed the stairs.

      Malbourne glanced over his shoulder. ‘We are part of the Post Office, sir.’

      A clock ticked on the first-floor landing and the brass door furniture shone. Malbourne led him into an office overlooking the street and tapped on an inner door. Rampton’s voice cried ‘Enter’.

      The room beyond was large, airy and comfortably furnished. Only a large table set along one wall hinted that business was transacted here. It held bundles of letters tied with pink ribbon, some of them sorted into flat, rectangular baskets.

      Savill bowed to Mr Rampton who, with great condescension, rose from his chair behind his desk and inclined his head in return.

      ‘How obliging of you to call,’ Mr Rampton said, as if this was no more than a casual meeting. ‘Shall Malbourne send out for something? Is it too early for a glass of sherry?’

      ‘Not for me, sir, thank you.’

      ‘You may leave us, Horace. Close the door, but hold yourself at readiness in case I need you.’

      Malbourne bowed and withdrew. He closed the door but Savill did not hear the snick of the catch engaging.

      Rampton waved Savill to a chair beside his desk. ‘Tell me, how does Miss Elizabeth do this morning?’

      Savill said she was very well and added that his daughter would be most gratified to hear that her uncle Rampton had been enquiring after her.

      Rampton nodded impatiently. ‘I take it that you have not had second thoughts about our agreement?’

      ‘No, sir. As you may recall, I have committed myself merely to—’

      ‘Yes, to be sure we are quite clear about where we both stand.’ Rampton opened a drawer and took out a small packet. ‘For my part, I have not been idle since we last met. I directed my attorney to write on your behalf to the Count, informing him that you, as my poor niece’s husband, propose to call on him at Charnwood to collect the boy and the necessary papers. My name does not appear, of course. The Count should have received the letter by now.’

      The top of Rampton’s desk was almost empty – it was a fad of his, Savill remembered, to keep the desk he worked on as clear as possible. He broke the seal that secured the outer wrapping of the packet. He took out two sheets of paper.

      ‘This one confirms who you are,’ he said, ‘and this one is an attested copy of the marriage certificate of my poor niece and yourself.’ He put down the papers and took up a third. ‘Are you familiar with the terms of the new Police Act? No? Well, I suppose there’s no reason that a law-abiding citizen need be. One of the provisions of the act was to set up police offices and appoint stipendiary magistrates. Foolish people always assume that such measures constitute a mechanism for government to suppress the liberties of individual citizens …’

      ‘Are they wrong?’

      ‘Of course they are. Our police have a particular task, and only one: to prevent revolution. One of their magistrates, Mr Ford, has provided you with this warrant: it gives you the authority to enter Charnwood Court and remove the boy Charles into your keep. I hope it will not be necessary for you to use it, but there is no harm in your being prepared.’

      Savill watched the papers multiplying on the desk. He felt stirrings of alarm. Attorneys? Magistrates? Police offices?

      Rampton picked up another document. ‘Now, you should not need this but it will serve to introduce you to a local justice as a representative of the police office. Mr Ford requires him to give you any assistance you may need. In case of emergency, he appoints you under the Police Act as his agent or deputy, which gives you temporary powers of inquiry, arrest and detention, subject