The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor

lay at the bottom of a dark, steep-sided coomb. Dilapidated cottages faced each other across the single street. The church was set back above the road among a huddle of gravestones. Chickens pecked the dirt and squabbled with one another.

      At the upper end of the village was the inn where Savill had intended to dine and spend the night. The lady introduced him to the landlord, Mr Roach, a brisk, efficient man with bright eyes.

      ‘Mr Savill, sir, is it? Good day to you – we’ve been expecting you.’

      ‘Really? You surprise me.’

      ‘Yes, sir – they sent down from Charnwood two or three days ago to say you’d be coming. I’m to send you up to the house directly.’

      ‘I was intending to put up here.’

      ‘No, sir. Mr Fournier was most insistent, you are to go up to the house. But what’s happened?’

      ‘There has been an accident, Roach,’ the lady said. ‘We must send a message to Mr Bradshaw that his bull is loose. This poor gentleman’s chaise had a smash in Parker’s field because of it.’

      It was arranged that the remains of the chaise would be brought to Mr Roach’s barn. The groom would stay the night at the alehouse and return with the horse to Bath the following morning to consult with the proprietor of the livery stables about what should be done and about the thorny question of obtaining compensation from Farmer Bradshaw. Savill, having left a sum of money to defray the immediate cost of this, would travel to Charnwood in a vehicle that Mr Roach had in his stable.

      ‘An admirable plan,’ the lady said. ‘Now my father will be wanting his tea, and you must excuse me.’

      None of the men spoke as she walked away, lifting her feet high above the mud of the village street. She crossed the road and took a narrow path that ran between two stone walls. It led to the churchyard, higher up the slope of the valley. Beyond the church were the roofs of a house that looked more substantial than the cottages in the village.

      ‘Ah well,’ said Mr Roach. He squinted up at the sky. ‘We better get you up to Charnwood, sir, before it starts raining again.’

      Twenty minutes later, a boy led out a small, sad pony attached to a two-wheeled vehicle that was the next best thing to a cart. Savill scrambled up to the seat beside Mr Roach. In the interim, they had become the focus of attention for a small but growing crowd that watched their every move with great interest. Some of the younger ones followed the chaise. Their comments floated up to him like a chorus of Somersetshire voices commenting on the action of a Greek tragedy.

      ‘Looks a cross one, don’t he? … Wish I’d seen him rolling in the mud … That bull wouldn’t hurt a fly. Reckon he’s scared of cows.’

      As the road left the village, it turned and climbed. One by one, the followers dropped away.

      ‘Who is the lady, by the by?’ Savill said. ‘I didn’t catch her name.’

      ‘Vicar’s daughter, sir; Miss Horton.’ Mr Roach pointed to the right with his whip. ‘See that, sir? That’s Norbury Park. She’ll have been on her way home from there.’

      In the distance, partly concealed in a fold of the hills, was a plain stone house of some size. Savill dredged a name from his memory. ‘Mrs West’s house?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Hardly the weather for a lady to walk out in.’

      ‘Lord bless you, sir, Miss Harriet don’t mind a bit of rain, no more than a duck does.’

      They pulled up in front of a pair of gates set in a wall with a small cottage beside them. Mr Roach leaned out of the cart, rattled his whip on the bars of the gates, and shouted: ‘Hey, there!’ in a voice that was possibly audible in the village.

      ‘Deaf,’ he explained to Savill, lowering his voice to a normal volume. ‘I don’t know why Mrs West lets her stay there. The lady’s too soft-hearted, and that’s a fact.’

      An old woman shuffled out of the cottage.

      ‘Good afternoon, Mrs White,’ Mr Roach shouted. ‘How’s your boy doing in the Dragoons? Keeping well, I hope?’

      She appeared not to hear him.

      ‘Leave the gates open, will you? I shan’t be long.’ Mr Roach dropped a copper into Mrs White’s outstretched hand before passing into the drive. She nodded to him. She paid no attention whatsoever to Savill.

      ‘Poor woman,’ Mr Roach said to Savill as they rattled slowly up the drive. ‘Lost her husband last winter, one son went off to be a soldier and the other one fell under a wagon when he was drunk. Grandson works in the gardens here but he’s always in mischief. Maybe the good Lord knows what He’s about, but damned if I do.’

      The light was already fading from the sky. Dead leaves on the ground muffled the sound of their wheels. The drive sloped steadily downwards.

      ‘Gloomy old place, eh, sir?’ Mr Roach said. ‘Wouldn’t want to live here myself. Dreadful damp. That’s why Mr West built the new house higher up on the other side of the valley.’ He grinned. ‘Still – better than living in France or heathen parts like that.’

      Savill’s discomfort was steadily increasing. His clothes were soaked through. He had missed his dinner and he was ravenously hungry. Worst of all was the damage to his pride: he was aware how forlorn he must look. His arrival in this wretched chaise would hardly improve matters.

      ‘Sorry about the bumps, sir,’ Mr Roach said. ‘The back drive is even worse. That’s the one I generally use. But I reckon having you here turns this into a gentleman’s chaise.’

      He burst out laughing. Savill bared his teeth in what he hoped might resemble an answering smile. The drive followed a bend and suddenly reached its destination. Now they were clear of the protection of the overhanging trees, Savill became aware of how hard the rain was falling.

      ‘Well, this is it, sir,’ Mr Roach said, raising his whip in a sort of salute. ‘Charnwood. Not to everyone’s taste, perhaps, but you know what the sailors say: any port in a storm.’

       Chapter Thirteen

      It is growing dark when Charles is summoned. Mrs Cox sends a maid to tell him that he must go at once to the library.

      Monsieur de Quillon is seated in his armchair, his legs wide, stretched towards the fire. Dr Gohlis is in the shadows, idly turning a great globe that stands in the corner.

      The Count beckons Charles towards him. ‘What’s this I hear?’ he says in his deep, hoarse voice. ‘You’ve fouled your bed again? It won’t do, do you hear? Not for someone like you.’

      Charles wonders whether it would be different if he were like someone else.

      ‘I was going to have them thrash the nonsense out of you. But the doctor suggests we give you a chance to make amends.’

      Charles glances at Dr Gohlis. He is surprised, and made wary, by the kindness.

      The Count massages his temples with his fingers. ‘So if you start talking again, we’ll say no more about it. You won’t be beaten. The matter will be closed.’ He looks directly at Charles and says, almost as if they were equals, one man to another: ‘Well? What do you think?’

      Charles would like to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ but he can say nothing. He does not even bow.

      The Count sighs and throws himself back in his chair.

      ‘It’s merely a matter of will,’ the doctor says, abandoning the revolving world and coming toward the fireplace. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my boy. Nothing at all.’ He takes Charles’s chin and tilts it so Charles is forced to look directly