The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor

there were acute and penetrating additions, like flashes of lightning, of something far worse.

      Today, Savill thought, seizing on another subject that might distract him from the pain, I have seen Augusta’s son.

      He wished Lizzie had been here. He had not known that his daughter wanted a brother. Why had he never thought to ask?

      He had brought the miniature of Lizzie. Perhaps he would show Charles what his sister had looked like when she was a child. Not at once, of course. He must wait until they had grown accustomed to one another’s company.

      What would Charles say if he could speak? Had he been there when his mother was murdered? Had he seen her killed?

      The lightning returned.

      ‘Ah!’ Savill said.

      ‘You must see Gohlis immediately,’ Fournier said behind him.

      ‘Later.’

      ‘No, no. Now. One cannot trifle with pain, sir.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Savill drew a deep breath. The lightning had receded for the moment. ‘Tell me, can Charles read and write?’

      Fournier raised his face. In the clear light of morning, the eyes beneath the crooked eyebrows were a shade of brown that merged imperceptibly with green, like pond water. ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘So one may converse with him on paper?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. He used to be an apt scholar, but if you ask him to write anything now – anything at all – he will give the appearance of applying himself to the task with great industry. But the result of his labours is merely scratchings and scribblings. From a distance they mimic the look of handwriting. But when you try to read them all you see is a tangle of impenetrable marks.’ Fournier paused and his murky eyes seemed larger than ever. ‘The servants think he is either an idiot or possessed by the devil. If not both.’

      ‘And what do you think, sir?’

      ‘I am aware merely of my own ignorance.’ Fournier smiled, inviting complicity in a shared superior understanding. ‘Poor Charles almost certainly witnessed the murder of his mother. How can one predict or even understand the effect of such a shock on the delicate sensibilities of a child? He was always inclined to be highly strung and full of fancies.’

      ‘When will the Count be downstairs, sir? There are papers that—’

      ‘My dear sir, permit me to be frank: you are not well.’

      Savill rubbed his forehead, and found it hot and damp to the touch. The pain was even there now, dull and throbbing. It had spread all over the head and even to the neck.

      ‘I must take Charles to London.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Fournier said. ‘Now pray sit down a moment. Your pacing is making me feel quite dizzy. You cannot take Charles to London now, not for a day or two.’

      ‘I can, sir.’ Savill sank into a chair. ‘I have full authority—’

      Fournier flapped his napkin in mild reproof. ‘I know, sir, I know. I do not dispute that. All I am saying is that it is not practicable for you to travel. Your chaise is a wreck, I understand, and I hear this morning that the groom who brought you has taken your horse back to Bath. There is neither horse nor chaise for hire in Norbury. And I regret to say that our establishment at Charnwood is so limited that we cannot even send you to Bath in our own coach because we simply do not have one.’

      ‘There must be a way.’

      ‘Unless you wish to walk, sir, I’m afraid that you must send to Bath for a chaise to fetch you. And that will take at least two days. In which case, you might as well put the delay to good use by allowing Gohlis to deal with your tooth.’

      ‘A horse,’ Savill said. ‘Ah!’

      Another blinding flash of pain destroyed everything but itself. As it receded, he became aware that Fournier was speaking.

      ‘… So, in the circumstances, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, sir. What is a blessing?’

      Fournier smiled. ‘I was saying that, since today is Friday, and since the postboy has already called, it is unlikely that a letter could reach Bath until tomorrow evening. And I doubt a livery stable would wish to act on your instructions until Monday.’

      ‘I could not impose on you so long,’ Savill said, but feebly.

      ‘Nonsense, my dear sir.’ Fournier stood up and rang the bell. ‘Now – we shall find Gohlis, and he will deal with your tooth. And tomorrow morning our good Vicar will try his hand at a miracle with Charles. Who knows? One must always keep an open mind. Faith may succeed where science has failed.’

      ‘If I had a free hand, sir,’ Dr Gohlis said, opening the side door of the house, ‘I have no doubt that the boy would be speaking within days. More than that, I would most certainly have succeeded in eradicating his other undesirable habits.’

      Savill winced as the rush of fresh cool air sent a needle of pain into his jaw. ‘Surely, sir, you have been in a position to treat him for nearly two months?’

      ‘That is precisely what I have not been able to do.’ The doctor glanced at him. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes into gleaming blue pools. ‘Once or twice I have been able to test the theory on him for an hour or two but that is all. But, in a case of this nature, it is imperative that a physician should have unfettered access to his patient and complete responsibility for his care. The Count refuses to surrender Charles to my control.’

      For a moment they walked in silence down the flagged path beside the house.

      ‘I am afraid that he places too great a reliance on the theories of Rousseau,’ Gohlis continued. ‘Nature is a wonderful guide in the management of children, but it must not be our only one.’

      ‘What course of treatment would you recommend?’

      The doctor’s lips moved silently as he considered the question. ‘If I were all-powerful, I should wish to know a great deal about the boy and his upbringing. Have you read Dr Gregory’s Comparative View of the State and Faculties of Man with Those of the Animal World? It is most instructive. I wonder, for example, whether Charles was fed at his mother’s breast or whether his parents hired a wet nurse.’

      ‘I cannot understand why that should be of any importance,’ Savill said.

      ‘That is because you are a layman, sir. A mother’s milk does more than nourish the body of an infant. It also imparts sentiments of virtue, even morality. If a woman feeds another’s child purely for mercenary reasons, then what nourishes the body does not nourish the soul as well, or not in the same way.’

      ‘His mother’s milk won’t cure him now.’ Savill spoke roughly, the toothache affecting his manners. ‘The boy has been mute for nearly two months.’

      ‘I agree, sir, it is very curious.’ The doctor was unruffled by Savill’s tone. ‘It’s a most unusual case, quite fascinating. And I believe our best chance of curing the patient is to rely not on the nostrums of the past, but on the philosophy of the future. Tell me, are you aware of the work of Karl Philipp Moritz? He edits a journal on what we physicians call Erfahrungsseelenkunde.’

      ‘And what does that mean?’

      ‘I suppose one might translate the term as the empirical science of the soul. It is an inductive science above all. Facts should be the building blocks for theory, not the other way round. Moritz encourages his readers to write down their childhood memories, and to use them for self-analysis.’

      ‘Ow!’ said Savill. ‘I – I beg your pardon, Doctor.’

      ‘Not at all. My own view, sir, is this: the human mind is a complicated matter but there are always causes for any effects we perceive. Reason tells us that and natural philosophy confirms it