The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

are full of rebels already. In my view, sir, these knaves should be rounded up and hanged – or be turned loose to fend for themselves in the Debatable Ground. It would be kindness to them and a relief to the respectable class of citizen.’

      The watchers scattered as the rest of the party appeared from the cellar. The goat had a bell around its neck and it tinkled as it followed the boy. Only one man lingered – a tall negro wearing the faded red coat of a British soldier. He stared with strange hauteur at the men beside the cart, as though he were a person of consequence in this commonwealth of knaves and unfortunates. His dignity was marred by the pink scars that ran from his eyes to his mouth, one on either side of his nose. They twisted the face into the semblance of a smile.

      The soldiers brought the body into the street and rolled it into the cart. The sergeant threw a tarpaulin over it. The negro sauntered into the empty doorway of a roofless house.

      Marryot gave the slightest of bows and turned smartly away, gesturing to the sergeant to move off.

      ‘A moment, sir, if you please,’ I said.

      The Major stopped and, for the first time, looked directly at me. He was below medium height but made up for his lack of inches in other ways, for he was broad in the chest and decisive in his movements.

      ‘What enquiries will you make in this matter?’ I asked.

      ‘That’s my business, sir. Mine and the City Commandant’s, unless Sir Henry Clinton decides otherwise.’

      ‘Mine too, sir. Under the terms of my commission I am obliged to report on the administration of justice in the city in all its aspects – and in particular upon the authority that the military power exercises over the civilian population.’

      Marryot’s colour darkened. ‘Need I remind you that we are at war?’

      ‘The American Department is well aware of that, sir. And so am I.’

      The Major glanced at Townley. ‘Sir, would you have the goodness to explain to Mr Savill that this is a city under martial law? Capital crimes are tried in courts martial, as Lord George Germain knows from personal experience.’

      Townley smiled impartially and shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘I do not dispute that capital crimes come under military jurisdiction, sir.’ I spoke in an intentionally quiet voice, purged of emotion. ‘I do not wish to interfere. Merely to have an oversight.’

      Marryot’s grip tightened around his cane. ‘If wishes were horses, sir, then beggars would ride.’

      ‘If you deny me in this, sir,’ I said quietly, ‘I shall complain formally both to Sir Henry here in New York and Lord George Germain in London. My orders are signed by Lord George, and his authority in this matter derives directly from His Majesty.’

      ‘I’m damned if—’

      ‘I repeat, sir. I do not wish to interfere with the discharge of your duties in any way. My orders are to observe, nothing more. I have my commission here, if you would like a sight of it.’

      The Major’s forehead was scored with three vertical lines that sprang from the bridge of his nose. When he frowned, the lines deepened. He did not speak for a moment. Then he held out his hand.

      ‘You may show me your wretched scrap of paper.’

      He read the commission slowly, while Townley paced up and down, fanning himself with his hat and whistling softly. The soldiers clustered around the cart in silence. They must have gathered something of what was going on, for Marryot’s voice was naturally loud and harsh, and he had made no attempt to moderate its volume.

      He handed back the letter of authorization. ‘I warn you, sir, it will be a waste of your time and mine. But what can one expect when our affairs in America are at the mercy of a man who hides behind a desk three thousand miles away?’

      I had no desire to fight other people’s battles. ‘And how will you proceed in this matter?’

      ‘We’ll find out who the man is, if we are lucky. Then at least he can be buried under his own name. As to his murderer: I do not hold out much hope there, sir, unless someone lays information. If a man looks for his pleasures in Canvas Town, he runs the risk of paying heavily for them.’

      ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m much obliged.’

      Townley smiled at us. ‘I’m rejoiced to see you such good friends, gentlemen.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Mr Savill, I do not wish to hurry you, but we should be on our way. I fancy the Wintours keep early hours.’

      ‘Eh?’ Marryot said. ‘You are engaged at Judge Wintour’s?’

      Townley bowed. ‘In a manner of speaking. Mr Savill will be lodging there during his stay in New York.’

      Marryot coloured again. ‘Pray – ah – pray give my compliments to the Judge and his ladies. Tell them that I hope to do myself the honour of calling on them to see how they do.’

      The three of us, followed by the soldiers and the cart, walked down to Broadway, where we separated. Townley and I turned left and made our way slowly eastwards in the direction of St Paul’s Chapel.

      ‘Well,’ Townley said, ‘you are quite the Daniel, I perceive, and have ventured into the lion’s den and emerged unscathed. I have seen Major Marryot make grown men quail.’ He smiled at me. ‘But have a care, sir. He is a man of some importance in this city and you should mind how you cross him.’

      We strolled in silence the length of another block. Then Townley added: ‘Oh – and by the by – they say he has a certain tendresse for young Mrs Wintour.’

       Chapter Six

      The high-ceilinged room was a place of shadows. Despite the heat, the windows were shut and the curtains closed – because, old Mrs Wintour said, the smell of the great fire was become intolerable and the street below so noisy.

      Ten candles burned on brackets attached to the walls but they served mainly to accentuate the surrounding gloom. A heavy moth, drunk with desire, circled one of the flames. I could not drag my eyes away from it. The candle singed first one wing, then the other. At last, and with supernatural strength, the besotted insect reached the fatal flame again. There was a faint sizzling sound. The moth fell to the pier table immediately beneath the bracket and lay there, twitching.

      ‘More tea, sir?’ Mrs Wintour asked, pale and indistinct on a sofa.

      ‘Thank you, ma’am, but no.’

      I rubbed sweating palms on my breeches. The Judge let slip a long, rumbling snore from the recesses of his high-backed armchair. Only his legs were visible.

      Having discharged her duties as a hostess, Mrs Wintour sat back and did not speak. I could not tell whether her eyes were open or closed. From somewhere below came a clatter as though a pot had fallen on the floor. The moth gave up its unequal struggle with the world and expired. The air in the room seemed to condense into a dark, swaying liquid, trapping the humans like three curious natural specimens suspended in alcohol.

      Would it always be like this, I wondered? Would I sit in silence, night after night, in this smothering subaqueous fog? The memory of the corpse in the harbour drifted into my mind, and I saw again the decaying face of the merman. Perhaps the poor fellow now lay in just such a stifling semi-darkness at the bottom of the ocean.

      It was past ten o’clock. In a moment the grandfather clock in the hall must chime the quarter. It seemed as if days or even weeks had passed since it had last chimed the hour. A frugal supper had been served at nine by a manservant out of livery and a maid. I had been here since eight o’clock. Townley had introduced me to the Judge and had then slipped away, promising to call for me in the morning.

      The drawing-room door opened. Mrs Wintour twitched in her chair and emitted a little cry as though someone had pinched her. A lady entered.

      ‘Ah,