The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

which looked out on a small garden laid out with bushes and gravelled walks in the old style. To the left was a service yard with a line of outbuildings. On the right, beyond a high wall, was another street, for Judge Wintour’s house stood at an intersection.

      At the bottom of the garden, in the angle where the rear wall met the long side wall, was a square pavilion built of red bricks, with the quoins and architraves dressed with stone. Beside it was a narrow gate to the street. The little building was raised above the road. A flight of shallow steps led up to a glazed door on the side facing the house, and there was a tall window on at least two of the other sides. It was some sort of summerhouse, I thought, a species of gazebo or belvedere. Lizzie would love to play house there. I would describe it to her in my next letter.

      I took up the pen again.

       I have not yet seen much of the house where I am to lodge for I did not arrive here until yesterday evening. It is in Warren Street, not far from King’s College. Judge Wintour was most welcoming and he was gratified to have intelligence of your Uncle Rampton, for whom he entertains the most cordial regard. Pray believe me to be your most devoted servant in all things, ES.

      I rang the bell. A young manservant named Abraham, little more than a boy, showed me down to the parlour where the table was set for breakfast. He said that Mrs Wintour rarely rose before midday, and that the Judge and Mrs Arabella were still in their rooms.

      While I was eating, there was a double knock on the street door. Abraham returned to say that a gentleman had called to see me.

      ‘Me? Is it Mr Townley?’

      ‘No, your honour. A Mr Noak.’

      ‘Very well. You had better ask him to step in.’

      Noak bowed from the doorway. ‘Your servant, sir. I apologize for calling on you so early. I fear necessity has no manners.’

      I had a sudden, uncomfortable memory of vomiting over a pewter platter containing Mr Noak’s dinner, not a fortnight ago. ‘My dear sir, in that case necessity is a welcome guest. Pray join me – have you breakfasted?’

      Noak perched on the edge of a chair. He said he had already had breakfast but would be glad of a cup of coffee.

      ‘I know you must be much engaged at present,’ he said. ‘But I did not know whom to turn to.’

      I guessed that Noak wanted money. People always wanted money. Townley had been right, when he talked at dinner of Congress’s lack of gold, its fatal weakness: None of us can do without money, eh?

      ‘—so any form of employment commensurate with my skills and small talents, sir.’

      ‘What?’ I said. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not quite catch what you said before that.’

      ‘I said that unfortunately the position I had been invited to fill no longer exists, sir. The gentleman I was to work for has died, and his son has wound up the business. There it is – I have come all this way for nothing, and now I am in want of a situation.’

      ‘I am sorry to hear it. But I’m not sure what I can do to help – except offer you another cup of coffee.’

      Noak shook his head. ‘May I hope for your good offices? You will soon, I’m sure, have an extensive acquaintance here. If you should come across a gentleman who is in want of a clerk – with, I may say, the very highest character from his previous employer in London, as well as considerable experience in the management of affairs both in America and in London – then I beg that you might mention my name.’

      ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ I said. ‘But …’

      ‘I know,’ Noak interrupted. ‘I am clutching at straws, sir. But a man in my position must clutch at something.’

      ‘Of course.’ I liked the man’s doggedness, his refusal to be cowed. ‘Leave me your direction, sir – I will send you a line if I hear of a place.’

      The American took out a pocket book and pencil. ‘A line addressed to the Charing Cross Tavern will always find me.’

      A moment later, he pushed back his chair and said abruptly that he would not trouble me any further. It was clear that asking the favour had not come easily to him, and I liked him the better for it.

      After I had finished breakfast, I was passing through the hall when I heard another knock at the front door. Abraham opened it. A servant was on the step. I heard him mention my name. Abraham took a letter from him and presented it with a low bow to me. I tore it open.

       Mr Savill

       I have just this moment received intelligence that our body yesterday has acquired a name: a corporal on the Commandant’s staff says he is a Mr Roger Pickett, a gentleman newly arrived in New York, who was lodging at Widow Muller’s on Beekman Street (opposite St George’s Chapel). Major Marryot suggests we meet him there as soon as is convenient. The bearer of this will conduct you to the house if you are at leisure. If not, I shall do myself the honour of waiting on you later in the day.

       Yours, etc. C. Townley

      Judge Wintour came down the stairs, clinging to the rail.

      ‘Mr Savill, good morning. I hope you have passed a satisfactory night. You’ve breakfasted, I hear. Would you do me the kindness of sitting with me and taking another cup of coffee while I have mine? There is much I should like to ask you about the current state of affairs in London.’

      ‘Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir – but perhaps I might defer our conversation until later.’ I held up the letter. ‘I have to go out.’

      The Judge’s eyes had strayed to the open door, where the messenger was waiting. ‘You there,’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp. ‘You’re Mr Townley’s man, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes, your honour. He sent me for Mr Savill.’

      ‘Another dreadful crime, I suppose,’ the Judge said. ‘I have never known the city like this. We shall soon be murdered in our beds.’

      ‘Yes, sir. And murder it is. A gentleman, too – Mr Pickett.’

      ‘What?’ The Judge clung to the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Abraham moved instantly to his other side and took his arm. ‘Roger Pickett? But it can’t be.’ The old man turned his faded blue eyes from the servant’s face to mine. ‘Mr Pickett was in this very house, sir – not a week ago.’

       Chapter Eight

      ‘Not a man of substance, as you see,’ Townley said. ‘Not now.’

      The little room was at the back of the house in Beekman Street and on the third floor. The window overlooked a farrier’s yard. It was warm and close. I heard a roll of thunder in the distance.

      Roger Pickett’s possessions were strewn over the bed, the table, the one chair, the chest and the floor. Mingled with them were unwashed glasses, plates, bottles, bowls and cups, many with scraps of rotting food still adhering to them. Widow Muller, the woman who kept the house, was a slattern. Besides, she had told Marryot that Pickett could not pay for the maid’s services.

      I stood in the doorway, hat in hand. ‘Had he lived here long?’

      ‘A matter of ten days,’ the Major said. ‘Time enough to turn it into a pigsty.’

      Townley was delving into the papers on the table. He raised his head and smiled at me. ‘I fancy he would have called on you, if his life had been spared.’

      ‘I suppose he desired compensation like the rest of them?’ Marryot said, opening the chest. ‘Dear God, you Americans are like hogs around a trough – not you, of course, sir; there must be exceptions to every rule – but I hold by the general principle.’

      ‘No doubt Mr Pickett suffered losses, sir,’ Townley