The Silent Boy (29 page)

Draughts swirl up through the floorboards, bringing with them the smells of the river.

The cupboard is not entirely dark. A thin rectangle of light shows between the door and its frame. A thin vertical crack runs down the lower panel of the door, admitting a line of daylight. The keyhole glows. Charles squints between door and frame at the room beyond where they slept and ate. There is nothing to see but the corner of the table.

As the minutes pass, Charles’s eyes adapt. He makes out the side of the water jug where its lustre catches the light and reflects it back. The chamber pot is a dark suggestion of itself upon the floor. Beside it is the rat-trap.

Charles gathers facts. The cupboard is approximately one and a half paces wide and two and a half paces long. The height is harder to estimate, especially in the near dark, but he guesses it must be three to four paces.

He examines the shelves, trailing his fingers over each one, covering every inch of the surface, moving from top to bottom and from left to right. He finds dust, fragments of plaster and tangles of spiders’ webs that cling to his skin. He disturbs something that moves under his fingertips. Woodlice, perhaps. He wonders if he could bring himself to eat them if the man does not come back.

Finally he searches the floor. Under one shelf there is a knothole in the floorboard, which allows in some light. He lies on his belly and manages to get his eye to the knothole. He is looking into the boathouse itself, at the shimmer of water.

The skiff they came in is still there, rocking slowly up and down. The side of the boathouse towards the river is open, but fringed by alders, which have grown to make an arch over the water. Their leaves filter green light into the gloom below. He cannot see the river beyond the trees.

Last of all he comes to the chamber pot and the rat-trap. The trap is a crudely made thing of wire that rests on a heavy wooden base. He runs his finger along the side. The metal parts are rough to the touch because they have rusted. He cannot see anything inside but, just to be sure, he picks up the contraption and shakes it. It rattles slightly and something metallic falls to the floor.

He brushes his fingers through the grit until he finds what it is: a nail, about two inches long. At one end it curves into a right angle. It is something to play with, though Charles can barely see what he’s doing with it. Using it as a pen, he scratches his name on one of the shelves.

This is not forbidden, this writing, for there is no one to read it.

Afterwards – idly, for something to do – he pokes the nail into the cracks in the door. He pushes the curved end of the nail into the keyhole. He twists it to and fro. He feels resistance and twists the nail harder. He feels movement within the lock but the bolt does not move.

He tugs the wire from the lock. The movement is violent enough to make the door shift a fraction in its frame. The damp from the river has made the door buckle, twisting it from the jamb on the side where the lock is. He hears a scrape. The door swings into the room beyond.

This is not liberation: it is another reason to be scared. What if the man with the blue coat returns and beats him for opening the cupboard door? Still in the cupboard, Charles draws the door towards him. The extended bolt of the lock touches the frame on the outside. Using the nail as a lever he pulls the door laterally towards its hinges. The tip of the bolt scrapes over the lip of the retaining socket and drops into place. The door is locked again.

Relief washes over him. He opens the door again and, alert for sounds outside, steps into the room beyond.

There are two windows, opposite one another. One looks over the wide, grey river to fields and a handful of houses on the further bank. The other window reveals a wild garden choked with saplings and overgrown bushes. Here and there are glimpses of flagged paths and raised beds.

He tries the outer door but it is locked. No amount of pulling and pushing will open it.

In one corner is a rusty stove with the remains of its flue propped in the corner behind it. The two chairs stand on either side of a small table, its top stained with patches of colour in faded crayon and paint, and pitted with scars.

The remains of their breakfast are still there. Charles breaks off a crust and eats it, not because he is hungry but because he can.

The blankets are huddled in the corner. The man has a velvet cushion as a pillow. It has left a trail of feathers on the floor beside it.

His portmanteau is half-concealed among the blankets. It’s not locked. But there’s nothing of interest inside, only two dirty shirts, a pair of stockings, an empty bottle and a razor with a handle of ivory, tipped with silver.

Charles is about to retreat to the safety of the cupboard when, on a whim, he opens the door of the stove. The interior is stuffed with a pile of papers and books. On top of them is a scattering of broken pens, pencils and fine paintbrushes still encrusted with paint.

He takes out the first paper. It is a sketch in pen and ink of a church with ladies and gentlemen, strolling past the railings in front. The paper is spotted brown with damp and curls at the edges. There are initials in the right-hand corner: RO.

Charles examines another sheet, a painting in watercolour of a building with pillars in a city street. It disintegrates at his touch and the initials RO crumble to nothing between his thumb and forefinger.

One of the books is next. The pages stick together. Charles prises two of them apart, tearing some of the paper. But enough remains to make out that these are pencil sketches: on one side is a man with heavy features reading a book by the light of a candle; on the other is a lady bent over an embroidery frame. The next page is blank and has detached itself from the binding. He pushes it in his pocket, and finds a stub of pencil to go with it.

He hears a noise outside. Two crows have perched on the handrail at the top of the steps. Bright-eyed and restless, they shift from leg to leg. Charles thrusts the mutilated sketchbook into the stove. He darts back to the safety of the cupboard where the crows can’t see him.

When the man returns, Charles is dozing, trying to ignore the cold and the hunger. The man wraps him tightly in a blanket and rubs his arms and legs. Warmth returns slowly. Charles cries softly with the pain of it.

The man does not seem to mind. He dabs at Charles’s cheeks with a handkerchief that smells of spirits and stale tobacco. ‘Hush,’ he says. ‘Oh dear, dear, hush.’

Afterwards, he crouches beside Charles and feeds him as if he were a baby: a mouthful of dry, coarse bread; a morsel of hard cheese that tastes so sour Charles nearly gags; and a drink of water to wash it down. Then again, and again. So it goes on until Charles can eat and drink no more.

The man sits back. He’s still crouching and his bony knees are nearly on a level with his head. He is like a strange insect that Maman used to call, in English, a father-longlegs. He rocks himself slowly to and fro.

‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘I could not help wondering – well, not to put too fine a point on it – you were going blue at the edges. I was afraid that – anyway, all’s well that ends well.’ He stretches a long arm to the table, where his glass stands beside the loaf. ‘No idea I’d be so long.’ He frowns. ‘Can’t think why I was. Business, I suppose. Always business, eh? Takes longer than you think it will. And it’s much colder than it was – I didn’t expect that.’

Charles stares at the window, at the darkening sky.

The man drinks. ‘Strange little thing, aren’t you?’ He belches softly and screeches for the first time since his return. ‘All bones and eyes and ears. You need feeding up.’

They eat supper by candlelight. The man has brought more rolls, another piece of cheese and some slices of ham that taste of apples and cloves. The man watches him eat and nods sometimes, as if in approval of Charles or possibly of himself. But he himself hardly touches the food. Instead he applies himself to his bottle.

Afterwards they sit in silence, each of them with a blanket over their shoulders. The man’s eyes close; his head falls forward with a jerk; and he’s fully awake again, wide-eyed and on the edge of panic. He drags out his watch and screeches with alarm.

‘Good God? Is that the time already?’ He leaps to his feet. ‘He will – that is to say, you must retire for the night. At once, do you hear? At once.’

The muscles in the man’s face won’t stay still. He pushes Charles into the cupboard. He closes the door but immediately opens it again to pass in another blanket, the chamber pot and a jug of water.

‘Be quiet,’ he says. ‘Go to sleep, there’s a good lad. It won’t be long now, I promise. Everything will be better tomorrow.’

Charles lies awake in the dark and listens to the sounds of the river, to the man moving about the room and to his own breathing. Faint lines of candlelight waver around the door. He wonders what the man meant.

It won’t be long now, I promise you. Everything will be better tomorrow
.

How could anything be better? On the contrary, things become worse. That is clear from what has happened to his own life. Other lives support this – consider the poor King in his prison, Maman in her grave and even the Count, who has lost all his money and his power that made him so grand and important. Everyone is unhappier than they were.

Things become worse: this is a fact, as unassailable in its way as the measurements of the Garden of Neptune.

He begins to list the facts he knows in his mind. The more facts he has, the safer he will be. By the time he reaches number 38 (the colour of Miss Horton’s eyes, which are not quite brown and not quite green but something in between, depending on the light and the angle you see them from), his eyelids are drooping and he is finding it hard to concentrate. That is when the sound of knocking jolts him fully awake.

There are footsteps, then the sliding of bolts and the scrape of the outer door.

‘It is so late I thought you would not come,’ says the man in the blue coat.

Another voice replies, but so quietly even the sound of it is barely audible.

‘An honour, of course … a pleasure … A glass of something to keep out the cold?’

The second voice speaks again. The words are lost in the sounds of the river.

‘I give you my word we’ll be there,’ says the man in the blue coat. ‘You may depend on it. So the carriage at midday …?’

More lost words.

‘Inspect the merchandise, eh?’ The familiar chicken screech of mirth erupts from him. ‘A thousand pardons. But nothing will be easier. And very prudent, if I may say so … No, not a word. Mute as a stone, eh?’

Heavy footsteps approach the cupboard.

‘You must prepare yourself, he’s not looking his best. But wash his face, give him a good meal and a change of clothes and I dare say his own mother wouldn’t know him … I beg your pardon, my tongue runs away with me sometimes …’

There are footsteps and the key turns in the lock. Charles cowers under the blankets. His eyes are open, just a crack so no one will know he is not asleep.

The door opens. The cupboard fills with the light of the candle in the hand of the man in the blue coat. Behind him, in the gloom of the room, is someone else, barely more than a shadow.

‘There he is. Shall I rouse him up? No?’

The shadow says nothing. Nevertheless there are sounds.

Tip-tap.
Like cracking a walnut.

Charles cannot breathe. His body tightens up, fixing him in his agony.

‘I wish he’d say something,’ says the man in the blue coat. ‘Anything.’ He gives one of his quieter screeches. ‘But it’s like trying to converse with a statue.’

Tip-tap.

The bells of Westminster were summoning worshippers. The morning air was keen, sharpened by an east wind that brought a hint of winter’s approach.

The outer door of the house in Crown Street was closed. Savill rapped the knocker three times.

No one came. He looked up at the blank windows of the house. There were no signs of life. He knocked again, more loudly and for longer than before. A moment later, the shutter in the door slid aside and two small eyes inspected him.

‘Closed, sir.’

‘My name is Savill. I’ve business with Mr Rampton.’

‘Come back tomorrow, ten o’clock.’

Savill put his hand on the shutter to prevent the porter closing it. ‘Jarsdel? You’ll remember me. Mr Malbourne made me known to you the other day when I called on Mr Rampton.’

There was a spark of recognition in the eyes.

‘My business with Mr Rampton will not wait. Is he in the country? Or at his house in Westminster?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’ The ruined nose made the man’s voice sound as dense and greasy as a pot of lard. ‘Come back Monday.’

‘Then I’ll try his house here first. Where is it?’

‘Can’t say, sir.’

‘Can’t? For God’s sake, man.’ Savill felt in his pocket for his purse. ‘Or won’t?’

The eyes flickered. ‘Sorry, sir. I would if I could. But it’s more than my place is worth.’

‘Mr Malbourne, then. What’s his direction?’

‘Mr Malbourne, sir? Why didn’t you say? I’ll enquire if he’s engaged.’

The shutter closed with a bang. There was silence on the other side of the door. Savill waited, surprised that Malbourne should be here on a Sunday. Minutes dragged by. The shutter opened again and the eyes reappeared.

‘You’re to come in, sir.’

The porter unbarred and opened the door. The clerks’ office on the left of the passage was shuttered and dark. But daylight streamed through an oval skylight above the stairs. There were footsteps above and Malbourne himself appeared.

‘Mr Savill, your servant, sir.’ He bowed gracefully. ‘And I am mortified that we should have kept you waiting. Jarsdel, you’re a blockhead. Have you no memory at all? Do you not recognize this gentleman? He was here only the other day.’

‘I beg your pardon for disturbing you,’ Savill said, squeezing past Jarsdel. ‘I was enquiring after Mr Rampton.’

‘Then you must permit me to see if I can assist you. Pray come up to my room – there is a fire there and we shall be quite comfortable. Have you breakfasted? Shall I send Jarsdel for something?’