The Silent Boy (30 page)

Savill climbed the stairs to the first-floor landing. A desperate urgency possessed him – every hour without any sign of Charles made the boy’s return less likely – but he could not allow a trace of his anxiety to appear, not to Malbourne.

Malbourne’s room was smaller than Rampton’s, to which it served as an antechamber. A small fire burned briskly in the grate. The smell of the coal mingled with a sweet, delicate scent that seemed to come from Malbourne himself.

The table by the window was strewn with letters, some open, some still sealed. There was also a set of rectangular baskets, similar to those that Savill had seen in Rampton’s room.

‘You are obliged to work on Sunday, sir?’ Savill said.

‘Yes. Cruel, is it not? But the mails arrive on Sundays as often as any other day, and it is not convenient to let them remain unsorted.’

Malbourne indicated a chair by the fire for Savill. He himself sat down at his table, angling his own chair away from the piles of correspondence. The house did not have the usual air of a government office, any more than the elegant Mr Malbourne had the usual air of a government clerk.

Savill wondered again precisely what business was transacted in this place, what business was so urgent that it had to be transacted on a Sunday. Clearly it included the opening of letters addressed to other people, which could hardly be an agreeable employment for a man of Mr Malbourne’s stamp.

‘Did your affairs prosper in Somersetshire?’

‘They did not go as I had hoped they would, sir.’ Savill hesitated. ‘Which is why I am anxious to discuss the matter with Mr Rampton.’

‘We are expecting him on Monday morning. He is probably at Vardells, though I cannot say for certain.’

‘Then I must hire a horse and ride out there.’

Malbourne looked sharply at him. ‘May I be of service myself? I could arrange a messenger to take a letter, if you wish. Or, if you prefer to discuss the matter with me at once, I shall place myself entirely at your disposal. As you know, Mr Rampton honoured me with his confidence.’

For a moment Savill was tempted to unburden himself. Malbourne knew already that he had been down to Norbury to fetch Charles, and he was fully cognisant of the peculiar circumstances of the émigré household at Charnwood Court. But did he know everything? For example, did he know about the magistrate’s warrant that Rampton had given Savill? Did he know that the boy had been struck dumb?

A memory stirred in Savill’s mind: when he had called here before, when Rampton had talked confidentially to him in the inner office, Malbourne had not quite closed the door to the outer office, the room in which they were sitting now. Had that been by accident or design? If the latter, had Malbourne eavesdropped on their conversation? Was it possible that he knew that Mr Rampton intended to make Charles his heir?

‘You do not look yourself, sir,’ Malbourne said. ‘I understand from Mr Rampton that you’ve been unwell.’

‘I’m quite restored now,’ Savill said. He could not prevent himself from running the tip of his tongue over the smooth skin that lined the socket where his tooth had been, from probing the slight swelling that lingered there.

‘I’m rejoiced to hear it. And where have you left Charles?’

‘There has been a difficulty. That is why it’s so urgent that I should see Mr Rampton.’

Malbourne smiled slightly and his eyebrows rose. He leaned forward in his chair, waiting for Savill to explain. Instead, Savill listened to the sound of a carriage passing along the street and said nothing.

‘Ah!’ Malbourne tapped his table in mock irritation. ‘I had nearly forgot – there is something for you.’ He opened a portfolio on his table, took out a letter and handed it to Savill.

It was directed to him care of Mr Rampton’s office. Savill recognized his sister’s large, careful handwriting. He murmured an apology and broke the seal.

My dear Brother,

I have received News from my Sister Ann, saying that my poor Husband’s Mother is very ill, and is believed to be on her Deathbed. She is most Anxious to see Me, and I to see Her, for She was very good to me when I was first Married, so I am obliged to go to Norwich. Lizzie does not wish to accompany Me, saying she would be a Burden to my Husband’s Family at this Sad Time. Besides, she wishes to be here in London for your Return. I have shut up the house, and Lizzie has gone to Stay with Mrs Pycroft and to help Mary with her Preparations. I shall return as soon as I may. With Heaven’s Blessing, the Melancholy Event will be Delayed until another Year at least.

In the Hope that your Business in the Country has prospered, I am, dear Brother, your affect. Sister,

J. Ferguson

‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Malbourne said with a slight smile.

Savill shook his head. It occurred to him that Malbourne and Rampton might already know the contents; and even that Malbourne might expect him to consider this possibility.

‘My sister has been obliged to shut up the house in my absence.’ He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. ‘Did Mr Rampton leave any word for me?’

‘Not with me, sir. Was he expecting you and Charles today?’

‘No. Not in particular.’ Savill stood up. ‘I must not trespass further on your time.’

‘But what will you do?’

‘I shall go home, sir, in case Mr Rampton left a message there. Then I shall go to Vardells.’

Malbourne accompanied him down the stairs. ‘Where do you stay tonight?’

‘I left my bag at the Swan With Two Necks. I shall probably go there, as my house is shut up. Unless Mr Rampton keeps me with him at Vardells.’

‘If he is not at Vardells, why not come here, sir?’

Savill stopped abruptly, his hand on the rail. ‘Here?’

‘We have an arrangement with the house over the way,’ Malbourne said. ‘We keep two apartments at our sole disposal – our couriers and so on come and go, you see, often with very little warning. The bedchambers are not large but they are clean, and you may have food sent in, if you wish. I’m persuaded you would be much more comfortable there than at an inn. And of course you would be able to see Mr Rampton the very instant he arrives tomorrow morning.’

‘I am much obliged, sir.’

‘Then I will leave word with them. And with Jarsdel. They will do whatever you require. If you wish it, they will have your bags brought over from the Swan With Two Necks, and pay your bill there.’ Malbourne was studying him with pale, clear eyes. ‘Forgive me, sir, but you look fatigued. Wherever you go, I hope you find a good dinner and a good night’s sleep.’

Is a home to a house what a soul is to a body?

Savill stared at the shuttered façade of his house in Nightingale Lane. From where he stood on the corner, he could see the tops of the tall chimneys of the kitchen and bakehouse. There was no trace of smoke. He had looked forward to this moment since he left London – the first sight of his own house; the foreknowledge of the welcome that awaited him within.

Without people inside it, though, the place was as forlorn as a corpse. He chided himself for his folly – he had known the house would be empty; it was irrational to feel melancholy to see proof of it with his own eyes. Yet his sensibilities obstinately refused to behave in a rational manner.

Savill decided against calling on Mrs Forster, the servant who acted as a caretaker when the family was away, though this would have been courteous and perhaps sensible as well. Once, however, Mrs Forster had been a housekeeper for a lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn and with old age she had become garrulous about the glories and curiosities of her previous position – and, indeed, about any other subject under the sun that took her fancy, so long as it related to herself.

Mrs Forster was a good woman and wholly trustworthy; and Savill’s sister depended on her for assistance with the management of the house; but it was almost impossible to stop her talking once she had begun. She was deaf, as well, and when she and Savill’s sister talked together, their conversation was audible all over the house.

She did not live with them, a circumstance that Savill considered a merciful blessing from almighty God, but lodged in the smallest of the houses in the lane with her niece, an altogether unfortunate young person who was in fact widely believed to be her natural daughter by her previous employer.

That was the reason why Savill had entered Nightingale Lane not by the wider entrance where it passed directly in front of her parlour window, but by the footpath that communicated with one of the new roads north of Bedford Square.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a low door set in the wall by the side of the house. The door opened into the kitchen yard. To the left was the house; directly opposite him, and attached to the house, was the lower roofline of the stable and the loft above. Through an archway on his right was his garden and, beyond it, the trees of his orchard.

Savill passed into the house by the door to the scullery, whose key was concealed under a stone in the yard. The air inside was cool and damp, for none of the fires had been lit for days. The kitchen table was bare and newly scrubbed. The walls were thick. The only sound was the ticking of the clock in the hall.

The shutters covered the principal windows of the larger rooms, but enough light filtered through the cracks for him to be able to find his way. He looked into the downstairs apartments, knowing they were empty but driven by a desire to see them again. He went upstairs and found a clean shirt in the press in his own chamber.

He left to last the room where he transacted business and sat reading when he wished only for his own company. His sister referred to it with a certain pride as the bookroom.

On the table he found a pile of letters waiting for him – three bills, and a line from his tailor to say that the Sunday coat he had ordered was ready for him to try on at his convenience.

There was also a letter from his daughter. He tore it open and held it to the light from the window.

Dearest Papa,

I shall be Mortified if you bring my Brother home while I am at Mrs Pycroft’s with Mary. Pray call on us with him as soon as ever you may. I have a Particular Favour to ask. May I not come Home and Keep house for you, even before my Aunt returns? I do so wish to meet Charles, and to see you of course, and Mary will get along very Well with her Sewing without Me. You have been Gone such an Age.

Your Loving Daughter,

E. Savill

But there was nothing from Mr Rampton.

The afternoon was well advanced by the time Savill came up the drive to Vardells. The weather had improved during his ride from town, though now it was growing colder. The long windows of the new library reflected watery sunlight, more silver than gold. The sky was a very pale blue and partly veiled with high lace-like clouds.

At the house they said that Mr Rampton had sent word he would not come down yesterday and probably not today, either. It left Savill with no alternative but to ride back with the sour knowledge that this had been a wasted day.

Near the lodge, he stopped and took from his pocket the brass telescope that Dr Gohlis had found in the woods. The house was visible from here and he focused the glass on it. It was a well-made thing and the image was so sharp that the wall of the house seemed near enough to touch.

There was no trace of the swallows that had so irritated Mr Rampton. By this time of year, they would have departed, or hidden themselves away in the mysterious place where they spent the winters. Aristotle, Savill had read, believed that swallows, swifts and martins huddled together in groups, wrapped themselves in balls of mud and lay, snug and dry, at the bottom of ponds until spring. He did not think it likely himself, for surely someone would have found a ball of them by now. He hoped Charles was warm, wherever he was, for winter was coming.

The grounds were studded with young trees that would flourish as mature specimens in a hundred years’ time. It occurred to Savill that Vardells, like Norbury Park, had been built for a posterity that did not exist: that Mr Rampton, like the late Mr West, was building a dream, not a country house. A dream that needed Charles to make it real.

Waking and dozing, thinking and dreaming, Charles hears the sound all night long.
Tip-tap.
Tell no one. Tell no one that the black sky will soon rain blood.

On the other side of the cupboard door, the man in the blue coat is restless. He paces up and down, the floorboards creaking. Once he stumbles. A chair falls over and so, perhaps, does he, for he swears and stamps and then weeps. He also breaks a glass.

Later still, when the man has been snoring for some time, Charles rises to his feet very slowly and, with the blanket draped around his shoulders, he listens at the door. The regular rhythm of the breathing does not change.

Tip-tap.
If it were not for that, the scales of fear would be equally balanced. To stay or to try to escape. At least there is no longer room for doubt. Not now.

Holding his breath, Charles pushes the wire in the lock and pulls the door away from it, while nudging the door outward with a gentle pressure from his knee. With a scrape that assaults the ears, the door swings away from him.

The snoring stops. Charles holds his breath. The rustle of the river filters into the silence. The room is very nearly dark. The window overlooking the garden is uncurtained. The sky beyond the glass is grey, though the trees of the garden are nothing but jagged black shadows.

The man sighs. His breathing resumes and so, in a moment, does his snoring, though now it is a more delicate and melodious sound than before, with an extra whistle at the very end of each in-breath.