The Silent Boy (9 page)

Savill mounted the three shallow steps up to the front door. At his knock, a shutter in one of the door’s upper panels slid open. Savill glimpsed a fat finger that lacked a nail. He gave his name and asked for Mr Rampton.

After a pause, he heard the rattle of a chain within and the grating of bolts. The door opened, revealing a vast porter whose bulk filled most of the height and width of the narrow hallway. He was as tall as a Potsdam grenadier but far wider. His barrel of a body balanced on tapering legs that seemed too thin and fragile to bear its weight.

Beyond him was an inner door. Breathing heavily through his mouth, for his nose was a flattened ruin, he studied Savill and then consulted a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up. ‘You’re to go in,’ he said in a combative tone, as though Savill had expressed a wish to do otherwise.

The porter rapped twice on the inner door. As he did so, Savill glimpsed the palm of his right hand, which was disfigured by a broad welt or burn.

There was the rattle of another bolt. The inner door opened. A grizzled, whippet-thin clerk took Savill’s name and business without comment. He waved him into a room on the left of the passage, where two other clerks were at work. The office was divided by a tall wooden partition into unequal parts. In the larger part, nearer the fire and the window, were the clerks’ high desks. In the smaller part were four dirty wooden chairs for visitors and a row of hooks.

‘I dare say Mr Rampton will see you shortly,’ the clerk muttered.

He retired behind the partition, where he pulled a handle in the wall by the fireplace and clambered on to his stool. Savill heard the ping of a distant bell. He sat, his face impassive, while the three clerks took turns to peer over the partition at the visitor. As soon as he met their eyes, they looked away.

Five minutes passed, perhaps ten. There were footsteps on the stairs and Malbourne came into the office. He was no longer wearing the black-silk sling.

‘Mr Savill, sir, your servant. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. Mr Rampton’s quite at leisure now and begs you to step up.’

‘What is this place?’ Savill asked as he climbed the stairs.

Malbourne glanced over his shoulder. ‘We are part of the Post Office, sir.’

A clock ticked on the first-floor landing and the brass door furniture shone. Malbourne led him into an office overlooking the street and tapped on an inner door. Rampton’s voice cried ‘Enter’.

The room beyond was large, airy and comfortably furnished. Only a large table set along one wall hinted that business was transacted here. It held bundles of letters tied with pink ribbon, some of them sorted into flat, rectangular baskets.

Savill bowed to Mr Rampton who, with great condescension, rose from his chair behind his desk and inclined his head in return.

‘How obliging of you to call,’ Mr Rampton said, as if this was no more than a casual meeting. ‘Shall Malbourne send out for something? Is it too early for a glass of sherry?’

‘Not for me, sir, thank you.’

‘You may leave us, Horace. Close the door, but hold yourself at readiness in case I need you.’

Malbourne bowed and withdrew. He closed the door but Savill did not hear the snick of the catch engaging.

Rampton waved Savill to a chair beside his desk. ‘Tell me, how does Miss Elizabeth do this morning?’

Savill said she was very well and added that his daughter would be most gratified to hear that her uncle Rampton had been enquiring after her.

Rampton nodded impatiently. ‘I take it that you have not had second thoughts about our agreement?’

‘No, sir. As you may recall, I have committed myself merely to—’

‘Yes, to be sure we are quite clear about where we both stand.’ Rampton opened a drawer and took out a small packet. ‘For my part, I have not been idle since we last met. I directed my attorney to write on your behalf to the Count, informing him that you, as my poor niece’s husband, propose to call on him at Charnwood to collect the boy and the necessary papers. My name does not appear, of course. The Count should have received the letter by now.’

The top of Rampton’s desk was almost empty – it was a fad of his, Savill remembered, to keep the desk he worked on as clear as possible. He broke the seal that secured the outer wrapping of the packet. He took out two sheets of paper.

‘This one confirms who you are,’ he said, ‘and this one is an attested copy of the marriage certificate of my poor niece and yourself.’ He put down the papers and took up a third. ‘Are you familiar with the terms of the new Police Act? No? Well, I suppose there’s no reason that a law-abiding citizen need be. One of the provisions of the act was to set up police offices and appoint stipendiary magistrates. Foolish people always assume that such measures constitute a mechanism for government to suppress the liberties of individual citizens …’

‘Are they wrong?’

‘Of course they are. Our police have a particular task, and only one: to prevent revolution. One of their magistrates, Mr Ford, has provided you with this warrant: it gives you the authority to enter Charnwood Court and remove the boy Charles into your keep. I hope it will not be necessary for you to use it, but there is no harm in your being prepared.’

Savill watched the papers multiplying on the desk. He felt stirrings of alarm. Attorneys? Magistrates? Police offices?

Rampton picked up another document. ‘Now, you should not need this but it will serve to introduce you to a local justice as a representative of the police office. Mr Ford requires him to give you any assistance you may need. In case of emergency, he appoints you under the Police Act as his agent or deputy, which gives you temporary powers of inquiry, arrest and detention, subject of course to his confirmation.’ He looked at Savill and his hand fluttered as if shaking drops of water from his fingers. ‘Again, just in case.’

‘Surely this is quite unnecessary, sir?’

‘Almost certainly it is,’ Rampton said. ‘But the Government believes these are dangerous people. One should take nothing for granted.’ The fingers fluttered to alight upon another sheet of paper. ‘Say, for example, you should desire to communicate with me while you are at Charnwood. Do not write to me here or at Vardells. Address the letter to Frederick Brown, Esquire, at the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, to await collection. I have made a memorandum here.’

Savill said, ‘Who is Mr Brown?’

‘There is no Mr Brown, as such. He is a convenient fiction. I must emphasize that my name must not appear in this in any way. It would be prejudicial to the Government.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say.’ Rampton smiled across the desk. ‘Now – this is an inside ticket to Bath, on the mail diligence. I understand that Charnwood is fifteen or twenty miles from the city. You will have to hire a conveyance to take you on to Charnwood. And perhaps on your way back with the boy, you will find it easier to hire a chaise at Bath and travel post up to London.’

Rampton unlocked another drawer and took out a small canvas roll. He placed it on the desk, where it lay like a grey sausage.

‘Fifty guineas in gold,’ he said. ‘You must sign for it, of course, and we will require a full account of any monies you disperse. The sum should be ample, but in case of emergency here is a letter to Mr Green of Green’s Bank in Bath. It will authorize you to withdraw further funds. But I do not think you will need to trouble him.’

Savill took the papers and looked through them. Rampton pushed pen and ink towards him. Savill signed receipts for the money and the papers. He stowed them both in an inner pocket. He felt the weight of the gold dragging him down.

‘There’s more to this than the boy,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rampton said. ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘All this. The money. This deed. The warrant. Your Mr Brown.’

‘My dear sir, you are allowing your fancies to run away with you.’ Rampton sat back and stared at Savill. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘I have been quite candid with you. I want to restore Charles to his family. I want to bring him up as my heir. All these precautions are necessary solely because of the peculiar nature of his present guardians – and, indeed, the delicate nature of my own employment. Is all this so very strange?’

‘Pray, sir,’ Savill said, ‘what exactly is the business of this office?’

‘What? Oh, there’s no mystery about that. We are a sub-department of the Post Office. We are known as the Foreign Office, or the Black Letter Office, because we handle the foreign mails.’ Rampton rang a bell on his desk. ‘While you are here, it may be helpful for you to hear a little more about Charnwood.’

Malbourne entered the room. He inclined his head. ‘Sir?’

‘Charnwood Court, Malbourne – who owns the freehold?’

‘A lady named Mrs West, sir, the widow of the brewer. She resides at Norbury Park, I believe, when she is in the country. Charnwood is a house on the Norbury estate.’ Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘When she was in town in the spring, she was often seen in the company of Monsieur Fournier. In fact, I believe it was he who arranged the tenancy, and it is his name on the lease.’

‘That backsliding priest,’ Rampton said. ‘A traitor to his God as well as to his king.’

‘Yes, sir. He arrived in England after the massacres in September. I believe he took the lease for Charnwood in the spring, which suggests he is remarkably far-sighted. He declines to call himself an émigré, however.’

‘In other words, he’s sitting on the fence,’ Rampton said. ‘Waiting to see what happens with the King. Besides, most of his wealth is in France and he doesn’t want to lose it if he can help it. But he’s a clever devil, Savill – if he’s at Charnwood, he’s a man to watch.’

Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘And a charming devil, sir, as well. Monsieur Fournier is a man of great address and he is very adroit at worming his way into intimacy with those who he believes may further his interests.’

‘What if Mr Savill needs to summon a magistrate to enforce his claim?’

‘He should communicate with Mr Horton, sir, the Vicar of Norbury. He is the nearest Justice now. The village is less than a mile from Charnwood.’

Rampton turned to Savill. ‘The coach leaves tomorrow. You should be back with Charles by Saturday at the latest.’

Malbourne showed Savill out. The porter in the outer hall did not move from his stool when the inner door opened. His eyes were closed.

Malbourne stopped. ‘Jarsdel!’

The eyes snapped open. ‘Sir?’

‘Stand up and make your obedience, damn you.’

The porter rose from his stool with the caution of a snail emerging from his shell. He bowed ponderously.

‘This gentleman is Mr Savill,’ Malbourne told him. ‘He is a particular friend of Mr Rampton’s. If he calls again, you are to admit him directly and show him every courtesy. Is that understood?’

Malbourne followed Savill down the steps and on to the pavement.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘Jarsdel’s an insolent fellow. It amuses Mr Rampton to make a pet of him, and he’s inclined to give himself airs in consequence. If we do not bring him up occasionally, he grows intolerable.’

Savill smiled and nodded, but said nothing.

‘I hope your journey prospers,’ Malbourne went on.

All that money, Savill thought, all those papers – and all this for a little boy.

‘I wonder what it is you really do here, sir,’ he said.

Malbourne glanced back at the house and smiled: and that was all the answer he gave. ‘I wish you a safe journey, sir,’ he said. ‘And a happy return.’

It took Savill over twelve hours to travel by the mail coach from London to Bath. Most of that time it rained.

He spent the night in Bath at the Three Tuns inn. It was still raining in the morning, when he hired a gig to take him to Norbury, with a groom to drive him. The owner of the livery stable told him that the village’s situation was remote, far from the nearest post road.

The chaise was open to the elements. Savill sat behind the driver. Despite his great coat, a travelling cloak, top boots and a broad-brimmed hat, the rain found ways to reach his skin.

Their road was narrow and winding; the rain filled the ruts with puddles and turned the higher parts to mud. The country was generously provided with hills, which no doubt would have afforded a variety of fine prospects if the rain and the mist had permitted Savill to see them.

As the day passed, they laboured on, mile after mile. The driver muttered under his breath. The horse was a tired, broken-down creature that seemed incapable of going much beyond a foot-pace. They stopped twice, ostensibly to rest the unhappy animal but really for the groom to dose himself against rheumatic fever with gin and hot water.

There was said to be an inn at Norbury. Savill had intended to put up there, order his dinner and then call at Charnwood Court to make the necessary arrangements to take the boy away in the morning. But he realized that he had been too optimistic before they had covered half their distance. They would be lucky to reach the village before evening.

The light was already beginning to fade when they came to a small but swollen river that surged between high green banks, its surface mottled with muddy froth. The lane passed over the river by a wooden bridge resting on stone piers that were coated on their upstream side with green slime.

The two men climbed down. The groom led the horse and chaise across the bridge, with Savill behind. The wood was slippery with moisture and in places had rotted away.

‘How far is it now?’

‘A mile, sir. Maybe.’

After another mile, by Savill’s reckoning, they were still no nearer the village. The lane narrowed again and began to twist and climb. They came to a sharp bend with a partly open field-gate on its outer edge. As they rounded the bend, they found themselves face to face with a bull.

It was a large brown animal that to Savill’s eyes seemed the size of a small cottage. The horse came to an abrupt halt, straining against the harness of the chaise. The bull had its back to them. For a moment no one moved. Then the great beast slowly turned round. It examined them with sad, incurious eyes. Its legs were coated with pale mud, which gave it the appearance of wearing stockings.