“No, sir.”
“Such innocence. All you need to know, Miss Slythe, is that I make a wonderful friend, and a very bitter enemy. Well?”
The last word was not addressed to Campion, but to a tall, well-built young man who had come into the room and now waited by the desk with a handful of papers. He gestured with the papers.
“The Manchester monies, Sir Grenville.”
Sir Grenville Cony turned. “Ah! My Lord of Manchester’s loan. I thought I had signed those papers, John.
“No, Sir Grenville.”
Sir Grenville walked to the table, took the sheaf of papers, and looked through them “Twelve percent, yes? What people will pay for money now! Is he importunate?”
“Yes, Sir Grenville.”
“Good. I like my debtors to be importunate.” He reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and signed. Then, without turning round, he spoke to Campion. “Are you not warm in that cloak, Miss Slythe? My secretary will take it. John?” He gestured for the young man to take Campion’s cloak.
“I’ll keep it, sir. If I may,” she added lamely.
“Oh, you may, Miss Slythe, you may.” Sir Grenville was still looking at papers. “You may do as you like, it seems.” He plucked one paper from the desk. “John, tell my Lord of Essex that if we put a tax upon saltpeter he will have no powder for his guns. I suppose we must treat him as a simple soldier. He seems intent on being one.” He thrust the papers at his secretary. “Good. Now leave us alone. Miss Slythe and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
The secretary left and, once again, there was the ominous sound of a door being locked. Sir Grenville Cony ignored it, thrusting his huge belly between the angle of table and wall, and then settling in the vast leather chair. “So you are Miss Dorcas Slythe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I, as doubtless you have surmised, am Sir Grenville Cony. I am also a busy man. Why have you come to see me?”
She was unsettled by his abruptness, by the distaste on his extraordinarily ugly face. The meeting was not at all as she and Toby had imagined it.
“I wished to ask you some questions, sir.”
“Meaning you wish me to supply you with answers? About what, pray?”
She forced herself to speak clearly, even boldly. There was something about the small, fat man that was unnerving. “About my father’s will, sir, and about the Covenant.”
He smiled, the wide mouth curving malevolently. “Sit down, Miss Slythe, sit down.” He waited until she was perched precariously on the spindly chair. “So, you wish some answers from me. Well, why not? I suppose that’s what lawyers are for. Preachers for opinion, Miss Slythe, poets for fancy, and lawyers for facts. So, ask me your questions.”
Sir Grenville had begun a strange action as he spoke to her. His left hand was moving with stealth like slowness along the surface of the table. It crawled like a crab, as if his white, pudgy fingers were small legs, and she saw that the hand was travelling toward a china dish in which were the remains of a fruit pie. His eyes stayed on Campion.
“Well, go on, girl!”
The hand distracted her. It had reached the dish now and the fingers were sidling slyly over the rim. She forced her eyes away and tried to think. “My father’s will, sir, seemed mysterious…” She tailed off lamely, her nervousness increasing with each second.
“Mysterious? Mysterious!” Cony’s voice was oddly harsh for such a small, fat man. “The will was read to you, was it not, by a lawyer? I will agree that Isaac Blood is merely a country lawyer, but I would have thought him competent to read a will!” The hand had reached the remnants of pie now and was molding pastry and fruit into a compact ball.
“He did read the will, sir.” Campion was trying to compose her thoughts, but still the sight of the hand, now on its slow way back from the dish, disconcerted her.
“I am so glad, Miss Slythe, so glad. For a moment I had thought you found our profession wanting, but it seems Mr. Blood is spared this charge. So what, pray, was so mysterious? I found your father’s will touchingly simple.” He smiled again, as if to soften his sarcasm and then, with an oddly ceremonious gesture, brought up his hand and popped the ball of crushed pie into his mouth.
He seemed to smile at her as he chewed, as if he knew he had succeeded in unsettling her. His left hand, freed of its first burden of pie, was once more creeping down the table.
Campion forced herself to look at the pale, unblinking eyes. “In my father’s will, sir, there was mention of a Covenant, and of a seal. Mr. Blood was not able to give me details.”
He nodded, swallowed, and smiled again. “So you have come all this way to find out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good!” The hand was almost at the dish again. He turned. “John! John!”
The door was unlocked. Campion supposed that the secretary would be asked to fetch some papers, maybe even the Covenant itself, but instead he brought two shallow dishes on a tray. Sir Grenville waved toward Campion and the tray was offered to her. She took one dish, the thin china fearfully hot. She was forced to put the dish on the carpet, and saw that it contained a dark, transparent liquid in which some brown scraps floated.
Sir Grenville had taken the second dish, after which the secretary left, closing and locking the door. Sir Grenville smiled. “Tea, Miss Slythe. Have you ever drunk tea?”
“No, sir.”
“You poor deprived child. You have never heard of Narcissus, and you have never drunk tea. It is a drink, Miss Slythe, brought from the Orient at considerable risk to mariners’ lives, merely so we can enjoy it. Don’t worry,” he had raised a pudgy hand, “it contains no spiritous liquor. You may drink it in the knowledge that your soul is quite safe.” He bent over the dish of tea and slurped it noisily, straining it between his thin lips, and still his eyes seemed fixed on her. “Try it, Miss Slythe. It is most expensive, and I will be offended if you spurn my kindness.”
She used the edges of her silver-blue cloak to carry the dish to her mouth. She had heard of tea, but never seen it, and the taste was strong and nauseating. She made a face.
“You don’t like it, Miss Slythe?”
“It’s bitter.”
“So many things in life are, don’t you think?” It seemed to Campion that Sir Grenville was trying to be friendly now. She had stated her business, he must approve, and now he seemed to want to put her at her ease. His left hand crept once more toward the pie dish, which at last he acknowledged. “It is a quince tart, Miss Slythe. Do you like quince tart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you must try Mrs. Parton’s quince tarts. She makes them in a small house by Lambeth Stairs, from where they are conveyed to me, quite fresh, each morning. Have you brought me the seal?”
The question surprised her, startled her, so much that she spilled some of the tea on to her beautiful, new cloak. She cried out in dismay, and the distraction gave her a second or two to think. “No!”
“No what?”
“I have not brought the seal.” She was astonished at the vigor of his attack.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know!”
Sir Grenville Cony stared at her. She had the sensation that his pale, bulging eyes saw clean through her, into the recesses of her soul. She still held the tea-dish, her face still bore her distress at the stain on her new cloak. Suddenly he had seemed friendly, the offer of tea convincing her that he was prepared to deal kindly with her, yet now she realized that Sir Grenville was far better prepared for this interview than she was. He had not needed to tell his secretary what he wanted, the tea had been prearranged, and just as she was relaxing he had hit her with his fast questions. She put the tea unsteadily on to the carpet. Sir Grenville’s voice was still harsh.
“You know what the seal is?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me.”
She thought quickly. She must reveal no more than
what Isaac Blood had revealed on that day when he read the will. She spoke carefully. “It authenticates a signature on any papers dealing with the Covenant, sir.”
Cony laughed. “Very good, Miss Slythe, very good! So where is the seal?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What does it look like?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Really?” He put another ball of pie into his mouth and chewed as he stared at her. She wondered if he ever blinked and, just as the thought occurred to her, he did so. He blinked slowly, like a strange animal, and then his row of chins heaved as he swallowed the quince and pastry. “You do not know what it looks like, Miss Slythe, yet when you first sought admittance to my house you described the Covenant as being that of St. Matthew? Yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And how, pray, did you know about St. Matthew?”
“My father told me, sir.”
“He did? He did, Miss Slythe?” The left hand was crawling again. “Tell me, did you have a happy relationship with your father?”
She shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“Really, Miss Slythe? A pleasant father and daughter, were you? He talked with you, yes? Shared his problems? Told you all about the Seal of St. Matthew?”
“He mentioned it, sir.”
He laughed at her, disbelieving, and then, quite suddenly, he seemed to change again. He leaned forward. “So you want to know about the Covenant. Very well, Miss Slythe, I shall tell you.” He seemed to be thinking, staring over her head at the naked Narcissus while his left hand, that appeared to have a life of its own, groped and molded at the fruit and pastry.
“Some years ago, Miss Slythe, your father and I, together with some other gentlemen, embarked upon a commercial venture. It does not matter now what it was, all that matters is that it was successful. Indeed! Very successful. I dare say we all surprised ourselves and even enriched ourselves. It was my thought, Miss Slythe, that the monies we had jointly made might be sufficient to keep us in our respective old ages, to make us comfortable in our dotage, and so the Covenant was formed. The Covenant was a convenient arrangement whereby one man could not cheat on his partners, and thus it has proved. We now severally limp into our dotage, Miss Slythe, those of us who survive, and the Covenant ensures our comfort during the winter of our lives. And that, Miss Slythe, is all there is to it.” He ended triumphantly, celebrating by another ceremonious gesture with a crushed ball of pie.
He had lied, just as her father had lied. If the Covenant had been a simple piece of business, why had her father not shared the monies with Ebenezer as well as herself? And she remembered the letters from her father’s parents-in-law, letters that described Matthew Slythe as failing in his business. Yet Sir Grenville Cony would have her believe that her father had somehow attracted London merchants and Cony himself into some venture of unbelievable success. She looked at Cony. “What was the business, sir?”
“None of your affair, Miss Slythe, none at all.” He had spoken harshly, and she was provoked by his tone.
“Yet the seal becomes mine, sir, when I am twenty-five. Surely that makes it my business.”
He was laughing at her now, his shoulders heaving up and down and his chins wobbling above his tight, white collar. “Your business, Miss Slythe! Your business! The seal becomes yours, girl, because it is pretty! That is a woman’s business, the procreation of children and pretty things, no more. You say you have not seen a seal?”
“No, sir.”
His shoulders still moved with laughter as he beckoned at her. “Come here.”
She walked to the table as Cony struggled with the pocket of his waistcoat. His belly distended the brown cloth so much that he was unable to extract whatever he was looking for. She stared over his white, curly hair and saw that the boatmen still sat like statues in the barge, their white blades pointing at the blue sky. She thought of Toby in the alley, and wished he were with her. She was sure he would not be awed by this frog-like man who alternated between sarcastic friendliness and disdain.
“There.” The lawyer pushed something over the table.
It was exactly like the seal Toby held in the alleyway. Campion picked it up, surprised again by the weight of the gold. She saw the delicate banding of diamonds and rubies. Like the seal of St. Matthew, this one too had a long, gold chain so that it could be worn as a pendant. She turned the seal to the window light and saw the same ornately chased border on the steel impression. She held it close and saw, in place of the axe, a beautifully carved winged lion. The mirror writing spelled “St. Mark.”
Holding this second seal, so like the first, once again she felt their mystery. She remembered the letter which described the seals as keys to great wealth, and somehow this sight of the second seal made the power of the gold cylinders seem far more real. She understood now that men would want these seals and that the lawyer across the desk was her enemy so long as she possessed one. She had thought her adventure was love, and now it was danger.
Sir Grenville’s voice was light and careless. “You should see what is inside.”
He so nearly caught her. The meeting of the seal’s two halves was so cunningly hidden that it was not apparent that there was any interior to the cylinder, yet on his carefully contrived words her fingers moved automatically to unscrew the two halves. She remembered, even as her fingers took hold, and she kept her hands moving, as if all she wanted to do was dangle the seal by its long, heavy, gold chain. “It’s beautiful!”
Sir Grenville paused a long time. She could see the cylinder of gold reflected in his pale, glaucous eyes. He blinked slowly. “I said you should see what is inside.”
She pretended innocence. She pulled at the seal, frowned, then shook it close to her ear.
“It unscrews.” He sounded disappointed.
She made a small, girlish sound of achievement as the cylinder came apart. For a second she thought it contained a crucifix, as did her father’s, for she could see a similar human figure with arms spread wide.
Yet this was no religious symbol of ancient power. It was a depiction of a power far older than Christ’s, as old as humanity itself. It was a woman, arms spread wide, her legs, too, splayed apart. Her head was back, her hips thrust forward and, tiny though the statue was, there was a hint of lust and abandon about the small, naked figure. Sir Grenville chuckled. “Distasteful, is it not?”
She carefully joined the two halves, hiding the naked woman in her pleasure. “My father would have disliked it, sir. Perhaps that is why he threw his away.”
He held out a pudgy, white hand for the seal and, reluctantly, Campion dropped it into his palm. He smiled. “Threw it away?”
“We looked for it, sir. Everywhere. We couldn’t find it.”
He waved her wearily toward the chair. “Sit down.”
She obeyed him. She was feeling proud of herself. She might not have succeeded in finding out the truth from Sir Grenville Cony, but she had avoided his traps. She had not betrayed her own seal, and though she still did not know why the seals were important, she had learned that this rich, powerful man desired to possess them.
Sir Grenville tucked the Seal of St. Mark carefully and laboriously away. “You are right, Miss Slythe, that the Seal of St. Matthew was to be yours on your twenty-fifth birthday.” His left hand had begun its surreptitious journey once more. “In that year our little Covenant expires, our agreement is no more, and the seals become worthless. Apart from their intrinsic value, of course, which is not inconsiderable.” He smiled at her. “I thought the seals were pretty, a bauble a young lady might want, and so I persuaded your father to give you the Seal of St. Matthew at the end of its useful existence. He had one daughter, and why, I thought, should that daughter not possess one thing of beauty? Your father was not happy, but he agreed, humoring me no doubt. It was too good to be thrown away, but perhaps you are right. Perhaps, in a fit of virtuous wrath, he discarded the seal. Such a shame.” He shrugged. “Was that all
you came to see me about?”
It was not, but she was sure the truth was not to be found here. She was hot in her new cloak, and the sight of the river sparkling beyond Cony’s windows had made her want to be out of this house. She wanted to be with Toby. She gathered the skirts of her cloak in her hands and nodded. “That is all, sir.”
“How very curious, Miss Slythe, that you should come all the way from Werlatton to ask me such simple questions. And I note you have not finished your tea! Do so, child! Do so! Worry not, you will leave soon.” He smiled at her as she settled back on the uncomfortable chair. His hand, she saw, had stopped its journeys to and from the pie.
“Tell me, Miss Slythe, are you not betrothed to a Mr. Samuel Scammell?”
She nodded.
He smiled. “That was your dear father’s wish, was it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stared at her, still smiling. “Tell me, Dorcas, you don’t mind me calling you Dorcas?”
“No, sir.”
“Then tell me, Dorcas, for I am ever curious, do you want to marry Mr. Scammell?”
She hesitated, seeing the bulging eyes staring at her, seeing into her, and she wondered whether the truth would do her harm. She frowned. “No, sir.”
“Ah!” He sounded surprised. “How odd, how singularly odd. I never married, Dorcas. No. I have devoted my life to the harsh taskmastership of the law, of Chancery law, and of late, no doubt because I am not burdened with a wife, I have been asked to add my humble opinion to those who guide our ship of state. I understand, you see, much of law, and much of public policy, but little, I fear, of marriage. However, I always believed that young ladies such as yourself had little interest in anything but marriage. Do you not wish to be married, Dorcas? Do you desire, like myself, to devote yourself to the law?”
She nodded and spoke slowly. “I would like to marry, sir.”
“Ah!” He held up a hand in mock surprise. “I understand! It is Mr. Scammell who is the problem, yes? You are not, perhaps, I think the vulgar phrase is ‘in love’?”
A Crowning Mercy Page 13
