Digby had been waiting some time in Ma Blacklock’s when Maynard found him. Several times the waiting girl had passed him, glancing disapprovingly at him as he toyed with his first drink. When Maynard arrived, her face was transformed by a bright smile. Maynard spoke briefly to her, then approached the table, his eyes trained on Digby’s face.
‘I’ve ordered some coffee,’ he said. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Small beer,’ said Digby.
‘Well?’ said Maynard, flicking out the back of his coat as he sat down. ‘You sent for me.’ He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Most refreshing, to have a note from you. You write a fair hand.’
‘There was a time when I couldn’t move for seeing you,’ said Digby. ‘These last few days, you are a hard man to get hold of.’
Maynard gave him a warning glance as the waiting girl returned and laid her tray down on the table.
‘What is it?’ he said, once she had gone.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Digby. He saw Maynard’s expression falter, and knew that he had been tempted to make some smart remark, but that he’d thought better of it. Instead, Maynard looked at his coffee.
‘I was dwelling on the fact,’ said Digby, ‘that it never made much sense to me, sir, how you were so interested in Mr Renard’s death. You came out with so many high ideals, about justice, about protecting Mrs Renard.’
‘Does it surprise you?’ said Maynard, with a frown. ‘That a man of the world should also care about others?’
Digby fought back a laugh, but he could not help a smirk moving across his face. ‘Now, sir,’ he said. ‘You truly sound like the silversmith himself. I would almost mistake you for one of his intimate circle. Yet in these last weeks, for some reason, you have drawn back from the mystery. After all your shouting and cursing at me, you have not sought me out again. Even though there are many unwholesome rumours circulating about the Renard house, and it cannot have escaped your attention that Mrs Renard’s window was broken. Where is your concern now, sir?’
Maynard said nothing, though Digby could see he was searching for, and would probably find, a fluent response soon enough.
‘As I say,’ Digby continued, ‘it got me thinking. Thought I’d keep an eye on things. You know how good I am at watching. Particularly around your house. How is young Mr Maynard, sir? Did he enjoy his trip to Europe? Just got back, so I hear.’
Maynard said nothing, but he had raised his eyes so quickly to Digby’s that the watchman knew he was on to something. Still, as he looked at the other man’s face, he could see vigilance, but no fear.
‘Be good for Mrs Maynard, won’t it?’ said Digby. ‘Seeing her boy again. He’s been a bit of trouble to you though, hasn’t he? Likes maidservants, according to tavern talk. Likes gambling. Too soft for violence – probably. But you sent him away, didn’t you? When was it? The day after Renard’s murder became known?’
Maynard looked back into the depths of his coffee cup as though reflecting on Digby’s words. Then he sat back a little, and shrugged. ‘You are right that I feared for him,’ he said. ‘Not that it matters now. He kept the wrong company. He never fought himself, but he was around those that did. He borrowed money from Renard, and bet away a snuffbox that had some sentimental value to me. When this murder happened, I would have left it, but it was driving my wife to distraction. She had to know. He is our only son, and the knowledge that he might have been involved was making her ill; every day she spoke of it. That is why I asked you to look into it.’ He glanced up. ‘I thought I would shake the tree, and if anything fell out. . .’ He let his sentence peter out.
‘What if I had found something out?’ said Digby.
‘I would have paid you off. Don’t tell me you can’t be bought. And, if not . . . as I said to you before, I am not womanish, like Taylor. I would have found a solution, shall we leave it at that? Everyone knows you are crooked, Digby. You are hardly some guardian of the law. Besides, I knew you had nothing that could harm me, the last time I saw you. I apologize for my – shall we say, intensity? I had to get your attention, to see if there was anything there. And when I did, there wasn’t any real fear in your eyes. Real fear is the fear we have for ourselves.’
Digby watched the surface of his own drink: a small black mote floating in it, the surface trembling with every vibration of the floorboards. He felt tired. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘I know that,’ said Maynard. ‘If there was anything to be known you would have found it out and I’d have seen it in a moment.’ He leaned close again, his hands resting on the table, his voice a whisper. ‘There is nothing that can tie my son to Renard’s death, I am confident of it; and you’re right, with the rumours, and the broken windows, there may be something else going on, but he has been far away from here until this week. I, for one, do not care to concern myself with Renard any more.’
‘So much for your high ideals,’ said Digby, taking a gulp of his beer.
‘A bit much coming from you,’ said Maynard. He gave a throaty laugh. ‘no one cares. Londoners are so heartless, aren’t they? Here a death, there a death, and they just keep moving forwards, with not even a glance behind. You’re looking mighty thoughtful though. Indulge me. Who do you think murdered Renard, after all your scraping about?’
Digby thought of Mary. He had wanted to protect her and, in a way, he still did. She had awoken something in him: a certain sensitivity, and the knowledge that his life might be put to use protecting, as well as hating. When he thought of her, and Mallory, a kind of tenderness rose in him. But when he had seen her in Alban Steele’s arms, he had let go of that obligation. He felt no bitterness towards her, but he owed her no loyalty either.
‘I’ve no proof,’ he said. ‘But I think it was the silversmith’s wife and her sister, sir. They had a little brother. Renard was cruel to him, and he died. All in all, I think they found a way to have their revenge.’
He looked at Maynard’s face. The man was frowning, and he gave a little shake of his head. Then he put his finger to his lips. Digby nodded.
‘I’ll leave you to your beer,’ Maynard said. ‘I suppose we’ll have to let the dead rest.’
It was only after he had gone that Digby looked up to see the coin he’d left, as bright as if he’d polished it, glinting silver in the dim light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
12th October, 1792
I fancy Taylor has a liking for icy women. His wife barely speaks without something saucy coming out of her mouth. I could not live with such a woman, her tongue always sharpened. He had a glass too much of Hermitage tonight and was expounding on Mary’s delicacy, and I had to tell him the truth. That her father was a mere box-maker in the City; that his worth, and hers, rested solely in the contents of his strong-box. It is the truth. When I first met him I was keen for the association, for I knew he had amassed enough to set me up as I wished, that he was selling his daughters so high because of that boy of his.
I told him all of this, but he would not see it; he only laughed his booming, stupid laugh, and shook his head, as though I was in jest, and Mary is all he believes her to be. He angered me, and I put my fist down on the table, hard enough to knock over my glass. I did not know how to make him see the depths of my despair, so I said it: there are days when I wish her dead. He fell silent, and I could only rouse him again by pouring him another glass of wine.
Alban set out his wares on a small mahogany table that had been specially covered with a white cloth for the purpose. He did it slowly, and with great care. Mr Chichester moved around him, pacing up and down in front of the windows, and giving him a history of the Berkeley Square town house with an air of generous condescension. Since their first meeting in the Renard shop several months before, Chichester had postponed the appointment for ordering plate several times, so that Alban had wondered whether he would ever come here at all. Now, Alban felt he could have done well without it; he was in a dark humour, and having to flatter this boy, barely out of his teens,
felt like a bad day’s work. As Alban had bowed to him he had noticed the contrast between the white of Chichester’s cravat and the grimy yellowish shade of his neck. He knew he was unusually fastidious, that most of the men walking around London probably looked as Chichester did if he cared to observe them, but it still jarred. He never envied privilege, but thought it had its obligations, and neatness was one of them.
Outside, Mattie was waiting for him, his fists ready lest anyone make an attempt on the silver. He had walked there with Alban, revelling in his new role as guard, so much so that Alban found it hard not to laugh. If he was going to have to pay house calls there was no one he would rather have with him, for if anything was certain it was that Mallory’s son would be more than capable of beating the hell out of anyone who tried to steal something. He couldn’t blame the boy for not wanting to enter the house, and had not encouraged it, for Mallory hadn’t raised her son for servitude, and he thought it would take a good deal of time before Mattie cared to ingratiate himself with those above him.
‘Most excellent,’ said Chichester as Alban put the last piece of silver, a tureen, out on the table. He said it in a way that was hail-fellow-well-met, yet Alban heard the false note in his voice, as though he hadn’t quite the confidence, or conviction, to believe his compliment. He smiled, but stayed silent, as Chichester shifted on his feet, bending down to observe the pieces closely, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as though it might harm him to touch something.
‘My wife always dealt with the silversmith before,’ he said. ‘Came to a bad end, I believe, the Frenchman?’ He looked at Alban questioningly, and seemed unnerved by the steady gaze that was returned to him. ‘He did, sir,’ said Alban, and was glad when no further questions followed.
‘This is exquisite,’ Chichester said, picking up a finely chased creamer, ‘though a little feminine for my taste. It is something my wife would have liked at one time.’ He straightened up and smiled conspiratorially ‘I am master in my own house at last,’ he said. Alban found it hard to return the smile. There was something desperately unappealing about this boy-man in his gilded interior, moving affectedly like an automaton in a music box, dancing to somebody else’s tune.
He smiled as best he could, and cleared his throat. ‘What kind of thing are you thinking of, sir?’ he said. ‘I’m sure the firm would be able to supply your wants.’
Chichester smiled with unaffected pleasure. ‘My goal is to assemble a family silver collection to be passed on through the generations,’ he said. ‘We have my father’s plate at the estate, of course, but I wish to branch out; to acquire things that reflect my taste for exquisite craftsmanship. Mr Renard always spoke to me of fashions, he hardly listened at all; everything he brought me was the same. I would take pleasure in knowing that my taste, my education, my discrimination will be passed down to my children and my children’s children.’ His voice was most warm when he spoke of his education and taste, rather than his children.
‘But I am a collector, you see,’ said Chichester. He seemed determined to cordially prove his credentials. ‘There is not much here – most of my collection is held in my family home. I have some prints and fragments of sculpture I salvaged during my time in Italy – but . . .’ His expression darkened. ‘I cannot show you them now. My wife is in the library. Another day, I will show you.’
‘I would like to see them very much,’ said Alban. ‘Such things are always of use to men such as me. We are plunderers, you see, snatching up fragments of beautiful things so that we might use them again.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Chichester, his face turning pinkish with pleasure. ‘I am most glad we have met. In the future I will deal with the commissioning of plate myself.’ He gave an unaffected laugh. ‘I think, to start, a pair of bread baskets, Mr Steele. With guilloche handles, as on this sugar basket you have here, and the sides similar. Make them refined, but strong. And with my arms engraved in the centre on the bottom. Every time anyone takes a roll I want them to see it.’ He smiled at Alban. ‘Send through a sketch for my approval – you understand the idea I have?’
Alban tapped his own forehead. ‘It is all in here, Mr Chichester,’ he said.
‘That is all for now, I think,’ said Chichester. ‘I have a fancy for some epergnes and sauce boats, but they can wait till next time.’ His abruptness and sense of mastery was already returning. Alban sensed the awkwardness in him, as though he was not sure how to balance the conversation. ‘I have business to attend to. But I am glad to have met you again.’
‘And I you, sir,’ said Alban, beginning to wrap up the items he had brought only marginally quicker than he had unwrapped them.
‘I will send for you again soon,’ said Chichester. ‘There is much I would like to order in the future.’ Alban inclined his head, and watched as the man rushed from the room, still flushed and leaving the door open.
One of the footmen put his head through the door. ‘Hurry up,’ he said.
Alban slowed his movements purposely, neatly wrapping up and tucking in every piece, with a considered precision. What a strange house this is, he thought, looking at the footman swaggering around the room as though he owned it, even reaching out to flick one of the pieces of silver. Alban caught his wrist before he did it. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Or I will have a quarrel with you.’
Harriet tilted her head. ‘Do I hear someone in the hall?’ she said. ‘It may be Mama. Go and check. If you please.’ She added those three words to the end of almost every request these days; it was a habit, used to pacify her husband, and now everyone else, too.
‘It will only be the silversmith,’ said Joanna, then realized with a jolt what she had said. But Harriet seemed not to have noticed. Joanna put her sewing down and rose. Before she crossed the room, she tucked Harriet’s blanket in. Since the day of Harriet’s forgiveness of her, Joanna had grown fonder of the girl, the strengthening mutual sympathy of the trapped. She kept asking for her mother, even though there had been no word that the lady would visit.
‘It is Mr Chichester,’ Joanna said, as the door opened, and she sank into a curtsey, lowering her face so she would not have to look him in the eyes.
The young man passed her, and sat down next to his wife.
‘How are you, my dear?’ he said, his voice soft.
‘Very well,’ said Harriet, smiling slightly.
‘I have been seeing the silversmith, and ordering plate,’ he said. And he began to describe pieces. He talked for a long time, his tone smooth and confident as he described each detail of what he had in mind.
At each stage, he asked Harriet her opinion, and she would incline her head and say, soft-voiced: ‘That will meet my approval.’
It was so different from all those months before, when the toilet service had been ordered, that Joanna, invisible, standing against the wall like a piece of furniture, felt a chill. We are all in your power now, she thought, looking at Mr Chichester’s animated face as he spoke.
As the door closed behind him, Harriet turned to her. ‘Where do they find all the silversmiths?’ she said, her voice pure and clear, almost musical. ‘When Pierre went, were they lining up, ready to replace him? And yet he cannot be replaced. I believe he loved me more than any person ever has.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
16th October, 1792
I sent a box of sweetmeats from Gunter’s to my dearest girl. I, always so careful, would bankrupt myself for her sake. She sends me the most affecting letters. I write back, of course; I give her what she wishes for. And the truth is that my own feelings are not far behind. I imagine so many things. Just yesterday I was able to see her; she slipped away and we met at a secluded spot in the park. Her coachman is loyal and sees nothing. We drank sweet milk wrung from the udder. God, the taste of her mouth. Had she allowed me I would have taken her again right there, and sent everything else in my life to hell for her sake.
A coroner’s meeting had been called, and the poor suicide had been carried to the tave
rn in St James’s from the house that had once been his home in a backstreet near Piccadilly. His mother had held on so tightly to him that the tears her fingernails had made showed clearly on his frayed coat. Brass and Jennings, the watchmen from St James’s parish who had carried him here, stood nearby under Digby’s watchful, interested eye. Digby had no business being here other than his ghoulish interest, but no one questioned his presence. With a glance at each other Brass and Jennings agreed that it was best to leave such an odd ‘un alone.
Digby watched Taylor look at the body and sigh heavily. He seemed a different man today from the one that had presided over the coroner’s meeting for Pierre Renard so many months ago. For that man, his duty as coroner had been borne as a conspicuous honour to him. He had held himself upright, as an observer of human life and death, a preserver of law and justice. But looking at the wracked face of the suicide, he looked like someone on the same level as the dead, not a representative of a higher justice. It was as though his own vitality was being eroded, one death at a time.
‘Exham the engraver. He drank laudanum,’ said the constable. ‘That’s what his mother told me. I couldn’t bring her here. She’s still wailing in her parlour.’ He produced a bottle, the label’s contents long faded. ‘This was it. The manservant’s come to testify.’ He nodded towards an eager-eyed man, waiting obediently in the corner.
‘How interesting,’ said one of the younger men, stepping forwards and looking over the body with a kind of cool interest. ‘He was an engraver, you say? Was he an associate of Renard’s, Dr Taylor?’
‘I believe Mr Renard had some small dealings with him,’ said Taylor.
‘How strange,’ said the man, with a snigger. ‘It seems that the silverworkers of London have much to fear in this parish.’
The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Page 27
