A Crowning Mercy (16 page)

It was an extraordinary face, a splendid, arrogant, pagan face. That face, she thought, ought to be framed by a gilded helmet and be staring at a conquered land. The young man had golden hair, falling either side of a wide, cruel mouth. She had never imagined that any man could be so handsome, so frightening, and so desirable.

The naked man was not looking out of the picture, but rather staring down at a pool hidden among rocks. The painter had showed the pool by letting its reflections gild the fine face, just as the sun was reflected by the Thames in liquid light ripples that moved on Sir Grenville Cony's ceiling.

The face still held her. She wondered if she would want to meet such a man, and then she tried to tell herself that no man could be so handsome, so golden, so arrogant, so perfect. This was a painter's fantasy, no more, yet still she could not take her eyes from the startling features.

'You like my painting.' She had not heard the second door, the door by the desk, open. She turned, startled, and in the doorway was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. She was staring at a grotesque man, of stunning ugliness, who seemed to smile derisively at her.

Sir Grenville Cony -- she supposed it must be he -- was short. His monstrously fat belly was supported by thin, spindly legs that looked unequal to the task of holding such obscene grossness. His face was uncannily like the face of a frog, with a wide, mirthless slash of a mouth beneath bulging, pale eyes. His hair was white and curly. His brown, rich clothes were taut on his huge belly. He looked from her to the painting, to the life-size naked figure above her head. 'It is Narcissus in love with himself. I keep it to remind myself of the dangers of self-regard. You would not want me, Miss Slythe, to turn into a flower?' He chuckled. 'It is Miss Slythe?'

'Yes, sir.'

The bulging eyes stared at her. 'You know who Narcissus was, Miss Slythe?'

'No, sir.'

'Of course you don't. You're a Puritan. You know your Bible stories, no doubt?'

'I hope so, sir.' She felt Sir Grenville was mocking her. He smiled.

'Narcissus was a young man of such beauty, Miss Slythe, that he fell in love with himself. He would spend hours gazing at his own reflection and, as a punishment, he was turned into a flower, that flower we now call the narcissus. Do you think he is handsome?'

She nodded, embarrassed by the question. 'Yes, sir.'

'And so he is. Miss Slythe, so he is.' Sir Grenville was staring at his painting. 'That picture is also a punishment.'

'A punishment, sir?'

'I knew the young man, Miss Slythe, and I offered him my friendship, but he chose to be my enemy. I had his face put on to that picture as revenge, so that everyone would think that he was my friend, would believe that he had posed like that.' He was looking at her, laughing at her. 'You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?'

'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 per cent, 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 saltpetre 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 stealthlike 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 towards 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 moulding 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 towards 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 towards 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 spilt 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 vigour 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 realised 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 moulded 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 with 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?'